French Lover

by Nasrin, Taslima

  She came out of the palace and walked aimlessly again. When she came to a bus-stop, she found buses arriving by the minute and she boarded one, without knowing where it went or what number it was. Kishan had once said that she could get lost in the city if she went out alone. She felt it could be a nice thing actually. She wanted to lose herself, to go to a place from where she wouldn’t know her way back. She went as far as the bus would take her. Then she got into another bus. Her eyes held a mixture of sorrow and excitement. In Calcutta the buses were crammed full, it was sticky and hot and you got dust in your eyes and face. Here the buses were air-conditioned with lots of windows and no dust at all. You had to get in by the front door, hold up the ticket in front of the driver (the orange ticket for the whole month) and go in. If you didn’t have the orange ticket, then you bought the green ticket from the driver for eight francs, put it into the small machine which would noisily stamp the date and time on it. Then you sat on the cushioned seats. There was no ruckus, no stories about politics or the fish market or household gossip. Everyone was calm, everyone wore a smile and no one poked their nose in other people’s lives. A brown-skinned girl sat among a sea of white faces. No one came forward to ask her where she was from or where she lived. Nila gazed at the happy faces all around her. A couple got into the bus, with a child in a pram. The baby slept while the young couple kissed in front of the busload of people. An intimate kiss, it was a French kiss. Nila’s ears burned but she noticed that no one else in the bus was even glancing at the kissing couple. In Calcutta they would have been promptly pushed out of the bus for indecent behaviour. Nila felt that this kiss, simply because they wanted it and didn’t want to keep it for the bedroom or a secluded spot, was the most decent and beautiful thing in the world. In Calcutta she had never been able to hold Sushanta’s hand for fear of people’s gaze. That same fear had driven them four miles out of Calcutta to a secluded place behind a shanty to steal the odd kiss or two. Nila and Sushanta had feared people the most. They hadn’t minded the odd fox or two behind the woods, but it was people they had been terrified of.

  Nila saw the young man kissing the woman and stroking her back lovingly. The two bodies were entwined. Nila wanted to be kissed like that; she wanted such a handsome young man to love her, hug her and kiss her as deeply. When the bus reached the Seine, Nila got off. She walked along the river looking at the rows of green box-like bookstores on the pavement. There were tourists thronging the place, not to buy books but to take pictures. As she walked she came up to the Louvre. Like a crazed being she ran towards the museum. She felt like a tiny ant before the massive structure and surrendered the minuteness of her existence before this vastness with pleasure. She lost herself in the endless world of the Louvre. She no longer remembered that she was Nilanjana Mandal, daughter of Anirban Mandal of Calcutta; she didn’t feel her existence anymore and the occasional hand that brushed her shoulder or neck went unheeded. She walked from Rassolio to Soulis, from Soulis to Denot like in a trance as if she wasn’t walking but was being carried on wings from one section to another. It was way past noon and Nila felt no hunger or thirst—she was far removed from this world. Nila’s evening passed in the throes of a beautiful trance. Even after she left the Louvre Nila wasn’t herself. She sat like a statue beside the glass pyramid. Nila forgot that she had to go back home, forgot that she had just one identity—that she was Mrs Lal, Mrs Kishanlal.

  She returned home to find that Kishan wasn’t back yet. Nila had a good soak in the bathtub. She didn’t feel like getting out and cooking. When Kishan came back, he found her immersed in the white froth. He stood at the bathroom door and said, ‘What’s wrong? Why are you having a bath at this time? Come on, get up.’

  ‘Why?’ Nila’s voice was stone cold.

  ‘What d’you mean why—I have come back!’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So you have to get up. The other day you wanted some pumpkin. Look, I’ve brought it today. Make something with this. I believe this makes a very good pickle—do you know how?’

  She sank a little lower in the white froth and answered, ‘No.’

  ‘Then use your head and make something nice with this.’

  ‘Why don’t you do it—you are very bright.’

  ‘I don’t know how to cook!’

