For our excess we lost everything.

I kneel beneath the window, turn to the east, and bow my head to the carpet which smells of dust, and I curse myself for ever weeping over my lost position, for the respect I had lost among strangers. I must make nazr to God as did my uncle Hadi when I was a boy and his wife, Shamsi, lay sick in bed and my uncle made nazr to God that if he would heal Shamsi, Hadi would give thousands of tomans to a poor Kurdish family in the lower hills, and to seal this nazr, Hadi drove each day to the largest mosque in Tabriz and fed seed to the pigeons there, and after only five days my aunt Shamsi was well.

I press my head to the hospital’s carpet, my eyes tightly closed: man nazr meekonam, I am making nazr for—but I know no poor families to whom I can give. I think only of the old Vietnamese Tran. Perhaps it is to him I must give. I again begin the words of nazr, but when I pray Tran’s name I feel I am lying, telling dooroogh, and I do not know why, but this frightens me for there is very little time and I must be only pure in the nazr for my son. There must be nothing dirty or hidden in this prayer and now, at the thought of dirty, of kaseef, I know it is Kathy Nicolo, this beggar whore to whom I must make nazr. It is her. But I cannot. How can I give to this woman whose actions have led to my son’s injury? This woman who has brought the weapon to our bungalow that resulted in Esmail’s shooting? This woman who we took into our home when she was as mast as a drunk in the street? To whom we gave our son’s bed? Prepared for her a hot meal? Offered her our bath which she defiled in her weakness before we saved her life again? How can I make nazr to this woman whose boyfriend has kept us hostage? How can I give to her anything from my heart but the poison she has given us? And I will press criminal charges against this Lester V. Burdon. I will sue the entire Sheriff’s Department for what he has done. And I will sue the two deputies who shot my son. I will take from them their jobs and their homes—but I must not allow these thoughts to dirty the water of my nazr. I am weeping, seeing again my son’s eyes as I pressed upon his wound. They were Nadi’s eyes, and Soraya’s eyes, and my father’s, but they did not see me, but something else, a thing I cannot see. God, I am making nazr to this woman, Kathy Nicolo, and I to You promise if You heal my son I will return her father’s house. I will also give to her all the money I have. Please, my God, Khoda, I make nazr for my only son.

“Sir?”

I beg you.

“Sir?”

I will do whatever is Your will. I will purchase ten kilos of the finest seed and I will find an American mosque and feed them to all the birds.

“Mr. Behmini?”

I will go to other holy places as well. I will feed pigeons in front of the churches of Christians. I will feed them at the doors of Jewish temples. I will let the birds cover me and then I will return with more seed and feed them again.

“Sir?”

And again.

“Mr. Behmini?”

My nazr is in Your hands.

I rise slowly. Beside the nurse is a man. He is short and very dark. An Indian or Pakistani. But as he introduces himself and offers his hand he speaks with no accent of any kind, and his eyes are black and he is dressed in the green clothing of surgeons, a paper mask hanging beneath his throat, and he does not release my hand and I know why and I begin pulling my hand from his, but it is too late, he has already released the words and they hit me like debris from an explosion. There is no air. No light. No sound. Only the dark vacuum of God’s closed door, of his no to my nazr, of his no to my son to whom they now lead me, my executioners, this man and this woman, to Esmail who lies upon a raised stretcher.

Esmail Kamfar Behrani.

A white sheet covers him to the shoulders. They are bare and smooth and brown from his days in the sun, and the sheet is clean except for a spot of khoon at his hip, and evil rose in the snow. The doctor speaks softly, delivering to me the specifics of God’s answer, but I see now only my son’s face. It is turned slightly towards the wall. His eyes are closed but his lips are parted, as when he sleeps with a stuffed nose. His jawbone is long and beautiful, and I touch the soft black hairs on his cheek near to his ears. His skin is cool and does not feel natural. At once it is too hard and too soft, and I know my son is no longer here beneath my hand. There is a loudness in the corridor, the vibration of it in my head and bowels. It is me, silenced by my son’s head as I hold him to my chest, his hair inside my mouth, his nose and lips pressed to my throat, and I would joyfully lie naked in flames for one thousand years to put life back into this boy. There is a hand upon my shoulder. It belongs to one of my torturers, but it does not pull me or push me, simply rests upon me as if it knows what it is I have lost, my son, who as a baby walked before he had one year, his small brown legs as bowed as a wrestler in the zur khaneh—at one and a half years, his first words to me over the telephone at Mehrabad: “Salome, Bawbaw-joon”—his bare feet in Paris, black with dirt from the street where he led French boys in play we did not know—his ease with computer games which were sometimes as complicated for me as the controls of a jet—his kindness and character, waking me with tea at the pooldar apartments, telling to me in the early dawn he is sorry for his bad behavior, he knows how hard it is I work, he made mistake—

I cannot breathe. I cannot see. My sound curls inside of me, releasing in the scream of his name. I kiss his closed eyes. His cheeks. His soft lips. There is a hand upon my back, the woman’s, patting me, but she does not know how I have failed this child; she does not know I encouraged him to stand still with the gun, to stay in the line of fire of his killers. The sound that comes from me is that of a beast, a weak and primitive animal not even worthy of sacrifice. My Esmail’s face is wet from my own and he must be washed.

He must be wrapped in white for his journey to God’s door.

And Nadi must do it.

His mother must do it.

But how can I tell to her? How is it possible to tell her our youngest child has left before us? How do I tell my Nadi I could not protect him? How do I explain I ordered him to point the weapon at Burdon until the police arrived? These American police who shot down our son?

I lay Esmail down, lower my head, and rush into the wall, feeling too little, only the jolting warmth and confusion of impact. The surgeon’s hand is upon my arm but I struggle away from this man who has killed me. The nurse calls my name but I am again running.

In the elevator I cannot stand. I cannot sit. I push myself from one wall to the next. In my mouth there is blood and I now know my dear brother Pourat was spared this torment, when at this hour he was shot instantly. But I have not been given this courtesy. And I will not spare the man who did not spare my son.

Again I am running. The streets are full of American people who walk along the sidewalks or stop in the shops or step into the office buildings as if my son had not just perished on this very ground. In my path walk two men in suits, their backs to me, and I force my way through their lack of respect, pushing them to the side, hearing their curses, the weak cursing of gentlemen, their voices high with fear and surprise that anyone would dare upset their calm water. In my mind I am spitting upon them. In my mind I am already preparing how careful it is I must be when I enter this Hall of Justice building, how it is I must walk through the clean glass door over the hard and shining floor to the elevators with no sweat or tears upon my face, no intent in my eye, only the impassive face of a man with business above.

And soon I am no longer in my mind but in the Hall of Justice. Men in suits walk by and they study my face and see the blood on my peerhan. I board an elevator, pressing the button which closes the door. I am moving towards the floor of detectives and Internal Affairs officers and I am certain I will find Lester V. Burdon, the tall thin lover of whores, the killer of my son, I will find him, perhaps being questioned in a soft chair, his friends and colleagues his only interrogators.