Текст книги "House of Sand and Fog"

Автор книги: Andre Dubus

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

 

M Y VISIT TO BISGROVE STREET LEFT ME FEELING WORSE, LIKE I’D JUSTfanned a fire I was trying to put out. I skipped the matinee and went food shopping instead, then drove south to the fish camp to surprise Les with some kind of meal when he showed up at seven, hopefully with some good lawyer news. It was only two-thirty when I drove the Bonneville up the pine trail, but I couldn’t go very far because Lester’s Toyota station wagon was already parked there. In front of it was a red pickup truck and on the rear window was a faded LET GO AND LET GOD bumper sticker beneath a small trout-fishing decal.

I got out with my two bags of groceries and squeezed past the station wagon and truck, the pine branches messing up my hair. As I carried the groceries into the clearing, I saw Lester and a man on the front porch, though they hadn’t seen me yet; Lester was sitting in a cane chair against the wall, still in his uniform, looking down at the floor, a beer can in one hand. The man was leaning against the railing with his back to me and the woods. He was wearing jeans and a dark blue short-sleeved shirt, his arms thick. I stepped on a twig and Les raised his head, but for a half second his face didn’t change from what it was before; he looked at me like I was someone he didn’t know who had just walked in on something private. But then his face softened up and he stood and met me at the steps, taking a bag and kissing me on the cheek.

“You’re early,” I said.

“You too.” Les motioned to his big friend and introduced us. His name was Doug, and this was his camp. Doug smiled, nodded at me, and drank from a can of ginger ale, his wedding band catching my eye. His square fleshy face might’ve been good-looking if his head weren’t practically shaved. I noticed how big his chest and biceps were. He reminded me of a lot of men back East, and I didn’t like it. I followed Les inside with the groceries. He seemed skinnier than usual. I went over and hugged him. “You look pretty low. What’s up?”

He held me for a long quiet minute, then let go. “Carol’s real upset.”

I heard Doug step off the porch and walk away from the cabin, and I didn’t know what Lester was trying to say. I took the food from the bags, a sudden current in my chest.

Les looked out the screen door, at the trees on the other side, though he didn’t seem to see them. “She was waiting in the car with the kids when I got to work this morning, and she began shouting and crying. Hitting me. The kids were still in their pajamas and they were crying too. It was bad.”

I had that floating feeling again, my heart beating somewhere in the air in front of me. I started to fold an empty paper bag. Les stayed quiet and was putting a crease in a bag that was already creased. “Are you going back to her, Lester?”

“That’s not an option, Kathy.”

Why? I wanted to know. Because she would never take him back now anyway? Or because he was really committed to this new road he was on? This road with me? But there was an edge in his voice, like he could yell or cry or both if I pushed him, and I pictured his son and daughter in their pajamas crying in the car. I wanted to hold him, but I lit a cigarette instead, blew the smoke out the side of my mouth. “I’m sorry your kids had to be there. That must’ve been hard.”

“It was.” Les pushed open the screen door with his toe, his back to me. “I should go help Doug with his boat. He’s trading it in for something bigger.”

I inhaled deeply on my cigarette, then rested it on the very edge of the chopping block, balancing it there, a tremor in my fingers as I let all the heat out of my lungs. “Les?”

“Yeah?”

“This all would’ve happened anyway, wouldn’t it? If you hadn’t met me?”

He turned to me, like he was surprised I’d said that, his lips parted under his mustache. He let the screen door close behind him and came over and hugged me, told me of course it would, it was all going to happen sooner or later. He stepped back and looked at me with a hand on both my shoulders. “It’s not you, Kathy. It’s not you at all.”

I felt better but also left out, like a little sister, and I stepped away from him to finish my cigarette. “I know this is shitty timing, but did you get a chance to call your lawyers about the house?”

