Salaam Paris

by Kavita Daswani

  All the commotion, combined with the smell of cigarette smoke that hung heavily in the room and the fact that I hadn’t eaten in two days, made me feel lightheaded. I didn’t belong here, and I would never be able to feign the coolness of these people.

  “Hey, you’re number ten,” said a black man in a tight white T-shirt, streaks of orange running through his hair, as he glanced at a clipboard. “Let’s get you situated.”

  He installed me in a chair and signaled to someone from the hair and makeup team to start working on me. One of the models in an adjacent chair finally took her eyes off her BlackBerry long enough to notice me.

  “Hey, you’re new aren’t you?” she asked. “Haven’t seen you around before.”

  “Yes, hello, my name is Tanaya.”

  “Pippi,” she said. “Pleasure. Lovely name you have. Where’s it from? I’m from London myself… Bolton, actually, but none of these other birds know where that is, so I just tell ’ em London. Here. Fag?” she asked, offering me her packet of Winston Lights. I shook my head.

  “So tell me, did that poofter Pasha by any chance tell you to drop some pounds? He does that to all the new girls. Sexual harassment, if you ask me. He’s got some weird skin-and-bones fetish, I’m sure of it. But I live for this business, so I’m not one to speak, am I? Anyhow, losing the weight is easy. I’m sure you did what every girl in this business does, you know… the typical new-model diet?”

  I looked at her, puzzled.

  “Coffee, ciggies, and cocaine. Stick to that for a week, and even a mean old rump-humper like Pasha would be satisfied.”

  I had had a horrible migraine once, many years ago, and standing at the far end of the catwalk, preparing to walk down it, was a bit like that. The camera flashes went off with such ferocious intensity that, for a second, I couldn’t see where I was going. I forgot where I was, what I was wearing, what had brought me here. All I could focus on were those hundreds of flashes, like exploding stars, right where I thought people would be. The numbness appeared much more quickly than in a migraine, starting at one side of my head and wending its way around and down the rest of my body. I was suddenly frozen. Under my breath, I whispered, “Nana,” just like I used to when I would awaken from a bad dream and run into his room. The black man with the streaked orange hair yelled, “Go! Go!” from the sidelines. I put one foot in front of the other and walked, thrusting my hips from side to side, just the way I had rehearsed with Stavros. Somehow, and I don’t know how, I made it to the end, thunderous applause elevating me and carrying me back the way I’d come.

  It’s true what they say about modeling: If you’re any good at it, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

  I was, I realized after that terrifying flit down the runway, very good at it. By the time the second outfit was on and I was poised to make that journey again, it felt as natural as brushing my teeth.

  Stavros, not one to idle away the hour-long wait before the show started, had decided to start a game of Chinese whispers. From his third-row seat, wedged between a fashion reporter for an online magazine and the owner of a boutique in SoHo, he told a story.

  By the time the show was over, the story had reached the front row.

  After it was all over, he returned with a bouquet of lilies, which he handed to me as I was unfurling the chignon I had been given. He reached down to kiss me lightly on the cheek. I was so buoyed, so suddenly and profoundly confident, that I wanted to turn toward him and let his lips touch mine. But I did not.

  “You were magnificent,” he said. “Everybody is wondering who you are.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Page Six of the New York Post is like the paan stall five buildings to the right of Ram Mahal.

  There, Lakshman the paanwalla sits cross-legged atop a stained white cushion, passing on information about the neighborhood and its residents. If Mrs. Sharma from apartment 7 – D had complained to him of chest pains that morning, then by noon Mr. Bhatia of the Soldiers’ Colony down the road knew about it. If Ashok seth, the importer of towels who lived at Walia Apartments, was expecting a visit from the tax authorities next week, then Buntu, the young newspaper vendor across the street, would be happy to commiserate. Without having to leave his perch, Lakshman entertained and informed all those who stopped by his stall for a small green leaf stuffed with spiced betal nut.

