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 yourname, Officer?”
The man regards me, his jaw muscles tightening a brief moment. “Deputy Sheriff Joe Gonzalez. Let me ask youa question, Coloneclass="underline" 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.”