That Summer in Paris

by Abha Dawesar

  Maya had been eating her meals in the kitchen within two feet of the sink ever since Tom had dumped her. Tom had left Maya with a gaping hole in the middle of her chest and an olfactory deprivation that led her to order truffles, men’s colognes, and pheromones online in the hope of healing.

  Maya had spent her yawningly free winter nights chatting online with Mr. Spinoza, an incorrigible Francophile like herself with endless things to say about French surrealism and the literature of Pascal Boutin. Eventually when she healed, it was not scrambled eggs with truffle butter that had done the trick but Mr. Spinoza’s gift. When they finally met up at a bar one night, he showed up with a hardcover book by Prem Rustum.

  “Have you already read this one?”

  “I’ve never read anything by Rustum.”

  “I don’t believe you. For a girl who has read everything by Pascal Boutin.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “This guy is the best of the three Ps. You will thank me for this one day.” He handed her The Smell of Wet Mud.

  Mr. Spinoza had unfortunately not started up a storm in Maya’s insides. She never met him again after he gifted her the book that changed her life, though she did thank him in her head and sent a silent prayer his way a few times. As if to punish her for her crippling reliance on her brain’s mysterious ways, Maya had gotten only idiotic one-liners from day traders with the attention span of fruitflies or from pedants enamored of their own voices. Internet dating was a lost cause and, luckily for Maya, was made unnecessary at the time by a trip to India.

  Maya’s father, ever ready to provide financing when it came to India, had helped generously, insisting she stay in the midrange options listed in Lonely Planet and feel free to use his credit card for something better should she feel her safety might be compromised. He had presented her with two more Rustum books, From Kerala to Karela and Dharma, his own favorite. On her flight she finished one of the two books her father had given her. She was determined to hit Pondicherry this time. Her parents had always pooh-pahed Goa and Pondy on their family vacations, saying they were not going all the way to India to see middle-aged white people stoned or speaking French. They had insisted on monuments of cultural importance, temples carved in stone, music and dance festivals, and hiking trips in the lower Himalayas. Goa was now notorious for young Israeli soldiers who had just finished their compulsory army service, and Maya decided to skip it. But Pondicherry, with its French colonial heritage and the Ashram, was a different story. Maya had finished reading the second half of Dharma on the road from Chennai to Pondicherry. Instead of filling her with a longing for her youth or awakening the desire for a world of great purity, it had put into her head the idea of meeting with and talking to Prem Rustum. In Pondicherry, between walks by the sea and bicycle trips to the gold-leafed hemispheric ashram, Maya had written and rewritten a letter to Rustum in her mind. As soon as she went back to New York, she would interview him and meet his beautiful head.

  In the year she had spent working on her thesis on Pascal Boutin, Maya had not felt a similar compulsion. She had, of course, been curious about Pascal; he was clearly insouciant in matters of the heart and irreverent about sex. In his interviews and portraits he came across as the person who had written the books that he had, a man who believed he understood himself and therefore he understood you. In contrast, just two books by Rustum had impressed upon Maya that he was complex but also elusive. In the restrained and unapproachable way in which he talked about love, it was obvious that his heart was the ultimate prize for a woman. Boutin’s books were clever, insightful, fluid. But Prem’s were in altogether another league; the words themselves felt as if they were no longer the words of human beings but something more, words from prophets or gods. They felt as if they were made with lava that flowed straight out of his heart onto the page, and then when you read them, they liquefied and entered from your pupils into your soul. Reading Prem Rustum’s books was like looking at one of Klimt’s extravagant gold paintings like Danaë.

  Still working on the first draft of her thirteen-page letter to Prem to ask for an appointment when she was back in New York, Maya had taken off from Pondy to the temple town of Thanjavur. At the train station in Thanjavur next to the Automatic Tea and Coffee Stall, a man was hawking some books. Hungry for more of Rustum’s voice, Maya bought My Self in the West, even though in her head she imagined her father telling her to read the India books when she was in India. On an overnight train a few days later Maya finished the book about Judith Q, the New York nutcase. She shuddered to see herself summarized in Rustum’s words, which would likely be: Maya the guru-seeking yoga-breathing literature-loony. She ripped up her letter to Prem.

  By the time she left India, Maya had read fifteen of Prem’s books. She read the remainder in New York, steadily modulating the inflow of youthful contemporary literature by her cohort group with Rustum’s masterworks. When she was almost finished with his body of work, she reread a stray one now and then. She had saved Meher for last and had embarked on it with trepidation because after Meher there would be no more books to read—she would have read them all.

  Now halfway through Meher, Maya was in a different kind of panic than she had felt when Tom had left. Reading Rustum’s pages at night had made up for countless otherwise fruitless days. Without new Rustum books to read and the company of a man, a lifetime of cold bowls of cereals was all Maya could see ahead of her. In preparation for Rustum’s final unread book, Maya had decided to write up a new personal ad. She would not finish Meher until she got a real-life companion.

