That Summer in Paris

by Abha Dawesar

  “Maya is magic,” Ratan informed Pascal.

  “Do you like cheese? This warm cheese on my salad is the best I’ve ever eaten. Would you like to try some?” Maya asked Ratan.

  “Yes.”

  She cut a toast with crottin in half and maneuvered it onto Ratan’s plate.

  “How old are you?” he asked her.

  “I’m twenty-five.”

  “But you are friends with Grandpa, who is seventy-five.”

  “I am friends with you, and you are ten. And you are friends with Pascal, who is sixty-five. Aren’t you?” she asked.

  “Are you both friends too?” Ratan looked at Pascal and then at Maya.

  “Yes, now we are,” Pascal laughed.

  “Oh! Let me put away this paper before it gets dirty.” Ratan wiped his hands on his napkin and folded the sheet on which Maya had explained Pascal’s wager.

  “Was Blaise Pascal in the Panthéon too?” Pascal asked, testing the boy.

  “No, I don’t think he was.”

  “Did you remember that you passed by another church after you left the Panthéon the other day, when we had lunch with Irène?”

  “Yes, I remember the church. Is he there?”

  “Yes,” Maya said.

  “Grandpa.” Ratan leaned behind Maya and tugged at Prem’s arm. “Can we go to the other church next to the Panthéon to see Blaise Pascal?”

  “Only if your mother will let me have you to myself one more day. I don’t think she wants to see Blaise Pascal.”

  “Mommy, please,” Ratan begged his mother at the other end of the table.

  “We’ll see tomorrow, darling.”

  “Mommy, I have to see all the grands hommes. Otherwise how will I become one?”

  “All that will come later. Now you have to eat your dinner.”

  “Another ten days here, and my son will turn français,” Homi said.

  Soon Ratan got sleepy and went to sit on his mother’s lap.

  Deepika and Homi started planning their day, and Prem and Pascal turned to Maya.

  “Miss Maya just told me she wrote a thesis on my work.”

  “You did?” Prem said, looking at her, surprised.

  “In college. I only started reading you after I graduated,” she said, turning to Prem. She took the moment to look into his eyes. To her surprise, her heart seized up.

  Pascal offered to drive Prem and his family back to the sixth after dinner.

  “They leave on Saturday afternoon. Do you want to come to my place at four? I’m impatient to have you in my arms,” Prem whispered as they all rose from the table.

  For Prem, time in constant company flew differently than when alone. Between walks with Ratan, meals, and boat rides on the Seine, Homi’s trip passed in the flutter of an eye. Deepika fell in love with Paris, and Homi was thrilled to see his young wife so enthused about every lamplight and narrow twisted street.

  Prem invited Pascal and Irène to dinner at his house the night before his family was to fly back to India. Deepika said she would cook an Indian meal for everyone.

  “Please don’t show your surprise at Irène. She’s rather unwell and looks it,” Prem said as they shopped at Bon Marché. Ratan had made off to the chocolate section.

  “Maybe we should put Ratan to bed earlier then,” Deepika suggested.

  “What nonsense!” Homi immediately said.

  “Uncle, please explain to him that just because there is suffering in the world, it doesn’t mean my son has to constantly see it up close at the age of ten,” Deepika implored.

  “Deepika, he’s already met Irène. He made a drawing for her. It’ll be fine.”

  Deepika shopped silently and spent the afternoon in the kitchen sulking. Over their afternoon tea she responded to Prem in monosyllables.

  “Mommy, don’t be sad. We’ll see Grandpa again soon,” Ratan said, coming to her.

  “Yes, we will,” Homi said before Deepika had a chance to say anything.

  “Why don’t you men go for a walk so that I can cook in peace?” Deepika said.

  Ratan clapped his hands and jumped. “Let’s go and see that statue in the garden.”

  “Which one?” Prem asked.

  “The dead lady in the man’s arms with the big monster on top of them.”

  Deepika looked accusingly at Prem now.

  “She’s not dead. She’s only sleeping,” Prem said defensively.

