French Lover

by Nasrin, Taslima

  ‘You are.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Quite the expert, are you?’

  ‘At least a little. Couldn’t you tell?’

  Benoir laughed. Nila was silent. She heard him say, ‘Tell your friend you’ll get back late tomorrow night. Don’t worry, I’ll take you home.’

  If she had any money, she’d have gone to a hotel. She would have been spared the embarrassment of appealing to people and bothering them. But at this moment she could only think of Kishan and Sunil who could help her. When Anirban had spoken to Kishan, he hadn’t said he was done with Nila for good. She took a cab and gave him the address of Rue de Foubaud. But then she changed her mind and asked him to take her to Rue de Rivoli.

  Chaitali was at home. She was stunned to see Nila. ‘Where were you?’

  Nila realized no one was expecting her. Danielle had asked her in the same tone of voice. Everyone thought the girl from Calcutta would stay there. Even Chaitali had done the simple math and realized that Paris wasn’t for Nila and she wasn’t for Paris. She stepped around Chaitali and entered the house, unwelcome and univited.

  Chaitali of the startled eyes wanted to know, ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘Nothing. I have come from Calcutta. I’m looking for a place to stay.’

  ‘Just now Kishan had called. He said he went to the airport in the morning. That’s what was decided.’

  ‘Not with me.’

  ‘He said you held a Frenchman’s hands and walked out without even looking at him.’

  Nila’s head was spinning. She asked for some water.

  ‘What is wrong with you?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘There must be something.’

  Nila reclined on the sofa. The suitcases stood at the door. Chaitali didn’t ask her to take them inside or whether she had had a tiring journey or a bath or food. But this same Chaitali had cared for her like a sister when she had first arrived in Paris.

  Chaitali sat with a doleful expression for a while and then called Sunil.

  ‘What did Sunilda say?’

  ‘Listen Nila, Sunil’s relationship with Kishan is ruined because of you. Now if Kishan finds out that you are staying with us, he’ll make life hell for Sunil. It doesn’t look good.’

  Nila said, ‘I haven’t come from Calcutta to go and stay with Kishan.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘No, I haven’t come to stay here either. I’ll rent a house very soon. But I’d like to stay here until my money arrives from Calcutta. Please don’t ask me to go somewhere else.’

  Chaitali got up to make another call to Sunil. But the dejection on her face was enough to make Nila pick up her suitcases and walk out. Chaitali didn’t call her back or ask her to stay. As she reached the street, Sunil’s car screeched to a halt next to her.

  ‘Where are you going, Nila?’

  She didn’t know where she was going. Sunil suggested that if she wanted to go to Kishan’s, he could drop her off there. But Nila wasn’t going there. Then was she going to her friend’s house? Sunil could reach her there too. No, that wasn’t where she was going either. So where was she going? She wasn’t going to anyone’s house. Any street, any pavement was her address now. At least no one could throw her off the street. Nila stood stiffly and Sunil dragged her inside. Then, after calming her down, Sunil asked her why she didn’t want to go back to Kishan.

  Nila was cool, ‘I don’t feel like going to Kishan.’

  Chaitali’s voice was hard. ‘Women have to do many things they don’t feel like doing, Nila.’

  Sunil felt Nila should go back to Calcutta.

  But Nila didn’t want to do either. She wouldn’t go back to that filthy society in Calcutta. If she returned to her father’s house it would dishonour the family name and if she stayed anywhere else in that city, people would call her names. She could always take a job and live alone. But that would be a horrible life, she knew. A woman who had deserted her husband was a fallen woman, she was a slut and lusty men would pounce on her in no time at all.

  They raised the question of marrying again.

  Who would marry a woman who was once married? If someone did, he would be either seventy years old, or a lout or a lunatic . . .

  Chaitali asked the relevant question. ‘Whose hand were you holding at the airport? Who is he?’

  Nila’s throat was parched. This time she poured herself some water instead of asking for it. She gulped it down and said, ‘A friend.’

  ‘A Frenchman—did he come with you from Calcutta or did he go to pick you up?’

  ‘I met him on the flight.’

  ‘And you became friends so soon?’

  Sunil laughed a mirthless laugh.

