French Lover

by Nasrin, Taslima

  ‘Nila, what do you feel?’ Sunil asked.

  Nila shrugged and said, ‘It is entirely up to you two. But if I was given a choice between London and Calcutta, I’d have chosen the first.’

  Chaitali said, ‘All our people are in Calcutta and we get a chance to see them just once a year. We shouldn’t waste the opportunity. If you want to go to London, we can take the Eurostar and be there on any Friday, spend the weekend there and come back by Monday.’

  ‘Fine, then go shopping and fill your suitcases. The relatives are endless. You know Nila, everyone wants something. It’s not that they need it. But they like to have some foreign odds and ends in the house. And we have so many relatives and friends. It’s not possible to take something for everyone. Tumpa’s clothes take up half the space. We have to see some disappointed faces, but that doesn’t stop us from going to Calcutta.’

  Two hours passed and they still hadn’t decided about the holiday.

  That night, before she went to bed, Nila got an unexpected call from Morounis. ‘If you want to go anywhere in Paris or around here, I have the next two days off and I can take you.’ Nila was delighted. She wanted to go to Giverny to see Claude Monet’s garden. Morounis told her when and where to meet her. Nila thought about Morounis until late into the night. She need not have called Nila. This was what happened in Calcutta, but Nila had never heard of something like this in Paris. If Morounis didn’t have anything of Calcutta, then why this generosity towards Nila? She believed that although Morounis had denied it, she had felt some sort of kinship with Nila. She also believed that Morounis sometimes thought of the mother who gave birth to her, what she looked like, what she was called. Had that woman ever forgiven herself for her cruelty? Did she ever wake up at night, having a nightmare? People could be so violently cruel and so pliably soft at the same time. Nila could never make sense of them.

  The next day Morounis took Nila to Giverny in her Mercedes. When she was driving on the highway at a hundred and eighty kilometres per hour, her mobile rang many times. She held her phone in the right hand and the steering in her left. As Nila stood in front of the tiny pond in Claude Monet’s garden and watched the lotus leaves floating on the restless water, she meditated on Morounis. Now Morounis was the pampered daughter of rich parents. She had studied philosophy in Sorbonne and perhaps one day she’d be a great philosopher. If she had lived in Calcutta, perhaps she wouldn’t have known her alphabet, or got two square meals and she could have died from starvation and a hard life or ended up in a brothel. There too, she’d have had less customers because she was dark.

  After a few hours in Giverny Morounis took Nila to Rouen, to that famous church which Monet painted in different lights. She showed Nila the place where Joan d’Arc was burnt at the stakes, behind another church. She showed her the churches, but also said she didn’t believe in religion. Nila thought, if she had grown up in Calcutta she would have been religious, worshipped Shiva and bathed in the dirty Ganga.

  When she learnt that Nila was interested in art and literature, Morounis took her to Ouver sur Oassee the next day. Twenty kilometres from Paris, it was a tiny town called Ouver on the river Oassee. Famous painters like Daubigny, Camille, Pissaro had lived here once. Paul Cezanne had also lived here and Van Gogh had come at the invitation of an art expert, Dr Gosset. They walked through the cornfields, entered the cemetery and Nila perched on the edge of Van Gogh’s grave, covered in vines and creepers. Morounis sat on a corner of Theo’s, Van Gogh’s brother’s grave.

  Nila asked, ‘Does anyone ever have all their wishes granted and all their dreams coming true in one lifetime?’

  Morounis felt one didn’t; it would take the fun out of living.

  Nila said, ‘Life is too short. Human beings should live to be at least two hundred.’ Morounis didn’t agree with her.

  Suddenly Nila thought of something weird. ‘Tell me, Morounis, if you find two people drowning in a river, me and a French girl, and you can save only one of us, whom would you save?

  Morounis said, ‘You.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I know you.’

  ‘Suppose you know the French girl too, you are acquainted.’

  Morounis laughed, ‘Then it’ll be difficult to decide.’

  ‘Suppose you know her better, you are friends.’

  ‘Then I’ll save her,’ Morounis replied.

  ‘Suppose you don’t know either and have never seen us before?’