  Nila knew very well that he knew how to cook. He used to cook for himself before she came to this house. Nila also knew that she’d have to get up although she didn’t feel like it and she’d have to make the pickle, even if she didn’t know how.

  When Nila came out of the bathroom, Kishan was with Minakshi on the telephone, asking her how to make pumpkin pickle. It’ll have to be washed and peeled, diced and punctured and then sugar syrup would have to be injected into those holes and the pieces simmered on low heat in the syrup with four cardamoms and some cloves etc. etc.

  Etc. etc. etc.

  That night Nila made the pumpkin pickle, gratified Kishan and then sat down to write to Molina: ‘If I had money, Ma, I’d have lived happily. My own money, Ma. Without your own money you have to obey the person who has money for all your life. If you are a pauper, your wishes don’t count. You can’t live on someone else’s money and also have your freedom. Don’t tell anyone, but could you send me some money? The money I brought with me is almost over. It’s good to have some pocket money of your own.’

  In the morning Nila read the letter to Molina twice and then tore it up. Then she called Mojammel and said, ‘Could you please find me a job—anything—one that doesn’t need me to know the language?’

  ‘Didi, I can do that, I will be in trouble for it.’ Mojammel’s voice was tense.

  Nila was desperate, ‘I know that. I won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Didi, I will lose my job . . .’

  Nila promised him that she wouldn’t let Kishan find out that Mojammel had anything to do with her finding a job. She would take the entire blame upon herself.

  That day too, Nila went out. She ambled along all day and returned in the evening.

  Kishan came back his voice bursting with pent-up anger, ‘Where were you? Why didn’t you answer the phone?’

  ‘When did you call?’

  ‘In the afternoon and also in the evening.’

  Just once Nila thought she’d say she was sleeping. Then she thought perhaps it’d be better to say she was in the shower. No, not shower, she was watching TV and didn’t hear the phone. As Nila was searching for something to say, something that wouldn’t make Kishan see red, she blurted out that she’d gone out. Kishan was livid. Gone out—where? Was the house on fire? No. Was there an earthquake? No. None of that happened. Nila had just gone out. She’d gone out because she wanted to. Nila knew that Kishan could have taken her out and yet she went alone because she wanted her own company.

  Kishan loosened his tie and went towards the liquor cabinet without saying another word. He took the bottle from there and went to the sofa, without another word. He fetched the glass from the kitchen. He poured himself the drink and began to drink silently.

  Nila heated the food and placed it on the table, silently. She kept a single plate on the table and didn’t say a word.

  The next night Kishan came back home to find Nila sitting on the sofa and watching TV with her feet up on the coffee table. It wasn’t a film or a play but the news in French on TV. Nila sat there as he entered the room and she asked, ‘Did you call home today?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m asking because I wasn’t home.’

  ‘Where did you go?’ Kishan asked.

  ‘Nowhere in particular. I took bus number 48 and went to Saint-Germaine-des-Pres and had a cup of tea at the Café de Fleur. Then I walked along Boulevard Saint Germaine. There were so many people. I went into a beautiful garden, the Luxembourg Gardens. Then I had lunch at a brassérie and then, then what did I do . . .’

  Kishan gritted his teeth. He could see that she was exceeding her limits. She hadn’t put her feet down when he came in; instead she was forth
right enough to describe her terrible behaviour in the most calm, unperturbed and serene manner. Kishan held his hands tightly to his sides and balled them into fists or he would have dragged her by the hair and thrown her out of his house. ‘Go and roam around to your heart’s content.’

  Nila reclined and said blandly, ‘Now you see, I could find my way around quite easily. I did have to ask a few people on the street sometimes about the bus numbers and all. But you see, I am not a little girl after all.’

  His teeth were on edge. ‘I can quite see that you are not a little girl. Why are you sitting like a man with your feet up?’

  Nila’s laughter rippled around, ‘Who says it’s like a man? I have put my feet up in true female style.’

  ‘Put them down.’

  ‘Why? Are you not able to sit?’ Nila’s asked innocently.

  ‘I am not able to look at you. I can’t stand the sight of you sitting with your legs apart.’ His teeth were still gritted.

