Unaccustomed Earth - Jhumpa Lahiri [91]
“I see.”
“They talk, like, once a year. Farouk mentioned my name to her years ago, when we first got together, when he lived in another apartment, and she remembered it. She was trying to get in touch with him because she’s getting married, and she wanted to send Farouk an invitation. She didn’t have Farouk’s new address or his number, and he’s not listed. That’s why she tried here.”
She seemed strangely excited by her convoluted explanation. Some color had come to her cheeks.
“There’s only one thing, Paul.”
He looked up. “What’s that?”
“Farouk called Deirdre to ask about what you said.”
“What I said?”
“About the crying.” Sang shrugged her shoulders, dropped them carelessly. “He told me she has no idea what you were talking about.” Her voice sounded compressed, the words running together quickly.
“Are you saying I made it up?”
She was silent.
For her sake, he’d told her about the crying. That night in the kitchen, watching her make the salad, he’d felt the walls collapsing around her. He’d wanted to warn her somehow. Now he wanted to push her from the door frame where she stood.
“Why would I make up a story like that?” He could feel a nerve on one side of his head throbbing.
Instead of arguing with him, she gave a sympathetic glance, letting her head rest against the door frame. “I don’t know, Paul.” It occurred to him that this was the first time she’d visited him in his room. For a moment, she appeared to be searching for a free place to sit. She straightened her head.
“Did you really think it would make me leave him?”
“I didn’t think it would make you do anything,” Paul said. He was clenching his teeth now. His body felt heavy from her accusation, numb. “I didn’t make it up.”
“I mean, it’s one thing for you to like me, Paul,” she continued. “It’s one thing for you to have a crush. But to make up a story like that—” She stopped, her mouth now straining into something that was not a smile. “It’s pathetic, really. Pathetic!” And she walked out of the room.
When they crossed paths again, she didn’t apologize for the outburst. She didn’t appear angry, only indifferent. He noticed that a copy of the Phoenix, which she’d left on top of the microwave, was folded to the real estate section, and that a few of the listings were circled. She came and went from Farouk’s. She looked up at Paul briefly when she happened to see him, with a mechanical little smile, and then she looked away, as if he were invisible.
The next time Sang worked at the bookstore, Paul stayed up in his room until he heard her leave the house. Once she was gone, he went to the kitchen, emptying out the recycling bin, which had not been taken out all winter. He flipped though each magazine, unfolded every newspaper, searching for the sheet of paper with Deirdre’s number. It would be like Sang, he thought, to look for it and not find it. But Paul couldn’t find it, either. He pulled out the White Pages and opened it at random, searching for a Deirdre, not caring how ridiculous he was being. Then he remembered it. Her last name. It swam effortlessly back to his memory, accompanied by the sound of Deirdre’s voice as she introduced herself to him that night on the telephone months ago. He turned to the “F’s,” saw it there, a D. Frain, an address in Belmont. He dragged the nail of his index finger beneath the listing, leaving a faint dent in the paper.
He called the next day. He left a message on her machine, asking her to call him back. He felt giddy, having done it. In a way, it was his fear that Deirdre would not call him back, knowing that she, too, was now keeping her distance, that emboldened him to keep calling, to keep leaving messages. “Deirdre, this is Paul. Please call me,” he said each time.
And then one day she picked up the phone.
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
She recognized his voice. “I know. Listen, Paul—”
He cut her off. “It’s not right,” he said. He was sitting in a booth in the lobby of the library, watching as students flashed their ID cards to the security guard. He fished in his pocket for extra quarters.
“I listened