  ‘Then I’ll save the younger one.’

  ‘They are the same age.’

  Morounis laughed and didn’t answer. Nila noticed she didn’t say she’d save the Indian girl.

  The hot breeze from the cornfield swept Morounis’s thick black hair back. Nila looked at her, reclined on the leaves and creepers and began to sing a Rabindrasangeet, ‘Oh frenetic wind, blow softly, softly, softly.’

  Morounis listened to the song with rapt attention.

  Nila asked her if she had heard of Rabindranath Thakur. No, she hadn’t.

  ‘Who is he?’

  Suddenly Nila got up and said, ‘Let’s go, I’ll show you something.’

  They left Ouver and came back to Paris. Nila told her to drive towards Detally. There she stopped her in a small street and gripped Morounis’s hand in excitement. ‘See, this road is called Rue Tagore, the man whose song I sang.’ There was a garden named after the Spanish artist Miro at one end of the street and on the other end was a road named after the Russian painter Marc Chagall.

  Morounis asked, ‘Was Tagore an artist like Miro and Chagall?’

  Nila said, ‘His name isn’t Tagore, the correct pronunciation is Thakur, Rabindranath Thakur. Since the British couldn’t pronounce it, they made it Tagore.’

  Morounis took her hand from Nila’s grip and walked in Miro’s garden and Nila spoke as she walked beside her, ‘Rabindranath also sketched, but his songs, poetry and prose were of greater renown. To the Bengali, he is almost like a god. Even today Rabindrasangeet is played in almost every Bengali home. It is eternal. No musician can ever do what he has done. His songs will be everlasting.’

  Morounis said, ‘Have you seen Miro’s work?’

  She told Nila about how taken she was with Miro’s work when she saw it in Barcelona. She insisted that if Nila ever went there, she must see his work.

  Nila said, ‘I’ll give you a volume of Rabindranath’s poetry in French. Read it. I’m sure you’ll like it.’

  Morounis walked towards the car and said that she was busy writing a paper on Nietzsche at the time and wouldn’t have time to read anything by Rabindranath. When she had the time, she’d let Nila know.

  Suddenly, Nila felt an aching emptiness within herself, for no reason.

  Je t’aime, Je t’aime, Je t’aime

  Nila checked with her bank. The money hadn’t arrived.

  She called the bank in Calcutta. They said it had been sent.

  Nila’s days passed in the throes of an unbearable restlessness.

  Every day she erased Benoir’s ardent pleas from the answering machine.

  She rushed Sunil many times to look for a house for her to rent. He wasn’t making the effort. One morning when Nila again petitioned him to look for a house, Chaitali was right there and she said, ‘How can he find the time?’

  Sunil said he would, next week.

  Chaitali said, ‘It’s not easy to rent. Who will stand guarantee?’

  Sunil would have to do that as well!

  Chaitali burst out, ‘If he does it, there’s no telling what may come of it. It’s better for a Frenchman to do it. You have a French friend, don’t you?’

  Nila said, ‘No, I don’t have anyone.’

  Chaitali’s tone was the same as before, ‘Why should Sunil take such a big risk?’

  ‘Where’s the question of risk? I won’t default on the rent. Let Sunilda verify about my money before he does it.’

  Sunil winked at Nila and she winked back—deal!

  That afternoon Nila
was restive in the heat. There were no fans here and outside the sun was blazing hot. She stood at the window and watched the people for a while.

  She stayed at home all day and finished a book by Sukumari Bhattacharya. Then she made herself a cup of tea and began to read Joy Goswami’s poetry, aloud. She always read poetry out to herself.

  As Nila sat with the tea in front of her, Joy’s poetry and immense pleasure in her heart, Sunil walked into the house and made straight for her room, the room of Durga, Lakshmi and Saraswati.

  Nila said, ‘What’s up? Home so early?’

  Sunil reclined on the bed, pulled up a pillow and said, ‘Don’t ask! I just didn’t feel like it—work, work and nothing else!’

  Sunil took the book from her hands, held it up and said, ‘You’re reading poetry. I haven’t done that for ages! Gone are those days . . .’