  “Yes, that one,” Ratan said. He was already on his feet pulling Prem by the hand.

  Homi rose from the table. He took the cups and saucers and placed them in the dishwasher in the kitchen.

  “Take it easy, darling. My uncle is no fool. Ratan doesn’t look in the least bit traumatized,” Homi whispered to Deepika.

  The three men set off to the Luxembourg Gardens.

  “I am glad you could come to Paris while I’m here,” Prem said.

  “Deepika’s had a wonderful time. Don’t worry—she’ll get over her mood,” Homi said softly. They were both a good two feet taller than Ratan, who couldn’t hear them.

  “I’m not worried.”

  “I need to ask you something about Mom.”

  “What is it?”

  “I can’t remember how she died in the end. Was I there? I remember seeing her fall ill, and then I remember her face lit up when you arrived. Then she looked really sick again. The next I remember we were in the midst of rituals and relatives.”

  “We shielded you for the last few days. Meher was in mad pain for forty-eight hours, and your dad couldn’t bear to watch, so he went to his brother’s house with you. In the end, when she died, I was the only one there. I sat immobile holding her hand. She was so tired she couldn’t even grip mine. She was too exhausted to speak. We stared into each other’s eyes, and then her hand slipped. At some point I knew she was no more.”

  “I was in a daze for the first few years after that. Dad sent me to boarding school, and everything was new. It took all my energy just to adapt. I don’t even remember seeing you during the first few years after her death.”

  “You did. I came to Delhi for one month each summer during your vacation so that I could see you. But I didn’t stay at your dad’s house.”

  “Didn’t we go to Benares once?”

  “Yes. Your dad was nice that way. He let me see you without any restrictions, though I think it was difficult for him to see me. It made him remember Meher.”

  “I was going through some old papers just before we came to Paris. My father’s brother died recently, and my cousin came across a box marked with my father’s name when he was clearing out the house. They were Dad’s papers. For some reason he had stored them with his brother. I opened them, and that’s when I realized that you paid for my education. Even the money I inherited after his death from the trust was yours.”

  What else was in the box? Had Meher ever written anything that her husband might have found? Prem had asked her on her deathbed, and she’d insisted there was no compromising information.

  “It was clear you couldn’t stay home with your father. He just couldn’t take care of you all by himself,” Prem said.

  “I was never really that close to him.”

  Prem remained silent.

  “Why have you done so much for me?” Homi asked suddenly.

  Is he going to ask me if he is my son? What would Meher want?

  “What sort of question is that, Homi? You are all I have. I never married and never had children. You would have done exactly the same in my shoes.”

  At the traffic light by rue Vaugirard, Homi grabbed Prem’s hand along with Ratan’s as they crossed the street and held it well after they were inside the Luxembourg Gardens. Ratan let go of his father’s hand as soon as they had crossed and walked ahead of them.

  “Be careful. I turned very sentimental at sixty. You’ll be there in four years. You’re not a young man anymore,” Prem warned.

  “And now at seventy-five? Are you as sentimental?”

  �
��I’m trying to live in the present moment since there won’t be many more.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “Let’s face it. I’m getting on. Some days I’m so tired, the only thing that keeps me going is to see him grow up.” They walked toward Ratan, who had stopped to watch a bee hover over a red flower.

  “I don’t understand why you won’t just come to India and live with us. You know that nothing would make us happier. All of us. Ratan, me, and even Deepika.”

  Prem turned to look at Homi and brought his hand to rest on Homi’s shoulder. “I just started a new chapter of my life. If it doesn’t work out, I might come.”

  Ratan looked up at his father and grandfather. “You’re both walking so slowly,” he whined.

  Then he charged forward in the direction of the statue.

  “Okay, not too fast or Grandpa can’t keep up,” Homi said behind his son.

  “Nor can you!” Prem chuckled. At moments he saw Homi for what he was, a man of fifty-six running after a ten-year-old young enough to be his grandson.

  “He has your eye. Deepika and I don’t notice things as much as you do.”

  Ratan ran down the narrow pebbled passageway, dodging the chairs by the small canal, and reached the statue.

