Inside the air-conditioned mall, I sit at a white plastic table in front of the many food concessions and eat a Japanese lunch of fried beef and noodles, and I know in my heart that this is no holy vision of Pourat and me on a balcony in America; it is a lie, a dooroogh born of heat and hunger and thirst and a need for my old life that is sometimes so strong I feel I would do nearly anything to retrieve it. But I cannot, no more than Pourat can rise from the dead to extract the revolutionaries’ bullets from his wife and children and then himself. And I am haunted once again with a picture of my dear friend’s body hanging by its feet above the tarmac, the tails of his suit coat covering his head, blood dripping from the sleeves. I rise without finishing my meal. I walk through the corridors of the mall in search of a hardware store.
I WAS RELIEVED WHEN I DROVE UP AND DIDN’T SEE THE COLONEL’Swhite car in the driveway. I rang the doorbell, hoping she hadn’t gone with him, wherever he went, and at the same time I was mad all over again that I was actually having to ring my own doorbell.
I could hear Middle Eastern music coming from inside the house, from behind a closed door, a man singing high to a backdrop of Arabian guitars. Sitars, I guess. I rang the bell three more times, then started knocking on the screen door. I put my hands and face to it and peered in. Their silver coffee table was on its side up against the couch, two of its legs broken off and lying next to it on the carpet. I thought of Les, his visit here last night. But the rest of the living room and kitchen looked clean and organized, the stools pushed in neatly beneath the counter. On top of it were three vases full of flowers, and part of the kitchen floor I could see had a gloss to it. “Hello? Excuse me, is anyone home?”
The music stopped and I heard one of the bedroom doors open down the hall. Then I heard the colonel’s wife’s voice, her thick accent: “Please a moment wait. Excuse for me, please.”
I could hear her hurry down to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. I wanted a cigarette, but didn’t want her to see me smoking, looking as needy and hungover as I felt. The aspirin had dulled my headache but left my stomach burning. I had to pee. I started to rehearse what I was going to say. I tried to remember the right way to pronounce her name, the way Les had said it, but all I could come up with is the way I remembered first hearing it from the carpenter on the roof: Barmeeny. And were they Arab? Or Iranian? And what was the difference? I decided I would try not to call her anything at all, just get to our problem. When she finally came to the door almost ten minutes later, my bladder was so full I wanted to press my knees together.
She opened the screen door smiling. She wore a different designer sweat suit this time, maroon with silver lettering in Italian stitched on the sleeve. Her short thick hair was flattened on one side of her head, like she’d been sleeping on it, and I could see she’d put some eyeliner and mascara on in a hurry. Her lined skin was pale, but her smile was warm and she apologized in that accent for “keeping me to waiting.” She asked about my foot.
“Deed your friend to leave more tools?”
At first I thought she was referring to Les, but then I understood; she really didn’t know what was going on at all. But the pressure between my legs was bad enough I didn’t think I could start explaining everything without going to the toilet first. I told her my foot was fine and with a pathetic smile on my face asked if I could use her bathroom again. She said yes, yes, of course, holding the door open for me.
When I came back out she had set a plate of red grapes and feta cheese on the counter.
“I am apologize for this mess. I cannot offer you sofa for sitting.”
“That’s okay.” I stood at the counter and reached for a grape, slipping it into my mouth.
“Would you to like tea?”
“No, thank you very much, Mrs. Barmeeny—I need to tell you something; I’m not a friend of the carpenter you hired. I’ve never even seen him before.
“My name is Kathy Nicolo.” I put out my hand and the colonel’s wife took it. Hers was smaller than mine, and so soft I could feel my cleaning calluses against her palm. I let go. “My father was Salvatore Nicolo. This was his house and when he died he left it to me and my brother.”
She stood very still, one small hand resting on the countertop, and she shook her head once. “I do not understand.” Her eyes were a little shiny and there were deep lines around her mouth.
I ate two more grapes, more for the juice than anything else, and looked into her drawn, still face. “See, the county evicted me from this house by mistake. Your husband bought it, but now the county has admitted they screwed up and they’ll give it back to me, but your husband has to sell it back to them first and he won’t.
“They want to give him his money back, but he wants four times what he paid, and I have no place to live. I can’t afford a motel anymore. I can’t. I have no place to live. Do you undestand?”
Slowly she looked away from me, pulled one of the stools out, and sat on it, her back straight, her legs crossed as ladylike as if she were wearing a dress. She rested her hands in her lap and looked right at me. “Will they make us return for our country?” Her voice sounded thicker than before, and higher, like there was phlegm in her throat.