Unaccustomed Earth - Jhumpa Lahiri [93]
“That’s my dog,” Deirdre said. “He’s always hated Freddy. He’s the size of a football, but every time Freddy comes over he makes me put a guardrail across the stairs.”
Sang inhaled sharply. She put the receiver down quietly on the table, then she picked it up again.
“I should go,” Paul said.
“Me, too,” Deirdre agreed. “I think you need to tell her now.”
He was startled, afraid Deirdre had discovered his trick, that she knew that Sang was listening in. “Tell her what?”
“Tell her about me and Farouk. She deserves to know. It sounds like you’re a good friend of hers.”
Deirdre hung up, and for a long time Paul and Sang sat there, listening to the silence. He had cleared himself with Sang, and yet he felt no relief, no vindication. Eventually, Sang hung up her phone and stood up, slowly, but made no further movements. She looked sealed off from things, holding herself as if she still needed to be perfectly stealthy, as if the slightest sound or gesture would betray her presence.
“I’m sorry,” Paul said finally.
She nodded and went to her room, shutting the door. After a while he followed her, stood outside. “Sang? Do you need anything?”
He remained there, waiting for her to reply. He heard her moving around the room. When the door opened, he saw that she had changed, into a black top with long tight-fitting sleeves. Her pink raincoat was draped over her arm, her purse hanging over her shoulder. “I need a ride.”
In the car, she directed him, saying what to do and where to turn only at the last possible minute. They drove through Allston and down Storrow Drive. “There,” she said, pointing. It was an ugly high-rise, bereft of charm and yet clearly exclusive, on the Cambridge side of the river. She got out of the car and started walking.
Paul followed her. “What are you doing?”
She speeded up. “I need to talk to him.” She spoke in a monotone.
“I don’t know, Sang.”
She walked even faster, her shoes clicking on the pavement.
The lobby was filled with beige sofas and potted trees. There was an African doorman sitting at the desk who smiled at them, recognizing Sang. He was listening to a radio tuned to the news in French.
“Evening, Miss.”
“Hello, Raymond.”
“Getting cold again, Miss. Maybe rain later.”
“Maybe.”
She kept her finger pressed on the elevator button until it came, while she fixed her hair in the mirror opposite. On the tenth floor, they stopped, then walked to the end of the hallway. The doors were dark brown, thickly varnished. She tapped the door knocker, which was like a small brass picture frame hinged to the surface. Inside, there was the sound of a television. Then there was silence.
“It’s me,” she said.
She tapped it again. Five consecutive taps. Ten. She pressed the top of her head against the door. “I heard her, Farouk. I heard Deirdre. She called Paul, and I heard her.” Sang’s voice was quavering.
“Please open the door.” She tried the knob, a strong metal knob, which would not budge.
There were footsteps, a chain being undone. Farouk opened the door, a day’s stubble on his face. He wore a flecked fisherman’s sweater, corduroy pants, black espadrilles on bare feet. He looked nothing like a philanderer, just bookish and slight. “I did not invite you here,” he said acidly when he saw Paul.
In spite of all he knew, Paul was stung by the words, unable to speak in his own defense.
“Please leave,” Farouk said. “Please, for once, try to respect our privacy.”
“She asked me,” Paul said.
Farouk lurched forward, arms extended rigidly in front of him, pushing Paul away as if he were a large piece of furniture. Paul took a step back, then resisted, grabbing Farouk’s wrists. The two men fell to the floor of the hallway, Paul’s glasses flying onto the carpet. It was easy for Paul to pin Farouk to the ground, to dig his fingers into his shoulders. Paul squeezed them tightly, through the thick wool of the sweater, feeling the give of the tendons, aware that Farouk was no