  He looked back impatiently, then loudly said, “Grandpa.”

  Prem brought a finger to his mouth. He was still twenty feet away. “This is Paris. No shouting here,” he said when they reached the statue.

  Prem wanted to wade through the water and touch the woman’s legs. Had Ratan somehow inherited his extreme irrational impulses for beings of stone and metal?

  “The doctor said my heart was that of a seventy-year-old man,” Homi said.

  “I might even be in better shape than you. You should really ask Deepika to go slow on all the desi ghee food she cooks.”

  “Did you bring the camera, Daddy? I want to take pictures.”

  Homi handed him the camera and looked at the woman stretched out in the man’s arms. Her delta clearly visible, a cloth draped over her right leg. Ratan got busy with the photos. With a simultaneous sigh Prem and Homi sat on a chair and then laughed.

  “I don’t think it’s just because he’s my son, but I can’t help thinking he is brilliant.”

  “I think he’ll do great things. But you have to talk him out of this Nobel Prize and prime minister nonsense. That’s a lot of pressure on a boy.”

  “I never gave him those ideas. I’ve never put any pressure on him—ask Deepika. It’s all him. In another five years he’s going to be totally beyond his mother and me.”

  Ratan came up behind them and startled them with a bark.

  “Let me see your photos,” Prem said.

  Ratan handed him the digital camera.

  “You’ll have to show me. I can’t operate it,” Prem said.

  Ratan turned it back on and showed his grandfather the screen. He pressed the button to move to the next photo and the next.

  “Can I take a picture with it?” Prem asked, getting up from the chair. Ratan’s pictures weren’t bad, but he hadn’t been able to capture the expression on the woman’s face or the sensuous angle at which her passive body was screaming to be touched. Prem took a photo.

  “Let’s go—your mom is waiting for us. We should help her set the table,” Prem said.

  It had turned chilly, and there was no more sun. They walked back briskly.

  Homi helped his wife set the table while Prem brought out wineglasses from his cabinet. He was slightly apprehensive about the evening, but when Deepika welcomed Pascal and Irène into the house, she was instantly warm. Prem greeted Irène and Pascal with kisses on the cheek. Homi and Deepika formally shook hands with the guests.

  At dinner Ratan looked at Pascal and Prem and then declared, “I think sculptors are much greater than writers. Everyone can enjoy what they make. You don’t have to know how to read, and you don’t have to be grown up.”

  Before Pascal could launch into a pompous discussion on the greatness of writing, a favorite topic of his, and chop the boy’s balls, Prem said, “That is absolutely true. Show Pascal the photos you took.”

  “Not now. After you finish eating,” Deepkia said. But it was already too late—Ratan had slipped away and returned with the camera.

  Prem watched Pascal’s face and saw the familiar gleam in his eyes, the gleam that told him yet again why he was Prem’s dearest friend.

  “Il a le même regard que nous,” Prem said before Pascal made a lewd comment in English that would enrage Deepkia.

  “Very good. I especially like the last picture,” Pascal said.

  “Grandpa took that one.”

  “Now finish your food,” Deepika said.

  Ratan sat back and ate obediently. After dinner he went to his room and returned with the sketch.

  “Irène Aunty, it’s for you,” he said, handing her the rolled piece of paper.

  “Merci beaucoup, mon chéri.” She lowered her head to kiss him.

  Deepika seemed horrified. Before anyone else noticed, Ratan had happily given Irène a big smacking kiss on her cheek and a hug.

  “Ah! Zadkine,” Irène said, unrolling the drawing.

  Despite the drawing’s childishness the essence of Zadkine’s work had been preserved. Ratan had refused to show the drawing to his parents. They stood behind Irène to look at it. After they were finished, Irène passed it to Pascal.

  “But you must sign it, mon petit,” he said.

  “Yes, Ratan. Please sign it,” Irène said.

  Ratan looked uncertainly at his mother.

  “Come, let’s go find a crayon from your set that matches the color,” Deepkia said.

