House of Sand and Fog

by Andre Dubus III

  “When then, Connie?” I was looking at the two empty champagne bottles, one upside down in the waste basket, the other on its side on the floor, the label hidden. Connie was saying something.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I said I think you should come down to my office, Kathy. Drive over today.”

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON I DRIVE MY NADEREH TO SAN FRANCISCO TO have her hair done by an Italian kunee who charges more than we should pay. His business is located in Ghirardelli Square amongst all the specialty shops, restaurants, cafés, and galleries whose doors are open to touring people from all over the world. In the morning I trimmed the rear hedge bushes and I am still dressed in the cargar clothes I before would wear only for the Highway Department, so I do not enter the Italian’s shop, knowing, as I do, the many Persian wives who make appointments with him.

  I sit upon a bench in one of the lower courtyards and watch the people pass by. Over our bungalow in Corona the sun was shining, but here in the city, in that area of large piers and wharfs they call North Beach, there is cool summer fog, a fine mist in the air, and many of the tourists look out of place in their short pants, sandals, and shirts with no sleeves that show the undisciplined flesh of their bodies. Many of them pause in their shopping, asking one another to take their photograph as they stand beneath a shop sign or in the center of the courtyard, dozens of strangers walking by them. I hear the speech of Orientals, Greeks, Germans, and French. But the majority are the more large, more fed, pink-in-the-face Americans, who carry their shopping bags, eating ice cream cones or drinking sweet sodas from cups as they walk past, their small loud children leading them.

  I sit and I regard these cows, these radishes, and I again think to myself: These people do not deserve what they have. When I first came to these United States, I expected to see more of the caliber of men I met in my business dealings in Tehran, the disciplined gentlemen of the American military, the usually fit and well-dressed executives of the defense industry, their wives who were perfect hostesses in our most lavish homes. And of course the films and television programs imported from here showed to us only successful people: they were all attractive to the eye, they dressed in the latest fashion, they drove new automobiles and were forever behaving like ladies and gentlemen, even when sinning against their God.

  But I was quite mistaken and this became to me clear in only one week of driving my family up and down this West Coast. Yes, there is more wealth here than anywhere in the world. Every market has all items well stocked at all times. And there is Beverly Hills and more places like it. But so many of the people live in homes not much more colorful than air base housing. Furthermore, those late nights I have driven back to the pooldar apartment in Berkeley after working, I have seen in the windows the pale blue glow of at least one television in every home. And I am told that many family meals are eaten in front of that screen as well. And perhaps this explains the face of Americans, the eyes that never appear satisfied, at peace with their work, or the day God has given them; these people have the eyes of very small children who are forever looking for their next source of distraction, entertainment, or a sweet taste in the mouth. And it is no longer to me a surprise that it is the recent immigrants who excel in this land, the Orientals, the Greeks, and yes, the Persians. We know rich opportunity when we see it.

  Nadi looks lovely as she exits the kunee’s salon, her hair styled thick and black around her face. She pauses to put the checkbook into the green alligator-skin bag she purchased in Bahrain not long after our flight from home. She wears a handsome green suit, the jacket buttoned at her waist that has grown too small these days, her hips and legs as well—too thin. Even from where I sit I am able to see the lines around her mouth and between her eyes above her nose. My Nadereh is so easily made nervous. Even this intimate dinner party for our daughter has tested her. And I have worried she may bring on one of her headaches that send her to bed for hours, or days. But she is a beautiful woman, and I rise to meet her in the crowded courtyard.

  On the drive south to Corona we stop at a florist’s shop in Daly City and purchase flowers Nadi chooses herself, so many they fill the large trunk space of the Buick Regal. I am of course concerned about the money we are spending for this affair; Nadereh also insisted on some of the finest champagne, three bottles of Dom Pérignon at well over one hundred dollars each. She even made telephone calls in her questionable English to the city for finding Persian musicians to play the kamancheh and domback for us, and I was relieved she found no one at such short notice. But my Nadi appears quite contented. She sits beside me as I drive down the coast highway into Corona, and she hums an old American pop song I recognize about tying a yellow ribbon around a tree of oak. The sun has remained in Corona, and now, two hours before the arrival of Soraya, it shines on the green ocean, making it nearly too bright to view more than a second or two.

