French Lover

by Nasrin, Taslima

  ‘Have you ever been to Amsterdam?’ No; what were the attractions there? Prostitutes. Did one go to see prostitutes? Sure. Along the streets the whores stood naked behind glass windows and thousands of people thronged to see them. Nila felt sick. What else was there? Freedom. What kind of freedom? Freedom to fly. Marijuana lent you a pair of wings and you could fly all over the city. When the flight landed, Gabriella said bye and went away, without a backward glance. She hadn’t asked for Nila’s address. It was a similar experience on her way from Paris to Calcutta. She knew that all this talk was merely so that the twelve-hour journey felt a little more interesting. So she didn’t pay much heed to Benoir’s unbridled excitement.

  This was his first trip to India. He went to Delhi and from there to Agra. Then he went to Chandannagar and Calcutta. Now he was headed back home to Paris without any major mishaps or illness. Of course, before he left, his doctor in Paris had inoculated him against malaria and every other disease there was in the world. It was the same when Benoir had gone to Africa.

  ‘But I don’t need immunization when I go somewhere. Why do you?’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘What do you mean “we”?’

  ‘Europeans—whites.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Tell me something, why are Indian women so beautiful?’

  Nila was startled by the question.

  ‘But I am not beautiful.’

  Benoir smiled. ‘I didn’t know Indian women were such lovely liars too.’

  ‘Why would I be beautiful, I am not white.’

  ‘Are white women beautiful? They are anaemic. See how uncouthly they walk, how harshly they speak. Breasts thrust out, necks craned, they look like camels. One can sleep with them but not make love to them.’ Benoir leaned towards Nila and spoke.

  ‘So you have not fallen in love with a white woman so far?’

  ‘I did fall in love with an Ethiopian; beautiful as fire. But she . . . is gone with the wind. I have decided, if I fall in love, it’ll be with an Indian woman.’ Benoir winked.

  ‘Where will you find one? You don’t live in India.’

  ‘So? There’s no dearth of Indian women in Paris.’

  ‘They are all married.’

  ‘Are you also married?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  Benoir’s forehead creased in a frown. ‘But you said you have no one there.’

  ‘I don’t live with my husband.’

  ‘Quite complicated.’

  Then Benoir told her about his marriage. He was married to a white woman and he had a daughter named Jacqueline.

  ‘How old are you, Nila, not over twenty surely?’

  ‘Twenty-seven.’

  ‘Really? You don’t look a day over nineteen.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-five.’

  ‘Really?’ Nila was surprised.

  ‘Why? Do I look older? How old?’

  Nila had thought he wasn’t any younger than forty-two. But she lowered it by a notch and said, ‘Thirty or thereabouts.’

  Benoir laughed loudly, ‘You make me feel ancient.’

  How could she think otherwise when he had seven wrinkles on his forehead and four around each eye?

  The lights in the aircraft were dimmed for the passengers to push back their seats and go to sleep. If they didn’t feel sleepy, they could watch TV and if they didn’t like that, there was always the music. Benoir didn’t want to do any of these things. He finished one bottle of red wine after another and talked to her: he had married Pascale four years ago. Initially the marriage was good. But now the excitement had dulled. He hadn’t really wanted so routine a life. He had wanted something else, something different.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure. But something different.’

  Some passengers were reading with the reading light on and some were sleeping. Benoir spoke in whispers so that he didn’t disturb anyone. And in order to whisper, he had to lean towards Nila. She also had to lean towards him.

  ‘Where do you live in Paris?’

  ‘At first I lived near the Gare du Nord, then in the fifth arrondissement, near Gare d’Austerlitz, at a friend’s place.’

  ‘Is that where you will go now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Are you a lesbian?’

  Nila looked out of the window; dawn was breaking.

  ‘Or are you bisexual?’

  Even Benoir could sense that Nila was like a reckless refugee. The hesitation showed in Nila’s voice.

  ‘Didn’t you ever fall in love with anyone in Paris?’ Nila shook her head.

  ‘No French lover?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you always talk so little?’

  ‘This is not little.’

  ‘I know I am a little garrulous. But I’ve heard that Indians also talk a lot. I find you more European than Indian.’

  ‘Europeans talk less?’

  ‘They weigh their words. They don’t talk to just anyone or for no reason.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Perhaps I’m not weighing my words, but it certainly isn’t for no reason.’

  ‘What is the reason?’

  ‘You are still a mystery to me. The reason is to go deeper into the mystery.’

  Nila looked into Benoir’s blue eyes. He was far better looking than any of the handsome men she had ever fantasized about. His blonde hair lay carelessly on his forehead; Nila wanted to push them back. She wanted to touch his smooth skin under that pretext. Nila looked out the window instead. There was a strange light in the sky; she had never seen anything like that before.

  ‘Amazing!’ Nila murmured. ‘How can colours be so beautiful?’ She wanted to touch those colours of the horizon, grab it by the fistful and spread it on herself. Benoir also leaned forward, to the window, to Nila.