  Ratan took the drawing from Pascal and disappeared into the guest room where his things were kept.

  “Your son is such a lovely boy,” Irène said to Homi.

  “Thank you,” Homi said formally.

  “Anyone want some port?” Prem offered, rising from his chair.

  They all did. Homi offered to serve them and went to the kitchen for glasses.

  “How are you managing without Mademoiselle Maya?” Pascal asked.

  “She’s busy writing. She calls once a day.”

  “Did you show her the dirty stuff you wrote?”

  “You remember that? Not yet. I didn’t tell her about it.”

  “I want to read it.”

  “It’s not for you.”

  “Out of literary interest.”

  “It is utterly out of the question.”

  “The one thing I’ve got over my biggest literary rival is about to be wiped out by that notebook of yours.”

  “Right!” Prem laughed.

  Homi walked into the room clearing his throat to warn them he was back. He had never felt comfortable with his uncle’s friends when they talked openly about such matters. His own life in Delhi was traditional and restrained, his existence consumed by his family.

  “The port.”

  Deepika and Ratan came back with the drawing. He had written, all in block letters, Irène Aunty, I hope you get well soon and can come to see us in India. Love, Ratan.

  “Now it’s complete,” Irène said, smiling.

  “Now it’s time for you to say goodnight to everyone and go to bed,” Deepika said.

  Ratan followed his mother to change into his pajamas.

  “To your son,” Pascal said, raising his glass of port and looking at Homi.

  After the digestif Pascal and Irène said goodbye. Prem saw them off at the door and came back to the living room.

  “I’m sorry I had my misgivings about this dinner, Uncle,” Deepika said.

  “Don’t worry. It’s natural.”

  “I’m exhausted. We should all go to bed,” Homi said, getting up.

  Prem changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth. Ratan was fast asleep already. But it’s the last day. He’s going to leave tomorrow.

  Prem pulled the quilt away from his bed and then lifted Ratan and pla
ced him on his bed. The boy was much heavier asleep and horizontal, but Prem managed. As soon as he lay down and shut the light off, he too fell fast asleep.

  In Maya’s memory, the Prem who had appeared in her dream in the shower had replaced the real Prem. In her mind when she thought of him, his skin was younger, softer, less blemished. Her memory had applied the airbrush to everything except his hands. As Maya sat with Prem on Saturday afternoon having a cup of tea in silence, she stared at him to take him in whole. Everything was just a little different from the image she had kept alive in her mind. She waited for the details of the real Prem to replace the ones of the imagined Prem. His hands, however, consoled her. She remembered them exactly as they were. The shape of his carpals and metacarpals were imprinted with extraordinary accuracy in her head.

  “You are very silent today, dear.”

  “I didn’t see you for too long. You’re just slightly different than I remember.”

  “You saw me the other night when we had dinner.”

  “I mean alone. I couldn’t really take such a good look at you then.”

  “You’re even more beautiful than I recall. Come here.” Prem patted the space beside him on the loveseat.

  Maya walked over and sat next to him. Some sense of modesty prevented her from looking at him closely where his skin was exposed. When they caressed, and later, after dinner, as they lay in bed, Maya removed Prem’s shirt only after the room was dark. But then, without warning, the rotating light from the Eiffel Tower swept directly over Prem. His body turned a strange blue purple before passing into the dark again. Maya tiptoed to the window and drew the straw-colored curtains. Then she moved close to Prem in bed and spooned his body. Prem felt tired. He kissed her gently, unable to even imagine how he might make the leap of energy required of a lover. Inside his caleçon he could feel his member asleep. He hugged her, worried that his dick was no longer working.

  “Prem, I’m happy,” she whispered before falling asleep.

  The next night when Maya visited Prem in his apartment, her mind had readjusted to the real Prem. They walked over to the soufflé restaurant on the Square Récamier for dinner.

  “I just realized I’m leaving in five days,” she said.

  “Are you ready to leave?”

  “Not at all. The writing is in good shape—I got a lot done trying not to miss you when your family was here—but I feel like I haven’t had nearly as much of Paris as I’d like.”