He said no, he hadn’t, but he was planning to do that before tonight. He came over and kissed me, tasting like sour beer, the way it gets old in the mouth. Then he said he’d drive up to Half Moon Bay right now and make the calls, be back in no time. I told him I was blocking them both in with my car and I handed him my keys as he stepped out into the gray light, ducking his head as he left the porch. I moved to the door and watched him walk to the river trail, his shoulders hunched slightly, his head low, like there was still something he had to duck.

I smoked a cigarette in the doorway while they carried the aluminum skiff through the clearing past our woodpile, then up the trail until I couldn’t see them anymore. I could hear Doug’s calm voice, and I wondered if they were talking about me. I wondered what Les had told him about us, and I pictured Doug and his wife having dinner with Lester and Carol Burdon. I felt like leaving, like getting in my car and driving for days and days. But Lester was taking my car anyway, and he was doing it to call lawyers for me. I sat at the table and looked around the cabin, at the bare pine walls, the black iron stove, the groceries on the wood chopping block, the steep staircase to the loft. I could hear the Purisima River through the trees. All this quiet was making me more nervous and I’d wished I’d brought my Walkman from the car. I went outside, squatted at the woodpile, and loaded myself up with a stoveful of split logs.

LES WAS GONE almost two hours, longer than it should’ve taken him to drive five miles to make a couple of phone calls. I’d bought two jars of marinara sauce, and I was planning to heat that up in the stove while I boiled some pasta and cooked hot Italian sausages in another pan. But I didn’t want to start any of this till Les got back, because on a hot stove it would all get done fast. So after finally getting the fire going, I tossed a three-green salad on two paper plates, peeled eight cloves of garlic, diced them with a dull knife, made half-slices in the French bread, then scooped in spoonfuls of margarine, sprinkling in the garlic before I wrapped the loaf in foil. I sat on the porch and smoked a cigarette. Any minute I kept expecting Les to come out of the woods into the clearing, but I sat there for close to an hour listening to the river, an occasional bird, the crackling of the fire in the house behind me. Every twenty minutes or so I’d go back inside to add a split log to the flames to keep the temperature of the stove-top up. There were only two pots and one pan in the crate under the stairs, and the pots were small. I’d filled both with clear water from the river and each had a slow boil going in it. I was going to have to cook the vermicelli in both, then dump the water to heat the sauce, hoping that and the sausages from the pan would be hot enough to reheat the cooled pasta, though I wasn’t too worried about anything cooling off in that cabin; it was hot as a sauna. My shirt was sticking to my skin and the sweat was beginning to burn my eyes. I poked the fire with a stick, shut the oven door, then walked down the short trail to the Purisima, where I pulled off my top and bra, stepped out of my shorts and panties, and waded out in the cold water and dived in.

It was a shock but I felt instantly cleansed to the bone, and I let myself surface, turning on my back and kicking until I was away from the treetops and there was nothing but the gray western sky above me. I closed my eyes and drifted a minute, but the water was cold and I didn’t know how deep it was and for some reason I pictured the fish camp on fire, tall flames curling out the windows, black smoke snaking out the shingles of the roof. I swam back to the mossy bank and dried myself as well as I could with my underwear. I dressed without them and walked back to the camp, which wasn’t burning, and there was Lester lugging my suitcase into the clearing from the cars. In his other hand was a covered Styrofoam cup of coffee he tried to drink from as he went, his dark eyes on the ground in front of him. When he saw me he swallowed and lowered his cup. “Go for a swim?”

“You get lost?” I reached for my suitcase but he stepped away with it. “Your foot.”

“It’s fine.” I tried to take the suitcase again, but he wouldn’t let go and he walked ahead of me while I stood there watching him make his unsteady way up onto the porch. He dropped my suitcase against the wall and sat down. I stayed where I was. “You go drinking?”

Lester looked at me with his eyes narrowed a little, like he didn’t quite know how to take what I’d just said. But really, he seemed put out, as if I was interrupting an important train of thought. He flipped the plastic lid off his coffee cup and drank. I crossed my arms and stared at him, my wet underpants balled up in one hand. I was hurt he didn’t bring me a cup. I felt refreshed after my swim, and coffee would’ve been nice right then, before I cooked. I knew I could go inside and make some, though. And I couldn’t stand myself looking at him this way, my arms crossed, my head cocked. Why didn’t I just start tapping one foot?

