House of Sand and Fog (17 page)

I went over and hugged him. He felt to me like an old friend, though I didn’t have any. It must feel like this though; they’re warm against you and you love and respect them and are on their side no matter what. I asked him if he’d like a nice Italian dinner, and he said yes. We kissed and made our way inside, starting to undress, needing to do it, but it was so hot in there we ended up hurrying back down the trail to the Purisima, our arms around each other, and we took off our clothes on the mossy bank, then made love there, Lester pushing in and out of me so fast it hurt a little. His face was all bunched up with the effort of it, and I suddenly felt far away, closing my eyes just as he let out a short groan, pulled out of me, and came across my stomach in a warm wet line.

M
AYBE IT WAS
the hot cabin that got to us, to him. Maybe it was the quiet and the stillness. I think it was all three. The dinner came out better than I would’ve guessed and because it was too hot inside the camp, we ate out on the porch off plates in our laps. Halfway through supper the mosquitoes began to hit so we sprayed each other down with repellent, something I wished I’d waited to do because the rest of the meal didn’t taste quite right.

We sat on the porch awhile, the two of us looking out at the small woodpile and trees like old people waiting for someone to visit. The sky was still gray, but darker, and I knew we were close to nightfall. Les was sitting straight in his chair. He’d changed into jeans and that tacky striped golf shirt, and he wore sneakers without socks. But he didn’t look relaxed; he’d been sitting with his arms crossed over his chest, his feet flat on the floor, and sometimes he’d wave a mosquito away from his face, then cross his arms again. I thought of my mother and her two sisters and their plan to fly west, and I wished I’d written a better reason for them not to come. I knew if they thought Nick and I would be gone for the weekend they’d still fly out, and worse, they’d probably want to stay at the empty house.
“Shit.”

“What?”

I told Les about my mother’s postcard, and about the rest of my mail, the bills I was supposed to pay to keep the Arab family comfortable in my stolen house.

“You’re right, you know.” He sat back and looked at me. “This guy’s received stolen property and now he’s trying to pawn it off.”

“It’s not really stolen, though, right?”

“Technically.” Lester’s breath was starting to rise. “That’s one thing I hate about law enforcement, Kathy.”

“What?”

“Do you know how many times I see people violate the spirit of the law without actually breaking it? Like the DV law: no matter which spouse does the violence, we have to take them in. That means if a two-hundred-pound artichoke rancher in Pescadero slugs his wife and she hits him back, she gets charged, too.”

“For defending herself?”

“That’s right. We took in this one guy who did a number on his wife, really worked her over. She wouldn’t take out a restraining order, and when he got out on bail he went back to the house and coaxed and taunted her until she started clawing his face. And he stood there and let her do it because he knew the law and he knew now it would be
her
turn to sit in a cell. And I can’t
not
take her in. And this Arab son of a bitch—he knows what he’s doing is wrong, but the law saves him anyway. The day we drove by, you see the kinds of
cars
parked in front of your house? You see the
clothes
those people had on? And you’re out in the cold.”

“I’m out in the heat.” I was smiling. It felt so good hearing this kind of feeling about me and my problem coming out of Lester’s mouth. I lit a cigarette. “I can’t believe we can’t just evict him. That’s what’s so fucked up.”

Les gave me a long look, his dark eyes narrowed like he was thinking of something else. “You said this guy was a colonel?”

“That’s what he said.”

“From what country?”

“I don’t know, but his wife hardly speaks any English at all.”

“Maybe they haven’t been here very long, Kathy. Maybe they don’t know their way around.” Lester went inside. I could hear him undressing.

“I’ll call INS tomorrow, Kathy, see if they have anything we can use.”

“Use?”

He didn’t answer me. I could hear him pull the plastic off his dry cleaning. I was really enjoying this. “Use for what?”

“For the greater good.”

I listened to him dress, then he stepped back outside, zipping up his deputy uniform pants, tucking in his shirt. He reached into his pocket for some uniform emblems and his gold star badge, pinning them on.

“What the hell are you doing, Lester?”