  Nila didn’t realize that Benoir had taken her hand in his and was stroking her fingers.

  He stared at the wonder in Nila’s eyes and said, ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I have never seen such beautiful light before.’

  ‘Neither have I. Where did you get such a light, Nila?’

  Nila turned, startled. She realized Benoir’s gaze rested on her and not on the sky.

  ‘Haven’t you seen the light in the sky?’

  ‘I have; I’ve seen the light in your eyes.’

  Nila knew in a short while Benoir’s eagerness would dull. When they reached Paris, Benoir would say ‘bye’ and walk away. The dreamy eyes would be gone. He would merge into the faceless crowd and Nila would stand there, neither here nor there.

  But she was surprised when, after reaching Paris, Benoir said, ‘I’m sure you’re not in a hurry. You will go near Gare d’Austerlitz, right? I’m sure your friend wouldn’t mind if you stop by at my place for a cup of coffee?’

  ‘She doesn’t even know I am here.’ Nila laughed.

  ‘So there’s no one waiting for you in Paris? How fortunate. Come on, let’s go.’

  Benoir had parked his car in the airport car park—a red Peugeot.

  They headed for Rue de Rennes. Nila gazed out into the calm, pretty morning in Paris; she breathed in her fill of the clean air. She didn’t have to stop and ponder if it was spring or summer, she smelt spring in the air. The grass was a banana-leaf green and Paris was decked in fresh green, with flowers on trees, on the grass, on the window sills. Nila looked at Paris in bloom with new eyes.

  Benoir parked his car and took his own suitcase. Nila’s luggage stayed in the boot of the car.

  His home was beautifully decorated. Nila asked, ‘Your wife isn’t home?’

  ‘She lives in Strassburg. She works in the mayor’s office and comes home on holidays.’ Benoir’s voice was toneless as he delivered this information. Nila sat on the sofa and glanced around the room. The sunlight petered in through the heavy curtains. There was a futon beside the sofa and next to it was
the tape deck and some books on a shelf, some CDs and some video tapes. There was a kitchen facing the room. Benoir poured water into the coffee machine and asked, ‘Sugar?’

  ‘I don’t have coffee.’

  ‘Then what do you have?’

  ‘Tea.’

  ‘I don’t have any tea.’

  Nila rose to leave. She guessed she should have told him earlier that she didn’t drink coffee since that’s what he’d invited her for. Since she hadn’t told him and since it wasn’t possible to arrange for tea now, she assumed it was only decent for her to leave now. Benoir came and stood in front of her. He held her gaze. She dropped hers.

  ‘Just because there is nothing to drink, do you have to leave?’ Benoir asked.

  Nila didn’t answer. She stared at her nails.

  Benoir took her hands and began to move closer to Nila, as close as her hammering heart. Nila jerked away and Benoir grabbed the Indian beauty, brought her close and began to kiss her.

  ‘What are you doing!’ Nila pulled away.

  Benoir spoke in an intimate voice, ‘Drink me up, Nila, drink me.’

  It didn’t seem real to Nila. She felt she was still sitting on the plane, looking at the strange light in the sky and having weird dreams.

  No one had ever kissed Nila like that. She didn’t know a kiss could be so deep. Her whole body felt weightless and Benoir picked up that weightless body, laid her gently on a bed as soft as clouds and began to undress her slowly. ‘You are so beautiful, Nila, oh Nila, the Lord has made you with great care.’ He kissed her all over, on her forehead, ears, eyes, nose, lips, tongue, cheeks, chin, neck, shoulders, back, breast, arms, hands, fingers, belly, thighs, the joint between them, knees, toenails and soles. Nila’s whole body was wet with kisses. She closed her eyes. She had never got such pleasure in all her twenty-seven years. She never knew she would ever feel such pleasure. She had never even imagined that in this cruel, grotesque world, love could be so intimate, sex could be so perfect.

  In Nila’s life, unknown to herself, Benoir Dupont had happened.

  Benoir’s Wild Elixir

  Nila’s day passed in a daze. In the evening Benoir dropped her off at Danielle’s place and reminded her, ‘Tomorrow evening, seven o’clock at the Closerie des Lilas, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Danille was stunned when she opened the door and found Nila standing there. ‘You? When did you reach Paris?’

  ‘Today.’

  Nila entered the room and found it the same except there was a different girl in it.

  ‘That’s Natalie, my lover.’

  Natalie was lying on the bed wearing a flimsy dress. She sat up. Nila and Natalie did what everyone did upon being introduced, they shook hands and Danielle and Nila kissed each other on the cheeks.

  Natalie was from Provence and she was new to Paris and yes, she would be staying here. She smiled sweetly. Her brown hair was shorn short and she had brown eyes. Natalie knew all about Nila. Danielle had told her.

  Danielle said, ‘I thought you were not coming back to Paris.’

  Nila pulled up a chair. ‘I didn’t think so either. But I had to.’

  ‘Where have you put up?’

