Cyrus’s childhood seemed romantic to Georgina. She loved the image of the samovar in the garden and all the family having tea among the roses.
On hot summer nights, the servants carried the beds out into the walled garden, fragrant with honeysuckle, and draped them with mosquito netting. Everyone slept together under the Teheran moon, brushed by the scented breezes. At the end of summer while the family was away at their home on the Caspian Sea, the mattress man would come and cut open each mattress, remove all the stuffing, and pile it up in the center of the garden. Then, holding two wooden instruments and beating them together, he’d walk into the pile, making the stuffing swell to four times its size before pushing it all back inside each mattress and sewing it up. That had been Cyrus’s life up until he left Teheran to come to the United States for college. During his freshman year the revolution happened, and Cyrus never went home again, not to the mansion in Teheran or to the house on the Caspian Sea.
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