Nila wrinkled her nose, ‘Where do these men come from?’
‘Africa, Asia, South America.’
Nila said, ‘I don’t think any of these men are from India.’
‘Most of them are from the Middle East.’
‘Oh.’
Nila was relieved. Or at least she thought she was. Nila knew only too well that India didn’t lack con men. On the streets, offices, courts of law and even in the parliament people were cheating others.
On Sunday Paris came alive with markets, selling food, clothes, furniture, everything. After losing four hundred francs, the two of them quit that area quickly.
Danielle wanted to go into an alley in Montparnasse where some people sold paintings every Sunday. The two sides of the street were lined with tents where artists, who couldn’t sell their paintings otherwise, displayed their wares. As she looked at them, Nila flew back in time: once she had also painted for the love of it.
Danielle noted Nila’s thoughtful eyes and said indulgently, ‘Why don’t you try it again.’
‘It’s no use.’
‘Try it. You haven’t come to Paris to make packing boxes. If this city of artists can’t give you back what you lost, no place in the world can.’
‘Danielle, I don’t have the talent of an artist.’
‘How are you so sure?’
‘I am.’
‘Nila, you never know who has it and who doesn’t. Today Van Gogh’s paintings sell for millions and when he lived, no one bought them. The man died in penury.’
As they walked towards Musée d’Orsay Danielle spoke of her own life. In Montreal she had begun to study law. She dropped it and chased horses. She used to ride and teach riding. But she soon tired of it too. So she just came away to Paris and at first took up a job in a Levis factory. But when Levis left the country, Danielle used to sit on the footpaths and watch the amazing beauty of this city and go round buying books from second-hand stores and read them lying in fields. As she read, she wanted to write. Gradually what she wrote began to be printed. Danielle had also written a book. It was about her father, Pierre Leroux. She’d mailed the manuscript to a few publishers. One of them had replied saying that with a few changes, it could be printed.
They spent the whole day at the Musée d’Orsay and on their way back Danielle loaned her money to buy an easel, paint and brushes. Suddenly Nila had wings and Paris was a dream.
Back home Nila was still in a trance and Danielle’s hungry fingers and tongue roamed her body. The fingers knew every inch of the body, the lips and behind them another lip within which slept the magic bee: one touch and the bee spouted honey and swept away all, all. Nila wasn’t a swimmer. She clung to Danielle, the expert swimmer, and crossed the ocean. Danielle swam ashore and whispered to Nila, ‘Wake my magic bee.’ Nila didn’t. She feared that bee, she hated it.
Nila wanted to know when Danielle had realized that she desired women. Danielle said it was when she was still in school, twelve years old. She fell in love with a teacher and she’d stare at her face for hours.
‘Then?’
Joselyn was married with three children. After school Danielle went to Joselyn’s house every day. She’d scale the wall and peep inside and stare at Joselyn.
‘Then?’
One day Joselyn spotted the two eager eyes at the window. That day there was no one else in the house. She called Danielle into the house. When Joselyn touched her and kissed her, she trembled. When Joselyn took her clothes off and undressed Danielle, she trembled.
‘Then?’
Then Danielle didn’t remember the details. But she remembered rolling on Joselyn’s bed in the grip of a tremendous ecstasy.
The relationship ended after she left school. When she was fourteen, Danielle left home and started living in a commune. There were five women and two men living together. Of the five, Danielle had sexual relations with two of the women. During her stay there Danielle frequented gay bars and if she fancied someone, she went with them or brought them home to the commune. With the break of dawn the ties broke. If they ever met up in the day, sometimes they wouldn’t even remember having spent the night in each other’s arms.
‘Then?’
Pierre Leroux died. Two months later Clara, Danielle’s mother also died. The brother and sister divided their inheritance. With her share she bought a house in Montreal and lived alone. She wasn’t in touch with any of her family, not even her brother Phillippe.
‘Then?’
Then there were three or four relationships. They lived together and then broke up. When there was no one, there was always the gay bar. That was her life. As far as work went, she did odd jobs. But there was another excitement, that of revolution. She used to attend several meetings fighting for gay rights and screamed her lungs off at protests.
