“Why didn’t you say so before? For Christ’s sake,” Sor said, slightly annoyed, “I was in your office for almost thirty minutes. You could have said something.”
“I did ask you, Sor, if you wished to share anything with me when you spoke of interruptions in your life, but you didn’t seem to want to talk about it with me. I thought it best not to press you. I know how you are about talking about your personal affairs.”
“I’m bleeding, Dick,” Sor said. “I don’t know what to do. I’m not myself.”
“How is this affecting you and Jasmine?” Olephant asked. “Does she know?”
“I don’t think so. But I’ve been acting oddly of late. Maybe she suspects something. A woman can usually tell if her man is seeing someone else. Jasmine’s no fool.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. Let sleeping dogs lie. I’ll lick my wounds and suffer in silence.”
“But suppose she finds out? Suppose she knows?”
“I have no idea what I’ll do. I really don’t know, Dick.”
“Take my advice,” Olephant said. “If Jasmine finds out and you don’t want to lose her, you must deny you had anything to do with Spares. Swear on your mother’s good name. Forget about your scruples, Sor. Lie. And even if you choose to leave her, still lie, for to tell Jasmine the truth would be devastating. There’s nothing worse for a woman than to find out the man she has trusted for years has been sleeping with another woman. And I’m sure Jasmine has trusted you. It would be a great blow to her. A devastating blow.”
“I don’t know, Dick. I really don’t know what I’ll do if she finds out. But thanks for your advice.”
They left Olephant’s office and walked in silence to the library. “Take care, Sor,” Olephant said in parting. “Remember, if the cat gets out of the bag, be kind to Jasmine. Lie.”
Sor wished he didn’t have a class to teach. Even teaching, he thought, the thing he loved doing, had become a burden. The campus, the buildings, the manmade pond, the students he passed as he walked to his classroom, all seemed alien. He felt he didn’t belong there anymore. I have to leave the university, he thought. I cannot remain on the same campus and not be with Marguerite. It will be too painful.
TWENTY-FOUR
When Sor got home he was surprised to find Jasmine in the apartment. She was sitting at the dining room table. Since it was unusual for her to come home before him, he thought she was probably sick.
“What brings you home this early?” Sor asked, as he walked into his study to put down his briefcase.
“You, Sor,” she answered. Her voice had an angry, accusatory tone. “You are the reason why I am home. You are why I didn’t go to work today.”
Sor immediately sensed some disastrous foreboding, the knowledge that he would be experiencing some tragic moment in his life. She knows, he thought.
“What are you talking about?” he said, very casually, as he walked into the dining room, slowly removing his tie.
Jasmine was seated at the end of the table, in his chair, where he usually sat for meals. One of his undershirts was on the table in front of her, and what appeared to be a copy of an e-mail document. The cup he had his coffee in that morning was still there, and his cereal bowl.
“What’s going on, Sor,” she asked, very quietly, very seriously. “Is there anything you want to tell me? Is there anything I should know?”
“About what?” Sor asked, innocently.
“About this,” Jasmine said, holding up his crumpled undershirt, one that was obviously removed from the clothes hamper, “and this,” she added, holding up the sheet of paper.
Sor didn’t answer, could not answer. He stood speechless before her, as if some numbing lightning bolt had struck him.
“Who is Marguerite, Sor? This woman you are in love with, this woman you would throw me over for without the slightest hesitation—that is, if she wants you. Who is she? You had better tell me, Sor. Dishonesty is one thing I will not tolerate in my life. I have been truthful with you. I have never looked at another man. So please be honest. I want to know. Please don’t deny this woman’s presence in your life. I have here the letter she wrote to you last night. I went into your office this morning before I left for work to get a pen and found it on your desk. And this undershirt, reeking of perfume, I have been holding it since Saturday. I wanted to believe it was nothing, just some scent that penetrated your clothing by accident. It was in the clothes hamper with the rest of your dirty clothes. But when I found the letter, I realized…” She broke off, her voice trembling.
The floor under Sor’s feet was no longer there. He was standing on nothing. The framework of his world had dissolved around him. His whole existence with Jasmine had been suddenly whittled down to his dirty undershirt reeking with Marguerite’s fragrance and her letter. He knew they would change his life. He could almost smell Marguerite’s perfume from where he stood at the other end of the table. If it was only his undershirt, the situation might not be as disastrous. But Marguerite’s letter, that would do it. What could he do? What could he say? He remembered Dick Olephant’s advice. Lie. Deny his relationship with Marguerite if Jasmine found out about them. But how could he? No lie could stand up against the weighty, irrefutable evidence Jasmine had in her possession. True, a man should always lie in these circumstances, he thought to himself, if he wanted to preserve his marriage. But Sor knew there was no use.
“Are you in love with this woman, Sor?” Jasmine asked, before he could come up with something to say to her. “She’s married. She has children. She obviously loves them. She still cares for her husband. How could you be such a fool?”
“I love her, Jasmine.” The words slipped from his mouth without the slightest restraint or regret. The way he said it, the way he felt saying it, the whole thing seemed surreal. Was it he who spoke? Or some stranger putting words in his mouth?