I sat on the top step of the porch, my back against the post. Lester had both elbows on his knees, holding the coffee cup between his hands, and he gave me a weak smile, then looked over the railing into the woods. His uniform shirt was wrinkled and sweat-stained in the back, and his pant cuffs were riding high on his calves, his black socks fallen to his black shoes, his shins skinny and hairy. A rush of air seemed to go through me.

“You don’t have good news for me, do you?” I felt selfish asking this, and I wished I could take back the question. Lester studied me for a long minute, then shook his head.

“I don’t have good news for anybody, Kathy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m just a Bad News Bear, Kathy.” He raised his eyebrows at me like it was my cue to laugh.

“Did you get loaded before the calls? Or after?”

Les stared at his small woodpile. “After. But I didn’t get loaded. I started to, but then Doug steered me away from it.” He looked over at me. “You’re so beautiful with your hair wet like that.”

I was thinking of Doug and the twelve-step, Higher Power bumper sticker on his truck, of letting go and letting God. “They can’t do anything to Bahroony, can they?”

Les shook his head and I felt my chest sort of disappear.

“I called three lawyers. Two of them said if he bought it legally he can do whatever he wants. They say your case is with the county, Kathy.”

“But the county said they’d sell it backto him. And I don’t wantthem to buy me another house. Can’t we makehim give it back?!” I jumped up and walked out into the clearing. “That fucking prick’s trying to sell my house, Les!I saw him showing it to people this afternoon.”

“Today?”

“To a family.That fucker just wants the cash. He probably does this all the time, makes money off people’s problems! What did the third lawyer say then?”

“That was my lawyer.”

“Well? Did he say something different?”

“I didn’t call him about that, Kathy.”

“Oh.” My cheeks got warm and I felt like I’d just walked into a stranger’s living room, plopped down on their couch, and started watching their TV. I’d been thinking Les came back from his phone calls all down mainly because of mybad news; now I was ashamed of myself and I didn’t know what to say. I needed a cigarette. I went inside the hot cabin and lit one on an ember from the woodstove. I stuck another split log inside, then went back out on the porch and sat on the stoop smoking. Les stood and tossed the last of his coffee over the railing. He leaned against it with his hands, and we were both quiet. Far off in the woods a dog barked.

“I guess my wife never saw this coming. I feel pretty bad about that.”

“You think you’re making a mistake?” It was strange, but I felt calm. Les stood there all long-armed and still. He could answer any way he wanted.

“What do youthink?”

“Do Ithink you’re making a mistake?”

Les nodded.

“I can’t answer that. Maybe if you have to ask me, you are.”

“Then I’m not asking that.”

“What are you asking me, then?”

He didn’t answer right away, just looked at me. He finally said: “Can you put up with me through all of this?”

“That’s what you’re asking me?”

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

“I think so. Depends on what ‘this’ is, though.”

Lester flicked a paint chip off the railing. “Carol’s on sort of a rampage. She called the lawyer before me and she’s already petitioned for dissolution.”

I made some kind of face.

“Divorce,” he said. “We don’t use that word in California. We dissolvemarriages here; it’s supposed to be a lot nicer for everyone, just slide into the hot tub and disappear.”

“And you don’t want that?”

“I want what’s best.” He peeled up another paint chip and glanced at me. “And I know that’s what has to happen, but she also asked him some nasty questions about custody and property. She can’t do anything against me without mediation, but just hearing it kind of put me over the edge.”

