(Source : The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri)
Gogol decided to try the Barnes and Noble, a book stall, at the northern edge of the square. But staring at the immense wall of new titles on display he realized he'd read none of those books, and what was the point of giving her something he hadn't read ? On his way out of the store he paused by a table devoted to travel guides. He picked up one for Italy, full of illustrations of the architecture he had studied so carefully as a student, had admired only in photographs, had always meant to see. It angered him, yet there was no one to blame but himself. What was stopping him ? A trip together, to a place neither of them had been - may be that was what he and Moushumi needed. He could plan it all himself, selected the cities they would visit, the hotels. It could be his Christmas gift to her, two airplane tickets tucked into the back of the guide. He was due for another vacation, he could plan it for her spring break. Inspired by the thought, he went to the register, waited in a long line, and paid for the book.
He walked across the park toward home, thumbing through the book, anxious to see he now. He decided to stop at the gourmet grocery that was opened on Irving Place, to buy some of the things she liked : blood oranges, a wedge of cheese from the Pyrenees, slices of soppresata, a loaf of
peasant bread. For she would be hungry - they serve nothing on these days. He looked up from the
book, at the sky, at the darkness gathering, the clouds a deep, beautiful gold, and was momentarily stopped by a flock of pigeons flying dangerously close. Suddenly terrified, he ducked his head, fee pedestrians had reacted. He stopped and watched as the birds shot up. He was unsettled by the sight. He thought of Italy, of Venice, the trip he would begin to plan.
The lobby of the apartment was warm when he entered, the building's heat restored. "She just got back," the doorman told Gogol with a wink as he walked past, and his heart leaped, unburdened of its malaise, grateful for her simple act of returning to him. He imagined her puttering around the apartment, drawing a bath, pouring herself a glass of wine, her bags in the hallway. He slipped the book he would give her for Christmas into the pocket of his coat, making sure it was concealed, and called elevator to take him upstairs.
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