Hearing Sor admit his love for Marguerite so openly, unreservedly, without even “I love you, too, Jasmine,” made Jasmine feel as if she were cruelly attacked by a vicious stranger. She felt numb, violated in the most primal way. She was emotionless. She couldn’t even find anger in her. She lowered her head in total defeat, like a beaten animal. A heavy, palpable silence possessed the room. When finally she spoke, her voice had a tone of finality, as if she had reached some decision from which she would not swerve.
“You have made your choice, Sor,” she said, calmly, without anger, without emotion, a high-court judge dispensing her final verdict. “After what you have done, you cannot stay in this house with me. Even if you said you weren’t in love with her, I couldn’t continue living with you. I couldn’t tolerate it. I would be demeaning myself as an individual, and as a woman. You slept with her. No. I will not tolerate that. You cannot sleep with this woman, and love this woman, and share my life, my bed, my body. Go to her. That’s what you want. But from what she says in her letter, I don’t think she will have you. After all this time together, and you do this to me. We experienced the death of a child together, our child. We bore the pain of his death together. After that, how could you do this? I never expected you to do such a thing. I thought you would be my mate for life. I cannot tolerate this. You must leave. Please be out of here by tomorrow. I cannot stand looking at you right now. You have betrayed me. You have hurt me terribly, Sor. And if you know me, you know that I won’t tolerate deceit or unfaithfulness.”
There was nothing he could say, Sor thought. Sure, he could partially blame her, blame her coldness after Daniel’s death. She never got over it. And she never sought help. She could have seen a shrink. But he didn’t, either. They both could have gone to someone for counseling. She must have known that her abstinence, not having sex with him, so often when he needed her, would affect him. But did that have anything to do with what happened? Would he be in this position today had he not gone to Julian Plum�
�s dinner? Had he not met Marguerite, would he not have been drawn to someone else? This flesh thing, his wanting to be with a woman: was he weak, did that make him a corrupt man?
Sor did not feel there was anything he could say in his defense. Maybe he didn’t want to say anything. He felt wretched that he felt that way. He should be saying something. His silence, he knew, would only make her pain more profound, grinding, more cruel. He left Jasmine sitting at the table and walked into his study. He knew he no longer belonged in her life. After what he had done there was no way he could patch things up and remain with her. For some inexplicable reason, he didn’t feel like attempting to do so. Already Jasmine and the things in the apartment had become a part of his past, a segment of his personal history, that he would have to leave behind.
He sat down at his desk, but the chair he sat on, the walls, the bookcase, no longer had that attachment to him that they had before. Only the books felt like his; he’d take them with him. But the photograph of Sor and Jasmine on his desk—taken at Martha’s Vineyard three years ago—seemed strange and perplexing. True, they seemed happy, caught in their usual pose: her left arm around his waist, his right hand raised and resting on her shoulder, his fingers hanging limply above her breast. They’re smiling, but you can’t place too much importance on that. Their smiles were induced, placed on their lips, when the photographer cried cheese. Still, captured thus, and placed in its pretty frame, lightly varnished with gold, you’d think their happiness genuine. Was it? He looked away from it. Whatever it was, he said to himself, it would no longer be a part of his life.
Later, much later, he heard her crying in the bedroom. He was still awake, in his clothes, on the sofa, unable to sleep. He should go to her, he thought. He should try to console her. But when he got to the bedroom door, before he could put his hand on the doorknob, as if she were expecting him, she firmly, between her sobbing, told him to go away. He didn’t move. “Go away,” Jasmine said angrily. “Go to her. Go to the one you love. Go to your Marguerite.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Sor stayed up most of the night in his study going over everything that had brought him to where he was. He thought it odd that he did not feel the slightest urge to ask Jasmine to forgive him. Had Marguerite so usurped his life that he had no interest in wanting to patch things up with his wife of fourteen years? A delayed reaction, he thought. He was bound to feel her absence later. You can’t discard the woman you have slept with, shared your life with for fourteen years, as if she were an old sock with a hole in it.
And he couldn’t believe he had told Jasmine that he loved Marguerite. He knew that kind of confession was the most devastating thing a man could do to a woman—Olephant didn’t have to tell him that—especially someone he once loved and shared his life with. He regretted having said it. He should have restrained himself, said nothing, and avoided hurting her like that. But he couldn’t help it. He could not deny that he had been with Marguerite, that he was in love with her, and certainly not with the evidence Jasmine had before her on the dining room table. Still, he thought, he didn’t have to be so resolute about his love for Marguerite, “I love her, Jasmine.” That was uncalled for. Cruel.
What a fool I am, he thought. He was always so careful to bathe when he got home after his meetings with Marguerite, but he never thought of rinsing out his undershirts. Jasmine is such a powerful fragrance, he should have known it would stick to his clothes. And the letter—how clumsy of him; he had deleted it from his e-mail but forgot to discard the printed copy after he read it. He was so upset by Marguerite’s request that he not see her, speak to her or write to her, that he must have left her e-mail on his desk when he went to bed that night.
