by Abha Dawesar
Prem reached for his three o’clock cheese. Maya picked at her antipasti.
“Hmm,” Prem sighed.
Maya leaned forward into her plate and carefully cut a thin slice of the cheese.
“It’s perfect after the last one,” Prem remarked.
Maya was eating with her eyes closed. Prem reached for his glass. The fruitiness of the wine strongly contrasted with the cheese and hit him.
“A form of transcendence open to all,” Maya declared.
“Since food is such an intimate matter for you, can I ask why you wanted to cook for me? Why do you want to share this kind of intimacy with me? After all, we’re not lovers.” Corsica had unleashed its strong sensuality in Prem; its wine and cheese emboldened him.
“Intimacy isn’t merely about romantic love. I feel close to you, and I wanted to implicate myself with you in some way.”
“And Jean-Pierre? Do you want to implicate yourself with him too?”
“I know the limits of that intimacy. On the other hand, the friendship with you I want to keep forever.”
“There is no forever. I’m going to die soon,” Prem said.
“I’ve thought about that.”
Maya returned to her plate without expanding further.
Prem looked at the midnight number on their plates. A strong white cheese covered with herbs. Maya was putting it into her mouth. It was his midnight. It was her noon.
“C’est sublime!” Maya exclaimed aloud, and looked around the room for Chérif. He was standing just behind the glassed cheeses on the other side from them. Chérif looked at Prem and said, “She said it’s sublime.”
“What have you thought about my death?” Prem cut a piece of his own midnight as soon as he posed the question.
“A world without you. Without your books. When I hadn’t known you, I thought about your death already. I felt sad that one day there would be no new books to anticipate. You’re already immortal in a way because your books are immortal, but now you, Prem, are much more important to me than the writer Prem Rustum. Paris without you is unthinkable. I associate even the colors of Degas’ and van Gogh’s palettes with you. I’m sorry, I’ve never spoken to anyone about his or her death. It feels like a transgression.”
It was a transgression. It was like splitting open his flesh and pushing her finger in. It was like knowing that the piece of cheese in his mouth was stimulating parts of his epithelium as they had hers. It was like taking away something that was his and making it her own. Is this what women felt when men fucked them? Is this what he had done to all the women he had penetrated?
“I have not written for far too long,” Prem said.
“Why did you think of that?” Maya asked.
“To live always meant to write, but now I feel more alive than I have since adolescence, and I’m not writing at all.”
“Do you wish you were writing?”
Listening to Maya speak about his death had released a certain kind of desire inside him that went hand in hand with violence. The violence of pushing past an acceptable boundary. The erotic and romantic equivalent of writing. Writing was a constant violation.
“I want to write something for myself for a change. I will start tonight.” I will take you exactly the way I want to. This thought had more force than the bestial Corsican wine from Chérif’s cave. Prem felt such a brutal desire for living that it made him feel young.
“Who do you usually write for?”
“I usually write for art. For the artist in myself. Now I will write for the other me.”
“Do you know why there is an opposition? I too think of you as two people. And I think of myself too as two.”
“I know you do. When we had lunch after Orsay, I thought it was driving you nuts.”
“It was. But today I am a slave to real life. You are Prem. This is cheese. And this cheese is more real than what I’m trying to write. There’s no struggle between the real world and this one,” she said, tapping the side of her head with her index finger.
“I want you to have a sip of the wine to cleanse your palate of the herbs and then to put that strong cheese in your mouth.” Prem startled himself with his tone. Prem and Maya had vanished, they were two stomachs.
Maya had a sip of wine and then neatly cleaved the buttery nine o’clock cheese with her knife and put it in her mouth. The jewel in the crown. The climax.
“Vous êtes un génie!”
Chérif, no doubt cognizant that such a moment happens at a certain point in the meal, was already hovering near the table. Trying his best to hide his triumph, he smiled sheepishly and said, “It’s the cheese, not me.”