  ‘Then don’t look—simple!’

  Kishan’s tone was simmering, ‘Fine, I won’t look. Go away.’

  ‘Why don’t you go away!’ Nila brought her feet down, because at this point Kishan could utter a simple truth: this is my house and you will not tell me where to sit.

  Kishan scowled, ‘Give me my dinner.’

  ‘Why? Won’t you drink first?’ Nila asked.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me whether I’ll drink or not. If I feel like it, I’ll drink.’

  Again the same command barked out, serve me my dinner.

  Nila was calm, ‘I haven’t cooked dinner.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t have the time.’

  ‘I thought time hangs on your hands and you don’t know what to do!’ Kishan’s eyes grew smaller.

  ‘That was when I used to sit around at home with nothing to do.’ Nila was chewing her nails as she crossed her legs and said, ‘Tomorrow you’ll have to give me some money.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to buy some books.’

  ‘What books?’

  ‘Today, when I walked along the Seine I found an English bookstore. Actually there are quite a few in this city. A few books would help me pass my time.’

  Kishan got up and took his tie off, ‘Nila, I have to be very careful with my money.’

  ‘Why don’t I take up a job, instead of sitting around like this . . .’ Nila looked at Kishan expectantly.

  ‘You are really very impatient, Nila. You are very greedy. How long is it since you have come here? Two or three months and you are already restless.’

  ‘I have never been so dependent before. In Calcutta even when I was a student I also gave tuitions. I earned my own pocket money.’

  ‘I have never said I won’t give your pocket, picket, rocket or any other money.’

  Nila laughed, ‘So give me—I haven’t asked for picket or rocket.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you even need this pocket money. This house has everything you need and I have bought you the rest.’ Kishan walked towards the bar.

  ‘I need to have ice cream and there isn’t any in the house.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll bring ten packets tomorrow and you can stuff yourself.’

  Nila stopped chewing her nails, laughed loudly and said, ‘I need to eat fish and meat.’

  ‘Who says you need it? People live without it—don’t I?’ Kishan slammed the bottle of Scotch on the table.

  ‘Yes, you’re alive, but I don’t just want to live. I need more.’

  ‘What do you need?’

  Nila looked him in the eye, spoke softly and calmly, ‘You’re talking of bread, but that isn’t all. One needs the lily as well.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll buy you a hundred lilies tomorrow.’

  ‘You will, Kishan, you want to buy me things. But I also want to buy myself something sometimes.’

  Nila got a job, packing computers in boxes: fifteen hundred francs a week. It was a lot to her. In the morning, Nila woke up with Kishan and followed him out of the house. He went by car and she took the metro: the number two line from Gare du Nord up to Belle Ville and bus number eleven from Belle Ville to Metro Telegraph. The factory was right on Rue Pelleport. At first Nila didn’t tell Kishan about her job; she didn’t want him to raise hell in the house.

  Kishan was from Chandigarh and Kurukshetra was in his blood. He had told Nila many times that he’d take her to Chandigarh for Janmashtami to see how grandly the Lord’s birth was celebrated there. He wanted to show her Holi as well and if Nila wanted colours on herself, he could dip her in colours that’ll take a lifetime to wash off. If Nila was amazed at the architecture in Paris, she’d be equally stunned by Chandigarh. It was built by the French architect, Le Corbusiere. He was no less that Monsieur Housmann! If Nila was excited by Jardin du Luxembourg and Jardin de Planot, she’d be thrilled by Pinjore Garden, Sukhna Lake and Shantikunj in Chandigarh. But Kishan’s varied descriptions never elicited the slightest interest from Nila. The few of Kishan’s relatives who had come to Calcutta for their marriage had not seemed like the kind of people whose company she’d appreciate for one moment in Chandigarh.

  The news travelled and Kishan found out that Nila had started working in a box-packing factory. He called Sunil to their house the very day he found out about it.

  Sunil came in, walked from room to room, sat in front of Kishan and said, ‘Tell me, what’s the matter—why the urgent summons?’