  The morning after the show, because of my photograph on Page Six of the New York Post, everyone knew me, even if what they thought they knew wasn’t actually true. In the first place, I wasn’t really an orphan. In the second, I had never been impoverished. Perhaps just the last word of the headline, FASHIONISTAS WOWED BY NEW MODEL-IMPOVERISHED MUSLIM ORPHAN OUTCAST, was correct.

  Stavros swore to me that during his game of Chinese whispers, when he had told his seat neighbors to watch out for me, he hadn’t told them that both my parents were dead.

  “I might have intimated that they weren’t around,” he said. “You know how these things spread. And the impoverished bit: well, I think everyone just assumes that if you’re from India, you’re poor.”

  By the middle of that afternoon, Stavros had received six calls from other designers showing at Fashion Week, begging him to slot me into their shows, saying that they would create a spot for me even at this late stage.

  “I could say yes, but I’m not going to,” he said, smiling. “You’re going to be the elusive one, the one everyone wants but nobody can have. That will be our power.”

  The girl that everyone wants. It felt unnatural to even think it, that a bunch of strangers, a group of fashion designers who had, until now, no correlation at all with my life would “want” me. My own mother hadn’t wanted me. She had said as much to me a few days before I had left Mumbai, when my grandfather was asking me what I would be packing to wear to my “bride-viewing” meeting with Tariq.

  “You must look nice and attractive,” my mother had said, barely lifting her eyes from the evening paper. “You must win him, and finally leave this house. Our burden will then become his.”

  My four turns on Pasha’s catwalk led to lots of calls and offers, but there was only one that Stavros would accept: a four-page fashion spread in Elle-a feature showcasing fashion’s current fascination with hand-embroidered tunics and flared silk pants. They were the kind of things Bollywood stars would wear when being photographed by Stardust, although in New York they cost a hundred times the price. I heard him on the phone with Dimitri, accepting congratulations for what was happening.

  “We’re aiming for the cover of Vogue and then a couple of big endorsement deals-I don’t know, maybe Revlon or L’Oréal. Something global,” Stavros said, his shirtsleeves rolled up, pacing around his office. “I know we’re shooting high, but she’s quite a commodity, this one. Best you’ve ever found. Don’t worry, I’ll reserve a few percentage points in my commission for you.”

  The morning of my shoot at Elle, which was set to take place in a penthouse apartment facing Central Park West, Stavros brought a woman named Felicia to breakfast. She had an oddly rectangular face, framed by masses of curly black hair, and a mouth that seemed slightly askew to her nose, like something out of a Picasso painting. But she had a nice, warm handshake and, compared to all the skinniness around me, had some flesh on her bones, a fact I found comforting. At last, here was someone unafraid to eat.

  “Felicia’s in PR,” said Stavros, biting into a bagel. “She comes highly recommended. I just thought, with everything going on, we could use her expertise.”

  As she smeared jam onto a piece of whole-wheat toast, Felicia used words like “visibility” and “ubiquitous” and “mercurial.” She told me that the marketing people at Elle were using today’s shoot as part of a campaign, to expand past the “rich, white, and thin or brassy, bold, and black thing that fashion is all about.

  “You represent a new demographic, a new era of multiculturalism,” she said, noticing the confusion on my face.

  “I’ll break it down like thi
s, honey. Being born Muslim was probably the best thing that ever happened to you.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Every budding fashion model, to ensure her success, needed to have some sort of social life. There were parties galore in New York, parties every night of the week, some in other glamorous cities. I was even being invited to one of the overseas ones, on a boat in St. Tropez the following month.

  But in New York, Felicia handpicked the events I would go to, and would often escort me herself. There, she would deposit me with a Park Avenue socialite or a foreign aristocrat before surrendering her position as a shield between me and the paparazzi who attended these things. She told me delightedly that her job was made so much easier by the fact that I would never be seen with a cigarette or snorting cocaine or gulping from a bottle of beer, my panties exposed, a high-class hellion on heroin. She was relieved that no caption beneath a picture of me would ever say: HOT NEW MODEL TANAYA SHAH CAUGHT LAP-DANCING BAD-BOY ROCKER.

