Unaccustomed Earth - Jhumpa Lahiri [84]
“Nice Jockeys,” Heather said, noticing several pairs folded on top of the pile.
“They’re Farouk’s,” Sang said.
“He doesn’t have a washing machine?” Heather wanted to know.
“He does,” Sang said, oblivious of Heather’s disapproving expression. “But it’s coin-operated.”
The arguments started around Thanksgiving. Paul would hear Sang crying into the phone in her room, the gray plastic cord stretched across the linoleum and then across the landing, disappearing under her door. One of the fights had something to do with a party Sang had been invited to, which Farouk didn’t want to attend. Another was about Farouk’s birthday. Sang had spent the day before making a cake. The house smelled of oranges and almonds and Paul heard the electric beater going late at night. But the next afternoon, he saw the cake in the trash can.
Once, returning from school, he discovered that Farouk was there, the BMW parked outside. It was a painfully cold December day; early that morning, the season’s first flakes had fallen. Walking past Sang’s room, Paul heard her raised voice. She was accusing: Why didn’t he ever want to meet her friends? Why didn’t he invite her to his cousin’s house for Thanksgiving? Why didn’t he like to spend the night together? Why, at the very least, didn’t he drive her home?
“I pay for the cabs,” Farouk said quietly. “What difference does it make?”
“I hate it, Farouk. It’s abnormal.”
“You know I don’t sleep well when you’re there.”
“How are we ever going to get married?” she demanded. “Are we supposed to live in separate houses forever?”
“Sang, please,” Farouk said. “Try to be calm. Your roommates will hear.”
“Will you stop about my roommates,” Sang shouted.
“You’re hysterical,” Farouk said.
She began to cry.
“I’ve warned you, Sang,” Farouk said. He sounded desperate. “I will not spend my life with a woman who makes scenes.”
“Fuck you.”
Something, a plate or a glass, struck a wall and broke. Then the room went quiet. After much deliberation, Paul knocked softly. No one replied. A few hours later, Paul nearly bumped into Sang as she was emerging from her bathroom, wrapped in a large dark pink towel. Her wet hair was uncombed and tangled, a knot bulging like a small nest on one side of her head. For weeks, he had longed to catch a glimpse of her this way, and still he felt wholly unprepared for the vision of her bare legs and arms, her damp face and shoulders.
“Hey,” he said, sidling quickly past.
“Paul,” she called out after a moment, as if his presence had registered only then. He turned to look at her; though it was barely past four, the sun was already setting in the living-room window, casting a golden patch of light to one side of her in the hallway.
“What’s up?” he said.
She crossed her arms in front of her, a hand concealing each shoulder. A spot on her forehead was coated with what appeared to be toothpaste. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
“That’s okay.”
“It’s not. You have an exam to study for.”
Her eyes were shining brightly, and she had a funny frozen smile on her face, her lips slightly parted. He began to smile back when he saw she was about to cry. He nodded. “It doesn’t matter.”
For a week, Farouk didn’t call, though when the phone rang she flew to answer it. She was home every night for dinner. She had long conversations with her sister in London. “Tell me if you think this is normal,” Paul overheard her say as he walked into the kitchen. “We were driving one time and he told me I smelled bad. Sweaty. He told me to wash under my arms. He kept saying it wasn’t a criticism, that people in love should be able to say things like that to each other.” One day, Charles took Sang out and in the evening she returned, with shopping bags from the outlets in Kittery. Another night, she accepted an invitation to see a movie at the Coolidge with Paul and Heather and Kevin, but once they’d reached the box office she told them she had a headache and walked back to the house. “I bet you they’ve split up,” Heather said, once they’d settled into their seats.