As they drove west, the buildings grew low to the ground and thinned out into farmland. Sarala’s eyes traced the great metal towers strung with wires that stretched across the highway, cutting a swath through the farmland, so that this new land appeared to Sarala to be all cornfields and infrastructure.
On one side of the highway rose a great green sign: NICOLET, NEXT 3 EXITS. Abhijat pointed out the landfill just off the highway, the strange glow of a flame burning off methane. Then, a little further on, the place where he had been staying — executive housing, they called it. The outside of the building looked like a hotel, but inside, the rooms included small kitchenettes that looked out over neatly made double beds.
Before bed, Sarala undid her long, dark rope of a braid, brushing it smooth. Abhijat watched as the hair fell around her like a veil. That night they slept side by side for only the second time.
In the morning, Sarala arranged herself on the room’s foamy couch, which gave the sensation of being at once both soft and hard, and read carefully through the brochures and orientation packet the Lab had provided for Abhijat, and which he had presented to her. They were so glossy and pristine that she wondered whether he had even opened them before handing them to her.
In the photos, the Lab’s facilities were green and sunlit. The cover featured a tall building that rose up over the flat expanse of grass. She peered at a photo of a white-coated man standing inside a large room: The Collision Hall, the caption read.
The Lab sat on a piece of fertile land which had once been farmland, and which had, before that, been undisturbed prairie. Now the Lab’s expansive campus was ringed with a series of tunnels that made up the particle accelerator, in which cutting-edge experiments in high-energy particle physics were being conducted.
Abhijat and the other theoretical physicists had offices on the nineteenth floor of the twenty-story Research Tower, which looked out over the Illinois landscape, the tallest building for miles. Sarala looked at the image of the Research Tower and tried to imagine what Abhijat’s office might be like.
In the center of the brochure was a section titled “Living and Working at the Lab,” which included tips on opening a bank account in the U.S., how to obtain a driver’s license, and an overview of common laws and regulations. There were language classes for the spouses of foreign scientists, but her English was good. What Sarala studied most carefully was the list of the Lab’s social activities and organizations:
Automobile Club
Dancing Club
Badminton Club
Fitness Club
Lab Choir
Jazz Club
Martial Arts Club
Amateur Radio Club
Photo Club
Model Airplane Club
Squash Club
Gardening Club
With a pen, she carefully underlined Dancing Club, Photo Club, Lab Choir, imagining that together, she and Abhijat might fill their evenings with new hobbies and new friends.
Sarala spent her first week acclimating to the time change and taking in everything she could. In the small space of the hotel room, she and Abhijat learned each other’s daily routines and habits: that Sarala liked first to carefully make the bed before preparing their morning tea; that each morning, Abhijat emerged from the bathroom freshly showered and fully dressed, his dark hair combed along a strict and unwavering part. This close intimacy of preparing to build a life together was their honeymoon.
Once Abhijat left for work, Sarala had the day to herself. In the small room, she busied herself with washing, drying, and putting away the breakfast dishes in the kitchenette and then with tidying their things, gathering the materials Abhijat had brought her from the Lab — brochures from the Nicolet Chamber of Commerce, a helpful booklet prepared by the Lab indicating where new residents might find doctors, dentists, childcare, cultural activities, etc. These Sarala gathered into a neat pile on the end table next to her side of the bed, leaving the desk uncluttered should Abhijat need it. She opened the drapes and stood before the window, which looked out over the grey pavement of the hotel parking lot. She gathered their clothes in the small plastic laundry basket she found in the closet and made her way down the long hallway to the laundry facilities.
The hallway was silent, every door closed, and Sarala wondered about the other people living behind those closed doors. “Divorce apartments,” she had heard the clerk at the front desk call them. The few times she’d encountered other guests in the elevator or lobby, they had all been men. She’d thus far met no women, no children.
Still, in the halls she’d now and then caught a familiar smell. Ginger and garlic one night, coming from room 219. Green chilies and coriander, she guessed, the next evening, from 256. But overwhelmingly, the smell of America, she had decided, was the smell of nothing — carpet, cardboard, wallpaper, framed paintings of lakes and animals, bedspreads with bright floral patterns. Even the small slivers of soap wrapped in paper in the bathroom seemed to be entirely without a scent, Sarala thought, peeling open the wrapping and holding the small white rectangle up to her nose.
She prided herself on being adaptable, one of the many qualities she felt was necessary in a good wife, and so did not allow room for the question of whether she was or was not homesick.
When the laundry was dry, Sarala loaded it back into the small basket and returned to their rooms. Since her arrival, she’d grown familiar with the plotlines of a number of the soap operas that aired during the long, quiet afternoons while Abhijat was away. Her favorite was Search for Tomorrow, and she watched as she folded, anxious to find out whether Joanne would regain her sight in time to identify her captors.
The realtor had arranged to pick them up at the hotel to begin house hunting, as she called it when Abhijat phoned to make an appointment. Her car was a plush, champagne-colored Cadillac. Abhijat sat in the front seat, and Sarala, in the back, leaned forward to hear them speaking.
“Whatever neighborhood you settle on, the schools will be great,” the realtor said. “District 220 schools are all top of the line. Some of the best in the state.”
Abhijat made a note on the pad of paper he kept in the breast pocket of his blazer. Most of the other foreign scientists at the Lab were there temporarily — they and their families were housed on the Lab campus or, like he and Sarala, in small hotel-style efficiency apartments. However, as Abhijat was to be a permanent hire, he and Sarala would need to find a permanent home.
The realtor had a pleasant voice, Sarala thought, noting also her delicate perfume, hair the color of straw, sculpted and set, flipping up at the collar of the shirt she wore under her muted, neutral suit. Sarala ran her hand over the smooth beige velour of the seat as they drove, the realtor pointing out here and there the benefits and drawbacks of each neighborhood.
“Well, of course, you’ll want to be close to the Lab,” the realtor continued, “which makes Eagle’s Crest an excellent choice. Just across Route 12, and one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the community.”
By the second day in the realtor’s car, Sarala was certain they had been inside every home for sale in Nicolet. And how strange it had seemed to her, to be allowed to walk right into the homes of these strangers, to wander through their rooms, imagining her own future there, her clothes hanging in the closet.