  Spiritual twenty-something aspiring novelist with hot buns and yoga body seeks another. Write like Prem Rustum, think like Prem Rustum, speak like Prem Rustum, be Prem Rustum. Worship at his altar like I do. Rank Grinding India, Kerala, and Dharma. Tell me what you would ask him if you met him. I’m reading Meher, don’t tell me if he does it with her.

  Within minutes Maya’s laptop sounded a bing. Screen name Plume flashed.

  Plume:

  I just met him. I asked him to read my story. Do you have a pic?

  Dogpose:

  I don’t believe you. Who is Homi? Who is Ratan? Your pic = my pic.

  Plume:

  Homi is Meher’s son. Ratan is Homi’s son.

  Dogpose:

  Is Meher real?

  Plume:

  Yes, Meher was his sister. In the book Meher she’s real. But in Dharma she is only a fictional character. He likes to use the names of his family and friends in his books and fictionalize them.

  Dogpose:

  Okay, I believe you know his work. I still don’t believe you know him.

  Plume:

  I did my Ph.D. on him. And I do, as of tonight, know him. I just got your pic! Wow! For real?

  Dogpose:

  I got yours. Nice smile! What did he tell you? Are you seeing him again?

  Plume:

  Who? PR?

  Dogpose:

  Yeah, who else?

  Plume:

  I’m e-mailing him my story.

  Dogpose:

  You’re very lucky. To have HIM read your work. I’m jealous.

  Plume:

  Yes. It’s my day. I met him and now you! Would you feel the same way if it were one of the other P’s—Pascal Boutin or Pedro Nicolas?

  Dogpose:

  Presque. Almost. French?

  Plume:

  Oui. If you’re nice to me I’ll introduce you to him.

  Dogpose:

  You’ll need to introduce yourself to me first!

  Maya went to bed with a smile. Another writer! Someone else who lived for the words that these three old men turned into sentences, paragraphs, chapters, books, œuvres.

  Prem sat in his studio reading Roger Johnson’s short story for the second time. The first time he had been so caught up with the novelty of it that he had not been able to pay attention to the writing. The characters in the story seemed real only when they were in front of their screens. The rest of th
e time, as they rushed in and out of cabs, dates, dinners, drinks, and discos, Prem felt practically vertiginous. Was this also the pace of Pascal’s life? He had never, in all their conversations, thought Pascal was different from him in any important way save all the sex he had been getting in the past ten years while Prem’s own life had lain fallow. They wrote books at more or less the same pace and passed their books to Edward to sell.

  Prem reached for his telephone and called Johnson.

  “This is Prem Rustum calling. I’ve read your story. Do you want to come and have lunch here with me tomorrow?”

  “It would be such an honor, sir.”

  “Listen, I have a question.”

  “Yes, Mr. Rustum.”

  “Are these online dating sites real? I mean, is this science fiction or fiction?”

  “It’s real all right. I’ve used real sites in the story. I might change the names later.”

  “See you tomorrow. I always eat a hamburger for lunch.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Rustum, I’m vegetarian.”

  “Oh! Mrs. Smith will manage something, I am sure.”

  Prem noted the websites listed in Johnson’s story and went to his laptop. It took him several minutes to read all the options in minuscule font on citylovin.com and make a decision on where to click. Eventually Prem found a screen with several self-descriptions by (mostly young) men and women. The worst criticisms of his novel could have applied to these self-descriptions—self-congratulatory, sensationalist, pompous, preposterous. Before adjourning for the day, Prem tried out one last button on his screen: search. A complex grid with blank spaces and check boxes popped up. Prem squinted to read all the criteria. Then he went back a second time, checking only the box for gender. Under religion he typed P-a-r-s-i using his index finger. After considerable time with the hourglass he got a message: Sorry, no matches were found. Broaden your horizons!

  Back in the house Mrs. Smith served Prem finger sandwiches with tea. He settled into the large recliner in his den and called Pascal.

  “How are you, mon vieux?”

  “I’ve discovered the world of online,” Prem stopped abruptly. He twisted his head to look behind him. Mrs. Smith was dusting some books on the shelf.

  “Mrs. Smith, do you think I could be alone?”

  “Weren’t you going to retire her as soon as I left?” Pascal laughed.

  “Yes, but she doesn’t want that.” Prem heard the door click shut.

  “Isn’t she ancient?”

  “Less ancient than I am. She’s the same actually.”

  “Alors, which world did you discover?”

  “Online dating.”

  Prem told Pascal about his meeting with Johnson, his short story, and the message asking him to broaden his horizons.

  “But why search for Parsi? You’ve never even had a Parsi girlfriend.”

  “Meher.”

  “Not her again. Anyway, she was only as Parsi as you, which is to say not at all. Why are you doing this to yourself? We’ve got only a few more good years.”

  “What should I search for? Fifty years or older? Or do you think that too is unreasonable?”

  “Fifty? That’s too old. You know what I’ve been having?”

  “What? Forty?”

  “Thirty, even twenty-five.”

  “How do you do it?”

  “I go to a dating site, and I do a search on my own name. I don’t know what they call that in English—yes, keyword! I put Boutin in keyword and search for all the women’s profiles with that keyword. It brings up the women who are listing me as their favorite author or referring to my books. Then I just send them a message.”