“Officers tend to listen to other officers, Kathy. It’s worth a shot.” Les began to finish buttoning his shirt, but I stepped up and took over, like I used to do for Nicky.

“What if he doesn’t listen, Les?”

“Then we turn up the volume.” He laughed at his own line, at the cowboy toughness of it, it seemed. I told him to stay still, and I straightened up his shirt collars and kissed his throat. I was about to say thank you but he was already stepping off the porch, so I put on my Reeboks, then went out and started the Bonneville while Les unlocked his car. I watched as he straightened to buckle his gun belt on. He looked perfect walking to the passenger’s side of my car, the creases in his uniform sharp and clean, his badge positioned just under his heart. I noticed he hadn’t pinned on his name tag. When he got in and shut the door, I leaned over and kissed him and said, “I love you for doing this, Lester. I really do.”

A
HEAVINESS OF HEART POSSESSES ME ON OUR NEW WIDOW’S WALK. ITS
cause is remembering Jasmeen, but I begin to worry once more of the difficulties I already face in the selling of the home. Even if I were to sell the bungalow at the profit I have projected, I must still be prepared to move my family once again, and this time it will have to be a modest apartment in one of these modest villages along the coast. This will of course be the best way to avoid spending my pool while I search for suitable investment opportunities. But I recall my daughter’s face, the fashion in which she regarded me at her homecoming dinner, the aggressive and rude way in which she all the night long repeatedly apologized for the family’s present living situation by recalling our old life. How will she regard her mother, brother, and me living in a cottage in a place such as San Bruno perhaps? Or Daly City, with all those Filipino people? Will she be too ashamed to visit? To bring her husband and his family? These thoughts begin to anger me, for who does she think she is to judge her own father? To perhaps pity me? And yes, it was pity I saw in her face that evening as she viewed me in the candlelight at the sofreh, that, and a degree of shame as well. But also, she seemed to me confused at the change we are undergoing, and that is where I blame myself, for I have never let her know of our finances. Even when I worked two jobs for so long to uphold our charade, she never knew what sort of work and where, and of course I would leave the home well dressed and return as such. Perhaps I maintained this mask for my children out of pride and vanity. Perhaps I was being soosool.

But enough of all this self-examination. It is a habit I only began to assume after the fall of our society when I found more time on my hands and upon my shoulders than I would ever wish. I never wanted so much time. I must discpline myself to keep my attention on my present tasks and challenges, to drive into Corona before the department store closes to purchase one or two signs further advertising the sale of the home.

I
BUY TWO
signs, bright crimson letters over black, stating home for sale and for sale by owner. As the sky darkens, I secure the first with string to a utility post at the base of Bisgrove Street. In the sign’s space reserved for the telephone number, I draw a blue ink arrow pointing up the hill. The second sign I did not think to purchase a stake for, therefore I tape it to the left of the door over the lighted house bell button. Inside our bungalow, Nadi has for me drained a glass of hot tea from the samovar and placed it upon the counter. The sofreh is gone from the floor, and I see my wife has changed into her expensive French exercise suit which hangs upon her so loosely. Over this she wears a cotton apron, and she does not approve when I wash my hands in the sink near her clean and drying dishes.

“Nakon,” she to me says and she slaps me playfully on the shoulder. I attempt to kiss her quickly upon the nose and she pushes me away but her eyes are smiling and I sit upon the counter and eat a grape. From down the corridor come the strange electronic sounds of Esmail’s computer video game. Today, by his own decision, he acquired another newspaper delivery route. In my office, shortly before Nadi called us to the sofreh for dinner, my son told to me he would give me every penny he earns to go towards his education and his future. “And you can buy food with it too, Bawbaw-jahn. Whatever you wish.” He stood straight before me, his knees skinned once again from skateboarding, his thick hair in need of a brush, and I wished to hold him as tightly and completely against me as I did when he was a small child. But now he was approaching me as a young man of responsibility and I did not wish to diminish this, or take this from him. I stood and shook his hand, which was smooth and warm and no longer smaller than my own.

