Unaccustomed Earth - Jhumpa Lahiri [89]
Paul took the week of his spring break off from studying. “Stop cramming. That’s probably what happened the first time. Go to the Caribbean,” his adviser suggested. Instead, Paul stayed at home, but declared himself officially on vacation. He went to movies at the Brattle, spent two days making a cassoulet. He drove to Wellfleet one day, forcing himself not to take a book. He decided to ride out to Concord on his bike, to see Emerson’s house; on Saturday morning, he discovered that the chain needed to be fixed, and he brought the bike up to the deck. When he looked up, Sang was standing there, the phone in her hands, the cord stretched as far as it could go.
“Something weird just happened,” she said.
“What?”
“It was that Deirdre woman. The one you took the message from when I was away.”
Paul bent down, pretending to root around for something in his toolbox. “She was asking for Farouk,” Sang continued. “She says she’s a friend of his, visiting from out of town.”
“Oh. So that must have been why she was calling,” he said, relieved to hear that this was all Deirdre had said.
“He’s never mentioned a Deirdre.”
“Oh.”
Sang sat down in a beach chair, the phone in her lap, her body leaning into it. She straightened, staring at the phone, pressing numbers at random without picking up the receiver. “Farouk doesn’t have any friends,” she said. “Ever since I’ve known him, he’s never introduced me to a single friend. I’m his only friend, really.” She looked intently at Paul, and for a second he feared she was about to draw some sort of parallel, point out that Paul didn’t have friends, either. Instead, she said, “How did she get my number, anyway?”
She’d looked it up in Farouk’s address book; Deirdre had confessed this to Paul. Farouk had made it easy for her, writing it under “S” for Sang, the name of the cousin he had mentioned in a way that made her suspicious. Paul shook his head, standing up, squeezing the hand brakes on the bicycle. “Don’t know. I guess I’d ask Farouk.”
“Right. Ask Farouk.” She stood up and went back into the house.
That evening, when Paul returned from Concord, he found Sang at the kitchen table. She said nothing as he went to the refrigerator to pull out the remains of the cassoulet.
“Farouk isn’t in,” she said, as if responding to a question on Paul’s part. “He hasn’t been in all day.”
He lifted the lid of the baking dish and sprinkled a few drops of water on top of the cassoulet. “You want some of this?”
“No, thanks.” She was frowning.
Paul put the cassoulet in the oven and poured a Scotch. The muscles in his arms and his thighs ached pleasantly. He wanted to take a shower before eating.
“So, when exactly did this Deirdre person call?” Sang said, stopping him as he walked out of the kitchen.
He turned to face her, pivoting on his heels. “I don’t remember. It was when you were away.”
“And did she say anything to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“What did she say to you, exactly?”
“Nothing. I didn’t talk to her,” he said, his pulse racing; he was thankful that he was already coated with sweat. “She just wanted you to call her back.”
“Well, I can’t call her back. She didn’t even leave her number. It was weird. Did she sound like a weird sort of person to you?”
He remembered Deirdre’s tears. “I love him,” she’d told Paul, a perfect stranger. He looked at Sang, manipulating his face into an uncomprehending expression. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
She sighed impatiently. “Can you hand me that?” she said, pointing to the message pad.
Paul watched as Sang began flipping through the pages that had been turned over, running her finger down each line.
“What are you looking for?” he said after a moment.
“Her number.”
“Why?”
“I want to call her back.”
“Why?”
She looked up at him, exasperated. “Because I want to, Paul. Is that a problem with you?”
He went upstairs to take his shower. It wasn’t his business, he told himself as the hot water washed over him, and, later, as he dried himself, then combed back his hair,