It is not often I take alcohol, but last evening Nadi and I drank only one glass of champagne each and the bottle cost over thirty-five dollars. Now it is somewhat flat, but I do not care, frekresh neestam, and I drink from one of the crystal flutes we acquired on the Rue de Touraine in Paris. I tell to myself I am not allowing waste by drinking this champagne, but I know I am simply attempting to prolong the feeling of celebration I had when I purchased it; for inside my head I continue to hear what the najar told me of the young lady, saying she was the owner of this bungalow, and I try to replace his words with those of his colleague who insisted she seemed crazy, deevoonay, and she is likely claiming ownership all over the town.

After cutting the grasses, I thought of phoning the gentleman at the county tax office who supervised the auction, perhaps make an inquiry of this woman, but I was not able to pick up the telephone; if there is no snake at your feet, do not lift rocks at the side of the road.

Through the screened door at my back I smell the meat broth and stewing tomatoes of obgoosht, the steaming rice and tadiq. As she works in the kitchen, Nadereh is singing softly to herself one of Googoosh’s songs of love. Of course I have said nothing to her of what the najars informed me. Instead I asked her to prepare a menu and shopping list for the dinner party we will host for our daughter, new son-in-law, and his family. My wife’s face became so lighted with happiness at this, at the modest fashion in which our lives appear to be returning to the old ways, that she pinched my cheek and said, “Oh, Jujeh-man,” my little chicken, something she has not said to me in many years.

My son bags the cut grass and moves his head up and down to the music only he hears, my wife hums contentedly in the kitchen, and I feel foolish for worrying more than God ever wants us to. I call out to Esmail that he dances like a rooster, but he does not hear me and I begin to think of Soraya, of how tightly I will hold her upon her return. And I am thinking so deeply of this moment, of the love I hold for that dear girl, that when the small white automobile drives up the hill and stops in front of the woodland across the street I stand, thinking it is them returning early, surprising us at our new home. But written on the driver’s door is Bay Area Couriers, and soon I am holding in my hand a sealed envelope from a Society of Legal Aid, Lambert & Walsh, Attorneys at Law. My name is misspelled upon the front. I tear open the paper, but I must go indoors for my glasses, and I close the office door and sit at my desk.

Dear Sir,

I am writing to inform you this firm has determined the property at 34 Bisgrove Street, Corona, California, to have been auctioned to you under improper and erroneous circumstances by the tax officers of San Mateo County. We have today notified the county regarding this matter, and we request the sale of the aforementioned property be promptly rescinded so the rightful owner may be restored proprietorship of her home.

Please be advised you will be expected to vacate the premises as soon as possible. We regret any inconvenience this may cause you.

Sincerely Yours,

C.S. Walsh, Attorney at Law

Three times I read the letter, and I begin a fourth time to read it when my hands tear the paper to pieces and I throw them at the trash basket where they scatter and fall to the floor. My heart beats as if I have just climbed a mountain. I pick up a pen and break it, the blue ink spraying once into the air. Oh, this country, this terrible place; what manner of society is it when one cannot expect a business transaction to be completed once the papers have been signed and the money deposited? What do they think? No, it is clear they do not think; they are idiots; and they are weak; and they are stupid. And what of the widow’s walk? What of that? Will they return my eleven hundred dollars? Will they return to me my forty-five thousand dollars? But I must not even think of such an event, for I will not accept the return of anything! I will proceed as planned; I will sell this bungalow for the profit to which I am entitled, and may God damn them all to hell: a sale is a sale. They cannot stop it now. It is too late. How can this be a legal practice? I must phone them immediately.

I lower myself to my knees and search through the bits of paper for the letterhead of this lawyer. Nadi steps into the room, polishing a silver serving bowl she holds with two hands.

“Chee kar meekonee, Massoud?”

“Heechee, nothing, I am doing nothing.” But she must see something in my face for her eyes darken and she stops passing the rag over the bowl. I begin to gather the letter pieces from the floor.

In Farsi she asks: “What is wrong, Massoud? What is this mess?”

“I missed the container, that is all. Is it time for eating? I feel a bit weak.”

This answer seems for her enough, and she tells to me she said not to stay in the sun so long. “And the champagne, Massoud. Come, you must eat. Come.”

I stand and she takes my hand and leads me down the hallway but I pull free and say I must wash my hands, then I am coming.

“You must hurry. Esmail is hungry.”

In the office I fold the lawyer’s envelope into my pants pocket. It is too late to call these leeches, these modargendehs, these mother whores, but tomorrow I will drive there myself. I do not want them telephoning here; Nadereh must know nothing of this. Nothing. In the bathroom I wash my hands and arms with hot water and some of Nadi’s lavender soap. The water is very hot and I let it grow hotter still and I fill my hands with it. I want to open them but I lower my head and splash my face, scalding my nose and cheeks, the lids of my closed eyes. I shut the water and leave the bathroom, sitting upon the floor at the dinner sofreh with my wife and son. In Farsi, Nadi to me says: “Eh Massoud, your face is wet. Why did you not dry yourself?” She rises and brings to me a towel. “What is wrong with you, Behrani? Sometimes you act like a child.”

WE MADE LOVE TILL WE WERE BOTH SO HUNGRY WE HAD TO STOP AND Les left to go buy us something to eat. While he was gone I stayed under the sheet and blanket, lying on my stomach and breasts, one knee drawn up beside me, damp and sore between my legs. When Les opened the door to leave, I could see that the fog had lifted outside and the sun was almost down, but now the dusky light coming through the curtained window made the room dim.

For a while I stared at the pistol he’d left on the bedside table. It had a black checkered grip and square-looking barrel. It was so strange he was in that job; he made love so tenderly, moving as if each push and pull depended on if I liked it or not. And it made me think of Nick, the difference in their two bodies; Nick’s back was smooth and cool, a little fat, while Lester’s was hard, his skin heated; Nick would bury his face at my neck and sometimes suck on my skin, while Lester kept kissing me on the mouth and face and shoulders like he’d been on a long trip and was finally home. He came twice, both times inside me, but I didn’t say anything, just held him. For a black second I thought of the virus, of being unprotected from it, but then reminded myself I was with a married man, which made me feel better in one way, but worse in another.

Nick wasn’t coming back. Waiting for Lester in the Eureka Motor Lodge, I think I knew this for the first time, that my husband was really gone, that one day I’d hear from his lawyer, get a phone call or a letter or both, but not from Nicky himself. And for some reason, because I’d just slept with a man, I knew that day was closer in coming than before, than even this morning when I woke up in our car across from our house like some refugee.