The ground was frozen but there was no snow. The house was only a short walk to the village square, and one could see the long bread and trinket tables of the bazaar, a cage of chickens, the butcher’s meat hanging from a timber. Already passersby stopped to view the spectacle of the carpet dealer pointing a pistol at his dirty kaseef daughter whose hands were held behind her by her bearded older brother who stood to the side, his eyes on the eyes of their father. The girl was in white nightclothes, her feet bare, already beginning to turn blue, her black hair hanging before her face as she cried so hard she was unable to speak. The men and women of the bazaar began to look as well, and perhaps they saw the youngest son run from the house just as his father pulled the trigger, the sound like the cracking of ice, a wisp of smoke entering the air, and the young beautiful Jasmeen, the gendeh, the whore, falling to the ground, curling herself up as if she were cold, moaning, then becoming quiet and with great concentration sitting up and pressing her hands to the hole in her chest. But in seconds the front of her gown was completely red and wet, and quite soon she lay still, her eyes open, steam rising from her wound into the early-morning air of Tabriz.
I hated my uncle, believing he had acted rashly and with too much passion. We are an educated family; we do not need to live as the peasant class, resolving our troubles with spilled blood. My aunt took Kamfar and moved to her family in the south, to Bandar Abbas, on the Strait of Hormuz. But none of her brothers or uncles would take revenge on Jasmeen’s killer. A man has the right, even the obligation, to protect his family name. Many years later, when I was married and Esmail was not yet born, Kamfar told to me the details of the story while we were mast with Russian vodka, and we both wept for Jasmeen. Soraya was a girl of eight or nine years and in my drunkenness I could not allow myself to even imagineraising merely an unloaded pistol to her. And over the years I have dreamed of Jasmeen in white falling to the ground, Mahmood standing over her as she attempted in vain to keep life from leaving her, pressing her hands to the torn opening between her breasts.
The hurting of women I have not approved of, though, yes, I have struck my wife on occasion, but I regretted each incident deeply. Once at our home in Tehran, I slapped Nadi’s face for raising her voice to me in the presence of a junior officer. Her eyes filled with sadness and humiliation and she ran crying from the room. Later that evening, when she would still to me not speak, I rolled up my shirtsleeve, lighted a Turkish cigar, and pressed the glowing ash into my flesh. I wanted to cry out but did not. I relighted the cigar and burned myself again. I did this five times, and I asked God for forgiveness with each burning of the flesh. The white scar on my forearm remains, and it is a reminder to me for controlling my passion, but today, when this woman Kathy Nicolo assaulted my buyers and me from her automobile, when I felt the sale of the bungalow begin to slip past me like the wind, I wanted to shoot her in the head; for with each of her false accusations, she was attempting to take from me not simply my future, but my family’s food and water, our shelter, our clothes. I explained to the gentleman and lady that this was a crazy woman, she knows nothing of which she speaks; I am pleased to show you all the paperwork for the sale of this home; Iam its proper owner. The man and woman regarded one another and then we spoke of other matters such as the proximity of the home to the beaches and San Francisco, the quiet nature of this street. The husband said they would telephone me with a decision, but I knew as I escorted them and the child to their family automobile, I had lost them.
Perhaps I should reconsider my decision to complete these dealings without a real estate agent. I have heard of many people who have put down payments upon homes after only viewing color photographs of the property in the Realtor’s office. This would allow me to not worry about this kaseef woman spoiling things.
But no, I cannot allow a salesman to take a heavy percentage of what is rightfully mine. I will wait for calls on the property and if this woman troubles me again, she will simply wish she had not. That is all. There is no more to consider.
M Y VISIT TO BISGROVE STREET LEFT ME FEELING WORSE, LIKE I’D JUSTfanned a fire I was trying to put out. I skipped the matinee and went food shopping instead, then drove south to the fish camp to surprise Les with some kind of meal when he showed up at seven, hopefully with some good lawyer news. It was only two-thirty when I drove the Bonneville up the pine trail, but I couldn’t go very far because Lester’s Toyota station wagon was already parked there. In front of it was a red pickup truck and on the rear window was a faded LET GO AND LET GOD bumper sticker beneath a small trout-fishing decal.
I got out with my two bags of groceries and squeezed past the station wagon and truck, the pine branches messing up my hair. As I carried the groceries into the clearing, I saw Lester and a man on the front porch, though they hadn’t seen me yet; Lester was sitting in a cane chair against the wall, still in his uniform, looking down at the floor, a beer can in one hand. The man was leaning against the railing with his back to me and the woods. He was wearing jeans and a dark blue short-sleeved shirt, his arms thick. I stepped on a twig and Les raised his head, but for a half second his face didn’t change from what it was before; he looked at me like I was someone he didn’t know who had just walked in on something private. But then his face softened up and he stood and met me at the steps, taking a bag and kissing me on the cheek.
“You’re early,” I said.
“You too.” Les motioned to his big friend and introduced us. His name was Doug, and this was his camp. Doug smiled, nodded at me, and drank from a can of ginger ale, his wedding band catching my eye. His square fleshy face might’ve been good-looking if his head weren’t practically shaved. I noticed how big his chest and biceps were. He reminded me of a lot of men back East, and I didn’t like it. I followed Les inside with the groceries. He seemed skinnier than usual. I went over and hugged him. “You look pretty low. What’s up?”
He held me for a long quiet minute, then let go. “Carol’s real upset.”
I heard Doug step off the porch and walk away from the cabin, and I didn’t know what Lester was trying to say. I took the food from the bags, a sudden current in my chest.
Les looked out the screen door, at the trees on the other side, though he didn’t seem to see them. “She was waiting in the car with the kids when I got to work this morning, and she began shouting and crying. Hitting me. The kids were still in their pajamas and they were crying too. It was bad.”
I had that floating feeling again, my heart beating somewhere in the air in front of me. I started to fold an empty paper bag. Les stayed quiet and was putting a crease in a bag that was already creased. “Are you going back to her, Lester?”
“That’s not an option, Kathy.”
Why? I wanted to know. Because she would never take him back now anyway? Or because he was really committed to this new road he was on? This road with me? But there was an edge in his voice, like he could yell or cry or both if I pushed him, and I pictured his son and daughter in their pajamas crying in the car. I wanted to hold him, but I lit a cigarette instead, blew the smoke out the side of my mouth. “I’m sorry your kids had to be there. That must’ve been hard.”
“It was.” Les pushed open the screen door with his toe, his back to me. “I should go help Doug with his boat. He’s trading it in for something bigger.”