  ‘It is not so easy to be friends, Nila. Even after knowing each other for twelve years, there can be no real friendship.’

  ‘But sometimes you strike up a rapport in an instant, don’t you?’

  Sunil laughed. It was not in agreement. ‘Let that be. You’ll understand in time that life is not an easy game, whether in Paris or in Calcutta.’ He stopped, stretched out his legs, spread out his arms on the back of the sofa and said, ‘In Kishanlal’s state of mind, he can divorce you at any time. Then you’ll have to go back to Calcutta.’

  Chaitali rose to go and put Tumpa to bed. As she walked to the bedroom she said, ‘But why? All her troubles would be over if her French friend marries her.’

  Nila now moved closer to Sunil and explained that she needed to borrow some money. She’d return it all, including the previous debt, when she got her money from Calcutta. Around five thousand francs would be enough. She could wait a couple of days for it. Sunil couldn’t understand why she needed so much money; she would stay in his house, there was no rent or food to buy. It was true. But she needed the money. She had some plans. She had also not come to Paris to live hand to mouth. If Sunil had any doubts he could call Nikhil and find out whether she really had twenty lakhs of rupees or not.

  A bed was made for Nila in Chaitali’s puja room. She had to sleep amidst Lakshmi, Saraswati, Durga. She tossed and turned all night long. The night would end and then the morning, afternoon and finally the evening would limp around; then she could dive into that sea of pleasure again. Nila stared at the hands of the clock. Time had never moved so slowly for her.

  She lay in the bathtub all afternoon, washed herself scrupulously and then tried on every nice dress that she owned. Finally she settled for the best one, made up her face, wore some lipstick, turned the bottle of Poison upside down on her whole body and was ready—it was just five-thirty. She sat still. If she lazed around the dress would get crumpled, her hair would be messed; if she ate or drank, her make-up would go. So she didn’t do a thing except to hear the hammering of her own heart and watch the movement of the clock’s hands.

  When the Indian beauty came down to the Closerie des Lilas, the Frenchman stared at her wide eyed and almost flew to greet her, gather her in his arms and sink his tongue deep into her mouth. Their tongues spoke to one another. They drank each other’s essence like nectar. The beauty trembled at this taste of a kiss that made her weak at the knees.

  Benoir said, ‘You drive me crazy, Nila.’

  Her carefully reddened lips were back to their dark brown shade. Nila went to powder her nose and reapply her lipstick. She came back with red lips, reassured.

  Nila sat in front of Benoir and asked, ‘How could you do this in front of so many people?’

  ‘What did I do?’

  Nila bit her lips. Her lips smiled and the eyes held shame. ‘Don’t you know what you did?’

  Benoir leaned forward, saw himself in Nila’s eyes and said, ‘Was it a crime?’

  ‘You kissed me.’

  Benoir laughed, ‘You didn’t resist.’

  Nila pulled the menu towards herself and hid her face. He pulled it aside and looked into her eyes, ‘Did you?’

  She laughed and lowered her eyes, her chin with the mole
on it.

  ‘I have taken my kiss, how does it matter to anyone else?’

  Nila had seen men and women kissing on the streets, in parks, in the metro all the time and gradually it had become something like the maple leaves or apples hanging from trees. But if it came on her, it was something else. Of course it was different, if the man happened to be blonde and handsome and the kiss a French kiss.

  ‘What will you have? Foie gras?’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Duck’s liver. Ducks are fed very well and then their liver is taken out to make this delicacy.’

  Nila’s appetite died when she heard this description.

  ‘Then how about a salad—mozzarella and tomatoes?’

  ‘Cottage cheese? I don’t like it.’

  ‘So what will you have?’

  ‘Is there any fish? I come from a coastal land.’

  ‘There’re some sea fish.’

  ‘No, those aren’t good. How about river fish?’

  Benoir glanced at the menu and shook his head, no.

  ‘Do you want an entrecôte? But you can’t have this either.’

  ‘Why not? I have had it once.’

  ‘But isn’t the cow sacred to you?’

  Nila hid a smile and said, ‘I’ll go for the entrecôte.’

  ‘You are not religious?’

  ‘My religion is private.’

  Benoir wiggled his brows and said, ‘So your private religion allows you to eat beef?’