I drink my hot tea. I watch my Nadi dry the rice pot with a towel, and I feel much better than I did only a few short hours ago; this family has overcome challenges far more difficult than the selling of a small bungalow, and with the new signs in place and the advertisements still in the papers, I feel confident we will meet our true buyer very soon. Nadi turns to me with the dry pot in her hands and she begins to remind me tomorrow is her sister’s birthday. She has sent her a gift, but she would like to telephone her early in the morning, before the day becomes too late in Iran. She lowers her eyes at me like a young girl and says to me in Farsi, “I promise we will not talk long.”

I am filled with that old love for my wife, a love of nearly thirty years, and I cannot possibly allow a “no” to escape my lips. The house bell sounds. Nadi appears startled, and I go directly to the door expecting a buyer, a lady or gentleman who has seen my signs and is stopping to inquire. But standing on the step beneath the exterior electric light is a tall policeman with a thick mustache, and I think immediately of Soraya, is she all right?

The policeman points to the right of the doorway. “Did you post this sign, sir?”

“Yes.” I feel relief instantly. “Is there a difficulty, Officer?”

“And that’s your sign at the bottom of the hill?”

“Yes.”

The policeman looks over my shoulder into the home, his hands resting on his belt in a very relaxed manner.

“Please, come in, Officer.” I step away and allow him inside. I look behind me and see Nadi has left the kitchen, disappearing into her room, I am certain. I say to the policeman I am new to the area, is a permit required to post signs?

“Not on the house, but the utility pole is city property.”

“I see. Very well, I will put the sign elsewhere.”

The policeman regards the painting of the battle of martyrdom on the wall, stepping closer to view the framed photograph of myself and General Pourat with Shahanshah Pahlavi. I move to the door. “I will remove the sign immediately, sir. Thank you for informing me.”

But the policeman does not acknowledge my movement. He turns to me and I believe he is smiling beneath his mustache, which I see now is trimmed in a slightly disorderly manner. He says, “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”

“This is my home, sir. I am an American citizen.” I smile, but a stillness has entered my chest. The policeman walks over the carpet and inspects our family portrait on the table beside the sofa.

“Were you a general, sir?”

“I was a colonel.” I leave the door and join this man, but I stand at the kitchen’s counter so he cannot easily look down the corridor to our bedrooms. Now there is a heat in my stomach. I can no longer hear my son’s computer video game. The bungalow has become very quiet. “Tell me, Officer. What more can I do for you this evening?”

He pulls from his belt a small leather notepad. “You can give me your full name.”

“Are you penalizing me?”

“No sir, I just need your name for my report.”

I spell for him my name, and then he inquires the names of anyone else living on the premises.

“I do not understand. Why is it necessary for to have the names of my family?” I regard the policeman’s badge, a gold star, and beneath it, a smaller badge of two pistol barrels crossed together, then another pin, the gold letters FTO. “And what is
your
name, Officer?”

The man regards me, his jaw muscles tightening a brief moment. “Deputy Sheriff Joe Gonzalez. Let me ask
you
a question, Colonel: are you selling this house on your own?”

“Pardon me?”

“No Realtor or agency? ‘For Sale by Owner,’ right?”

“That is correct.”

“Have you got a title or escrow company to handle it?”

“No, I do not.” The home is too quiet. Nadi is certainly listening at her door, and I am confused. Why is this deputy asking these questions? I move away from the counter and walk back into the living-room area, hoping he will follow. “I do not wish to offend, Officer, but if you will excuse me I have work I must do this evening.”

“Civil Code 1101, for starters.”

“Yes, you have informed me of this. I suggest you come with me to witness my removal of the sign.” I open the door, holding it for him.

“I’m talking about the disclosure law, Colonel. You’re not aware of this law?” The officer stands and walks to the opposite wall, where he once again views the framed photograph of Pourat and me and Shah Muhammad Reza Pahlavi. The policeman keeps his back to me, a deep insult in my country. I still hold the screened door open, but my arm is beginning to tire and I must take a short breath. “No, Officer, but perhaps you will tell me.”

