I T IS A DAY OF BRIGHT SUN, TOO WARM FOR THE FULL SUIT AND SILKtie I wear as I drive past the large shopping malls and automobile dealerships, the restaurants and clothing boutiques of Redwood City. Since I left the lawyer’s office in Corona, I have allowed myself the relief of air-conditioning, but I feel no other such relief. Over weak American coffee and for another one hundred and fifty dollars, the lawyer with the bow tie confirmed for me my suspicions of our visit from this Joe Gonzalez. He told to me it is highly unlikely any persons at the county tax office would send a police officer to threaten me. And when I informed him the man wore a gold star from the Sheriff’s Department of San Mateo County, but no name badge, which I know to be required in this country, a look of concern passed over the short lawyer’s face and he said to me that Corona was in the jurisdiction of that department. He telephoned them directly, but I was not surprised he discovered there was no such officer of that name. The lawyer passed to me the telephone, and a man who identified himself as a lieutenant asked if I would care to travel to Redwood City to discuss this further.
The Hall of Justice building is eight or nine floors tall, across the street from a courthouse whose roof is a very large dome of stained glass. It momentarily reminds me of a mosque in Qom, its mere sight bringing me a comfort and sense of confidence I have not otherwise been feeling. And it is a comfort being inside the building as well; the ceilings are high, the floor hard and polished, and I am directed by a court officer to the fifth floor where men in the same uniform as the so-called Mr. Gonzalez sit at desks, attending to computer keyboards or telephones. I am reminded of my old life again, my offices at Mehrabad, and I stand erect when I am greeted by the lieutenant with whom I spoke from the lawyer’s office. He is dark-skinned and quite trim, with the very short hair of an American marine or army officer. He announces he is with the Internal Affairs Bureau, and he leads me to his office, where he requires a physical description and I of course mention the man’s tall height and his mustache. The lieutenant asks of any particular pins or badges on the officer’s blouse, and I inform him of the gold star, the badge of two pistol barrels crossed together, and when I tell to him of the gold letters FTO, he regards me quite carefully, then excuses himself from the room only to return very soon with a single sheet of black-and-white photographs of officers’ faces.
“There are only eight field training officers in the whole department,” the lieutenant says, though he does not smile at our good fortune. I immediately point to Mr. Gonzalez’s face, which is in the second row of photos, and I take note of his name: Burdon, Lester V.
“Are you completely confident this is the officer, sir?”
“Yes. That is him. That is the man who threatened me.”
The lieutenant writes something upon a pad of paper. He then asks me additional questions as to why this man, a stranger to me, would want me to leave the property, and so I explain our situation, saying as well that I do not know the reason this man is involved. Perhaps he is a friend of the previous owner? The lieutenant hands me an official complaint form, and I take nearly three-quarters of the hour to record in my neatest writing and my best English grammar what happened the evening before. The lieutenant thanks me, and as he escorts me to the elevator, he assures to me he will pursue the matter and please do not hesitate to call us should there be any more disturbance.
I drive northward upon the Bayshore Freeway. I make loose the tie at my neck and I am thinking and feeling many things. Among those law enforcement officers in that very orderly building, I felt in the manner one does when meeting a distant cousin and seeing one’s own brother or sister in the face of that cousin; even if you have never before met this relative, there is the urge to embrace him simply because you share a measure of the same blood. That is how I instantly felt among all those uniformed men. And I begin to question my desire to find work only with aerospace companies. Perhaps, after selling the bungalow and while searching for the prudent investment opportunity, I might attempt finding a position with a local police department. Chera na? Why not? I am a naturalized citizen. And I would be quite content taking only an office position, answering the telephone, or perhaps watching over prisoners, taking their fingerprints or some such detail. I would be able to work amongst men of duty and discipline.
But meanwhile, I have of course several pressing concerns. In all my military years I witnessed many times what could happen to a soldier who reported the infraction of another soldier to an officer. He is no longer to be trusted; he is shunned and usually beaten by many. One man, a young air soldier named Mehran, was drowned in a toilet at Mehrabad, his killer never proven. And I have no illusions of how this man Burdon may take my reporting of him. As I drive the Buick Regal past the San Carlos airport, the sun bright upon the runways beyond the tall hurricane fence of the freeway, I consider simply selling the bungalow back to the county for what I paid, perhaps even taking a loss for the widow’s walk. We would have nearly as much as we started with and all these troubles would be behind us. But then what must I do? Work upon the highway or at another convenience store or even in a police department while I watch the remains of our savings disappear? No, this I can no longer do. It is evident now that I have discovered a real estate opportunity that can only come about as the result of a bureaucratic mistake. It is unlikely, given the marketplace, that I will triple my money as surely as I can with this bungalow on Bisgrove Street. No, we must stay and sell. Sometimes in this life, only one or two real opportunities are put before us, and we must seize them, no matter the risk.
