Unaccustomed Earth Page 20

  “Deirdre, it’s Paul.”

  “Paul,” she said, slowly.

  “You called me last night. I’m Sang’s housemate.”

  “Of course. Paul. You hung up on me, Paul.” She appeared to be drunk again, but in a sunnier mood.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about that. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  Deirdre sighed. “That’s sweet of you, Paul.”

  “And to ask you to please stop calling me,” he said after a considerable pause.

  “Why?” There was panic in her voice.

  “Because I don’t know you,” he said.

  “Would you like to know me, Paul?” she said. “I’m a very likable person.”

  “I have to go,” he said firmly, hoping not to provoke her. “But maybe there’s someone else you could talk to? A friend?”

  “Freddy’s my friend.”

  The mention of Farouk, the use of the nickname, unsettled Paul as it had the night before. Yesterday, he’d surmised that Deirdre might be a student of Farouk’s at Harvard, practically a teenager, infatuated with an older man. He imagined her sitting at the back of a lecture hall, visiting him in his office, getting the wrong idea. Now a simple, reasonable question, which was at the same time a poisoned question, formed in Paul’s mind.

  “So, how exactly do you know Farouk?” Paul asked lightly, as if they were chatting at a party.

  He didn’t think she’d tell him, thought she might even hang up on him as he had on her, but they slipped easily into a conversation. It was Deirdre who did most of the talking. She told Paul that she was from Vancouver originally, and that she’d moved to Boston in her twenties, to study interior design. She’d met Farouk one Sunday afternoon, a year and a half ago, when she was walking out of a café in the South End. He had followed her halfway down the block, tapped her on the shoulder, looked her up and down with unconcealed desire. “You can’t imagine,” Deirdre said, remembering it. “You can’t imagine how something like that feels.” Nevertheless, he’d been gentlemanly. For their first date, they had gone to Walden Pond. Afterward, they bought corn and tomatoes, and grilled salmon in her backyard. Farouk loved her home, an old farmhouse on five acres. He asked her to draw up the plans for redoing his kitchen. On Labor Day, they had hiked Mount Sunapee together. She said other things Paul listened to, unsure of how much he should believe. For either they were true, and Farouk and Deirdre were having a full-blown affair, or Deirdre was simply inventing it all, the way lonely, drunk people sometimes invent things. At one point, he wandered into the hallway and opened Sang’s door, making sure the curtain was tied as he’d remembered it.

  “What about you?” Deirdre asked suddenly.

  “What about me?”

  “Well, here I am going on and you haven’t said a thing. What are you like, Paul? Are you happy?”

  He had sacrificed an hour to this woman. The edge of his ear ached from pressing the phone to it for so long. “This isn’t about me.” He swallowed, shutting the door to Sang’s room. “It’s about Sang.”

  “They’re cousins, right?” Deirdre said. He could barely hear her. “Aren’t they?”

  The desperation with which she asked him brought with it a crushing certainty. He knew that all she had told him was true, the knowledge of something having gone terribly wrong leveling him the way his exam had. The way Theresa’s words had.

  “Sang and Farouk are not cousins,” he said. He felt a strange, inward power as he spoke, aware that the information could devastate her.

  She was silent.

  “They’re boyfriend and girlfriend, Deirdre,” he said. “A serious couple.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Her tone was challenging. “How serious?”

  He thought for a moment. “They see each other four or five nights a week.”

  “They do?” To Paul’s satisfaction, Deirdre sounded wounded by this information.

  “Yes,” he said, adding, “they’ve been together for over three years.”

  “Three?” The word trailed off weakly, in a way that made Paul wonder if she might cry again. But when she spoke next her voice was clear. “Well, we’re a serious couple, too. I picked him up from the airport yesterday when he came back from Cairo. I saw him tonight. He was here for dinner, here in my house. He made love to me on my staircase, Paul. An hour ago, I could still feel him dripping down my thighs.”

  Sang returned from London with presents for the house, KitKats in red wrappers, tea from Harrods, marmalade, chocolate-coated biscuits. A snapshot of her nephew went up on the refrigerator, his small smiling face pressed against Sang’s. Paul, from his room, saw that it was Farouk who dropped her off at the house. Eventually, Paul had gone downstairs, down the magnificent staircase, which he was now unable to descend without a fleeting image of Farouk naked on top of a woman who was not Sang. In the kitchen he opened his cupboard and pulled down the Dewar’s.

  “Wow. Things have really changed around here,” Sang said, smiling, her eyebrows raised in amusement, watching him pour the drink.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re drinking Scotch. If I’d known, I would have bought you some single malt in duty-free, instead of the KitKats.”

  The thought of her buying him a gift depressed him. They were friendly, but they were not friends. He offered her a glass of the Scotch, which she accepted. They sat together at the table. She clinked her glass against his.

  She began sorting through the mail Paul had collected for her. Her hair was a few inches shorter; she smelled intensely of a spicy perfume.

  “I don’t know any Deirdres,” she said, reading her messages on the legal pad. “Did she say why she was calling?”