I went over and hugged him. He felt to me like an old friend, though I didn’t have any. It must feel like this though; they’re warm against you and you love and respect them and are on their side no matter what. I asked him if he’d like a nice Italian dinner, and he said yes. We kissed and made our way inside, starting to undress, needing to do it, but it was so hot in there we ended up hurrying back down the trail to the Purisima, our arms around each other, and we took off our clothes on the mossy bank, then made love there, Lester pushing in and out of me so fast it hurt a little. His face was all bunched up with the effort of it, and I suddenly felt far away, closing my eyes just as he let out a short groan, pulled out of me, and came across my stomach in a warm wet line.

MAYBE IT WAS the hot cabin that got to us, to him. Maybe it was the quiet and the stillness. I think it was all three. The dinner came out better than I would’ve guessed and because it was too hot inside the camp, we ate out on the porch off plates in our laps. Halfway through supper the mosquitoes began to hit so we sprayed each other down with repellent, something I wished I’d waited to do because the rest of the meal didn’t taste quite right.

We sat on the porch awhile, the two of us looking out at the small woodpile and trees like old people waiting for someone to visit. The sky was still gray, but darker, and I knew we were close to nightfall. Les was sitting straight in his chair. He’d changed into jeans and that tacky striped golf shirt, and he wore sneakers without socks. But he didn’t look relaxed; he’d been sitting with his arms crossed over his chest, his feet flat on the floor, and sometimes he’d wave a mosquito away from his face, then cross his arms again. I thought of my mother and her two sisters and their plan to fly west, and I wished I’d written a better reason for them not to come. I knew if they thought Nick and I would be gone for the weekend they’d still fly out, and worse, they’d probably want to stay at the empty house. “Shit.”

“What?”

I told Les about my mother’s postcard, and about the rest of my mail, the bills I was supposed to pay to keep the Arab family comfortable in my stolen house.

“You’re right, you know.” He sat back and looked at me. “This guy’s received stolen property and now he’s trying to pawn it off.”

“It’s not really stolen, though, right?”

“Technically.” Lester’s breath was starting to rise. “That’s one thing I hate about law enforcement, Kathy.”

“What?”

“Do you know how many times I see people violate the spirit of the law without actually breaking it? Like the DV law: no matter which spouse does the violence, we have to take them in. That means if a two-hundred-pound artichoke rancher in Pescadero slugs his wife and she hits him back, she gets charged, too.”

“For defending herself?”

“That’s right. We took in this one guy who did a number on his wife, really worked her over. She wouldn’t take out a restraining order, and when he got out on bail he went back to the house and coaxed and taunted her until she started clawing his face. And he stood there and let her do it because he knew the law and he knew now it would be herturn to sit in a cell. And I can’t nottake her in. And this Arab son of a bitch—he knows what he’s doing is wrong, but the law saves him anyway. The day we drove by, you see the kinds of carsparked in front of your house? You see the clothesthose people had on? And you’re out in the cold.”

“I’m out in the heat.” I was smiling. It felt so good hearing this kind of feeling about me and my problem coming out of Lester’s mouth. I lit a cigarette. “I can’t believe we can’t just evict him. That’s what’s so fucked up.”

Les gave me a long look, his dark eyes narrowed like he was thinking of something else. “You said this guy was a colonel?”

“That’s what he said.”

“From what country?”

“I don’t know, but his wife hardly speaks any English at all.”

“Maybe they haven’t been here very long, Kathy. Maybe they don’t know their way around.” Lester went inside. I could hear him undressing.

“I’ll call INS tomorrow, Kathy, see if they have anything we can use.”

“Use?”

He didn’t answer me. I could hear him pull the plastic off his dry cleaning. I was really enjoying this. “Use for what?”

“For the greater good.”

I listened to him dress, then he stepped back outside, zipping up his deputy uniform pants, tucking in his shirt. He reached into his pocket for some uniform emblems and his gold star badge, pinning them on.

“What the hell are you doing, Lester?”

“Officers tend to listen to other officers, Kathy. It’s worth a shot.” Les began to finish buttoning his shirt, but I stepped up and took over, like I used to do for Nicky.

“What if he doesn’t listen, Les?”

