by Abha Dawesar
“Yes. I feel new.”
They left the hotel and took the main path that led up to the steps of the monastery. The ramp was steep, and they walked slowly. The sky was still light, and birds were twittering about. There was no handlebar, and Prem had to place some of his weight on his cane. Soon the ramp turned into a steep stairway. After some seven stairs Pascal sat down on the steps.
“I don’t think I can go much longer,” he said breathlessly.
“Yes, you can. If I can, you can. We’ll take it slow.”
Prem envied Pascal his sixty-five years. Despite all his weight problems, he could sit easily on the steps. Prem knew that if he sat down, he would have trouble getting back up. A minute later they continued. They reached a landing with a vista and walked to the edge. The circular rampart suggested that it was an old watchtower. They had a view of all the surrounding land and the marshes.
“When the sea comes in, everything gets covered and this place becomes an island.” Pascal moved his hand, sweeping a wide arc.
“What about the road on which we came? It’s higher, on an embankment.”
“That digue is the only way of getting to the island, but the parking lot gets covered so everyone has to walk a mile to get here. I saw it like that once.”
“How often does that happen?”
“I don’t know. We can ask someone.” Pascal shrugged.
They walked farther up. There was no one on the path. It seemed like a ghost town. They crept up to the steps of the abbey, which was closed in the evening. Pascal sat down on the steps once more. This time Prem sat down as well. A small stone archway framed a piece of deep blue sky. It was the same blue that had stopped Maya’s breath in the van Gogh painting.
“She’s right, everything is beautiful. Maya loves France in the way American girls often do. But in the end it’s true.”
“I had an American girlfriend once, and she would go crazy for things like this.” Pascal pointed to a couple of yellow and white wildflowers growing out of the gray stone. “I don’t know if you noticed on the drive, the sky was very dark on one side and blue on the other.”
“I remember. There was a small hill with a field of yellow flowers on the dark side where the clouds were almost black. The contrast was dazzling.”
“I should have rolled down the window so you could smell the air. They’re calzo flowers, and the air is sweet around them. I loved them as a kid.”
Prem wondered if Pascal had been serious about getting laid. The prospects here in the deserted closed-off islet didn’t look too promising.
“It seems awfully quiet around here.”
“Everyone’s eating, and we should be too. We should get dinner in the town.”
“There’s a town?”
“Just the small strip of restaurants we passed while driving up. Most people stay there since the accommodation is a whole lot cheaper than within Mont-Saint-Michel.”
On the descent the ten years between them were more obvious to Prem than they had been in the car when Pascal was explaining his music machine. Prem could still learn and get his head around new technology, but his body was a different matter. His sense of balance had diminished, and he was perpetually afraid of slipping and falling. There was nothing to hold on to, and his cane seemed fancy and inadequate. Pascal saw Prem’s hesitation, grabbed his free hand, and stepped down just a little ahead of him, assuring him wordlessly that he wouldn’t fall except on Pascal himself.
“Look at us both—we’re getting on,” Pascal said, laughing.
Prem felt grateful for the remark. He was getting on a lot more than Pascal.
In the specialty seafood restaurant that Pascal had chosen for them, Prem excused himself to take a leak. When he came back, he found that Pascal had moved them to another table and invited a woman to join them.
“This is Cary, and this is Prem,” Pascal introduced them.
“I’m just such a huge fan of yours, Mr. Rustum.” Cary was American, enthusiastic, two volumes louder than anyone else in the restaurant, and definitely not a city kid.
“What are you doing all alone here?” Prem asked.
“Cary’s spending her senior year in Paris, and since none of her friends wanted to make the trip, she decided to do it alone,” Pascal said.
Pascal kept up the conversation for most of the evening. Cary didn’t know much about French literature and had only a vague idea of Pascal. Prem heard Pascal mention the three Ps a couple of times, to cast his lot with Prem’s. Every now and then Prem interjected, without paying much attention to what they were talking about, to say something about one of Pascal’s books. After dinner, when Pascal suggested they go to the bar in the hotel for a drink, Prem said he was tired and wouldn’t be joining them. Back in his hotel room he found himself calling Maya. Her voice sounded subdued, dampened.
“I thought I’d never hear from you again.”
“How have you been doing?”
“First I was upset, but then I was really worried because I tried your number several times today and there was no response.”
“I’m in Mont-Saint-Michel with Pascal, who’s trying to put the make on a lady in the bar. You would like it here. The colors of the sky are muted, a bit pastel, but extreme.”
“Pastel like Degas?”
“Not quite. Have you been thinking of Degas?”
“I’ve been thinking of you. I know I shouldn’t be saying this because our interaction has been so restrained, but I can’t be restrained anymore. I don’t feel even remotely sane around you, and yet I force myself to act sane all the time.”
“Now now, Maya. You’re being dramatic. You feel perfectly sane around me. Our little tiff just upset you.”
“It brought home the truth.”
“What did it bring home, dear?”
