Exiles in America(134)

talking at me.”

“Did you want us to stay and we can discuss it?” said Zack. “Or would you

rather be alone?”

“Stay. Go. I do not care.” He heaved a heavy sigh. “There is nothing to dis-

cuss.”

Elena returned. “Would you like a drink, darling? A glass of wine? I know

I want one. Everybody? I will get the wine.”

Zack went with her to the kitchen. He opened a bottle while she took

down the glasses. They said nothing but acknowledged with an exchange of

looks that this wasn’t over, they weren’t safe yet.

When they came back, Abbas was already telling his story to Daniel, in a

low, steady grumble. Daniel sat on the floor with his back to the fire. Zack and

Elena pulled up two chairs and leaned in close, so Abbas could keep his voice

down and wouldn’t be heard upstairs.

“They wanted to know about my brother’s visit. That is all. Why he was

here, who he was seeing, what branch of government he is with. That is how

they started. No big deal. They suggested we go to their office, which is in

Richmond, and they could finish with me for good. Fine, I said. I want to get

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C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m

this over. I have been questioned often before. By the police of many coun-

tries. But the French do this better. And the Germans, and the Israelis. These

people are fools. They kept making threats, but they did it with smiles, pre-

tending the threats were harmless remarks. They only mentioned deportation.

And then prison. And then telling my children what kind of man their father

is. ‘What would they think of their daddy if they knew about his love life?

Would they still love him?’ ”

Zack stole looks first at Elena, then at Daniel: both remained stone-faced.

“Which made me angry. Which was what they wanted. They said I should

reconsider my position and tell the truth. When I said I was already telling the

truth, they began to talk about how highly children are valued in America,

how courts go out of their way to protect them, even the children of foreign-

ers. A man who lives my kind of life might be judged a dangerous father. He

might lose custody of his children.”

“It’s an empty threat!” said Zack. “An ugly threat!”

Abbas shrugged—it didn’t matter if the threat were real or not. “So I told

them: ‘Threaten me like this and I will have no choice but to start lying. I will

try to guess what you want and tell you that instead of the truth. Do you really

want that? Because then you will never know what is fact and what is fiction.’

They said no problem. They had a lie detector machine that would tell them

what was real. ‘So use it now,’ I said. ‘See if I am not already telling you every-

thing.’ And they gave me their test. Which I think is why they took me to

Richmond in the first place. They knew I would want this test.

“They put me in a chair with a cord around my chest and a blood pres-

sure thing on my arm, and my fingers on a metal strip. And they began their

questions. Is your name Abbas Rohani? Are you the brother of Hassan Ro-

hani? Did your brother come to this country to visit you? Was he here for

other reasons? Do you love your children? Do you love your wife? Do you

love America? Do you love Iran? On and on it went, serious questions and

silly questions. I saw the little needles on their roll of paper, reading me like

an earthquake. And when they finished, they did not tell me the results but

looked very, very grave. They resumed the threats again: deportation,

prison, my sex life, my children. But I was no longer angry. I was tired, I was numb.

E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a

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“They left the room, both the man and the woman, leaving me to think of

my future. But I was not panicked or frightened. I did not want to fight any-

more. I knew I could do nothing. I found I could surrender to my fate. And it

felt good to surrender. It was out of my hands. It was in the hands of fate or

chance or God.

“Then they came back, grinning like hyenas. ‘We believe you,’ they said.

‘You are telling the truth. We were only testing you. We are sorry to upset you.

But we need the stress to tell for certain if people are lying or not.’ And they

drove me home, not both of them, only the blond man. Who was so friendly,

asking me about Islam and Iran and being an artist, that I wondered if he were

hitting on me. If he wanted to suck my dick. But I realized, no, he was only

sorry. In that stupid, maudlin, American way. ‘Sorry we beat you up. Sorry we

humiliated you. But it was for a good cause, so do not take it personally. You

must forgive us.’ ”

He shook his head and sighed, declaring his story over. His tone had re-