Interpreter of Maladies - Jhumpa Lahiri [44]
"Memorize what?"
"Our day together." He reached for another rice cake.
"Why do you want to memorize it?"
"Because we're never going to see each other, ever again."
The precision of the phrase startled her. She looked at him, feeling slightly depressed. Rohin didn't look depressed. He tapped the page. "Go on." And so she drew the items as best as she could-the sofa, the director's chairs, the television, the telephone. He sidled up to her, so close that it was sometimes difficult to see what she was doing. He put his small brown hand over hers. "Now me."
She handed him the crayon.
He shook his head. "No, now draw me." "I can't," she said. "It won't look like you " The brooding look began to spread across Robin's face again, just as it had when she'd refused him coffee. "Please?"
She drew his face, outlining his head and the thick
fringe of hair. He sat perfectly still, with a formal,
melancholy expression, his gaze fixed to one side. Miranda wished she could draw a good likeness. Her hand moved in conjunction with her eyes, in unknown ways, just as it had that day in the bookstore when she'd transcribed her name in Bengali letters. It looked nothing like him. She was in the middle of drawing his nose when he wriggled away from the table. "I'm bored," he announced, heading toward her bedroom. She heard him opening the door, opening the drawers of her bureau and closing them. When she joined him he was inside the closet. After a moment he emerged, his hair disheveled, holding the silver cocktail dress. "This was on the floor." "It falls off the hanger."
Rohin looked at the dress and then at Miranda's body, "Put it on."
"Excuse me?"
"Put it on."
There was no reason to put it on. Apart from in the fitting room at Filene's she had never worn it, and as long as she was with Dev she knew she never would. She knew they would never go to restaurants, where he would reach across a table and kiss her hand. They would meet in her apartment, on Sundays, he in his sweatpants, she in her jeans. She took the dress from Rohin and shook it out, even though the slinky fabric never wrinkled. She reached into the closet for a free hanger.
"Please put it on," Rohin asked, suddenly standing behind her. He pressed his face against her, clasping her waist with both his thin arms. "Please?" "All right," she said, surprised by the strength of his grip.
He smiled, satisfied, and sat on the edge of her bed. "You have to wait out there," she said, pointing to the door. "I'll come out when I'm ready." "But my mother always takes her clothes off in front of me."
"She does?"
Rohin nodded. "She doesn't even pick them up afterward. She leaves them all on the floor by the bed, all tangled."
"One day she slept in my room," he continued. "She said it felt better than her bed, now that my father's gone."
"I'm not your mother," Miranda said, lifting him by the armpits off her bed. When he refused to stand, she picked him up. He was heavier than she expected, and he clung to her, his legs wrapped firmly around her hips, his head resting against her chest. She set him down in the hallway and shut the door. As an extra precaution she fastened the latch. She changed into the dress, glancing into the full-length mirror nailed to the back of the door. Her ankle socks looked silly, and so she opened a drawer and found the stockings. She searched through the back of the closet and slipped on the high heels with the tiny buckles. The chain straps of the dress were as light as paper clips against her collarbone. It was a bit loose on her. She could not zip it herself. Rohin began knocking. "May I come in now?" She opened the door. Rohin was holding his almanac in his hands, muttering something under his breath. His eyes opened wide at the sight of her. "I need help with the zipper," she said. She sat on the edge of the bed.
Rohin fastened the zipper to the top, and then Miranda stood up and twirled. Rohin put down the almanac. "You're sexy," he declared. "What did you say?"
"You're sexy."
Miranda sat down again. Though