  Nila was lying down, reading a book on how to teach herself French. A cassette was playing French pronunciations. When she saw Sunil, she kept the book away, switched off the cassette and came forward with a smile. ‘Well, has our friend dropped in at last?’

  Sunil’s face was solemn. He was still unsure about the summons from Kishan.

  ‘What is this girl you found for me, Sunil—she doesn’t obey me.’ Kishan lodged his complaint before he even greeted his friend. Nila pulled up a chair from the dining table and sat down.

  The matchmaker was now the judge, ‘What has she done?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her?’ Kishan pointed his chin in her direction.

  Before Sunil could ask her, Nila said, ‘I’m not doing anything bad.’

  ‘She has taken up a job without asking me first—just look at her nerve.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Sunil looked at Nila inquiringly. Nila nodded in agreement.

  ‘She gets a pittance there; wouldn’t I give her that money if she wanted it? She doesn’t have to leave her home and hearth and work with some worthless black people for that.’ Kishan said all this in one breath and finally let out his breath, his fat stomach threatening to burst through the shirt buttons.

  ‘And are you white?’ Nila went into the kitchen to boil water for tea.

  ‘My prestige and honour, all are gone.’ Kishan heaved a huge sigh.

  There was no alcohol in front of them, no TV, just a dry stillness as they sat there.

  After a long time, Kishan asked miserably, ‘Sunil, why don’t you say something? This situation has to be resolved.’

  Sunil looked at the blank wall absently and said, ‘What can I do? You are the married couple and you have to resolve it.’

  ‘Tell her to quit her job.’ Kishan growled like a tiger, his fingers impatient in the fist.

  Sunil turned away from the wall and glanced at Kishan, ‘Why should I tell her? You do that.’

  After a pause, Sunil spoke hesitantly, ‘I feel, in this foreign land, it is good for both to work and supplement a single income. Chaitali and I both work and we live well. If you think that you have a lot of money and you can afford to keep your wife in high luxury, that’s entirely up to you.’

  Kishan got up, drank a glass of water and came back. ‘Yes, I know it’s good for both to earn and it improves the quality of life. But how can she know better than me about what kind of job to do, what will be decent work and also fetch some money?’

  Sunil shook his head, that’s true.

  Nila had never
seen Sunil look so grave before. He spoke in English, the language they were all using, and said to Nila, ‘You should take Kishan’s advice before you do something. After all, he is your husband and he wouldn’t wish you any ill.’

  They both waited for Nila’s answer, expected her to say, all right, I was wrong and from tomorrow I won’t go to that job anymore. From now on I’ll do what my husband tells me; I’ll work from the day he tells me to and do the job which he suggests because he knows better than me about which job is better and which one isn’t. No one else cares more about me, etc. etc. etc.

  Nila was silent.

  Sunil broke the silence. ‘It’s possible for her to teach Bengali to the children here, start some classes at home.’

  Kishan was sceptical, ‘She might as well become a professor of Bengali in Sorbonne. It’s not that easy. I had to wait for twelve years before I could open a restaurant.’

  Nila spoke in Bengali, ‘It would take an ass like you twelve years.’

  Nila turned to Sunil and began to speak, totally ignoring the fact that Kishan, her husband, had called this urgent meeting in a bid to get back his honour, ‘I am very impressed by the café culture of Paris. People sit around, drink coffee, read the newspaper, write, and literary groups also convene at the cafés—wonderful, isn’t it? I believe Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir used to frequent the Café de Fleur? There’s a bookstore opposite the Notre-Dame, called Shakespeare and Co. Do you know, Sunilda, that James Joyce’s Ulysses was first published from there?’

  ‘Who is James Joyce?’ Kishan asked Sunil.

  She answered, ‘An Irish writer.’

  Nila went on excitedly, ‘Hemingway also came there and he used to borrow books because he didn’t have the money to buy them.’ The moment she said it Nila was afraid Kishan would ask who Hemingway was. Good thing he didn’t because she had the answer ready, ‘Hemingway is my cousin brother.’