‘Then?’
Then Nicole, who had come to the Concordia University to lecture on social history, made friends with Danielle and they slept together. When Nicole came back to Paris, Danielle missed her terribly. She realized it wasn’t just a sexual relationship, it was love. That’s what brought her to Paris. She lived with Nicole for four years. In those four years the love and the sex flew out the window. But the friendship stayed.
Danielle lit another cigarette and said, ‘Has this ever happened to you: an event in your past is completely wiped out from your memory, say something that happened twenty years ago, and then suddenly one day it comes back to you?’
Nila shook her head, she’d never felt that.
‘When I was six years old, my father raped me. Eight years ago, when I was sitting in Montreal, it came back to me one day suddenly as I was watching a snowstorm.’
Nila sat up, stunned. Her eyes were full of disbelief, ‘Did it really happen or was it someone else’s story that you suddenly imagined had happened in your life?’ She shook Danielle’s shoulders.
‘It happened. I remember very clearly, Mother had gone out on an errand and I was alone at home playing with my dog. Father picked me up and put me down on the bed and raped me. He stuffed his shirt into my mouth to stop my screams.’
‘Your own father?’
‘My own father.’
In her trance, one day Nila began to paint in Paris—oil colours. A group of girls dancing in the field, sky dark with clouds. Danielle studied it from all angles and said, ‘Too much of Matisse.’
‘Not at all. Matisse did collages and this is a painting. Besides these girls are not even holding hands.’
‘There’s something sad about it.’
‘It’s a happy moment. They’re happy as peacocks.’
Danielle frowned, ‘Then why is it cloudy? Make it a bright sunny day. Cloudy days are sad.’
Nila gazed at the painting lovingly and rattled on, ‘The girls are dancing just as peacocks dance when they spot storm clouds. Their bodies are burnt in the summer sun. The rains have gathered in the sky after a long time and the girls have run out of their homes joyfully into the light breeze outside. They’ll dance in the rain, wet their bodies and cool themselves, cleanse themselves.’
Nila became erratic at work as her painting gained momentum.
Danielle had quit that job and taken up another one with the publisher who’d showed an interest in her manuscript. She read books and reviewed them.
Hardship made Nila open her suitcase one day, and hunt for her jewellery. But it wasn’t there. She’d brought everything else from Kishanlal’s house, but forgotten her jewellery. When Danielle heard it, she said, ‘You can’t afford to be so careless Nila. I’ve noticed, you spend rashly when you have money and when it runs out you depend on others.’
‘Do you want to get rid of me? Why don’t you?’
‘I don’t want to. But I think you should continue with your job for a while.’
‘I don’t like such menial jobs.’
‘No one likes them. But one has to eat. If you don’t like menial jobs, look for a better one—you have to search.’
S
o one morning Nila went in search of a good job. She would buy some dailies, and note down some phone numbers. When she went out, she bought the dailies, but couldn’t go as far as look at the ads or note the phone numbers. She got lost in a huge procession. A joyful parade marched through Paris with red and blue balloons and Nila marched with them until Joan d’Arc. Nila had seen many parades in Calcutta, but nothing like this one. Overwhelmed and electrified, she bowed before Joan d’Arc and placed flowers at her feet, like everyone else.
When she came home and told Danielle about her expedition, the latter’s eyebrows shot up, ‘Terrible!’
‘What’s so terrible about it?’
‘You’re lucky to have come back alive.’
Nila was dumbfounded. Danielle continued, ‘These are racist Lippens. They want to banish all non-whites from this country and Joan d’Arc is their idol. You went and rubbed shoulders with these extremists?’
Nila had walked alongside people at that march and no one had hurt her. She’d placed flowers at their idol’s feet and no one had thrown dirty looks at her.
Nila justified their logic thus: if any country was thronged by foreigners and they threatened to take away the economic rights of the countrymen, then it was natural for the people to take up arms against these intruders. Imperialism was not the only big enemy of a nation. There was other kinds of coercion also.
Danielle said, ‘I’m sure you can defend Hitler as well.’