“It means you have to
disclose,
Colonel. You, the owner, have the obligation to tell any prospective buyers anything about the property they have a right to know.”

“I do not understand.”

“You sure about that?” The policeman turns from the wall, regarding me with a smile.

I release the door and it closes quietly on its compressed arm. “Are you interrogating me, Mr. Gonzalez?”

“I don’t know, Colonel. You tell me. I understand your friend the Shah used to make a real habit of it.”

“I do not know who you think you are speaking to, sir, but I have had quite enough. You have done your job; now you may leave.” I open the door once again, standing to its side.

The policeman walks to me. He is taller than I. He smells of garlic and charred wood.

“You’re used to giving orders, aren’t you, Colonel? Let me get right to the point here. San Mateo has offered to give you your money back so this house can be returned to its lawful owner. The county doesn’t want litigation on its hands. In fact, Colonel, no one wants any trouble here at all. Except you. You don’t seem to want to do the right thing, which is to sell this house back at the price you paid so it can be returned to the real owner. The
real
owner, Mr. Behrani. As far as I’m concerned, you’re sitting on stolen property, and in my book, that just won’t wash.” The policeman walks out onto the step, but I can do no more than look at him.

“You have a family. I’d be thinking more about them if I were you. I have more than one contact at Immigration. People get deported every single day. There are a lot of things I can do, Colonel. I suggest you call the movers so I won’t have to. Thank you for your time. I know we won’t have to see each other again.”

I watch the policeman walk across my lighted front grass and into the darkness of the street. There is no police automobile. No car of any kind. Soon, I can no longer see him, but I hear his footsteps as he moves down the hill.

I release the door and turn to see my wife and son, looking at me as if we had all just heard a very loud noise nearby.

“C
HEEH SHODEH, MASSOUD?”
Nadereh says. “What is wrong?”

My son regards me a brief moment, then opens the refrigerator and begins pouring for himself a glass of Coca-Cola.

“Give to me answer, Behrani. What did that man say of deporting?”

“He said nothing, Nadi.” I am suddenly so tired I cannot speak my words clearly. I close the door and lock it.

“Do not lie to me, Behrani. I heard him. Who was this man?”

“Do not call me Behrani. I do not like it.” I sit down upon the sofa, but I can only look at the silver tea table before me. I do not understand the correctness of what has just occurred. How is it possible for the county tax office to send a policeman to threaten me? How is this possible in America? I have done nothing beneath the law.

“Beh man beh goo, Behrani!
Tell to me, what have you done?”
My wife stands in front of me, her eyes small with fear. I rise immediately.

“It is none of your business what I have done or not done, Nadereh! Have you no faith in me? No respect? I told to you the man said nothing, only that I must remove my sign from city property, that is all.”

My wife tells me I am lying. She begins to tremble, raising her voice, demanding to know what is before us, her fears once again beginning to devour her. I must leave the bungalow, remove the sign, and contemplate what I am forced to do next, but Nadereh is screaming in front of my son that I am a kaseef liar, and a coward, and I seem to watch from far away as my hand slaps her across the face and I hold her thin shoulders and shake her, her head jerking backwards and forwards, and I am making some sort of noise from between my teeth. Then Esmail’s arms are around my chest and he pulls me backward onto the tea table. There is a moment of stillness before its legs break and I am sitting on my son on the floor against the sofa, my wife screaming and crying on the carpet before us. I attempt to help Esmail to his feet, but he stands quickly with no help from me. He looks at his father only a brief moment before disappearing down the corridor to his room. Nadereh remains on the floor upon her knees, screaming, moaning of her dead mother’s broken table, how I have ruined everthing in her life,
everything.
The black cosmetics have loosened under her eyes, and as I leave the bungalow she pushes me in the legs, but I ignore her, feeling curiously as if I am watching this moment instead of being a part of it, that it belongs not to my family, but another. Outside in the darkness, I smell the ocean. There are many stars above, but three and four homes down the street I am still able to hear my wife’s crying. She curses me in our mother language, and I am grateful it is a tongue no one in this village understands.