“Then we turn up the volume.” He laughed at his own line, at the cowboy toughness of it, it seemed. I told him to stay still, and I straightened up his shirt collars and kissed his throat. I was about to say thank you but he was already stepping off the porch, so I put on my Reeboks, then went out and started the Bonneville while Les unlocked his car. I watched as he straightened to buckle his gun belt on. He looked perfect walking to the passenger’s side of my car, the creases in his uniform sharp and clean, his badge positioned just under his heart. I noticed he hadn’t pinned on his name tag. When he got in and shut the door, I leaned over and kissed him and said, “I love you for doing this, Lester. I really do.”

 

A HEAVINESS OF HEART POSSESSES ME ON OUR NEW WIDOW’S WALK. ITScause is remembering Jasmeen, but I begin to worry once more of the difficulties I already face in the selling of the home. Even if I were to sell the bungalow at the profit I have projected, I must still be prepared to move my family once again, and this time it will have to be a modest apartment in one of these modest villages along the coast. This will of course be the best way to avoid spending my pool while I search for suitable investment opportunities. But I recall my daughter’s face, the fashion in which she regarded me at her homecoming dinner, the aggressive and rude way in which she all the night long repeatedly apologized for the family’s present living situation by recalling our old life. How will she regard her mother, brother, and me living in a cottage in a place such as San Bruno perhaps? Or Daly City, with all those Filipino people? Will she be too ashamed to visit? To bring her husband and his family? These thoughts begin to anger me, for who does she think she is to judge her own father? To perhaps pity me? And yes, it was pity I saw in her face that evening as she viewed me in the candlelight at the sofreh, that, and a degree of shame as well. But also, she seemed to me confused at the change we are undergoing, and that is where I blame myself, for I have never let her know of our finances. Even when I worked two jobs for so long to uphold our charade, she never knew what sort of work and where, and of course I would leave the home well dressed and return as such. Perhaps I maintained this mask for my children out of pride and vanity. Perhaps I was being soosool.

But enough of all this self-examination. It is a habit I only began to assume after the fall of our society when I found more time on my hands and upon my shoulders than I would ever wish. I never wanted so much time. I must discpline myself to keep my attention on my present tasks and challenges, to drive into Corona before the department store closes to purchase one or two signs further advertising the sale of the home.

I BUY TWO signs, bright crimson letters over black, stating home for sale and for sale by owner. As the sky darkens, I secure the first with string to a utility post at the base of Bisgrove Street. In the sign’s space reserved for the telephone number, I draw a blue ink arrow pointing up the hill. The second sign I did not think to purchase a stake for, therefore I tape it to the left of the door over the lighted house bell button. Inside our bungalow, Nadi has for me drained a glass of hot tea from the samovar and placed it upon the counter. The sofreh is gone from the floor, and I see my wife has changed into her expensive French exercise suit which hangs upon her so loosely. Over this she wears a cotton apron, and she does not approve when I wash my hands in the sink near her clean and drying dishes.

“Nakon,” she to me says and she slaps me playfully on the shoulder. I attempt to kiss her quickly upon the nose and she pushes me away but her eyes are smiling and I sit upon the counter and eat a grape. From down the corridor come the strange electronic sounds of Esmail’s computer video game. Today, by his own decision, he acquired another newspaper delivery route. In my office, shortly before Nadi called us to the sofreh for dinner, my son told to me he would give me every penny he earns to go towards his education and his future. “And you can buy food with it too, Bawbaw-jahn. Whatever you wish.” He stood straight before me, his knees skinned once again from skateboarding, his thick hair in need of a brush, and I wished to hold him as tightly and completely against me as I did when he was a small child. But now he was approaching me as a young man of responsibility and I did not wish to diminish this, or take this from him. I stood and shook his hand, which was smooth and warm and no longer smaller than my own.