  Nila couldn’t answer that one immediately. She thought she was putting up at Danielle’s. But the question sat on her heavy tongue and wouldn’t let it move.

  Danielle took a long drag at her cigarette and said, ‘Let me tell you right now that Natalie and I stay in this room. You’ll have to go somewhere else.’ She handed the cigarette to Natalie. ‘So, do you know where you’ll go?’

  Nila had no idea where she’d go if she didn’t get to stay at Danielle’s. She fingered the piece of paper with Benoir’s address in her pocket as if she was touching his body. Benoir’s ecstatic cries still lingered in her ears, her body was still wet from his elixir and she was still in a daze.

  Natalie handed the cigarette back to Danielle.

  ‘Would you like some—marijuana?’

  Nila had never had marijuana before; one drag and her head was spinning.

  Natalie’s clothes and shoes were strewn around the room. There were more books now and two, instead of one, computers on the table.

  ‘My paintings? And the easel?’ Nila asked.

  Danielle puffed on the grass and smiled, ‘There was no room. I had to throw them away.’

  Nila thought Danielle was joking.

  ‘Tell me the truth, where are they? I want to start painting again.’

  Danielle repeated, ‘They’re trashed.’

  Danielle had trashed them because she found them irritating, so she was sure to find a discussion about them equally trying.

  Nila changed the topic. ‘I met your Monique in Calcutta.’

  Danielle was very excited, ‘Really? Isn’t she a wonderful person?’ Monique was crazy about Calcutta. Her knowledge of the city could put an expert to shame. She knew more than Jean Racine about Calcutta. It was so dusty, so crowded and so filthy and yet she loved Calcutta and stayed on there. She helped the poor generously. She had a big heart. No one else loved the Bengalis more than she did.

  Nila halted Danielle’s flow and said, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t think what?’

  ‘I don’t think that Monique has a big heart or that she truly respects the people of Calcutta.’ Nila’s words were enough to ignite Danielle who brought the roof down. ‘You are a strange creature, Nila. You just cannot appreciate anyone. How can you not praise someone like Monique? I have done so much for you, I’ve gone all the way to Calcutta to hold your hand, to give you support and what have you done in return? You’ve behaved horribly with me, ignored me and humiliated me. I was the one who gave you shelter when you had nowhere to go. But you lied to me the very first day—you said you couldn’t dance when you can. I got you invited to Nicole’s and you deliberately wore jeans instead of a dress. Nicole was so courteous and you didn’t even thank her before you left. Has Catherine helped you any less? But you landed up at her place out of the blue. No one does that in this country and if it had been someone else, she’d have called the police. But she’s the one who introduced you in the factory, showed you where the post office or the restaurant was. Yet, you never spoke a civil word to her, never smiled at her. You feel others will slave for you, that it’s their duty and you will lap it all up like a queen. I have seen what a bourgeois family you come from. That’s where you got spoilt. You get whatever you want and you have never had to work hard for anything. Nila, change your attitude or you will suffer. No one is sitting around waiting to be your slave. Even the rich in Europe don’t live in the style in which you grew up, in a poor country like India. And you have come back here to the life of a labourer? To live in poverty? You even have hobbies! You wanted those paintings and easel—I have trashed them. You know nothing of art. They were worthless and so I have trashed them. Now, it’s getting late. We have a dinner to attend. We can’t give you any more time. You have pestered me enough, no more.’

  Nila quickly walked out with her heavy suitcases. She brought them down the stairs one by one. There was no Ramkiran here to help her and neither was her car waiting at the door. Here she didn’t even have a destination. Once downstairs, Nila wanted to ring Benoir from the phone booth nearby.

  What would she say! Let me stay in your house! But why should she feel shame? Hadn’t all her shame flowed away in Benoir’s wild lovemaking that day?

  Nila hesitated for a moment and then dialled Benoir’s number. He picked it up.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Thinking of you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really, truly, absolutely.’

  ‘I am thinking of you too.’

  ‘Your friend must be happy to have you?’

  Nila stopped short. The words that her friend wasn’t happy to have her back rolled around on Nila’s tongue. If they rolled off it, Benoir would know that she was unwanted in this city. Nila was afraid Benoir would also not wa
nt her any more. She knew everyone kicked the dog that was kicked by one. She swallowed the words lolling about on her tongue and said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you told her about me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said, why don’t you go and stay with him.’ Nila waited, waited for Benoir to say why don’t you? My heart and soul yearns for you, oh lover mine, come, come to me.

  Benoir laughed and said, ‘Tomorrow, Closerie des Lilas, one hundred and seventy one, Boulevard Montparnasse. Don’t forget.’ Nila remembered. Her memory hadn’t lapsed yet but at the moment she needed four walls and a roof over her head more than a meal at a restaurant. She asked, ‘ We’ll go there and eat. Then what?’

  ‘Then we’ll come to my place for coffee.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Guess!’

  ‘I can’t guess. And you know I don’t drink coffee.’

  ‘Then you drink me.’

  ‘I am not that thirsty.’