He knew Jasmine would not take him back, even if he asked her. She was the type of person who trusted and gave herself totally to the person she was with, but once betrayed, she would turn away for good. There would be no reconciliation. He had seen how she treated girlfriends who crossed or betrayed her. She instantly wrote them out of her life, turned her back on them, and would have nothing to do with them afterwards.
He had no idea where he would go, what he would do, where he would live until the end of the semester. He had no real friends or family in Florida that he could stay with. Julian Plum had a house, and probably would let him stay in his guest room, but he would not go there. Plum would tell Marguerite about his breakup with Jasmine, and he did not want Marguerite to know. He did not want to put that kind of pressure on her. Whatever decision she eventually made must not be affected by his breakup with Jasmine.
Sor decided he’d stay at a YMCA in the area for the remainder of the semester. He’d make inquiries from his office the next day. He was grateful for one thing: the semester would soon be over. He had only three weeks of classes left, and after that he would have the whole summer to decide what he wanted to do. Everything, of course, depended on Marguerite’s decision.
Sor went to the campus early the next morning. Before leaving he asked Jasmine if he could leave his belongings in the apartment until the weekend, since it would be impossible for him to make all the necessary arrangements while attending to his duties at the university. Without looking at him—as if he were some despicable, foul object, the sight of which upset her—she reluctantly said he could, but told him he had to have everything out by noon on Sunday. Bitterness and anger cloaked her voice.
When he got to his office, Sor forced himself to answer some of the outstanding e-mails that had piled up over the past week. He read some of the students’ papers that should have been read and graded and given back to them several days before. He had conferences with some students who had appointments with him. He then called the YMCA in Deerfield Beach. They had a vacancy. The woman he spoke with said it was a corner room, close to the communal bathroom, and very private. He’d take it, he said, and told her he’d be there sometime that evening. It was almost eleven when he got off the phone. He remembered he had an appointment to see Dean Solomon. He closed his office and walked slowly toward the dean’s office.
Solomon was watering the two African violets he kept on top of his bookcase when Sor entered his office. “I think you’re overwatering them,” Sor said, surprising Dean Solomon.
“Hello, Sor,” Solomon said, without turning around. He was wiping up some water that had spilled onto the bookcase. “Thanks for the advice. I was attributing their puniness to the poor light in the room. You are probably right.”
“The lack of light could also be a problem,” Sor said, looking around the room and recognizing that it was poorly lit. “Maybe a small lamp next to them to provide additional illumination would help.”
“Yes, additional light would be helpful,” Solomon said, resting the small watering can next to the plants and turning to face Sor. “If only we could shed light on our muddled lives as easily, eh, Sor? Illuminate the self to attain greater clarity. Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll requisition a lamp from Maintenance.”
Sor could see Solomon’s mouse-colored jacket hung up on a hook on the back of his door. Was it the only jacket he owned? Sor wondered. He had seen Solomon wear it on several occasions, even at Christmas parties. The leather patch on the exposed sleeve was fraying, and he detected food spots near the cuff. The English faculty are always a little sloppy, he thought, as if they were emulating some of the more bohemian writers whose works they taught in their classes.
Solomon sat down. He asked Sor to have a seat. As he was sitting down, Sor saw his name on the file folder Solomon had before him on his desk: Avraham, Sor.
“How are you, Sor?” Solomon asked in an almost fatherly voice. “I hope you are having a good semester?”
“I’m fine, Dean Solomon,” Sor said. “The semester has been a little trying, but all in all it’s going well.” He wondered why Solomon should ask him about the kind of semester he had, since he was in his office because of complaints from students and from some
members of the administrative staff.
“Is everything all right in your personal life?” Solomon leaned back in his chair and gently fondled the patch of brown hair that stood like a small island in the midst of his psoriasis-riddled, balding pate.
Sor was taken aback. He had not expected Solomon to be so direct. Did he know about Marguerite? Sor didn’t think so. He didn’t think Plum would have told him, even though the two were good friends. And Solomon certainly couldn’t have known that Sor was breaking up with Jasmine.
Before Sor could respond, Solomon began talking.
“You’re probably wondering,” he said, “why I’m questioning you about your personal life. I know it’s none of my business, but I’m a little concerned about you. You have been a model teacher in the three years you have been here, functioning flawlessly, though somewhat too independently—some of your colleagues think you are not a team player, but that doesn’t bother me. You’ve always been dedicated to the students and, in your own way, to the university. But suddenly, in the last three weeks, I have been getting complaints about you from various quarters. I have been told you are not responding to your e-mails, and that you do not attend staff meetings—you did not show up for the departmental meeting yesterday that I asked everyone to attend. Students have complained that you are not grading their papers on time, you are late for your classes, you are never in your office when they show up for scheduled appointments with you, and that you destroyed a desk in one classroom, which led one student to believe you are on the brink of a nervous breakdown. In my years on this campus, and in the capacity as dean, I’ve learned that whenever there are such drastic changes in a faculty member’s behavior, it’s always linked to personal problems.”
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