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 your name, Officer?”

The man regards me, his jaw muscles tightening a brief moment. “Deputy Sheriff Joe Gonzalez. Let me ask you a 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 real owner, 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.

“Beh man beh goo, Behrani! Tell to me, what have you done?” My wife stands in front of me, her eyes small with fear. I rise immediately.

“It is none of your business what I have done or not done, Nadereh! Have you no faith in me? No respect? I told to you the man said nothing, only that I must remove my sign from city property, that is all.”

My wife tells me I am lying. She begins to tremble, raising her voice, demanding to know what is before us, her fears once again beginning to devour her. I must leave the bungalow, remove the sign, and contemplate what I am forced to do next, but Nadereh is screaming in front of my son that I am a kaseef liar, and a coward, and I seem to watch from far away as my hand slaps her across the face and I hold her thin shoulders and shake her, her head jerking backwards and forwards, and I am making some sort of noise from between my teeth. Then Esmail’s arms are around my chest and he pulls me backward onto the tea table. There is a moment of stillness before its legs break and I am sitting on my son on the floor against the sofa, my wife screaming and crying on the carpet before us. I attempt to help Esmail to his feet, but he stands quickly with no help from me. He looks at his father only a brief moment before disappearing down the corridor to his room. Nadereh remains on the floor upon her knees, screaming, moaning of her dead mother’s broken table, how I have ruined everthing in her life, everything. The black cosmetics have loosened under her eyes, and as I leave the bungalow she pushes me in the legs, but I ignore her, feeling curiously as if I am watching this moment instead of being a part of it, that it belongs not to my family, but another. Outside in the darkness, I smell the ocean. There are many stars above, but three and four homes down the street I am still able to hear my wife’s crying. She curses me in our mother language, and I am grateful it is a tongue no one in this village understands.

AT THE HILL’S bottom, in the dim yellow light of the streetlamps above, I see that my sign has already been torn from the utility post, a quarter of it still hanging from the tape. On the long climb back up the hill I am breathing with some difficulty, but I am not fatigued in the limbs, my mind is once again clear, and I no longer feel like a helpless witness to the unfortunate events of the evening. Why did this officer not have a police car in his possession? Why would he tear the sign himself? In such an emotional fashion? Why did he not have the name tag on his blouse that I have seen pinned to all other American law officers in uniform? And why did he hesitate in giving me his name, Gonzalez?

When I reach the bungalow I feel in my breast a very strong doubt that this is a genuine policeman at all. I know that America has its officials who operate over the law, but even corrupt county tax men fearful of a lawsuit would not send a uniformed officer such as that; they would send men who could not be traced back to them or their office. Dark men in suits. Savakis.

I cross the short grasses of my lawn and enter my home with a new resolve; tomorrow I will visit the same lawyer who advised me before. I will also visit the county tax office, as well as the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Department to report to them of their “Officer Gonzalez” making threats. Or perhaps he was not making threats for any bureaucrats, but for this kaseef woman, Kathy Nicolo; perhaps he is her brother, or friend, or more.