I drink my hot tea. I watch my Nadi dry the rice pot with a towel, and I feel much better than I did only a few short hours ago; this family has overcome challenges far more difficult than the selling of a small bungalow, and with the new signs in place and the advertisements still in the papers, I feel confident we will meet our true buyer very soon. Nadi turns to me with the dry pot in her hands and she begins to remind me tomorrow is her sister’s birthday. She has sent her a gift, but she would like to telephone her early in the morning, before the day becomes too late in Iran. She lowers her eyes at me like a young girl and says to me in Farsi, “I promise we will not talk long.”

I am filled with that old love for my wife, a love of nearly thirty years, and I cannot possibly allow a “no” to escape my lips. The house bell sounds. Nadi appears startled, and I go directly to the door expecting a buyer, a lady or gentleman who has seen my signs and is stopping to inquire. But standing on the step beneath the exterior electric light is a tall policeman with a thick mustache, and I think immediately of Soraya, is she all right?

The policeman points to the right of the doorway. “Did you post this sign, sir?”

“Yes.” I feel relief instantly. “Is there a difficulty, Officer?”

“And that’s your sign at the bottom of the hill?”

“Yes.”

The policeman looks over my shoulder into the home, his hands resting on his belt in a very relaxed manner.

“Please, come in, Officer.” I step away and allow him inside. I look behind me and see Nadi has left the kitchen, disappearing into her room, I am certain. I say to the policeman I am new to the area, is a permit required to post signs?

“Not on the house, but the utility pole is city property.”

“I see. Very well, I will put the sign elsewhere.”

The policeman regards the painting of the battle of martyrdom on the wall, stepping closer to view the framed photograph of myself and General Pourat with Shahanshah Pahlavi. I move to the door. “I will remove the sign immediately, sir. Thank you for informing me.”

But the policeman does not acknowledge my movement. He turns to me and I believe he is smiling beneath his mustache, which I see now is trimmed in a slightly disorderly manner. He says, “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”

“This is my home, sir. I am an American citizen.” I smile, but a stillness has entered my chest. The policeman walks over the carpet and inspects our family portrait on the table beside the sofa.

“Were you a general, sir?”

“I was a colonel.” I leave the door and join this man, but I stand at the kitchen’s counter so he cannot easily look down the corridor to our bedrooms. Now there is a heat in my stomach. I can no longer hear my son’s computer video game. The bungalow has become very quiet. “Tell me, Officer. What more can I do for you this evening?”

He pulls from his belt a small leather notepad. “You can give me your full name.”

“Are you penalizing me?”

“No sir, I just need your name for my report.”

I spell for him my name, and then he inquires the names of anyone else living on the premises.

“I do not understand. Why is it necessary for to have the names of my family?” I regard the policeman’s badge, a gold star, and beneath it, a smaller badge of two pistol barrels crossed together, then another pin, the gold letters FTO. “And what is yourname, Officer?”

The man regards me, his jaw muscles tightening a brief moment. “Deputy Sheriff Joe Gonzalez. Let me ask youa question, Colonel: are you selling this house on your own?”

“Pardon me?”

“No Realtor or agency? ‘For Sale by Owner,’ right?”

“That is correct.”

“Have you got a title or escrow company to handle it?”

“No, I do not.” The home is too quiet. Nadi is certainly listening at her door, and I am confused. Why is this deputy asking these questions? I move away from the counter and walk back into the living-room area, hoping he will follow. “I do not wish to offend, Officer, but if you will excuse me I have work I must do this evening.”

“Civil Code 1101, for starters.”

“Yes, you have informed me of this. I suggest you come with me to witness my removal of the sign.” I open the door, holding it for him.

“I’m talking about the disclosure law, Colonel. You’re not aware of this law?” The officer stands and walks to the opposite wall, where he once again views the framed photograph of Pourat and me and Shah Muhammad Reza Pahlavi. The policeman keeps his back to me, a deep insult in my country. I still hold the screened door open, but my arm is beginning to tire and I must take a short breath. “No, Officer, but perhaps you will tell me.”

“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.