  “We will have a beautiful sunset for our guests, Nadi-jahn.”

  Nadereh nods her head only very briefly before telling to me again the final list of tasks to be completed in only the next hour: all the flowers must be arranged around the home and above on the roof porch—this is what she calls it—amongst the new outdoor furniture; our Waterford flutes must be dusted and properly chilled in the freezer; you must set up the new tape player for music in the living room; and make certain Esmail has put his room in order, bathed, and dressed in his French-made suit. I nod my head and reply, “Baleh, baleh.” Yes, yes. But there is no need for me to listen any longer for I know the list very well. As I accelerate the Regal up Bisgrove hill, I am thinking of my daughter Soraya, of her small lovely face I will hold in my hands, and that is when I see Esmail speaking with a young woman on our grass under the sun. Her hair is straight and dark. She wears blue jeans and a white blouse, and there is the red Bonneville I have seen before parked against the woodland. I steer into the driveway and she regards me directly: it is the woman who last week was sleeping in her automobile so early in the morning. Nadi touches my shoulder and says to me in Farsi: “That is the woman who hurt her foot, Massoud.”

  I extinguish the engine and tell to my wife yes, she has come for a tool her najar boyfriend may have left behind; I’ve been expecting her. I step out of the car and walk over the cut grass smiling and extending my hand to the woman, who hesitates a moment before taking it.

  “I am happy you came.” I take her by the elbow lightly. “Please, this way, I will show you.” I turn to my son and say low in Farsi, “Help your mother and tell her nothing. Later I will explain.”

  Around the bungalow’s corner, at the stairs to the widow’s walk, the woman to me says: “I’m sorry, but I think you have me confused with someone else.”

  “No, I am quite certain who you are.”

  “I’m Kathy Nicolo.” She to me offers her hand and I take it and release it quickly. The sun is upon us and in this light her cosmetics stand out too much. She regards the ground: “I know my lawyer talked to you, but I thought we could just meet face to face, Mr. Bahrooni.”

  “My name is Behrani. Colonel Behrani.”

  The woman inhales deeply and looks upon the new widow’s walk. “My father left us this house. He left it to me and my brother.”

  Esmail appears carrying a large pot of chrysanthemums in his arms for the roof. I tell to him to please rest them on the ground and go. He leaves and I say to this woman: “I am sorry, miss. But you should be telling these things to the bureaucrats at the county tax office. They have made the mistake, not I.”

  “Yes, but they’ve already admitted it. They said they’d give you your money back. Look, I know you put a new deck on; I’m sure they’ll pay for that.” The woman pulls from her front pocket a package of cigarettes, lighting one with a cheap plastic lighter. She inhales deeply upon it and I feel a hot impatience begin to move inside me. I hear the water running in the kitchen sink. I look at the window screen beneath the widow stairs, but it is shadowed and I cannot see my wife inside. I step forward, hopin
g the woman will follow, but she does not move. “I am sorry, miss, but as far as I am concerned I have nothing more to say to anyone. Why should I be penalized for their incompetence? Tell me that. You should sue them for enough money to buy ten homes. I will even sell you this house for the right price. This is all I require.” The rear door to the bungalow opens and shuts and I take the woman’s arm and begin walking her back over the grass. “I am sorry, I do not know where he left his hammers.” The woman begins to pull away, but I squeeze her arm more tightly, stopping in the center of the lawn under the sun. “My family knows nothing of this, miss. There is nothing more to say of it.”

