“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 realowner, 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.
“CHEEH 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.
AT THE HILL’S bottom, in the dim yellow light of the streetlamps above, I see that my sign has already been torn from the utility post, a quarter of it still hanging from the tape. On the long climb back up the hill I am breathing with some difficulty, but I am not fatigued in the limbs, my mind is once again clear, and I no longer feel like a helpless witness to the unfortunate events of the evening. Why did this officer not have a police car in his possession? Why would he tear the sign himself? In such an emotional fashion? Why did he not have the name tag on his blouse that I have seen pinned to all other American law officers in uniform? And why did he hesitate in giving me his name, Gonzalez?
When I reach the bungalow I feel in my breast a very strong doubt that this is a genuine policeman at all. I know that America has its officials who operate over the law, but even corrupt county tax men fearful of a lawsuit would not send a uniformed officer such as that; they would send men who could not be traced back to them or their office. Dark men in suits. Savakis.
I cross the short grasses of my lawn and enter my home with a new resolve; tomorrow I will visit the same lawyer who advised me before. I will also visit the county tax office, as well as the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Department to report to them of their “Officer Gonzalez” making threats. Or perhaps he was not making threats for any bureaucrats, but for this kaseef woman, Kathy Nicolo; perhaps he is her brother, or friend, or more.
I am surprised to see Nadereh has left the silver tea table broken upon the floor, a bowl of pistachios and wrapped chocolates scattered about. From her closed room comes the melancholy music of Daryoosh, that kunee singer with the pretty voice I have come to despise. But frekresh neestam, it makes no difference; I can no longer protect my wife from troubling news the way one would a child. If she is afraid and miserable and unable to adjust to our new lives as I have, if she cannot respect me or stand by me another day, then so be it. Een zendeh-geeheh, this is life. Our life.
I clean up the nuts and sweets, then inspect the broken legs of the table. They are made of cypress wood from Turkey, and two are split and broken. Tomorrow I will glue them. I lean the tabletop neatly against the sofa, the last remaining legs jutting out like a final salute. The door to my son’s room is open and he is lying upon his bed, still dressed in shorts and tank T-shirt, his legs crossed together, his hands resting upon his stomach. He regards me as I enter, then fixes his eyes once again on the wall. I take the chair from his desk and sit. In Farsi I say that I am sorry for the fighting between his mother and me. “I was wrong to strike her, Esmail-joon. When you are one day married, please do not do as I did this evening.”
My son says nothing. Nor does he turn his head to me. I reach out and squeeze his upper arm. He stiffens slightly, but I ignore it and tell to him how strong he is becoming. Soon he will be stronger than me in every way. My son blows air from his mouth, crossing his arms over his chest. He turns his head completely away from me now.
“Do not be disrespectful, son. Look at me when I speak.”
Esmail sits up quickly. “Why did you lie to me, Bawbaw? You told me that woman didn’t pay her taxes so they took her house.”
“Yes, that is why they took from her this house.”