  He’d drained his glass and was already pacified by the drink. He shook his head.

  “I wonder what I should do.”

  “About what?”

  “Well, should I call her back?”

  He stood up and opened the freezer to get ice cubes for a second drink. When he returned to the table, she was crossing out the name with a pencil. “Forget it. She’s probably a telemarketer or something.”

  Avoiding Sang was easy. The university library, which Paul normally found so charmless, with its cement floors and gray metal shelves and carrels full of anonymous ballpoint philosophy, was where he began to spend his days. At home, he discovered that it was just as easy to take a sandwich up to his room. Winter gave way to a wet, reluctant spring, full of wind and slanted rains that lashed the window by Paul’s bed. Whenever the phone rang, he didn’t answer. In the first few days after Sang’s return, he was convinced, each time, that it would be Deirdre, demanding to talk to Sang. But Deirdre never called. He waited for her voice, the things she had told him, to fade from his memory. But the conversations had lodged themselves stubbornly in his mind, alongside all the plays and poems and essays. He saw two people swimming in Walden Pond, their heads above the surface of the water. But then there was Sang, day after day, disappearing to eat dinner at Farouk’s. There she was, sitting at the kitchen table, booking Farouk’s tickets to Cairo for the summer, his credit card number written on a sheet of paper. After two months, Deirdre still hadn’t called, and Paul finally stopped fearing that she would.

  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 wh
en 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, enveloped in steam. When he came downstairs again, he found her on her hands and knees, going through the recycling bin, newspapers and magazines piled around her.

  “Damn it,” she said.

  “Now what are you looking for?”

  “The number. I remember ripping out that page for some reason. I think I threw it away.” She began to put the newspapers and magazines back into the bin. “Damn it,” she said again. She stood up, kicking the bin lightly with her foot. “I don’t even remember her last name. Do you?”

  He inhaled, as if to seal the information inside himself, but then he shook his head, relieved at the opportunity, at last, to be honest with her. He, too, had forgotten Deirdre’s last name. It was a name of one syllable, but apart from that detail it had vanished from his brain.

  “Hey, Paul,” Sang said after a moment. “I’m sorry if I sounded harsh back then.”

  He walked across the kitchen, opened the oven. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Her stomach growled, loudly enough for Paul to hear. “God, I just realized I haven’t eaten a thing today. I think I’ll have some of that cassoulet, after all. Should I make a salad?” This would be their first dinner together, alone, without Heather. He used to yearn for such an occasion. He used to feel clumsy and tongue-tied when Sang was in the room. Now he felt dread.

  “I guess she was a little weird,” he said slowly, gazing at the back of Sang’s head, bent forward over the sink where she was ripping lettuce. She turned around.

  “How? How did she seem weird to you?”

  He was so nervous that for a terrible instant he worried that he might laugh out loud. Sang was regarding him steadily. The faucet was still running. She reached back to turn it off, and now the room was silent.

  “She was crying,” he said.

  “Crying?”

  “Um—yeah.”

  “Crying how?”

  “Just—crying. Like she was upset about something.”

  Sang opened her mouth, as if to speak, but for a while it simply hung open. “So let me get this straight. This woman Deirdre called and asked for me.”

  Paul nodded. “Right.”

  “And you said I wasn’t there.”

  “Right.”

  “And then she asked you to have me call her back.”

  “Right.”

  “And then she started crying?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “That was it. Then she hung up.”

  For a moment, Sang seemed satisfied with the information, nodding slowly. Then she shook her head abruptly, as if to flick it away. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

  He regretted having offered her the cassoulet. He regretted ever having picked up the phone that day. He regretted that Sang and not another person had moved into the room, into his house, into his life. “I did,” he said calmly, drawing a line between them in his mind. “I told you she called.”

  “But you didn’t tell me this.”

  “No.”

  She opened her eyes wide, incredulous. “Didn’t it occur to you I might want to know?”

  He curled his lips together, looking away.

  “Well?” she demanded, shouting at him now. “Didn’t it?”

  When he still did not reply, she marched up to him, her hands clenched in fists, and he braced himself for a blow, twisting his face to one side. But she didn’t strike him. Instead she gripped the sides of her own head, as if to steady herself. “My God, Paul.” Her voice was so shrill it was nearly inaudible. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Now it was she who began to avoid him. For a few nights, she was not at home. Paul saw her getting into Charles’s truck with a weekend bag. Because Heather had by then all but officially moved in with Kevin, once again Paul found himself alone in the house. A week passed before he saw Sang again. Thinking himself alone, he hadn’t bothered to shut his door. She came up to his room, wearing a pretty dress he’d never seen, a white cotton short-sleeved dress, fitted at the waist. The neck was square, showing off her collarbones.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey.” He had not missed her at all.

  “Look. I just wanted to tell you that it’s all a huge confusion. Deirdre really is an old friend of Farouk’s, from way back. From college.”

  “You don’t have to explain it to me,” Paul said.

  “She lives in Canada.” Sang continued. “In Vancouver.”

  “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.