“Your progressions are like music, and you know it,” Prem said, smiling.
Maya was picking on a speck of jam. Prem, suddenly feeling greedy and impatient, dove into his nine o’clock as well. This time he kept his eyes open and stared at Maya.
“You look as if you just saw the dark side of the moon. S-T-A-R-T-L-E-D.” Maya laughed.
“He is a genius,” Prem said, reaching for his confiture as well.
“See, we are each of us exactly the same. Our oral sensations compel us to reach for jam after that last cheese. This is my final proof of the possibility of true shared experience. It’s rooted in absolute but common subjectivity.”
“A second ago you were even doubting the existence of a single you.”
“The body is what unites the two people, the writer and the person.”
Your body. Can love or desire be so great that both of us could take pleasure from just one body? Yours? Prem looked away from Maya and reached for his wine. With Vedika he could have believed that that kind of love was possible. He wanted intimacy without power—not the power of sex, that would always be there, but the power of fame, accolades, stardom—at this late stage of ripeness. He wanted to love someone with immoderation and without pride, despite whatever risks of laceration it brought with it. He looked through the glass at all the cheese near them. There were small round cheeses with rinds so rancid and green, they could not possibly be fit for human consumption, and yet they had takers. Palates refined enough to appreciate an aged cheese came to Chérif’s, justifying the storage space.
“I am like that St. Marcellin.”
Maya smiled. “I happen to love that.”
“It stinks.”
“L’odeur est profonde. The French turn of phrase is so much more accurate.”
Chérif returned to them.
“Now you will start again in the same order and finish the rest of your antipasti and your wine. You will see that this second time around the experience is different, deeper.”
Maya raised her glass to Chérif. So did Prem. He bowed and left them.
“So you already know that I am going to die,” Prem said.
This time Maya turned red. She was ashamed. She was going to go on living. When she had spoken to him a few minutes before so frankly, it was because she had not been able to imagine the world without him.
“L’égalité!” Prem said aloud, bitterly: as if the taste of a chèvre crèmeux could be the same in the mouth of someone with one foot in the grave as in the mouth of a woman still waiting for a lifetime of fame and seduction.
“Please don’t.” Maya reached across the table and removed the knife from Prem’s hand. He put his fork down, and she took both his hands.
“For God’s sake, don’t feel sorry for me now.”
“I’ve thought morbidly about your death. I’ve no right to have thought of it.”
Prem pulled away from her.
“You don’t have a right. You don’t.”
“When you think of making love to a woman, do you think you have the right?”
“Did I ever say I thought of making love to you?” Prem challenged. For me this is it. My very last chance. There is no retreat.
Maya sat still. Then she let out in a mumble, “You must have.”
“And why must I have? Because you are so young and beaut
iful and I am so corrupt and old? Because you are a chèvre doux and I am a vieille vache?” Prem pointed to the window of cheeses.
Maya dropped her gaze. She reached for her glass and drank a sip. Then she stared at her plate and deliberately broke Chérif’s order and reached for the fromage plus fort.
“Why must I have?” Prem persisted.
“Because I have.”
He laughed. Suddenly it was all too ridiculous. A man who couldn’t brush his teeth in the bathroom sink anymore without getting his toothpaste on his undershirt. And this poor young admirer had suddenly not just made the personal acquaintance of a literary hero but been thrown into an intimate travel partnership with him in a foreign city where he knew people. She had even driven herself, in her awe, to think of being screwed by the older, powerful, established male writer. Wasn’t that what he had not wanted?
“That is even less appropriate than thinking about my death.”
“How so?”
“At this age death would be a natural occurrence for me, whereas screwing a young girl like you would be bizarre.” Prem laughed loudly.
“Well, both thoughts were equally transgressive when they came to me, if you would like to know,” Maya said, shaking her shoulders.
“Your belle tête can’t even begin to imagine the rancid taste and smell of age.”