Nila said her uncle Siddhartha could and many people in India believed it was difficult not to be impressed by the indomitable power of that man. Nila’s father Anirban had a different logic. He believed the enemy of an enemy is your friend. Hitler had aided Subhash Bose in the freedom movement of India. Subhash Bose was a national celebrity who had laid down his life for the country. He didn’t believe in compromises and he was against Gandhi’s non-cooperation movement. He felt one had to fight fire with fire. Anirban found the West’s adulation of Gandhi quite amusing. It wasn’t his non-violence policy that drove the British from India. They’d become economically crippled after the Second World War and that’s why they left.
Danielle bit her tongue in disapproval, ‘The Bengalis are proud of the man who joined hands with Hitler?’
Nila laughed and said, ‘Gunter Grass had a similar reaction when he saw the people of Calcutta honouring Subhash Bose’s statue.’
One evening, feeling aimless and lost, Nila set off. She walked around randomly and rang the bell of Catherine’s house. She thought she’d have a cup of tea with Catherine, chat with her about bauls and if she insisted, Nila would sing a few baul songs for her.
Catherine came out and looked startled to see Nila, ‘Yes?’
Nila smiled sheepishly, ‘I was feeling lonesome and thought I’d drop in on you.’
Catherine stood at the door looking thoroughly taken aback and said, ‘But you weren’t supposed to come?’
‘No, I wasn’t.’
‘Do you have any urgent work with me?’
‘No, not really.’
‘So then?’
Nila looked down, embarrassed, ‘Actually I wanted to look at the graves and . . .’
Catherine looked irritated, ‘Oh. That’s quite close by. You make a left from the door and then a right. The huge entrance will be right in front of you.’ Nila moved away as fast as she could from Catherine with the irritated look and surprised eyes. She heard the door slam shut behind her. Nila had never experienced anything like this. In Calcutta she often dropped in on friends, not for any urgent work or with prior appointment, but just like that. Most of them dropped in on Nila the same way. She’d often had to deal with an unwelcome guest. But she’d invite them in, offer them tea and talk to them for a while. Nila had been taught that even a foe was never turned away from your door. Molina always used the proverb, offer your foe the best seat in the house.
Nila took long steps down the stairs. The sound of the door slamming shut followed her all the way to Gare d’Austerlitz.
The next day at work, Nila was surprised to see Catherine greet her with a grin and ask if she found the place.
Nila said, ‘I did.’
‘Which ones did you see—Jim Morrison’s? Oscar Wilde, Balzac, Chopin, Edith Piaf? There’s a very sad looking grave that’s Paul Eluard’s.’
Catherine didn’t look as if she had any inkling that her behaviour had been unpleasant in any way. She didn’t say a word about it, not even an apology that she was busy, or she was just going out. It was very natural: you weren’t supposed to come to my house and you shouldn’t have; wait till I invite you.
Nila was more embarrassed by Catherine’s behaviour than she herself. So much so that Nila couldn’t meet her eye.
‘Is Baudelaire’s grave also over there?’ Nila’s voice strove for normalcy.
Catherine’s tone matched hers, ‘You’d have to go to the Montparnasse cemetery for that.’
‘Oh, thanks.’ Nila didn’t forget to thank her. She knew that the people in the factory talked about her, that she had no manners, she didn’t say thank you and never looked at the person while they talked, her eyes wandered here and there and she didn’t think much of anyone. So when she said ‘thanks’, Catherine’s face lit up with a smile. Just such a smile had been there the day Catherine took Nila to the Bistro Romain. They sat face to face and ate entrecôtes and drank red wine. At the end of it the bill came to one hundred and ninety-two francs. Catherine kept ninety-five francs on the table and said, ‘My share, for the food and coffee.’
‘What do you mean, your share?’
‘That’s what I had. You’ll have to give ninety-seven for the food and tea.’
Nila had pushed Catherine’s money towards her, taken out a two hundred franc note and handed it to the waiter.
Catherine’s brows trembled with distrust, ‘Why are you paying for me too?’
