But now I must consider how I may protect myself and my family, and I grip tightly the steering wheel that I am forced to even think of these things. I have no weapons. There is only the Cossack dagger I purchased from an Azerbaijani at a summer bazaar on the Caspian Sea, and that I use as a paperweight. Perhaps I was not wise to report this Burdon. Should I have left matters as they were? Simply attempted to forget the man’s threats and proceeded with selling the property? In Tehran, my driver Bahman carried a pistol and of course I had a private weapon of my own, though until the fall of our society I had no need for it, a gift given me by an American defense executive in Tel Aviv to celebrate the completion of a large sale of F-16s to the Imperial Air Force, a silver-plated .45-caliber pistol. In its handle grips was etched an American cowboy on a rearing horse, and the night we fled Tehran I kept that weapon fully loaded in the waistband of my trousers. Once we arrived in Bahrain I wanted no legal delays in our flight to Europe so I was forced to sell the pistol. But now I wished to feel its weight in my hand, the cowboy and horse against my skin. But then what, Genob Sarhang? Do I shoot this Lester V. Burdon if I am to see him again? Or do I simply point the weapon at him so that he is forced to reveal his own and we both shoot one another? No, man beehoosham, I am so very stupid; this line of thinking will bear no fruit, only destruction. And I am not my uncle from Tabriz.

Near to San Bruno I leave the highway and drive for the mall to purchase wood glue for Nadi’s table. It is close to the noon hour and I have a thirst and a hunger as well, the sun hot upon my bald head as I walk through the massive parking area. I am reminded of last spring, our thirty-day fast of Ramadan, when I ate one small meal only before sunrise and then again only after nightfall. These days I was still working as a garbage soldier and when the fat radish Torez would stop the truck for lunch I would only rinse my mouth with water, then spit it out. Nothing more. The old Vietnamese Tran offered to me a portion of his rice but I quietly declined. Having been an officer for so many years, I was not accustomed to the effects of physical labor combined with Ramadan’s hunger and for the first days, especially those that were warm, I would feel weak, my limbs heavy and sluggish, and if I moved too quickly, the grass and highway would spin a moment in my head. One afternoon, after watching me for ten days go without a midday meal, Torez asked me to his truck where he offered me a large meat and cheese sandwich. I thanked him, explaining our religion, that Ramadan comes every year for us, the ninth month of our Muslim calendar. He nodded quietly as if he respected this answer, but then he told to me: “Suit yourself, Camello. But go tell Allah I have a crew to run, man.” The Panamanians and the pig Mendez said nothing to me in those days, for I think they could see I had something they did not, a belief in more than today’s work and tonight’s wine. Although in my country I would not be considered a religous man, but simply one of the many comforted by its ancient practices. After those first ten days, the midday hunger and weakness disappeared, replaced by a lightness in the body, a clarity in the head, a wide and open space in the chest. As I worked stabbing bits of trash with my spear, shaking them into my yellow plastic bag, I had visions of what this country might yet offer my family: Soraya was still in the season of hastegar and I imagined her contentedly married with many children of her own. In my mind, Esmail was a young handsome man in a finely tailored suit. Perhaps he was a successful businessman, engineer, or doctor. Yes, a surgeon of some sort, a savior of the sick. I saw Nadi and me living in one of the white stucco mansions in San Francisco’s Pacific Heights. As in our previous life, we would have a driver. Our home would be surrounded by high walls covered with vines and blooming flowers. In my fast, all these things seemed more possible, especially in America where—as in no other country—hard work, sacrifice, and discipline can be rewarded one hundredfold. But then my imagination would become almost a fever in its lightness. To complete our happiness, Pourat and his wife and children would be alive once more, dining with us in our home, all of us; Soraya and her husband and children, Esmail and his family, Nadi and I, all seated at a grand sofreh upon a floor of the finest Isfahani carpets; we would drink French champagne and eat the finest chelo kebab; we would laugh at Pourat’s jokes and riddles, his gentle teasing of the children. Nadi and Pourat’s wife would embrace each other in joy while Pourat and I would retire to the balcony overlooking the city to smoke Cuban cigars and speak of the old life we no longer needed.

Inside the air-conditioned mall, I sit at a white plastic table in front of the many food concessions and eat a Japanese lunch of fried beef and noodles, and I know in my heart that this is no holy vision of Pourat and me on a balcony in America; it is a lie, a dooroogh born of heat and hunger and thirst and a need for my old life that is sometimes so strong I feel I would do nearly anything to retrieve it. But I cannot, no more than Pourat can rise from the dead to extract the revolutionaries’ bullets from his wife and children and then himself. And I am haunted once again with a picture of my dear friend’s body hanging by its feet above the tarmac, the tails of his suit coat covering his head, blood dripping from the sleeves. I rise without finishing my meal. I walk through the corridors of the mall in search of a hardware store.

I WAS RELIEVED WHEN I DROVE UP AND DIDN’T SEE THE COLONEL’S white car in the driveway. I rang the doorbell, hoping she hadn’t gone with him, wherever he went, and at the same time I was mad all over again that I was actually having to ring my own doorbell.

I could hear Middle Eastern music coming from inside the house, from behind a closed door, a man singing high to a backdrop of Arabian guitars. Sitars, I guess. I rang the bell three more times, then started knocking on the screen door. I put my hands and face to it and peered in. Their silver coffee table was on its side up against the couch, two of its legs broken off and lying next to it on the carpet. I thought of Les, his visit here last night. But the rest of the living room and kitchen looked clean and organized, the stools pushed in neatly beneath the counter. On top of it were three vases full of flowers, and part of the kitchen floor I could see had a gloss to it. “Hello? Excuse me, is anyone home?”

The music stopped and I heard one of the bedroom doors open down the hall. Then I heard the colonel’s wife’s voice, her thick accent: “Please a moment wait. Excuse for me, please.”

I could hear her hurry down to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. I wanted a cigarette, but didn’t want her to see me smoking, looking as needy and hungover as I felt. The aspirin had dulled my headache but left my stomach burning. I had to pee. I started to rehearse what I was going to say. I tried to remember the right way to pronounce her name, the way Les had said it, but all I could come up with is the way I remembered first hearing it from the carpenter on the roof: Barmeeny. And were they Arab? Or Iranian? And what was the difference? I decided I would try not to call her anything at all, just get to our problem. When she finally came to the door almost ten minutes later, my bladder was so full I wanted to press my knees together.

She opened the screen door smiling. She wore a different designer sweat suit this time, maroon with silver lettering in Italian stitched on the sleeve. Her short thick hair was flattened on one side of her head, like she’d been sleeping on it, and I could see she’d put some eyeliner and mascara on in a hurry. Her lined skin was pale, but her smile was warm and she apologized in that accent for “keeping me to waiting.” She asked about my foot.