“You are so wrong.” Maya looked with renewed vigor at her plate and decided to attack the remainder of the cheeses in the prescribed order.
“I am touched by your saying you imagined it even if you didn’t.”
“Why would I lie?”
They were silent for a few minutes. Prem tackled his cheese without interruption, his mind devoid of reflection. When they had done justice to the food, they both looked up.
“What more can I do for you, Monsieur Rustum?” Chérif said, coming to their table.
“Please open your strongest cheese. Your most difficult cheese, and let us smell it.”
“I have just the thing for you.” Chérif smiled knowingly at them both.
Maya’s eyes followed him as he went behind the counter and got out a packed round cheese from the display.
“It’s a Corse fermier made with raw milk,” Chérif announced, coming back with the cheese on a plate. He fished out a knife from his apron and cut the plastic packing. Then he brought the plate close to Rustum’s nose. Prem smelled and nodded.
Chérif held the plate for Maya. She inhaled it and then asked, “On peut le goûter?”
The maître cut a little of the cheese and placed it on the finger that Maya proffered to him. Prem put his right index forward as well.
“C’est super,” Maya said.
“All the cheeses that are classified as erotic are put into that category because they usually correspond with some part of the human body. When people don’t like a certain kind of cheese, it’s usually connected to some real condition in that corresponding part of their body,” Chérif explained.
“Are you suggesting this cheese is classified as an erotic cheese?” Prem asked.
“That’s right.”
New customers walked into the store, and Chérif excused himself.
Prem smelled his finger after swallowing the cheese. The finger smelled stronger than the plate had smelled when the packet had just been opened.
“You still haven’t told me if you ever imagined it,” Maya said.
“Maya, you cannot possibly have imagined it. This is what an old man smells like.” He stuck his finger under her nose.
“‘U. Niolu. Fromage de Brebis.’ Carries the name of the valley in the center of the island of Corsica. Smells like the anus. An old man smells like St. Marcellin. There’s a difference. I happen to know the difference.”
“I haven’t imagined anything with you.” Prem had thought of the idea and had wanted to imagine the act. He had come close to imagining the act. But it had seemed unreal, and he didn’t even have a draft of the act in his mind. By abstaining from his pen, he had even avoided thinking indirectly about it. And now as he tried to imagine it, he could only think of the loose pajamas he wore to bed, the number of times he got up at night to go to the bathroom, and how old he felt at these times. It was impossible to imagine the energy of thrust and penetration.
“I can’t believe I am more perverted than you!” Maya said lightly.
“You simply have a richer imagination, dear. Not to mention a better sense of smell.”
“Desserts?” Chérif was back at their table, one eyebrow arched questioningly.
“What are your recommendations?” Prem asked.
“Fontainebleau with mango coulis.”
“Two.” Prem ordered.
After dinner they walked out of the restaurant and looked for a taxi. There was little traffic whizzing in from across the Seine over the Pont Tolbiac.
“We’d better call for a cab,” Prem said, his eyes scanning the horizon.
“No, there’s one coming now. And I think there’s another one at the red light.”
“Well, hop in. I’ll wait for the next one.”
“Are you sure? I can drop you off and go on. It won’t be out of the way,” Maya said.
The taxi drew up. Maya opened the door.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll wait.”
“Prem, I wanted to ask you for something.” Maya hesitated. The cab driver turned his head back and looked at her impatiently. Prem saw his face.
“What is it?”
“Can I get a hug? I need to hug you.”
“Sure. Of course.” Prem hugged her a little awkwardly but squeezed her tightly to make up for his awkwardness.
That night, more restless and sleepless than usual, reflecting on the conversation with Maya, Prem got out of bed and looked out of his window. It was the height of midsummer. The Parisian sky was a deep bluish black, the silhouettes of the nearby buildings visible. Prem slowly loosened the tie of his pajamas and pulled out his member. It was turgid, strong, and hot. He imagined it with Maya. The roving overhead light of the Eiffel Tower swept through his room, periodically illuminating his cock as he moved it up and down.
