The Lieutenant does not look at the detective, keeps his eyes on me only. “Mr. Behrani, this is your recourse.” He begins to speak to me of pressing charges, but I see only the movement of his lips, the fashion in which his shirt collar presses into the flesh of his neck.
“Please, hospital. Where is the hospital, please?”
The lieutenant points to the large window overlooking the parking compound of officers’ automobiles, the shops along Broadway Avenue in the sun, a large gray building among others. He tells to me this is where I must go, and there is the offer of an escort, a deputy to accompany me, but I cannot urge my legs for walking quickly enough. Soon I am among the people upon the sidewalk and I begin running. A woman steps away as I pass by and her face is frightened. It is the blood, the khoon, on my hands and shirt, my bloody peerhan. It is that I am running, but I see only the face of Esmail as he held the heavy weapon on the man who would rob us, my pesar’s eyes so dark with the question of what he should do next, the fashion in which he regarded me, his father, and I told to him, “Keep the gun pointed at his heart, do not be afraid.”
There is across the street a sign for EMERGENCY. Into the khiaboon I am running and an automobile screeches to a stop. Another driver sounds his horn, and then another and another and I turn and curse them in my language, disgracing their mothers and grandmothers and sisters as whores. My throat aches and in my eyes there is a stinging sweat. A Mercedes-Benz drives very close by me and I hear the shout of a man inside but I do not care. I spit upon these people. I spit upon this country and all of its guns and automobiles and homes.
But inside the hospital it is cool, clean, and quiet. A kind desk woman looks directly at my son’s blood and directs me to the area for emergencies. The corridors are wide and gray, shining from the light tubes above. The air smells of cotton bandages and floor cleaner. And I feel I cannot breathe. I follow the large signs for EMERGENCY. There are now many people in the corridors, some are in chairs with wheels and a husband or wife pushes them. Others walk with flowers and small children. They see the blood upon my hands and peerhan and look immediately to my eyes. And there are many sounds and voices and footsteps but I hear only my breath and I see my son’s face as I pressed down upon his wound, his eyes were open but he no longer seemed to see me and I told to him to hold on, to keep his feet upon the ground, to grip his toes to his skateboard for he is descending very fast down a long hill and he need only hold on. Do not let go, Esmail-joon. Do not let go.
I am breathing with difficulty, speaking with a tall nurse who has as many years as I. There are deep lines in her face, and she does not fear the blood on my hands as she leads me to a sink and tells me to wash and I do not hesitate. Soon we are in the elevator and as we move upwards towards my Esmail, she holds a clipboard and asks me for the name of my son, my name, our address. I tell to her 34 Bisgrove Street, Corona, California, this property that is still completely my own, Burdon in the custody of his own officers; he has lost and I have won—the nurse two times asks a question of insurance but I do not speak: I must see Esmail. I must see him very carefully, I must see him.
The doors open and I walk along the empty corridor following the tall nurse who does not press me any further but only leads me. There is a sign for Surgery, a small waiting area with magazines and cushioned chairs, a window overlooking the streets and buildings below. The nurse tells me to please sit and she disappears behind a heavy door. But I cannot sit. Nor can I stand still. I walk back and forth over the thin carpet, and I see the magazines, the colorful covers of famous men and women, the rich and beautiful, and I remember my hand in Shah Pahlavi’s; his palms were smooth as the face of babies and on his smallest finger there was a ruby ring as large as a grape.
For our excess we lost everything.
I kneel beneath the window, turn to the east, and bow my head to the carpet which smells of dust, and I curse myself for ever weeping over my lost position, for the respect I had lost among strangers. I must make nazr to God as did my uncle Hadi when I was a boy and his wife, Shamsi, lay sick in bed and my uncle made nazr to God that if he would heal Shamsi, Hadi would give thousands of tomans to a poor Kurdish family in the lower hills, and to seal this nazr, Hadi drove each day to the largest mosque in Tabriz and fed seed to the pigeons there, and after only five days my aunt Shamsi was well.
