Джумпа Лахири - Whereabouts [calibre]

also by jhumpa lahiri

In Other Words

The Lowland

Unaccustomed Earth

The Namesake

Interpreter of Maladies

this is a borzoi book published by alfred a. knopf and alfred a. knopf canada

Translation copyright © 2021 by Jhumpa Lahiri

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and in Canada by Alfred A. Knopf Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

www.aaknopf.com

www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC. Knopf Canada and colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House Canada Limited.

Originally published in Italy as Dove Mi Trovo by Ugo Guanda Editore S.r.l., Milan in 2018. Copyright © 2018 by Jhumpa Lahiri. Copyright © 2018 by Ugo Guanda Editore S.r.l.

library of congress cataloging-in-publication data

Names: Lahiri, Jhumpa, author, translator.

Title: Whereabouts / by Jhumpa Lahiri (written in Italian and translated by the author).

Other titles: Dove mi trovo. English

Description: First edition. | New York : Alfred A. Knopf, [2021]

Identifiers: lccn 2020027131 (print) | lccn 2020027132 (ebook) | isbn 9780593318317 (hardcover) | isbn 9780593318324 (ebook) | isbn 9781524711993 (open market)

Classification: lcc pq5984.l34 d6813 2021 (print) | lcc pq5984.l34 (ebook) | ddc 813/.54—dc23

lc record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2020027131

lc ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2020027132

library and archives canada cataloguing in publication

Title: Whereabouts / Jhumpa Lahiri

Other titles: Dove mi trovo. English

Names: Lahiri, Jhumpa, author, translator.

Description: Author’s translation of her book entitled Dove mi trovo.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200302949 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200302957 | isbn 9780735281462 (hardcover) | isbn 9780735281479 (EPUB)

Classification: lcc pq5984.l34 d6813 2021 | ddc 813/.54—dc23

Ebook ISBN 9780593318324

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover photograph by Sven Serkis

Cover design by Janet Hansen

ep_prh_5.7.0_c0_r0

Ad ogni mutamento di posto io provo una grande enorme tristezza. Non maggiore quando lascio un luogo cui si connettono dei ricordi o dei dolori e piaceri. È il mutamento stesso che m’agita come il liquido in un vaso che scosso s’intorbida.

—italo svevo, saggi e pagine sparse

Every time my surroundings change I feel enormous sadness. It’s not greater when I leave a place tied to memories, grief, or happiness. It’s the change itself that unsettles me, just as liquid in a jar turns cloudy when you shake it.

—italo svevo, essays and uncollected writings

Contents

ON THE SIDEWALK

ON THE STREET

IN THE OFFICE

AT THE TRATTORIA

IN SPRING

IN THE PIAZZA

IN THE WAITING ROOM

IN THE BOOKSTORE

IN MY HEAD

AT THE MUSEUM

ON THE COUCH

ON THE BALCONY

IN THE POOL

ON THE STREET

AT THE BEAUTICIAN

IN THE HOTEL

AT THE TICKET COUNTER

IN THE SUN

AT MY HOUSE

IN AUGUST

AT THE CASH REGISTER

IN MY HEAD

AT DINNER

ON VACATION

AT THE SUPERMARKET

BY THE SEA

AT THE COFFEE BAR

AT THE VILLA

IN THE COUNTRY

IN BED

ON THE PHONE

IN THE SHADE

IN WINTER

AT THE STATIONER’S

AT DAWN

IN MY HEAD

AT HIS PLACE

AT THE COFFEE BAR

UPON WAKING

AT MY MOTHER’S

AT THE STATION

IN THE MIRROR

AT THE CRYPT

UP AHEAD

NOWHERE

ON THE TRAIN

Notes

On the Sidewalk

In the mornings after breakfast I walk past a small marble plaque propped against the high wall flanking the road. I never knew the man who died. But over the years I’ve come to know his name, his surname. I know the month and day he was born and the month and day his life ended. This was a man who died two days after his birthday, in February.

It must have been an accident on his bike or his motorcycle. Or maybe he was walking at night, distracted. Maybe he was hit by a passing car.

He was forty-four when it happened. I suppose he died in this very spot, on the sidewalk, next to the wall that sprouts neglected plants, which is why the plaque has been arranged at the bottom, at the feet of passersby. The road is full of curves and snakes uphill. It’s a bit dangerous. The sidewalk is vexing, crowded with exposed tree roots. Some sections are nearly impossible to negotiate because of the roots. That’s why I, too, tend to walk on the road.

There’s usually a candle burning in a container of red glass, along with a small bunch of flowers and the statue of a saint. There’s no photograph of him. Above the candle, attached to the wall, there’s a note from his mother, written by hand, encased in a milky plastic sleeve. It greets those who stop for a moment to ponder the death of her son. I would like to personally thank those who dedicate a few minutes of their time to my son’s memory, but if that’s not possible, I thank you anyway, from the bottom of my heart, it says.

I’ve never seen the mother or any other person in front of the plaque. Thinking of the mother just as much as the son, I keep walking, feeling slightly less alive.

On the Street

Now and then on the streets of my neighborhood I bump into a man I might have been involved with, maybe shared a life with. He always looks happy to see me. He lives with a friend of mine, and they have two children. Our relationship never goes beyond a longish chat on the sidewalk, a quick coffee together, perhaps a brief stroll in the same direction. He talks excitedly about his projects, he gesticulates, and at times as we’re walking our synchronized bodies, already quite close, discreetly overlap.

Once he accompanied me into a lingerie shop because I had to choose a pair of tights to wear under a new skirt. I’d just bought the skirt and I needed the tights for that same evening. Our fingers grazed the textures splayed out on the counter as we sorted through the various colors. The binder of samples was like a book full of flimsy transparent pages. He was totally calm among the bras, the nightgowns, as if he were in a hardware store and not surrounded by intimate apparel. I was torn between the green and the purple. He was the one who convinced me to choose the purple, and the saleslady, putting the tights into the bag, said: Your husband’s got a great eye.

Pleasant encounters like this break up our daily meanderings. We have a chaste, fleeting bond. As a result it can’t advance, it can’t take the upper hand. He’s a good man, he loves my friend and their children.

I’m content with a firm embrace even though I don’t share my life with anyone. Two kisses on the cheeks, a short walk along a stretch of road. Without saying a word to each other we know that, if we chose to, we could venture into something reckless, also pointless.

This morning he’s distracted. He doesn’t recognize me until I’m right in front of him. He’s crossing a bridge at one end and I’m arriving from the other. We stop in the middle and look at the wall that flanks the river, and the shadows of pedestrians cast on its surface. They look like skittish ghosts advancing in a row, obedient souls passing from one realm to another. The bridge is flat and yet it’s as if the figures—vaporous shapes against the solid wall—are walking uphill, always climbing. They’re like inmates who proceed, silently, toward a dreadful end.