  “Let go of me.” She pulls her arm free, her cigarette falling to the grass. She steps backward, an incredulous expression upon her face. “You can’t just move in here and try and make money on this. That’s not right! I look once back at the bungalow, then cross my arms over my chest, feeling the push of my heart against them. The woman shouts at the unfairness of me, and she begins to use profanity, but I only shake my head at her patiently; if Nadereh is watching from the window, she will quickly believe what I tell her, that the najar’s girlfriend is crazy, deevoonay, thinking I am someone I am not.

  The woman abruptly stops, as if she has suddenly realized the futility of all she is saying. She pulls her hair free of her face and she regards me for a long moment, then she turns and hobbles back across the street to her expensive sedan. I watch her turn the large car around, and as she drives down the hill, I step on her smoking cigarette, crushing it beneath my shoe.

  I DROVE SOUTH ON THE CABRILLO HIGHWAY PAST THE STATE BEACHES, smoking one cigarette after another. I’d forgotten my sunglasses back at the motel and the sun off the water made me squint, but I kept seeing my brother Frank stomp that Middle Eastern prick into the ground. I wanted to drive fast, but the road was crowded with late-afternoon beach traffic, so at Montara I turned into the parking lot of a bike and surf shop and I got out of the car and just leaned against it for a while, the last of the sun on me, my arms folded.

  Ten feet away there was an empty phone booth. I wanted to call Frankie so much it made my stomach hurt, but I didn’t move. For all I knew Nick was back on the East Coast by now anyway, showing up at all the old places, and the word had gotten back to my family and that was that; they’d be able to see with their own eyes who left who. But not this; not to have Dad’s house taken from us while I lived in it. Yesterday, Connie Walsh told me in her office that the county had done their part and now it was up to the new owner to go along with the deal, but he wouldn’t and she said the only thing we could do was sue San Mateo County for the value of the house. My champagne hangover had gotten worse as the day went on. My head felt heavy and dry, and the panic I was starting to feel about all of this seemed bigger than me. “You mean sue for damages and just go buy another one?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean I can’t legally get my house back?”

  “Not unless the owner gives it back to the county and they give it back to you. And I’m sorry, Kathy, but that no longer seems very likely.”

  After the call, I canceled my afternoon job, closed the drapes in my motel room, and lay on my bed for a long time. The phone rang and it was Lester. He didn’t sound like himself, his voice up but sad too, like he couldn’t quite believe his own words. He said he and his wife had a long talk, and they’d decided he should move out.

  “You mention me?”

  “Yes. But Kathy, I told her you’re not the reason. And you aren’t.”

  Then he said he would call me today. Who knows? Maybe we’d rent the same U-Haul. I wanted to tell him then, tell him about my house, but there was a weight in his voice, a weight on a thread.

  I spent the night in front of the TV smoking, and this morning I sat in my motel room waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for Les to say he was coming to take me to breakfast, for Connie Walsh to say she’d been wrong, everything’s set, go get your stuff out of storage. I just sat there, my lungs sore, thinking of the Arab woman wrapping my foot, the way she smiled at me like I was something to be pitied. I thought of the oriental carpets and the brass bed in my room, of the nomads and horses on the living-room wall, the construction shit in the yard, and I dressed and applied some color to my face; I would just go there and explain things myself.

  And now my arm felt bruised from where that Arabic son of a bitch had squeezed it. A warm wind blew from the beach, smelling like seaweed and hot blacktop, and the sun was getting close to the horizon and I had to put my hand over my eyes. The traffic had slowed even more, and I watched a jeep full of teenagers go by. They were tanned. The boys’ heads were practically shaved and their girlfriends’ hair was all loose and rat-nested around their shoulders, though they were moving slow now, the road so wide open in front of them, a hundred free choices to be someplace different.

