House of Sand and Fog

by Andre Dubus III

  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.

  I took a long shower like there was nothing more to feel about this afternoon than the hot water on my face and breasts, my upper back and rear, the steam clearing my nose and lungs, the slip of the bar soap in my hands, the slightly bruised feeling between my legs, and the ache in my shin and foot. I felt as connected to the ground as an old newspaper blowing down the street. I started to feel a little scared, and as I turned off the shower I could hear Lester out in the room, taking something from paper bags. The mirror was too fogged to see my face, but I didn’t want to anyway. I wrapped myself in two towels, then limped out to the room and sat at the glass-topped table near the window a
cross from Les, who’d just finished laying out paper plates and plastic forks and take-out boxes of Szechuan food that smelled like soy and cooked meat. He was smiling at me, taking me in. He leaned down and took my face in his hands, kissing my cheeks and lips. I held his wrists and kissed him back, surprised at how grateful I felt when he did that.

  We ate beef teriyaki on pointed sticks, fried rice, spring rolls, and hot mushi pork we wrapped in thin pancakes. Sometimes I would look over at him and he’d smile and I’d smile back. I was still eating when he stood up, took something from the bag, then squatted in front of me and started rubbing ointment on the bottom of my foot. It tickled more than it hurt and I laughed. “Okay, that’s enough.”

  “It’s antibiotic. I bought you some gauze too.”

  My legs were parted and he was rubbing my foot with both hands, smiling up into my face, his mustache a straight line, his deep brown eyes as warm as any I’d ever seen. I was suddenly wet and I stood, twisted from his hands, and lay back on the bed, opening my towel for him, and almost immediately he was inside me again, his pants around his ankles, his star and name tag pushing against my skin.

  After, he took a shower. I knew he was washing the smell of us off him, and I wondered how he would explain getting home so late to his wife, the wet hair. The word “wife” sort of sunk into my stomach like hot metal, but then I thought how I was a wife too, and that my husband was probably with somebody else right this second. But this was such a lame excuse for what I was doing, and I could hear the water shut off in the bathroom, the curtain jerking open.

  MY WEDNESDAY HOUSE was the CPA’s on the Colma River. There was a small deck overlooking the trees down to the water and I stood out there now, leaning on the railing to give my right foot a break. I’d been hopping around on the toes of it all morning while I vacuummed, dusted, and straightened up, and every few minutes my calf muscle started to bunch up in a cramp and I had to stop and knead it until it relaxed again.

  The deck was cool and shaded, but the sunlight was all over the river, bringing out the green in it, a layer of pollen floating along the surface. The air smelled like sewage and bark, and I could hear the crows up in the trees. It felt good to be working, even though I probably should have listened to Les and rested another day. Last night he drove me back to my car in San Bruno. We kissed goodbye in the light of the storage shed lot, then I came back here, lugged in my suitcase, and bagged the leftover Szechuan food and stuffed it into the mini-fridge bar on the floor. Inside were small green bottles of Inglenook white wine, nips of Smirnoff vodka and Bailey’s Irish Cream, two Heinekens and the can of Michelob. I flicked on the TV, lay on the bed, and watched most of a movie about a man who kills his wife and three kids and gets away with it for almost twenty years before they catch him living a new life with a new family only a state and a half away. When the phone rang I didn’t know I was almost asleep. It was Lester, saying he was at a phone booth down the street from his house, he already missed me. Then he paused, I think to give me a chance to say I missed him too, but I couldn’t say that; I was used to being alone and right then I needed something I was used to. He asked if he could take me to breakfast. I told him yeah, though when I hung up it was as if I wasn’t anchored all the way to the ground, like when you’ve had too much to drink but you don’t know it until you lie down and it’s that instant right before the room begins to turn when you feel the chains break away. I was glad he’d called, but I also felt like a kept woman and I guess I told him that this morning over coffee at Carl Jr.’s.

  It was only six-thirty, but almost all the counter stools were taken up with men in trucker caps, some in suits and ties, drinking their coffees and reading newspapers between bites of eggs, toast, and home fries. Half the tables were full too. Lester was in his uniform, already thirty minutes into his six-to-six shift, he told me. His shirt had neat creases in the sleeves and I pictured his wife ironing it for him the night before. It was hard to look right into his face. I was glad when the waitress came to take our order and left us with two cups of coffee.

  “This is on me, Lester.”

  “I said I’d take you to breakfast.”

  “You did. You drove me here, now I’m buying.”

  “Keep your money, Kathy, you’ll need it.” He sipped his coffee, his eyes still on me.

  “You’re paying for my room, what do I fucking need money for?” I was a little surprised at how mad I was.

  Lester put down his cup. He started to reach over for my hand but then stopped himself. He leaned forward and said quiet and low: “I’m not sure what’s happening here either, Kathy, but I do know I’m not trying to make you some toy of mine. I just had to see you before it was another day.”

  “And what?”

  “That’s all.”

  “No, what?” I touched his hand. I didn’t feel mad anymore. “Before it was another day and what?

  “You’d forget.” He looked into my face and scrunched his lips up sideways, his cheeks and throat darkening. He had to be the sweetest-looking man I’d ever seen.

  “Ha, you’re lucky I even remembered how.” I leaned forward. “You’ll have to wear something next time though, cowboy.”

  “I’m embarrassed.”

  “Yeah, well—” I lightly slapped his hand. “Don’t do it again.”

  Our waitress showed up with the food right then, and we both started to laugh.

  When he dropped me off at the motor lodge, we kissed a long time in the front seat of his cruiser. He asked if he could stop by after his shift and I said yeah, he could. But as I left I felt that off-the-ground sensation again, things turning too fast, and I knew I had to get back into my normal routine, hurt foot or not.

  I watched a leafy branch float down the river in the sunshine, then I limped back inside to finish up, but first I had to check on Connie Walsh’s progress because I knew nothing was going to make me feel more rooted than getting back into my house. I sat on the arm of the black Naugahyde couch so many middle-aged men seemed to buy, and I punched in the number that by now I knew as well as my own mother’s.

  THE MOTHER WHORES ARE LOCATED ABOVE A COFFEEHOUSE NOT FAR from the Highway Department Depot and the Concourse Hotel. I walk from the cool darkness of the underground garage that smells of car exhaust and dried oil upon concrete, carrying my leather valise under my arm, and for this meeting I have dressed in my finest suit, a summer-weight cashmere-and-mohair black double-breasted I purchased from a Pakistani in North Tehran. The shirt is white, the tie is blue and brown, the color of steel. As I left the bungalow, Nadi asked me why I was dressed so, and I told to her the truth: I am taking care of important business today, Nadi. Investment business. She asked no more questions. This morning Nadereh wore a cotton pantsuit the color of red sharob. She had brushed her hair until it was full and well-shaped upon her head, and she had applied cosmetics to her eyes, cheeks, and lips. She smiled and handed to me the shopping list for this Saturday’s party for our daughter, and Nadi looked so zeebah then, so beautiful in her new expectations, that I drove from the bungalow and down the hill with a furnace in my stomach for what I must accomplish.

  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 smi
ling 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.”