  “Do you say you’re Pascal Boutin? What if they are looking for a thirty-year-old man or for someone with hair on the head? I saw that as a category! Can you believe that? And eye color! In our time you fell in love with the eye color of your lover.”

  “Ignore all that. The advertising connards who have designed these sites think they can deconstruct the human heart with their search fields. Let me tell you, the two of us, you and I, we understand love better than all the sterile analysis of these young dotcommers.”

  “How can one ignore all that? If a woman wants a man of forty, I can’t pretend.”

  “I write and ask them something about myself, I mean about Boutin since they don’t know I am him. If they say they are looking for someone like Bertrand from Les marchés aux épices, I ask why Bertrand and not Boutin himself? After all, the creator must encompass the creation. We exchange a few e-mails like that, and then I suggest that I might be Boutin.”

  “Do they believe you?”

  “Not right away. But I let some private information slip in. When I have their attention, I tantalize them further, reminding them that I’m not a thirty-five-year-old who rollerblades around Paris on Friday nights but just might be Boutin himself. Once they choose my bald head over the patins à roulettes, we meet. All of them have chosen me.”

  “I hate to type. I’m slow.”

  “The only goal is to provoke them. You can do that with just one word.”

  “What do you say to a twenty-five-year-old girl?”

  “Only serious readers write the names of authors and books in their profiles. I speak to them about books. I ask them about who else they have met online. It’s easy once you start. I’ll write about l’amour cyber one day.”

  “I won’t be able to think of what to say.”

  “Mon œil! It’s no different from meeting a twenty-five-year-old any other way. And with your Julie and Valérie episode, you demonstrated you know exactly how to talk to gamines. They were not even twenty, those two!”

  “I was not seventy-five,” Prem retorted.

  “I am happy you are opening yourself to experience again, but let me tell you that for a teenage girl sixty-five is no different from seventy-five.”

  Roger Johnson arrived at Prem’s door with a bottle of Glen-morangie 12 at the appointed hour. Prem vaguely remembered praising the label and the vintage in an interview to BBC4 in a more lighthearted moment after he had won the Booker. It was more than thirty years ago, before he had become an American citizen.

  “Mr. Rustum, it’s such an honor to be invited to your house.”

  “Let’s not get into formalities, young man. Have a seat.”

  Mrs. Smith served them both a cold beer and appeared again only when it was time to ask them into the dining room. There were fresh-cut roses on the table. Prem noticed that Mrs. Smith had worn her beads. It had been far too long since they had entertained. Prem had not had anyone over for a meal since Pascal’s last trip to the States in the fall.

  “I read your story and made some notes in the margin. I think you should read certain books. I wrote those down too.” Prem waved the brown envelope in his hand, which he then placed on one of the empty chairs.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Rustum.”

  “I hate it when people ask me if my stories are true. But you understand, when I ask you if it’s true, I’m talking about something else. This whole Internet world is very new.”

  Mrs. Smith took away the salad plate from Johnson and served him a plate of grilled portobello mushrooms. Prem applied mustard to his bun as he watched her refill their empty beer glasses and leave.

  “It’s all true. Milli in my story, for example. She’s true. She met seven people in one evening, after having lined them all up on an online dating service the same afternoon. And that fetishized encounter, that too. Linda said she was looking for two brothers who were willing to take her on, no questions asked. They exchanged photos and went all the way.”

  “Is your life like this? Full of instant gratification?”

  “Not exactly. I’ve yet to meet anyone worthwhile this way, but that might have changed. I actually met her online after the dinner at Eddy Parma’s.”

  “You mean the other day when we met?”

  “Yes. And I’m meeting her later today.”

  “That’s quick, isn�
��t it?”

  “We have a lot in common. We’re both huge fans of yours, to begin with.” Johnson fiddled nervously with his fork, scratching his plate with it as he spoke to Prem.

  “How do you know she is a fan of mine?”

  “She wrote it in her ad.”

  “On one of these sites?” Prem pointed to the envelope on the chair.

  “Yes, sir.” Johnson was blushing.

  “How do you know she’s not crazy? I’ve heard all kinds of things happen online.”

  “I don’t know. She sounded fine. I mean, she has more to worry about than I do, given I’m the man.”

  “Did you exchange photos, like the people in your stories?”

  “Yes, we did.” A smile had edged its way to Johnson’s mouth.

  “And?”

  “An exquisite beauty.”

  Johnson left after lunch thanking Prem profusely for the comments on his story. He had two bus rides and a transfer with a half-hour wait before he could meet Maya. She was the only person he had met online who had been willing to meet him right away after they had chatted. Usually it took weeks to convince a girl to meet him for real, and the attrition rate was over half. Prem’s name had worked a miracle.

  Prem lumbered across the garden to his writing studio to find this fan of his. One by one he went through the sites he had noted from Johnson’s story, checking only the box for gender and typing R-u-s-t-u-m for keyword, as Pascal had suggested. After several brief mentions of himself, he came upon Dogpose.

  …hot buns…Write like Prem Rustum,…be Prem Rustum. Worship at his altar like I do…tell me what you would ask him if you met him…