And of course I feel it even more so as I walk from the Concourse Hotel for I am thinking of long days under the sun with Tran, Torez, and the Panamanian pig Mendez. I am recalling the highway dust upon my clothes that stick to my skin with sweat, the burn on my bare head, the kunee behind the desk in the hotel’s lobby who would see all these things and give me not enough respect for even the common cargar I had become. But as I walk beneath a sky that is full of sun I advise myself to practice discipline and forget these things for they leave me also with a feeling of having been beaten before I have even fought. I am a genob sarhang, a retired colonel of the Imperial Air Force. I have honored all the legalities in the buying of this bungalow, and I am certain there is nothing they can do to change this fact.

The waiting area at the top of the stairs is small and shabby and this gives to me more hope. I tell the smiling kunee at the desk my business, and he offers me to sit but I stand and wait. On the walls are advertisements for parades of women who love women and kunees who love kunees. This sort of freedom I will never understand. What manner of society is it when one can do whatever one feels like doing? I have been told other cities in America are not as free as this one. A young pooldar doctor in the high-rise apartments of Berkeley told me this, that the heart of this country, a place called the Middle West, is more proper than the cities of both coasts: Ohio, he said. Iowa. Perhaps, after selling the bungalow, I will move my wife and son there. But Nadereh would not wish to live so far from Soraya, not now with the possibility of grandchildren. And I would miss the sea, for even though it is the Pacific and not the Caspian, its vast presence is a reminder to me.

“Mr. Barmeeny?”

The lawyer’s secretary is dressed nicely in a gray skirt and blouse, but she wears no shoes upon her feet.

“Behrani. My name is Colonel Massoud Amir Behrani. I wish to speak with Mr. Walsh, please.”

She smiles. “I’m Connie Walsh. This is my office, Colonel. Please come with me.”

The woman lawyer gives me no time to apologize for my mistake, and I follow her into a room with a large table and many chairs and tall windows open to the bright air. She offers me coffee or tea. I would like tea, but I tell to her no thank you, and when I sit, I do not allow myself to become too comfortable. I take a short breath to begin my talk, but it is as if she knows what I have come to say and raises her hand. “I’m sure our letter came as a shock to you, Colonel. The situation is this: San Mateo County has made a number of mistakes. First, they levied a tax on my client—the previous owner of the property—she did not owe. Second, they evicted her for non-payment. And third, they auctioned the property. Unfortunately, sir, this is where you come in, and I’m afraid we have no choice but to demand the county reverse this whole process by rescinding the sale so my client can reclaim her home.”

I feel a heaviness in my fingers, a heat in my chest and face. “But I now own the home.”

“Is the sale final?”

“Of course. I paid for it cash, I have a bill of sale.” I open my valise and withdraw all the paperwork from the sale of the home. The woman lawyer examines them a moment. She sits back in her chair and looks into my eyes as directly as would a man, a man of influence and status. “Are you willing to sell the county back the house? I’d see to it they made it as comfortable a transaction as possible.”

“Please to me listen very carefully, Miss Walsh. The only comfortable transaction possible is if the county tax office pays to me one hundred and seventy thousand dollars for the property. If they pay me this, I will move, but only in the autumn season. My wife is sick and she needs a summer’s rest. I also will require time to find a new home.”

“Mr. Behrani, you paid a quarter of that.”

I stand and step away from the chair. “The market will already pay me this. I believe this is something you should discuss with the gentlemen at the county tax office. Good morning, Miss Walsh.” I offer my hand to this woman lawyer. She takes it very briefly and she stands as well.

“The rightful owner of that house is living in a motel, Mr. Behrani. All her belongings are locked in storage. Why should she have to wait any longer than necessary to get back into the home that was wrongfully taken from her?”

Again, I feel the blood in my chest, my face, behind my eyes. Who are these people? To whom do they think they are speaking? “Of course you do not understand what I have said: I am the rightful owner of this property. I am being wronged. You have heard my offer. You are fortunate I have decided to sell the property at all.”

I leave quickly and without another word. The downstairs café is full of people seated at small tables drinking coffee, eating pastries. There is music playing, one of the European composers, and men and women who have dressed in only T-shirts and blue jeans look up at me as I pass them by. They view my face, my suit, the valise under my arm, and as I return their eyes back to them, they look away as if I have come to collect something they cannot pay.

I SPENT THE LAST OF THE AFTERNOON IN A LAWN CHAIR AT THE DEEP end of the motel’s pool. No one else was around and I closed my eyes to the sun, smoked, sipped a Diet Coke, and kept tapping my good foot on the warm concrete; I couldn’t relax: I still didn’t like the way Connie had sounded on the phone earlier; she’d said she’d seen the “new owner” this morning and the good news was he was willing to sell the house back to the county, but the county still had to admit their mistake, want to rescind the sale, then actually buy it back. She sounded tired and put out, like she had nine other things on her mind. She told me to call back at the end of the day, then she made herself sound cheerful and told me to stay optimistic, we’re just warming up. I didn’t like how she put that; if I was going to move back into my house this weekend, shouldn’t we be heated up pretty hot already? Still, I was glad to hear the Arab family was willing to sell and move, and I was trying to concentrate on that piece of news.

A shadow moved over me and I looked up into Lester’s smiling face. I hadn’t heard his car pull up. The top two buttons of his uniform shirt were undone and he stood with his fingers resting on his hips.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey, yourself.” He squatted, his leather holster creaking slightly. He took my hand and kissed it. “Let me take you on a proper date tonight, Kathy.”

His eyes looked hopeful and I couldn’t help myself. “We gonna fight over the check again?”

“No, because you’re going to let me pay.”

“Only if we go someplace nice.”

He smiled under his mustache. “That was my plan.”

“My lawyer says the Arabs will sell my house back.”

“Really?”

I nodded. “A bunch of other bullshit has to happen before I can move back in though.”

“With the county?”

“Yep.”

“Still, it’s progress.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself.”

“Then we should celebrate.” He leaned forward and kissed me. His mustache tickled and he tasted like one of those eucalyptus lozenges, though I didn’t think he had a sore throat or cold. I hoped I didn’t taste like somebody’s ashcan. He stood and asked if seven-thirty was okay and I said I’d be ready, should I dress up?

He nodded and smiled and I watched him walk out to the motor lodge parking lot, get into his Toyota station wagon, and drive off. I wondered what he’d tell his wife about tonight, about where he was going and who with, and I wondered again what I thought I was doing, having been with a married man only once before, back in Saugus, Mass., for one night when I was still using. He was a bar customer, a salesman who dressed in custom-tailored suits, silk ties, and even gold cufflinks. We all thought he overdid the wardrobe, but one night Jimmy Doran let him stay after hours while we cleaned up and soon four or five of us were doing lines and drinking and moving to the sound system. After a while the salesman was making moves on me and the Enemy Voice in my head was a cooing dove.