  She dressed me in black halter tops and laced a shawl through my bent elbows. She taught me how to smile for the cameras, poised and pretty like the blue-blooded heiresses who graced the society pages. Whereas the small student-run newspaper in Paris that ran a grainy picture of me after my first little stint on the catwalk there had misspelled my name, now it was not only spelled correctly but typed in bold letters, as if suddenly, with four dress changes on a lit-up catwalk, I was no longer small and faded and gray, but dark, dramatic, and destined to be known.

  Peering through the peephole, I could see that it was Stavros standing outside my door, a suit bag slung over his shoulder. Tightening my bathrobe, I opened the door and allowed him to step in. He took a look around at the immaculate room.

  “Oh, the maid service has been here already?” he asked. “Didn’t think they could be this efficient in St. Tropez during the height of the social season. My room is a mess.”

  “I did it,” I said, glancing proudly at the perfectly made bed and the shiny coffee table.

  Stavros stared at me, puzzled.

  “You cleaned your own room? That’s why people stay in hotels-so they don’t have to do housework. They have maids here for that.”

  “Oh, I know that,” I said, now embarrassed. I felt close to Stavros, but still, there’s no way I could have told him that, until today, I had never stayed in a hotel before, and that I thought that utilizing the services of the maid I had seen in the corridor earlier would cost extra. I had even brought my own towel, carried my own bag up to my room, and had had absolutely no idea what to do with the little card with the magnetic strip they had given me downstairs, having to wait until an employee passed by to open my door.

  Later that evening, I waited nervously in the lobby for Stavros. A woman sitting across from me looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her until she walked up to me, threw her arms around me, and gave me a hug.

  “Tanaya, we met last year in Paris, at the Hôtel Costes. Remember? Claire?”

  It suddenly came back to me. The Asian girl who wanted to befriend me and who Dimitri had later told me was a high-priced call girl.

  “I’ve been in New York a lot recently, for business you know. I’ve seen you in the papers a few times. You sure have done well for yourself, although I’m not convinced about your goody-two-shoes thing.” She sneered. “So, what brings you to St. Tropez?”

  “The AIDS fundraiser,” I said, adjusting the straps of my lemon-yellow chiffon gown, the one Pasha had made for me.

  “Are you alone?” she asked, suddenly sweet. “I’ve been wanting to get into that event. Maybe I could come with? As you can see, I’m dressed for it.” She lifted up her hands and twirled around to show me her chocolate-colored gown covered with turquoise beads. For someone who had apparently no plans that evening, she certainly looked very nice.

  “I was waiting around, you know, to see what turned up,” she said, an enigmatic smile on her face. “There are lots of bigwigs in town for this event, and a few of them will be needing some company. I can come with you, and maybe we can hook up with someone afterwards?”

  “My agent is taking me,” I said, moving away. “I’m just waiting for him. So thank you, but no.”

  The gold doors of the elevator opened that minute, and Stavros appeared through them, looking more handsome than ever in a tuxedo. Claire’s face lit up when she saw him.

  “So that’s your handler,” she said, looking at him rather longingly. “Anyway, have a nice night, and maybe I’ll run into you again sometime.” She placed an icy kiss on my cheek.

  A speedboat took us to a huge white yacht that sat serenely in the middle of the sea. It was a perfect night, cool and clear, like Mumbai right before monsoon season. Stavros held my hand and helped me off the boat and onto the floating palace, from where I could hear the sound of glasses clinking and piano keys tinkling and young women giggling. The yacht was owned by a software billionaire who had loaned it out to the charity for use that evening, and where guests had paid $5,000 each to dine on caviar and lobster medallions. Pasha, who had suddenly become my new best friend and had stopped talking about how pudgy I was, was hosting a table and had invited me, even paying for my airfare and hotel stay. Stavros insisted on coming along to chaperone me, for which I was immensely relieved.