  Nila was grave as she said, ‘It’s not forbidden to eat beef in the Hindu religion. In the Vedic age we all ate beef. Then the Brahmins introduced certain restrictions to differentiate themselves and they gave up beef. Slowly, the castes below them also followed suit. That’s how it became a status symbol not to eat beef and it became a custom.’

  Benoir said, ‘But here it is a status symbol to eat beef.’

  Nila’s voice held false disbelief, ‘There’s a class system here too? So the French Revolution couldn’t get rid of it? It couldn’t merge the poor with the rich?’

  Benoir wasn’t interested in the revolution. He was interested in Bordeaux. He asked for a whole bottle.

  As they ate, Nila told him that she wasn’t staying with her girlfriend, but at Rue de Rivoli.

  ‘Quite a posh area. Is it a French household?’

  ‘No.’ Nila waited for Benoir to ask her whose house it was. But she realized he had no curiosity about it. So she herself said, ‘It’s an Indian’s house.’ Benoir’s eyes were suddenly round with surprise.

  ‘Why is it so strange for an Indian to live in a posh area?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I meant.’

  He didn’t specify what he meant. Instead he raised his glass of Bordeaux and said ‘Santè.’

  Nila also said, ‘Santè.’

  The names of the famous writers and artists who had once dined at the Closerie des Lilas were written on the tablecloth under their plates: Baudelaire, Ezra Pound, Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, George Orwell, Samuel Beckett. Nila glanced through the list and she was overwhelmed. ‘Is this the place that was frequented by Lenin and Trotsky?’

  Benoir looked around him and said, ‘I don’t think so.’

  Nila pondered for a while and said, ‘I think this is the place where Hemingway sat on the terrace and finished his The Sun also Rises in six weeks. He lived close by. Picasso also came here with his poet friend, Epolleniere.

  ‘Picasso!’ Benoir’s eyes lit up.

  ‘Yes, Picasso. But I don’t understand about Hemingway—he lived like a pauper in a dank room with no hot water. He had no money to buy firewood and heat the room. The house had no toilets. He used a bucket. But he always went to the cafés and restaurants and drank café au lait at the Café aux Amateurs in Place Saint Michel. He even bet on horses. How did he do all this? A little strange, isn’t it?’

  Nila looked at Benoir. He was staring at her as he chewed on his rum steak. Nila’s eyes saw the tinkling of glasses, the drunken screams and fresh words, prose, poetry. At the turn of the century, when America introduced prohibition, many writers came to Paris, drank themselves silly and hollered all night long at these restaurants, spouted words which had genius in them. The scene was fixed in Nila’s mind and her eyes were unfocused. She came back to herself with the sound of Benoir gulping down his Bordeaux. ‘Look at Hemingway’s situation. He always ran short of money when he went to buy food. Of course, books too. He always borrowed books from the bookstores. He even described the marvellous experience of seeing Cezanne’s paintings on an empty stomach. Once I went into a Dali museum on an empty stomach. My head was spinning. If there had been a tree in sight I would have hung from its branches like Dali’s clocks. I had to come out and eat at one of those touristy places in Montmartre first. Then I went in again. I guess it’ll be the same if I tried it with Cezanne.’

  The wine was over. Benoir refilled both the glasses. Nila finished half the glass in one gulp and continued, ‘But Benoir, Hemingway said something really valuable: staying in Paris was never in vain. Whatever you gave to Paris, the city paid you back in full. Of course, those were the old days. Paris was like that in those days and Hemingway and others may have been poor, but they were happy. Now it’s different. If you don’t have loads of money, you’d be on the streets.’ Did Nila’s eyes feel wet? Of course they did. No, actually she must have sprinkled too much pepper on her entrecôte. Benoir eyes or ears weren’t burning, he wasn’t blushing, though the tip of his nose was a little reddish from drinking too much Bordeaux.

  Benoir asked her, ‘Why did you leave your girlfriend’s place, Nila?’

  Nila didn’t answer. She felt it was a good thing, in a way. Thanks to Danielle’s relationship with Natalie, Nila was free of that voracious tongue every night. It hung in front of her eyes. She pushed it aside and said, ‘Can you have sex with someone without loving her?’

  Benoir said, ‘That depends.’

