# Read the first page of Roman Stories by Jhumpa Lahiri Read the opening of Roman Stories by Jhumpa Lahiri free, no signup. Stories of outsiders and immigrants making lives in contemporary Rome. - Page: https://uncovered.ink/read/roman-stories-jhumpa-lahiri - Genre: Literary fiction - Year: 2024 - ISBN: 9780593469903 - Read it blind (cover and title hidden): https://uncovered.ink/?b=9781039006362&s=read-page - Buy: https://bookshop.org/a/125786/9780593469903 - Borrow: https://search.worldcat.org/search?q=9780593469903 ## The opening Every Saturday, a new family comes to stay. Some arrive early in the morning, from afar, ready to begin their vacation. Others don't turn up until sunset, in bad moods, maybe having lost their way. It's easy to get lost in these hills; the roads are poorly signposted. Today, after they introduce themselves, I show them around. My mother used to do the welcoming. But she's spending the summer in a nearby town, helping out an elderly gentleman who's also on vacation, so I have to do it. As usual, there are four of them: mother, father, two daughters. They follow me, wide-eyed, happy to stretch their legs. We stop for a moment on the shaded patio that looks out over the lawn, under a thatched roof that filters the light. There are two armchairs and a sofa, covered with white fabric, lounge chairs for sunbathing, and a wooden table big enough for ten people. I open the sliding glass door and show them inside: the cozy living room with two comfortable sofas in front of the fireplace, the well-stocked kitchen, two bedrooms. While the father unloads the car and the girls, who are probably around seven and nine, disappear into their room, shutting the door behind them, I tell the mother where to find extra towels, and woolen blankets, in case it gets cold at night. I show her where the mouse poison is hidden. Kill the flies before going to bed, I suggest, otherwise they start buzzing at dawn and become a nuisance. I explain how to get to the supermarket, how to use the washing machine behind the house, and where to hang the laundry, just on the other side of my father’s garden. Guests are free to pick lettuce and tomatoes, I add. There were lots of tomatoes this year, but most of them spoiled in the July rain. I pretend not to watch them, to be discreet. I do the housework and water the garden, but I can’t help noticing how happy and excited they are. I hear the girls’ voices as they run across the lawn, I learn their names. Since the guests usually leave the sliding door open, I overhear what the parents say to each other as they settle into the house, as they unpack their suitcases and decide what to have for lunch. The cottage where my family lives is a few yards away, behind a tall hedge that forms a kind of screen. For years, our house was just a room that served as both kitchen and bedroom for the three of us. Then, two years ago, when I turned thirteen, my mother started working for the elderly gentleman, and, after saving up enough money, my parents asked the man who owns the property if they could add a small room for me—where stubby lizards slip through cracks between the wall and ceiling. My father is the caretaker. He looks after the big house, chops wood, works the fields and the vineyard. He looks after the horses, which the owner loves with a passion. The owner lives abroad, but he’s not a foreigner like us. He comes every now and then, on his own. He doesn’t have a family. During the days he goes horseback riding; in the evenings he reads in front of the fireplace. Then he goes away again. Not many people rent his house other than in summer. The winters here are biting, and in the spring there’s lots of rain. In the mornings, from September to June, my father drives me to school, where I feel out of place. I don’t mix easily with others; I don’t look like anyone else. The girls in this family resemble each other. You can tell right away that they’re sisters. They’ve already put on matching bathing suits to go to the beach later on. The beach is about fifteen miles from here. The mother looks like a girl, too. She’s small and thin, she wears her long hair loose. Her shoulders are delicate. She walks barefoot on the grass even though the father tells her not to, saying (and he’s right) that there might be porcupines, hornets, snakes. ## Books with a similar feel - [A Cage Went in Search of a Bird by Tommy Orange](https://uncovered.ink/read/a-cage-went-in-search-of-a-bird-tommy-orange.md) - [Waiting for the Barbarians by J. M. Coetzee](https://uncovered.ink/read/waiting-for-the-barbarians-j-m-coetzee.md) - [The Lemon Table by Julian Barnes](https://uncovered.ink/read/the-lemon-table-julian-barnes.md) - [The Refugees by Viet Thanh Nguyen](https://uncovered.ink/read/the-refugees-viet-thanh-nguyen.md) - [Homesick for Another World by Ottessa Moshfegh](https://uncovered.ink/read/homesick-for-another-world-ottessa-moshfegh.md) - [Sorta Like a Rock Star by Matthew Quick](https://uncovered.ink/read/sorta-like-a-rock-star-matthew-quick.md) --- Source: Uncovered (https://uncovered.ink). A short sample shown for reading and discovery. Rights holders can request removal at https://uncovered.ink/takedown.