Prem could no longer put it off. It had been in his head since he had finished writing the last paragraph of By the Thread. The book had been published, released, sold, and reviewed, and he had yet to pick up the notebook, which was fresh, empty, and white, with its orange front and thin fine sheets waiting to be filled.
Make a list. A death list.
What would go on that list? He had no idea. In the beginning it was obvious it should be a list of the people to see and talk to before he died. How was Vedika doing? The last time he’d seen her was at a party to celebrate his National Book Award eight years ago. They had spoken warmly. Harry was ill and hadn’t made it. How was Harry doing? And Angie? Did he even want to know anything more about Angie? Since he was in Paris, maybe he should call Julie and Valérie. Valérie in the least. Why a list of people? Why not a list of the moods and the music that he associated with his life? Why not a list of feelings? Why a list that looked backward? What better way to go on living than to make a list of the things he still hadn’t experienced and the places he had yet to see? He’d never been to Japan. Traveling tired him, but the idea of Tokyo was a bit like the Eiffel Tower: all scintillant, writhing in a pattern for fifteen minutes each hour, effervescent, energetic. Buy tickets for Homi, Ratan, and Deepika, and go to Tokyo for two weeks! Accept, as any old Indian man would have long ago accepted: your place is with your family. Ratan’s daily life, his ups and downs, his curiosity, affection, and excitement, were reasons to live. Ratan—Homi’s son. Homi—Meher’s son. Meher—his Love. With the capital L.
Usually Meher and Prem looked forward immensely to their summer vacation with their cousins. Every two years they visited their cousins in Delhi. Their cousins came to Bombay for a return visit the intervening years.
Prem vividly remembered the summer it all changed, the unbearable ride marking the beginning of the change. It
was the first time Meher and he were allowed on the train without their parents. Prem was deemed old enough and responsible enough and strong enough to take care of his sister for the thirty-six-hour ride. For those thirty-six hours they were unable to have physical contact with each other. Meher’s berth was in a ladies’ coupé, and Prem had a sleeper just next to hers, separated by a metal sheet that went up as high as the last inch of the ceiling. A strong metal net made up the very last inch. They lay with their fingers wound around the metal wire, squeezing each other’s thumbs and index fingers, trying to summon all the needs of their bodies to the little inch of space where they made contact.
Their uncle picked them up at the railway station and brought them home. Prem carried their heavy bags up to the third-floor flat, while Meher carried her bedroll and purse. Their aunt showed Prem his room. Of course they were to be in separate rooms! What had he been thinking? Meher reached up, huffing. One look at Prem, and she understood. She unconsciously brought up her hand to count the number of days they were staying.
On their last trip their uncle had lived in a smaller flat. The four kids had slept in the same room. Prem and his cousin Sattu were given the double bed; two cots had been placed on either side for Meher and Rinku. Prem systematically kicked Sattu through the night, and Meher was asked to take the double bed next to her brother. Their cousins would fall asleep quickly. Meher and Prem, used to staying awake past their parents’ bedtime, would come close, cuddle, and caress before going to sleep.
The next year it was their cousins’ turn to visit Bombay. Prem and Meher had skillfully suggested it best to leave their living arrangements unchanged and continued in the room they shared. Rinku, still small, was made to sleep on a cot in their room. Sattu had to take the living-room couch.
In their normal school year they parted from each other at school just long enough to look forward to getting home and having time in bed together, the curtains drawn tight, the lights off, the sheets on Meher’s bed soaking up the humid Bombay weather.
In Delhi, day after day passed without them having a moment alone. It was this summer, when he was thirteen going on fourteen, that Prem and Meher felt their first real aches of longing. He wanted to feel his chest spoon her bare back from behind and grab her in his arms. He wanted to caress her belly and her small breasts and plant small kisses where the fine strands of body hair mixed with her long braid. When he kissed her there, she shivered.