But now I must consider how I may protect myself and my family, and I grip tightly the steering wheel that I am forced to even think of these things. I have no weapons. There is only the Cossack dagger I purchased from an Azerbaijani at a summer bazaar on the Caspian Sea, and that I use as a paperweight. Perhaps I was not wise to report this Burdon. Should I have left matters as they were? Simply attempted to forget the man’s threats and proceeded with selling the property? In Tehran, my driver Bahman carried a pistol and of course I had a private weapon of my own, though until the fall of our society I had no need for it, a gift given me by an American defense executive in Tel Aviv to celebrate the completion of a large sale of F-16s to the Imperial Air Force, a silver-plated .45-caliber pistol. In its handle grips was etched an American cowboy on a rearing horse, and the night we fled Tehran I kept that weapon fully loaded in the waistband of my trousers. Once we arrived in Bahrain I wanted no legal delays in our flight to Europe so I was forced to sell the pistol. But now I wished to feel its weight in my hand, the cowboy and horse against my skin. But then what, Genob Sarhang? Do I shoot this Lester V. Burdon if I am to see him again? Or do I simply point the weapon at him so that he is forced to reveal his own and we both shoot one another? No, man beehoosham, I am so very stupid; this line of thinking will bear no fruit, only destruction. And I am not my uncle from Tabriz.
Near to San Bruno I leave the highway and drive for the mall to purchase wood glue for Nadi’s table. It is close to the noon hour and I have a thirst and a hunger as well, the sun hot upon my bald head as I walk through the massive parking area. I am reminded of last spring, our thirty-day fast of Ramadan, when I ate one small meal only before sunrise and then again only after nightfall. These days I was still working as a garbage soldier and when the fat radish Torez would stop the truck for lunch I would only rinse my mouth with water, then spit it out. Nothing more. The old Vietnamese Tran offered to me a portion of his rice but I quietly declined. Having been an officer for so many years, I was not accustomed to the effects of physical labor combined with Ramadan’s hunger and for the first days, especially those that were warm, I would feel weak, my limbs heavy and sluggish, and if I moved too quickly, the grass and highway would spin a moment in my head. One afternoon, after watching me for ten days go without a midday meal, Torez asked me to his truck where he offered me a large meat and cheese sandwich. I thanked him, explaining our religion, that Ramadan comes every year for us, the ninth month of our Muslim calendar. He nodded quietly as if he respected this answer, but then he told to me: “Suit yourself, Camello. But go tell Allah I have a crew to run, man.” The Panamanians and the pig Mendez said nothing to me in those days, for I think they could see I had something they did not, a belief in more than today’s work and tonight’s wine. Although in my country I would not be considered a religous man, but simply one of the many comforted by its ancient practices. After those first ten days, the midday hunger and weakness disappeared, replaced by a lightness in the body, a clarity in the head, a wide and open space in the chest. As I worked stabbing bits of trash with my spear, shaking them into my yellow plastic bag, I had visions of what this country might yet offer my family: Soraya was still in the season of hastegar and I imagined her contentedly married with many children of her own. In my mind, Esmail was a young handsome man in a finely tailored suit. Perhaps he was a successful businessman, engineer, or doctor. Yes, a surgeon of some sort, a savior of the sick. I saw Nadi and me living in one of the white stucco mansions in San Francisco’s Pacific Heights. As in our previous life, we would have a driver. Our home would be surrounded by high walls covered with vines and blooming flowers. In my fast, all these things seemed more possible, especially in America where—as in no other country—hard work, sacrifice, and discipline can be rewarded one hundredfold. But then my imagination would become almost a fever in its lightness. To complete our happiness, Pourat and his wife and children would be alive once more, dining with us in our home, all of us; Soraya and her husband and children, Esmail and his family, Nadi and I, all seated at a grand sofreh upon a floor of the finest Isfahani carpets; we would drink French champagne and eat the finest chelo kebab; we would laugh at Pourat’s jokes and riddles, his gentle teasing of the children. Nadi and Pourat’s wife would embrace each other in joy while Pourat and I would retire to the balcony overlooking the city to smoke Cuban cigars and speak of the old life we no longer needed.