  Nila hummed a song. Sunil started. He sat up. ‘Well, well, I had no idea you sing so well.’

  Nila crinkled her brows. ‘Not really. Once upon a time, maybe.

  Now I can barely hum.’

  Sunil leaned back, pushed the book towards Nila and said, ‘Read something to me. I’ve heard Joy Goswami writes really well.’

  Nila turned the pages, looking for something good. Her left hand lay on her lap and Sunil picked it up. He looked at the lines on it and said, ‘Let’s see how many times you’ll marry.’

  ‘Marriage? Again? Once was bad enough.’

  Nila lightly took her hand away and began to read. As she read, Sunil looked at her in wonder. He was half-reclined and so was she. Sunil sulked, ‘You’re having tea all alone? Can I have some too?’ As though he was the guest here and not Nila. She made him a cup and poured herself another one. This time she took the chair instead of the bed, outside Sunil’s reach and said, ‘Tell me when will you find me a house?’

  ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘No rush! But how long can I impose on you like this?’

  ‘Why, are you not comfortable?’

  ‘I am very comfortable. But I am causing you a lot of discomfort, occupying a room like this.’

  ‘Why are you making us sound so distant and formal?’

  Nila knew Sunil was the only person she had in this city. If she thought he wasn’t close to her, she wouldn’t have been able to stay in their house.

  She said, ‘If only I could get a job, I’d breathe easier.’

  ‘It’ll work out, don’t worry. I have told Narayan; he is a useful chap. He’s looking out for jobs. But you’d have stood a better chance if you knew the language.’

  ‘I don’t need better; just about any job will do.’

  Nila sipped at her hot tea and scalded her lips. ‘Oh Ma.’ The tea spilled on her lap and on the book. She put down the cup and looked at Sunil. His eyes were laughing.

  ‘Did you scald your tongue?’

  Nila looked away from his eyes and at the floor. It was like a chessboard, white and black, black and white. On this side there was no queen or bishop, just an unarmed pawn. From that side the knight moved two and a half steps, ‘Let me see how much you’ve burnt it, show me your tongue . . .’

  The next moment Sunil’s long, red tongue advanced on Nila’s scalded one. She pulled her tongue back in, leaned her chair back and removed herself from his reach.

  ‘What are you doing!’ Nila pushed him away and stood up.

  Sunil pulled her down on the bed in one swift movement. The tea cup and Joy’s book dropped heavily. Sunil jammed her body down with his own; with one hand he untied her salwar and pulled it down. He unzipped his pants and pulled them down too and pushed himself into her. Speechless, powerless, Nila lay there watching this ugly scene. There were no sounds in the house except Sunil moaning, ‘Oh Nila, oh Nila.’

  In a few moments Sunil was limp. Nila didn’t even touch him to push him away. She stared at the blank wall fixedly.

  Sunil quickly dressed and then noticed the tears rolling down and wetting her pillow.

  ‘Are you crying?’ Sunil wiped her tears and said, ‘Why are you crying?’

  She stared at the wall and spoke hoarsely, ‘I am not crying. I don’t cry. My mother left me all alone and I didn’t cry. I don’t break down under any kind of pressure. Life is so ugly. I . . . feel my brother, Nikhil, has just raped me.’

  ‘I am not your brother, I am his friend.’

  ‘We are taught to think of our brother’s friends as brothers.’

  ‘But sometimes one also gets married to them, isn’t it?’

  ‘True. But I haven’t married you. I left Kishan because we were not compatible. I never felt close to him. In this city you were the only one who I thought was near to me. Perhaps it’s better for me to go back to him rather than take this kind of humiliation. Even if he ravishes me, at least he is my husband, not brother.’

  Sunil’s voice was heavy. ‘I thought you wanted it too. When you read Joy’s poetry, you were giving me looks, weren’t you?’