  ‘On?’

  ‘On the circumstances and . . .’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Emotions, etc. etc.’ Nila heard his unclear mutter, lifted her face and said, ‘I can’t.’

  The soft breeze of love made Nila prattle. ‘I don’t know when love suddenly engulfed me like this. When I’m walking, talking to someone, sitting alone, sleeping or waking, I can sense very clearly that I love someone.’

  ‘You didn’t eat your entrecôte.’

  ‘I tried, but for one thing, I’m not used to such bland food, for another I am not used to eating beef.’

  ‘And you are not used to eating gods! Ha, ha, ha.’

  Nila smiled.

  ‘There’re no gods in ice creams. I’m sure you can have that?’

  As she ate her ice cream, Nila told him her plans, of renting a house and getting a job. She had always wanted to be independent.

  ‘Where will you rent?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet. But I believe it’s not easy—some rich person has to be a guarantor?’

  Benoir said, ‘Rent a place close to mine. That’ll be great.’

  Benoir reached for her hands and began to stroke her delicate fingers. ‘How well these men can make love,’ Nila thought.

  The waiter placed the bill in front of Benoir. Nila snatched it away. He protested violently. ‘What are you doing? I’ll pay. I have invited you.’

  ‘So what?’

  She kept eight hundred and fifty francs on the table and said, ‘Just because I am from a poor country doesn’t make me a pauper.’

  Benoir didn’t stop her and said, ‘All right, the next one is on me.’

  Nila was sure the waiter had placed the bill before Benoir because he felt she wasn’t capable of paying: black and a woman at that. She felt a sense of pride when she paid.

  But the pride came with a price. With that in place, Nila could very easily place her lips on Benoir’s pink ones.

  They left the restaurant and went to Benoir’s apartment in Rue de Rennes for coffee as usual. Ther
e was the same ‘no coffee for me, tea please’ scene.

  ‘And if I don’t have tea, can I give you something else? Will it quench your thirst for tea? Just try it.’ Benoir played some music, filled the glass with red wine, sipped it and slowly came towards Nila, one step at a time. ‘When you want it, when you need it, you will always have the best of me, I can’t help it, believe me . . .’

  He laid her on the bed and tore her clothes off. Then a long kiss on the lips, sucking the red from it as if the honey was only in that red. Without taking his lips from hers, he took off all his clothes as well. Nila closed her eyes shyly and pulled a cover on herself. Benoir pulled it aside. Now Nila had her arms akimbo on her breasts. Benoir pulled them away, gazed at her in wonder and his voice shook, ‘Nila, you are beautiful.’

  Nila turned on her side, trying to hide as she said, ‘What is so beautiful about me?’

  ‘Your colour.’ Benoir’s voice was thick with emotion.

  Nila said, ‘Colour? But it isn’t white.’

  ‘That’s what makes it so beautiful.’

  Suddenly Mithu’s face came to her mind. Poor Mithu, if only you could see how I am being loved for my dark skin. Poor Mithu, perhaps someone may have come along in your life too, if only you’d waited. Poor Mithu, you went away without seeing this amazingly beautiful side of life, poor Mithu . . .

  ‘Your colour is beautiful, your skin so smooth; your hair is so black, so deep, dark black. Your breasts—I have never seen such breasts, like a pair of melons. You’ll drive me crazy.’ He poured drops of wine on her breasts and began to lick it up. ‘The wine tastes better.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  Then he poured the rest of the wine on Nila’s stomach, thighs and drank it. Nila sank her fingers into his golden hair, on his shaven cheeks, reddish nose tip, lips, chin and all over his face. Benoir sang with Bryan Adams, ‘I may not always know what’s right, but I know I want you here tonight, gonna make this moment last for all your life, oh yeah this is love, and it really means so much, I can tell from every touch . . .’

  At first a feather touch on her breasts. Then the beak-like nose kissed them and Benoir’s tongue licked them. The nipples woke up slowly and he watched without blinking. Lips came down on the aroused nipples, kissed them lightly and when they were fully aroused, a reckless Benoir grazed them with his tongue as if they held some immortal fluid and said they were his cherries. Nila felt he was no Benoir; this was her Apollo loving his Aphrodite deeply, intimately.