I cannot breathe. I cannot see. My sound curls inside of me, releasing in the scream of his name. I kiss his closed eyes. His cheeks. His soft lips. There is a hand upon my back, the woman’s, patting me, but she does not know how I have failed this child; she does not know I encouraged him to stand still with the gun, to stay in the line of fire of his killers. The sound that comes from me is that of a beast, a weak and primitive animal not even worthy of sacrifice. My Esmail’s face is wet from my own and he must be washed.
He must be wrapped in white for his journey to God’s door.
And Nadi must do it.
His mother must do it.
But how can I tell to her? How is it possible to tell her our youngest child has left before us? How do I tell my Nadi I could not protect him? How do I explain I ordered him to point the weapon at Burdon until the police arrived? These American police who shot down our son?
I lay Esmail down, lower my head, and rush into the wall, feeling too little, only the jolting warmth and confusion of impact. The surgeon’s hand is upon my arm but I struggle away from this man who has killed me. The nurse calls my name but I am again running.
In the elevator I cannot stand. I cannot sit. I push myself from one wall to the next. In my mouth there is blood and I now know my dear brother Pourat was spared this torment, when at this hour he was shot instantly. But I have not been given this courtesy. And I will not spare the man who did not spare my son.
Again I am running. The streets are full of American people who walk along the sidewalks or stop in the shops or step into the office buildings as if my son had not just perished on this very ground. In my path walk two men in suits, their backs to me, and I force my way through their lack of respect, pushing them to the side, hearing their curses, the weak cursing of gentlemen, their voices high with fear and surprise that anyone would dare upset their calm water. In my mind I am spitting upon them. In my mind I am already preparing how careful it is I must be when I enter this Hall of Justice building, how it is I must walk through the clean glass door over the hard and shining floor to the elevators with no sweat or tears upon my face, no intent in my eye, only the impassive face of a man with business above.
And soon I am no longer in my mind but in the Hall of Justice. Men in suits walk by and they study my face and see the blood on my peerhan. I board an elevator, pressing the button which closes the door. I am moving towards the floor of detectives and Internal Affairs officers and I am certain I will find Lester V. Burdon, the tall thin lover of whores, the killer of my son, I will find him, perhaps being questioned in a soft chair, his friends and colleagues his only interrogators.
The elevator doors are brass and in their reflection is a man with blood upon his head, the dripping of it on his forehead and eyebrow. The doors open and I am not upon the floor of detectives and lieutenants but only deputy sheriffs in their blue uniforms seated at desks conducting their business. One views me, and then another, and both regard the blood upon my face, my peerhan. They call to me: “Sir, step out of the elevator. Sir?” But my hands press the buttons quickly and the doors close, the elevator descending when I want for it to rise, rise to the detectives, to where they are holding their fallen colleague. But now the door opens at the lobby, clean and spacious but full of men and women in the formal dress of courtrooms. A security officer walks across the shiny floor, his eyes upon my blood. I turn, but the elevators have closed their doors.
“Sir?Hold on there.”
Once again I am running. Outdoors the sun is upon my head and face. The air smells of engine exhaust, of cooking meat from a vendor’s cart, transportation and hot meals continuing as if this moment were any other. My eyes burn. I breathe with difficulty and stop running. I look once behind me but there is no guard. Across the khiaboon, in front of the tax office, many officers and men in suits talk behind the yellow tape of the Sheriff’s Department. Men and women stare, talking amongst themselves, watching as one of the men stoops to investigate Esmail’s blood. Who are these people to witness this? To invade my heart like soldiers with dirt upon their boots? I step into the khiaboon, but no cars sound their horns and I move quietly to the other side, to the rear of the crowd, searching for the men who shot my son, and I regard one of them standing in the shadow of the tax building, speaking with two men dressed in badly tailored suits. He is a young deputy. Round white face. His hands are upon his hips and he looks down at his shoes. One of the detectives speaks and the young man looks only at his shoes. He shakes his head. His lips move as if he might talk. He continues to shake his head. At his side his hand trembles and I would like to see him dead upon the ground but I have no desire to harm him. Only Burdon, our captor and his beggar whore, who is with Nadi still, and I feel suddenly my wife is in danger.
The highway is bright. I drive very fast, the white lines of the road becoming one. My drawn breath seems to reach only my skin. My fingers shake. I wipe the khoon from my eye and feel beside me the empty seat where sat my son, my abdomen heaving with crying I do not hear. The day’s work was only beginning and the air was cool, the third day of Ramadan, and when I ate breakfast with Nadi before dawn she told me it was soon, and at dusk my driver Bahman was smiling, and before I entered the auto he spoke the news, that I had a son, Captain Massoud Amir Behrani is father of a son.
I do not see clearly and this does not matter. I drive into the fog of the hills towards Corona. I wipe my eye and nose upon my sleeve. The air here smells of the ocean, of rotted weed in the sand, of sea salt and garbage. My hands steer the automobile up the hill past the bungalows on the left which are small but newly painted, their stoops and sidewalks swept clean, the grasses of their lawn cut very short. This is an ugly street, zesht, and now I see our widow’s walk rising from our roof, a foolish thing. My foot and leg are only the wood of a dead tree, and the engine responds with sound, carrying me and all I have done and not done to the drive. At the window, there is the parting of the drapes before they fall still and I slip from my automobile like black oil. I move to the front door of my home and for a moment my limbs are heavy as iron but then I am only empty clothes, the front door opening with a force that surprises me for I do not remember touching it. There is the startled hand of Kathy Nicolo as she raises it to her mouth. Between us is a sea of carpet from the house of my mother but now I am across it and I believe there is sound coming from the beggar whore’s mouth but I cannot be certain for my limbs are again iron and my hands are fixed to her neck and throat. I seem to watch her face from a place higher, this struggling statue of a man and woman, her flesh warm and soft, the tendons of her neck I begin to break each at a time. Her hair has fallen over half her face, her eyelids fluttering, her sound quite ugly, a wet ripping, her tongue pink. Her fingers grasp my wrists and her nails pierce what was once my flesh. There is blood, but not enough, and I lift her from the floor, her feet kicking and dragging beneath her. I shake her once, twice, again, and again, her head jerking backwards and forwards. There is no end to my strength or how long I shake her, then her hand slips from my wrists and the bungalow grows silent.