  Les was already back at the motor lodge when I got there. His small station wagon was parked next to a Winnebago with Pennsylvania plates and in the rear of his car were shirts on hangers draped over a suitcase. His uniform hung in dry cleaner’s plastic on a window hook. My hopes went up, but I felt like I was dreading something too, and I got out of the Bonneville and was stepping up under the awning to my door when he called my name behind me. He stood by a chair at the side of the pool wearing jeans and sneakers and that same striped shirt from that first time at Carl Jr.’s. At his feet was a tall Budweiser can. When I got close he smiled.

  “Your limp’s getting better.”

  I stepped onto the white concrete around the pool. I’d thought I’d go over and hug him, but something was holding me back. We stood there and looked at each other. He seemed taller and thinner to me. Even without the cowboy boots, he seemed taller. “You still feel found?”

  Les looked at the pool water, his hands on his hips. “I feel so much I hardly feel anything at all.” He looked back at me, his dark eyes half squinting.

  “What did you tell your kids?”

  “A lie. I told them a lie, Kathy.” His lips came together in a flat line and I went over to him and hugged him. He smelled like cotton and sweat. He hugged me back and I felt something sort of jolt inside him, but when he spoke his voice was okay: “I don’t want to scare you off, Kathy. I really don’t.”

  My cheek was to his chest and I could see the cars go by out on the Camino Real. He stepped back and looked at me.

  “I’m not, am I?”

  I could smell the beer on his breath and I wanted one. “Oh be quiet, I’m glad you’re here.” It was true; I was. I took his hand and led him across the parking lot and into my room. I squatted at the mini-fridge and grabbed two cold Michelob cans, opening both, handing him one. I held mine up in a quick toast, then drank. It was cold and delicious and I felt reckless and I didn’t care. I told him Connie Walsh’s news, about my trip back to Bisgrove Street, of trying to have a human moment with the fucking Arab who hadn’t even told his family the situation, who squeezed my arm so I’d stay quiet about it.

  “He put his hand on you?”

  “You could say that, I guess.” I drank and looked at Lester, at the way he was shadowed with the sunlight behind him, only his mustache and eyes darker than the rest. “You remind me of a cowboy.”

  “How was it left?” Lester’s voice was high and tight.

  I shrugged and drank some more. I never drank beer much, except on days like this, hot days when you’re tired and a little hungry and there’s an edge to everything. Les sat forward in his chair.

  “You mean if this guy doesn’t want to sell your house back he doesn’t have to?”

  I nodded and let out a short laugh. “Look at us, Les. We’re both homeless.” Then I laughed harder, like maybe I didn’t care about anything at all, and I couldn’t stop.

  “That’s not right.”

  “What is?” I was smiling now.

  “You’re a complicated woman, aren’t you?”

  “Nope, I think I’m a simple woman, actually. I’m just
good at complicating things.” I finished off my beer, but lowered it back to my lap like it wasn’t quite empty yet.

  “Do I complicate things?” Les said.

  I looked at him. “No. I mean, yeah, you do a little, but I’m glad you’re here. I really am, Les.”

  He stood and pulled me to my feet. He put his arms around me, locking his fingers together at my lower back. “Spend the night with me.”

  “I don’t want you paying for this room anymore, Les. You’ve got to think of yourself now, you know.”

  He kissed me so I’d shut up, it seemed. “I’ve got a fishing camp south of us. Another deputy’s lending it to me till I know what I’m doing, or, you know, where I’m going.” He kissed me again. “Come help me sweep it out. Then we’ll sit down and figure out how to get your house back. I know so many damn lawyers it isn’t funny.”

  I was starting to get that off-the-ground feeling again, like it didn’t matter what I did because I wasn’t connected to anything real in the first place. But I wanted to drive back to Bisgrove hill with this man, to walk right into my house with tall Lester Burdon in front of me, his uniform on, his gun at his belt, some sort of paper in his hand kicking the Arab family right back to the sands of wherever the hell they came from.

  “Are they good lawyers?”

  “Better than what you have now, I’m sure.”