“You’re a big man. I’m just some young chick who keeps you amused when your friend is busy chasing girls or doesn’t want to go to the museum.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Of course it is. It has to be. You’re larger than life for me. I imbibed you for so long through your books, I never questioned we could be friends. I was stupid enough to think we were friends. But there’s an intrinsic déséquilibre between writer and reader, famous and unknown, old and young.”
“There’s no imbalance. We are friends. I’m calling you. I miss you. I saw things that reminded me of you, and I wished you were here. What did you do?”
“I cried. I tried calling my father when I couldn’t reach you on the phone. But I got my mother. She’s crazy. Depressed. Like a dead person. It frightened me that I’d turn out like her. The world seemed so far and inaccessible without you.”
“Maya, you never told me.”
“I wanted to have only happy moments with you. Moments that would make you want to keep seeing me again.”
“Do you think I’m so fickle that a little unhappiness would send me away?”
“I’m ashamed of how I feel about my mother.”
“You never, ever should feel ashamed with me.”
“If you talk like that, I’ll not have any control over my feelings anymore.”
“Stop being silly. Can we meet for dinner when I get back? You’ll see nothing has changed.”
“When do you get back?”
“Not sure. Another day or two, I’d guess.”
“Thank you for calling. I was afraid I had lost you.”
“I don’t make friends easily anymore, so I intend to keep you.”
Prem went to bed replaying what Maya had said. With Julie and Valérie it had been different, he had given his heart, but he had never thought it could last and he’d wanted nothing from them. Usually at the first sign that a woman was opening up to him, Prem made for the exit, but with Maya he felt a desperate desire to grab her tight and hang on for dear life. To ask her her woes and share his.
The next morning Jean-Pierre called Maya to suggest they take a walk in the Bois de Boulogne. He picked hi
s way with care.
“No, this way. Trust me,” he said when she veered off the path he had chosen.
They were circling the lake. As soon as Maya caught sight of the island in the lake, she scanned the lake for a bridge over which they could cross it. As they walked on, she realized there were two islands, not one. Between the thick vegetation and the curves of the land, it was not evident if the bridge between the two small islands also connected with the main park. Jean-Pierre watched her intently.
Her eyes came to rest on the statue of a couple that sent a shiver through her legs. Four legs, four thighs. Legs with an immense muscular energy that electrified her own legs and transmitted the energy all the way across the rippling water to where she was standing. A man and woman were embracing. They were lightly touching each other and embracing. Was this a single statue? Or was it two statues? She wanted to ask Prem if they were two or one. It was important what he thought. She had to get on the island and see the statues from up close so that she could examine whether and how they were connected to each other.
“I love them. I wanted you to see them,” Jean-Pierre said. He had a deeply satisfied air about him. He clasped her hand.
“Can we go across?”
“I will take you there, but you must be patient.”
Maya walked to where the path curved so that they could loop back up and across over the bridge. Jean-Pierre with his long legs usually walked faster than Maya, but today she was propelled by the kinetic energy running in the legs of the statues. At the end of the curved path she ran down a few steps, sure that the bridge was hidden behind, only to discover a bench for sitting and staring at the lake.
“Just a little longer,” Jean-Pierre said.
Several minutes later they arrived at a small platform where a boat was standing.
“There’s no bridge—we have to take this.”
Maya hopped onto the boat, but then immediately hopped off.
“What’s the matter? Are you afraid of the water?”
She shook her head. What to tell him?
“I don’t want to cross and see the statues immediately. I’m not ready for it.”
He smiled.
“Where did you get your hair cut?” he asked, running his hand through her hair.
“I cut it.”
“It’s very messy, but it looks good on you. It highlights your jawline, which is very arresting, and your elegant neck.”
He ran his finger on the edge of her jaw and then caressed her neck. Her skin there was sensitive, and his touch made her shiver. She pulled away.
“Can we go back? The breeze is getting chilly.”
On the metro Maya was in her own world. After riding for several stops in silence, Jean-Pierre asked her, “What happened? Still worried about your old man?”
“I spoke to you about my father?” Maya said, startled.
“You told me Prem wasn’t speaking to you.”
“He called me. He’s not in Paris at the moment.”
“What did you think I was talking about?”
“My family. My mother’s nuts. My father has turned into a full-time mental health official.” She spoke flippantly, not wanting to engage in a real conversation but needing the weight off her chest. The load had somehow magnified after the misunderstanding with Prem. Prem and her parents had become intertwined.
“I’m sorry. Is this what you referred to when you said your boyfriend left you?”
“Yes. But he knew about my mother’s illness long before he left me.”
When they got out at Pigalle, which was equidistant from both their apartments, Jean-Pierre invited her to dinner.
“No, I need to go home. I want to contact my father today.”
Prem’s call and the statues had given her a new lease on life. She wanted to reach her father while she could still be the daughter giving love and not the daughter in need of love.
The next morning Prem found Pascal sitting alone at breakfast in the restaurant.
“Et alors?”
“She’s getting ready. I promised her we’d take her to the castle at Fougères if we manage to see the monastery here before noon.”
“Are you feeling better?”
“Infiniment.”