I press my head to the hospital’s carpet, my eyes tightly closed: man nazr meekonam, I am making nazr for—but I know no poor families to whom I can give. I think only of the old Vietnamese Tran. Perhaps it is to him I must give. I again begin the words of nazr, but when I pray Tran’s name I feel I am lying, telling dooroogh, and I do not know why, but this frightens me for there is very little time and I must be only pure in the nazr for my son. There must be nothing dirty or hidden in this prayer and now, at the thought of dirty, of kaseef, I know it is Kathy Nicolo, this beggar whore to whom I must make nazr. It is her.But I cannot. How can I give to this woman whose actions have led to my son’s injury? This woman who has brought the weapon to our bungalow that resulted in Esmail’s shooting? This woman who we took into our home when she was as mast as a drunk in the street? To whom we gave our son’s bed? Prepared for her a hot meal? Offered her our bath which she defiled in her weakness before we saved her life again? How can I make nazr to this woman whose boyfriend has kept us hostage? How can I give to her anything from my heart but the poison she has given us? And I will press criminal charges against this Lester V. Burdon. I will sue the entire Sheriff’s Department for what he has done. And I will sue the two deputies who shot my son. I will take from them their jobs and their homes—but I must not allow these thoughts to dirty the water of my nazr. I am weeping, seeing again my son’s eyes as I pressed upon his wound. They were Nadi’s eyes, and Soraya’s eyes, and my father’s, but they did not see me, but something else, a thing I cannot see. God,I am making nazr to this woman, Kathy Nicolo, and I to You promise if You heal my son I will return her father’s house. I will also give to her all the money I have. Please, my God, Khoda, I make nazr for my only son.
“Sir?”
I beg you.
“Sir?”
I will do whatever is Your will. I will purchase ten kilos of the finest seed and I will find an American mosque and feed them to all the birds.
“Mr. Behmini?”
I will go to other holy places as well. I will feed pigeons in front of the churches of Christians. I will feed them at the doors of Jewish temples. I will let the birds cover me and then I will return with more seed and feed them again.
“Sir?”
And again.
“Mr. Behmini?”
My nazr is in Your hands.
I rise slowly. Beside the nurse is a man. He is short and very dark. An Indian or Pakistani. But as he introduces himself and offers his hand he speaks with no accent of any kind, and his eyes are black and he is dressed in the green clothing of surgeons, a paper mask hanging beneath his throat, and he does not release my hand and I know why and I begin pulling my hand from his, but it is too late, he has already released the words and they hit me like debris from an explosion. There is no air. No light. No sound. Only the dark vacuum of God’s closed door, of his no to my nazr, of his no to my son to whom they now lead me, my executioners, this man and this woman, to Esmail who lies upon a raised stretcher.
Esmail Kamfar Behrani.
A white sheet covers him to the shoulders. They are bare and smooth and brown from his days in the sun, and the sheet is clean except for a spot of khoon at his hip, and evil rose in the snow. The doctor speaks softly, delivering to me the specifics of God’s answer, but I see now only my son’s face. It is turned slightly towards the wall. His eyes are closed but his lips are parted, as when he sleeps with a stuffed nose. His jawbone is long and beautiful, and I touch the soft black hairs on his cheek near to his ears. His skin is cool and does not feel natural. At once it is too hard and too soft, and I know my son is no longer here beneath my hand. There is a loudness in the corridor, the vibration of it in my head and bowels. It is me, silenced by my son’s head as I hold him to my chest, his hair inside my mouth, his nose and lips pressed to my throat, and I would joyfully lie naked in flames for one thousand years to put life back into this boy. There is a hand upon my shoulder. It belongs to one of my torturers, but it does not pull me or push me, simply rests upon me as if it knows what it is I have lost, my son, who as a baby walked before he had one year, his small brown legs as bowed as a wrestler in the zur khaneh—at one and a half years, his first words to me over the telephone at Mehrabad: “Salome, Bawbaw-joon”—his bare feet in Paris, black with dirt from the street where he led French boys in play we did not know—his ease with computer games which were sometimes as complicated for me as the controls of a jet—his kindness and character, waking me with tea at the pooldar apartments, telling to me in the early dawn he is sorry for his bad behavior, he knows how hard it is I work, he made mistake—