  As soon as Sunil left, Nila went into the bathroom. She showered for a long time, finished a whole bar of soap—this wasn’t a body, it was a rubbish dump. Nila spat on herself. She rubbed the soap into every nook and cranny and removed every bit of the greed, lust, hatred, mucus, spit, sperm, blood that was there on her body. She repeatedly told herself that nothing had happened, she was just using up the soap for no reason, it was a figment of her dirty mind. Sunil didn’t come home early, didn’t lie on her bed, didn’t touch her, even if someone did it was a different man or perhaps Nila was asleep and she dreamt the whole thing. Or maybe a neighbour, a criminal forced his way into the house, found Nila alone and raped her, or perhaps she wasn’t raped, she had wanted to be ravished. Sunil would come back in the evening, like every other day, sit down to chat with Chaitali and Nila, eat fish and rice and Nila would feel he was her nearest kin in the whole world.

  At five-thirty she met Benoir in the Select at Montparnasse. He ordered tea for Nila and coffee for himself. They sat on the terrace, facing the street.

  Nila wore a black T-shirt and white trousers. She hadn’t done her hair, made her face up and her lips were dark brown. She wasn’t going anywhere to ‘powder her nose’ and cover the true colour of her lips. She looked out at the street distantly and sipped her tea.

  ‘What did you do all day today?’

  ‘I read.’

  ‘Didn’t you go out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why didn’t you answer the phone? I called you all day.’

  ‘It was off the hook.’

  ‘So that you don’t have to talk to me, right? What made you think of me suddenly?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Nila, look at me.’

  She looked into his deep blue eyes.

  ‘Can you see something in these eyes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you blind?’

  ‘No.’

  Benoir picked up her hands in his own warm ones and kissed them.

  ‘Promise me something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why are you looking at the street? Look at me.’

  Nila looked into his eyes again.

  ‘Are you upset?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘The other night you left like that and I couldn’t sleep at all.’

  Nila was indifferent. She looked away from his eyes and back at the street. It was overflowing with people.

  Benoir held her hands and walked along the pavement. Nila wanted Benoir to hold her hands forever, never leave them. Benoir lived on the fourth floor of a five-storeyed building at the crossing of Rue de Rennes and Rue Saint Placide. When they walked in, Benoir didn’t kiss her. He offered her a seat and went into the kitchen. Nila was sure he’d bring a bottle of red wine, pour it on her naked body and drink it up. All said and done, it was better than being raped by Sunil.

  Nila was stunned when Benoir came back with two cups of tea.

  ‘I t
hought you didn’t have any tea.’

  ‘I’ve bought some Earl Grey, just for you. Will it do?’ Benoir’s voice was calm and beautiful.

  Nila laughed, ‘It will.’

  He moved and sat at her feet, rested his head on her lap. She didn’t know what to do with the head on her lap.

  She didn’t do a thing; just drank her tea. She sipped the hot tea and scalded her tongue again. ‘Oh, Ma’ slipped out and her heart trembled; any moment now Benoir would ask to see her scalded tongue and come at her with his tongue hanging out.

  He looked up, ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He didn’t ask if she’d burnt her tongue. He just looked unblinking at Nila drinking her tea and said, ‘Je t’aime.’

  The tea cup shook. She gripped it with both hands and asked, ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Je t’aime. I love you.’

  Benoir’s voice was unusually calm. The earlier restlessness was gone. There was no inebriated craziness to lose himself in her when she was so close at hand. He seemed to have changed in the last few days, grown much quieter, calmer. Nila rose to put the shaking tea-cup down on the table and also to hide her shock. She went to the window, watched people for a while and came back again. She sat far from Benoir, picked up her tea and started drinking it again, as if the words ‘Je t’aime’ hadn’t been uttered.

  Nila was afraid that if Benoir knew of what Sunil had done to her today, he wouldn’t say ‘Je t’aime’ any more. She shut her eyes, gritted her teeth, balled her fist and took in her own loneliness, helplessness and all her secret pain. Benoir’s love was her pride. She would not tell him about any of her humiliations. Nila had lost everything, and in that losing she had lost the pain of losing. Nila desperately wanted to live. In this grotesque world Nila would walk hand in hand with beauty and head for her dreams.

  She took one step at a time and knelt down behind Benoir. Nila placed one hand on his shoulder and on that Benoir placed his own very lightly. Just two hands touching, and the happiness dripped down Benoir’s hand, flowed through Nila’s and filled her whole body.