  “Ah, you made it. Welcome,” Pasha said, kissing me on both cheeks. “The dress looks divine on you, darling. You do me so very proud. Now, quick smile for the boys,” he said, twirling me around to face fourteen men with cameras. He placed me to his right at the table, a famous pop star he often dressed sat on his other side. Across from me was a rap artist who went by the name Baby Slut, and who was famous for the tiny, stublike dreadlocks pinched into his cropped hair and the sparkling sapphire embedded in one of his front teeth. He smiled at me as I sat down, the blue shine between his lips looking almost sinister. He put down his glass of champagne, heaved himself and all his gold accoutrements up from his seat, and came over, crouching down next to me.

  “Hey, you the new model girl, yeah?” he asked, rubbing his pinky finger against mine, which I had read somewhere was known to be his particular mating call. “You look mighty fine. You wanna be my boo?”

  Stavros, who was sitting next to me, diplomatically ushered Baby Slut back to his seat, turning my attention back to Pasha, who continued to pose congenially with me as the photographers circled the room. But as soon as the first course was being served and they were asked to leave, he stopped talking to me entirely.

  “Sure I can’t tempt you with a glass of wine?” Stavros joked, his shoulder rubbing against mine, the smell of vetiver coming off his freshly shaved skin. “Are you at least having a nice time?”

  “Yes, but only because you’re here.” I smiled back at him, suddenly feeling warm and grateful.

  An endless silent auction and three speeches later, everyone got back onto the speedboats to be taken across to dry land. As we disembarked, clouds began gathering overhead, and we heard the rumble of thunder in the distance. It was past midnight, and there wasn’t a taxi in sight. The rain started coming down-a light sprinkling at first and then heavier drops. Stavros looked at me, helpless, trying to shield my head with his two hands as we raced back to the hotel on foot.

  “Here,” he said, spotting something lying on the street. He bent over and picked up a large black, empty trash bag and hoisted it above us, his two arms like tent poles. We ran back to the hotel, giggling. As soon as we arrived at the revolving-door entrance, we stopped, resting against the cool brick wall for an instant and dispensing with our makeshift cover.

  “You OK?” Stavros asked gently, mopping my wet arms with his handkerchief.

  “Fine,” I said, staring at him, focusing on the droplets coming off his long eyelashes.

  “That was quite an adventure,” he said, laughing. He stared back at me, the smile slowly disappearing from his face. The night suddenly felt heavy with wetness, the rustling of leaves from nearby trees the only sound we could hear apart
from our own breathing. Stavros leaned in, put one arm around my waist, and drew me to him, first lightly kissing my moist cheek and then smoothly moving his lips on top of mine. This time, I didn’t flinch. I didn’t fight. I simply let my lips relax under his and enjoyed the closeness.

  After a few seconds, while my eyes were still closed, he stopped.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I was overcome. It’s been quite a night. Forgive me.”

  I nodded and said nothing. We silently went in through the revolving doors, me thinking about what I would say to him over croissants and coffee the next morning. Claire was sitting in the lobby, in the same place she had been hours earlier, but this time with a paunchy, well-dressed man, both of them swirling cognac in bulbous glasses. I knew she had seen me through the door because she smirked when we came in.

  I was miss prissy-pants no more.

  “You kissed him?! You frigging kissed him?!” Felicia screamed.

  She was already waiting for me in the small lobby of my New York apartment building when I trudged in with my suitcase, looking as if she were about to explode. But she at least had the decency to wait until we were within the four walls of my apartment.

  “What the crap were you thinking?!” she screamed again.

  Felicia had received a call that morning from a tabloid editor with whom she was especially friendly. The editor had in turn received a call from one Claudine Chung, who had described herself as a Singaporean entrepreneur on business in the South of France who was willing to impart some scandalous information about me for a few hundred dollars.