Her ashen face made Nila feel like a criminal, as if she’d committed a grave sin and she had an ulterior motive for it. She had to explain, ‘In my country we don’t pay like this. When we go out, one person pays, either I or you.’
When she saw Catherine’s brows still creased in a frown, Nila touched her shoulder and said, ‘Come on, let’s go.’
Catherine’s voice shook, ‘But you paid for me; how do I pay you back?’
‘You don’t. Why do you always think of paying back?’
Catherine’s brows cleared and the same brilliant smile lit her face, ‘Thanks, thank you very much.’
Nila had thought Catherine’s relief at not having to pay her back was behind the brilliance of the smile.
Just now the same bright smile was on her lips. Nila didn’t know how to smile so brightly; if she smiled, her broken tooth showed. She broke it as a child when she slipped and fell in the bathroom.
La Familia
Sunil hadn’t been able to get the address of Nila’s factory from Kishan. He got hold of it from Mojammel and called twice; but he didn’t find her. So finally he wrote, ‘Your mother is seriously ill. Go back to Calcutta immediately.’
Nila laughed. She laughed because she simply couldn’t believe that Molina was ill. If she was, it couldn’t be anything more serious than a common cold. Sunil was advising her to go back home because of Nila’s nerve, for having the nerve to leave Kishan, for putting Sunil in an awkward spot, for all the accusations that Kishan must be heaping on Sunil; because Nila must have become a juicy topic of discussion among the Indians in Paris: Kishan’s wife has run away, ha ha ha. Also because Sunil probably felt Nila should go back to her father’s house if she didn’t feel like staying with her husband.
Nila shared the news with Danielle who said, ‘It’s a plot. You’ll see, Kishan is involved in this too. Besides, if your mother is really ill, what will you do over there? Aren’t there any doctors in your country?’
‘Exactly!’ Nila said.
‘Exactly.’
The two of them finished a bottle of white wine. White because Danielle had just
polished off a plate of escargot and mussels—it was her dinner. And white was the only wine to drink with it. Nila didn’t like snails and shells. So she had rice. She was used to eating vegetables and going without meat these days.
Before they went to bed, Danielle gave her two pieces of good news. The first—Rita Cixous was making a film on foreign women living in Paris. She wanted to interview Nila and she’d give five hundred francs for it. The second—Danielle had asked three of her friends to look for a job for Nila. She hugged Danielle and waltzed around the room.
‘There, you danced.’
Only if she’d had a few drinks and then only the random shaking around, not Bharatnatyam.
‘Do you see how important it is to make contacts. See how handy that dinner party at Nicole’s came in?’
Nila couldn’t deny that.
She didn’t sleep well that night. She got up many times to urinate. The urine was collected in a bucket and in the morning the full bucket had to be emptied in the common bathroom along the corridor. Nila always had to pinch her nose, hold her breath and perform this task. In the beginning Danielle used to do it. But eventually one day she got fed up and said to the pampered missy, ‘You there, do you think I am your slave?’
No, that’s not what Nila thought and to prove it to Danielle, she began to clean out the bucket five days a week.
At the first light of dawn Nila was ready.
Danielle asked her where she was off. Nila said she wanted to walk, have tea and croissants at a café and watch the city wake up.
Nila walked alone in the misty city streets. A few drunks lay around here and there, wrapped in blankets and empty bottles by their hand. Some people were out walking their dogs. Dog piss didn’t bother anyone; it was dog shit that was a problem. There’d have been mountains of dog shit in the city if there hadn’t been a green patrol to clear it up. The job of the green patrol was to go about on motorcycles, pick up the dog shit, dump it in boxes and carry it away.
A white beggar sat on the street even at that early hour, holding a placard that said We Are Hungry. Beside him sat a dog that was twice the man’s size. If Danielle saw this sight, Nila knew she’d feel sorry for the dog and drop ten francs into the hat in front of the man. Not just Danielle, nearly everyone who gave money to this beggar would do so out of pity for the dog and not for the man. She’d seen many white girls in the metro station, with dogs. Danielle said they were from Kosovo and other poor countries in Europe.
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