Prem laughed.
“One fuck is all it takes, huh?”
“Don’t disdain a fuck. In the end that’s what makes life real. You think a book is real? Sure it’s real, but never, never as real as flesh. The humidity of a woman’s cunt, that’s what’s real.”
“While it lasts. And it doesn’t last forever.”
“Sure. You want to say that our books will last forever, I understand that. But even if the books are eternal, we are not. The only difference between me dead and me alive is that me alive eats and fucks and pisses and shits. I’m sixty-five. I know I won’t live forever, and I don’t want to forget the basic things ever again. The superfluous and the redundant are the luxuries of youth. I’m living the rest of my life on a timer.”
“Did Cary give you this idea? What did she do to you?” Prem asked, amused as he sipped his café.
“She sucked me. She let me fuck her and screamed her head off.”
“Cool it. She’ll walk in here, and I’ll feel uneasy if you tell me anything more.”
“Mon vieux, when did you become a prude?”
“When I stopped having sex,” Prem said drily.
“I think I should have a chat with Maya. You’re behaving like an adolescent trying to woo a woman for the first time.”
Cary arrived. She wore a strong floral scent that made Prem recoil. He worried about how he’d sit in the car as they drove around the countryside all day.
“A hot chocolate for me and a croissant,” she ordered. She pronounced the t in croissant. She wolfed both down when the waiter placed them in front of her. Prem groaned inwardly as he observed her remotely. Damn Pascal for saying those things.
“We’re slow, so if you want to see things by yourself this morning, we can just meet you at noon,” Pascal suggested.
Cary disappeared with her guidebook. Prem ordered a decaf, and Pascal smoked.
“I haven’t seen you light one of these in a long time.”
“I bummed it from her.”
“Should we start our slow-motion geriatric ascent upward?”
“We better, or we won’t be back in time.”
They left the hotel and made their way up to the ramparts where they had been at night. The place was now milling with tourists.
“I’m glad we came here when no one was around,” Pascal remarked. After a five-minute break at the vista, they climbed up to the entrance, where a small line of tourists were waiting ahead of them.
Someone recognized Pascal and said bonjour. In a few minutes a security guard with a badge arrived and led them through a side entrance. He handed them two tickets. Pascal dug into his pocket for money.
“No, the city of Mont-Saint-Michel is honored to have you,” he said, and disappeared.
Prem slapped Pascal’s shoulder. “Always useful to know a famous man.”
Pascal glowed. It had made his day. With renewed enthusiasm he led them both up the ramp and inside the abbey. They walked around in a somewhat desultory fashion, stopping and looking at maquettes of the abbey from earlier times and reading the descriptions posted in its various rooms. The increasing number of tourists around them was making Prem mildly claustrophobic. He focused on the woman ahead of him with thin, twiglike ankles carrying a baby. She was of some sort of Asian origin, and the baby looked twice her size. He imagined how easily her ankles could snap and break as she climbed up a step, the fragility of the connection between her body and this earth.
“Let’s go left—there’s a terrace where we can breathe in some air,” Pascal said, grabbing Prem’s hand in the crowd.
Prem followed him out and felt a blast of air hit his lungs. In the mild morning light the marshes surrounding Mont-Saint-Michel seemed calm. There was almost no wind
. There were different kinds of light and dark clouds in the sky. It was hard at times to discern stray patches of water from the marsh, but if Prem concentrated, he could see the reflection of the sky in the water broken up wherever the marsh interrupted the water.
“I’m not inclined to finish. I think we saw what we had to last night. We got a real flavor of the place then.”
“I’m in agreement. We should find a pleasant terrasse in a corner somewhere for a coffee and then head out with your girl.”
It took them half an hour to make their way out and plant themselves at a table overlooking the marshes.
“I spoke to Maya. She said she’d been upset. I’m glad I called.”
“You were upset too. Why do you always have to act as if you have no feelings for these women?”
“What do you mean?”
“If you showed them just half the love you show me…”
“When did I act as if I had no feelings for Julie or Valérie?”
“Forget them. Or Vedika. I’m talking about the real women. The ones you almost lived with. The ones who were around when you had the flu or had your surgery or needed physical therapy. The ones who drove you around and cooked dinner for your twenty friends. The ones who washed your socks and filed your fan letters.”
“I didn’t have all that much feeling for most of them.”
“You’re full of horseshit. You treated them well. We went on vacations with them. Irène and me and you in the beginning. And after my divorce, Ghislaine and me and you. And then when I was living with Kobiko, it was her and me and you and your minette of the day. Do you really think you never had any feelings for any of them? Stop being a fool.”
“I didn’t say no feelings. Just not enough. Not as much as I needed to have.”
“How much do you need to have?”
“The person has to become a lifeline, an anchor. Otherwise she’s not essential.”
“But you weren’t drowning! You were in the prime of your life writing a book a year and winning every award there was. You had friends and looks and fantastic reviews. Always fantastic reviews.”
“I wasn’t drowning because I was writing. These women always came after the book. That was the problem. And I usually lost interest after a few books.”
