‘Do you really love me?’
Benoir turned around. His eyes were dreamy, very blue.
He drew Nila to himself and kissed her deeply and said, ‘Je t’aime, je t’aime.’
By now Nila knew that the French didn’t utter the word ‘love’ very easily. They did it only when they loved truly. It wasn’t like back home, where a Bengali youth had to just catch a glimpse of a girl standing on a distant terrace, to fall in love with her, write a hundred poems without knowing or understanding her but prepared to give his life for her. These people loved truly and this true love made her life worth living; it gave meaning to her life.
Nila rose from Benoir’s lap and lay on the bed. Love had lent her wings and she wanted to fly out of the window, tell every soul on the streets that she wasn’t alone any more, she wasn’t being used, someone really loved her, truly loved her. Benoir lay down beside her and said, ‘You wanted to learn French. Do you know the best way to learn it?’
‘What?’
‘You learn it from your lover, through pillow talk, lying on your back.’ He pulled her close, smelt her hair and asked, ‘Do you love me?’
‘I do.’
‘Then say, “Je t’aime”.’
‘Je t’aime.’
‘Embrasse-moi.’
‘Embrasse-moi.’
‘Ça, la vie et belle.’
‘La vie et belle.’
‘Ça, c’est la vie.’
‘C’est la vie.’
Benoir kissed her again.
He took off her slippers and kissed the soles of her feet, every toe on her feet. Nila thought of Sushanta. He had said he loved her, but never had he made love to her like this. Benoir had an artist within. Was he different from all the men in the world or did all Frenchmen love their women thus? Nila didn’t know but she was drowning in love.
Nila said, ‘I am older than you. In our country older women are called didi, like a sister.’
‘If you want I can call you didi.’
‘Please don’t do that or I’ll never be able to kiss you again.’
Benoir kissed her lips. He looked up and said, ‘Didi.’
He did that again and again.
‘So you are older; how does that matter?’
‘In our society, love or marriage has to be between an older man and a younger woman.’
‘This isn’t your society, it’s ours. It’s lucky that it is, or I wouldn’t have got you.’ Benoir laughed.
‘Don’t you feel like saying je t’aime to any of these young, nubile beauties roaming the city?’
He shrugged, ‘No.’
‘You said you like brown skin. But they are also getting the colour from tanning, aren’t they?’
Benoir laughed long and said, ‘They’ll lose that colour soon; it’s fake.’
He kissed her again, ‘It’s a good thing that you are older. I can learn a lot from you.’
‘You know much more than me.’
‘What do I know much more than you?’
Nila tweaked his nose and said, ‘You know what I’m talking about.’
‘No, I don’t. Tell me.’
‘I won’t.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s my wish.’
‘I also have a wish.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s not to be told!’
‘Then what is it for?’
‘It’s to be felt.’
Nila closed her eyes. She waited for his touch, for the destructive storm. But for a long time she didn’t feel his touch. She opened her eyes and found him on the floor, laughing, out of Nila’s reach.
‘Can you feel it?’
Nila came down from the bed, lay down with her head on his chest and said, ‘Playing the fool, are you?’
Benoir hugged her close with one arm. Brown fingers roamed a white chest and from there, Nila’s fingers climbed to his neck, chin, and lips.
Benoir held her tightly with both hands and said, ‘Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime.’
Why couldn’t time stand still right there? She held her breath. Nila needed just a drop to quench her thirst and Benoir poured out the whole ocean for her. It was more than she deserved. She was Nila, the hunted, friendless, helpless animal whose backbone was broken, who was crumpled, crinkled and drowning.
She closed her eyes. Benoir kissed her closed eyelids. Nila perceived his love with all her body and soul. The deeper within her he penetrated, the more she realized this wasn’t mere sex, it was genuine love. It soothed the body, relaxed it and cooled it. It cheered the soul, broadened and brightened the spirit.
The two of them went out at night. Though the sky was still bright with daylight. This was nature’s reparation, for snatching the light away in winters. They sat huddled together on the grass at Champs-Elysées. Benoir picked up a tiny white flower called Marguerite and began to tear each petal one by one, saying, ‘Je t’aime un peu, beaucoup, passionment, à la folie, pas du tout.’ In this game of tearing petals, Benoir’s last one was à la folie and Nila’s was pas du tout. He said, ‘See, I love you like crazy and you don’t love me at all.’
Nila laughed, ‘Is that what you feel?’
He kissed her and said, ‘No. I know you love me very much.’
‘And do you really love me à la folie?’
‘Yes.’
As they dined at a café, Nila watched people, bright and lively. The Champs-Elysées was awake all night and was always crowded. There were sixty-and seventy-year-old women dining in the café. Nila said, ‘Even the old people aren’t sleepy.’
Benoir whispered in her ear, ‘Those rich old fogies are sitting there to catch gigolos.’
‘What’s a gigolo?’ Nila murmured.
‘Young men will come and according to their taste, these women will pick them up.’
‘What?’
‘Just watch.’
Nila turned around frequently and it really happened. The elderly women held the young men’s hands and walked away happily, like mother and son.
‘What will happen now?’
‘The woman will take the boy home, have fun, buy him gifts and dinner. They’ll dance together, make love and when the boy asks for money, she’ll give it.’
They walked from one end of the Champs-Elysées to the other, from the Arc de Triomph to the Concorde, holding each other tight. Sometimes they stopped for ice cream or coffee, sat on the terrace of a café and then walked on. Little bits of conversation floated between them: favourite colours, Nila’s was blue and Benoir’s light green. Nila liked to eat fish curry and rice, Benoir like canarre and potato. Favourite city? Nila liked Paris and Benoir Rome. Had she ever been there? No. Nila liked cloudy skies and Benoir liked it sunny. Nila loved the rain while Benoir didn’t. Sad memories of childhood? Nila was thrashed badly by Anirban when she did poorly in her exams. For Benoir it was when Madame Dupont said to him too much chocolate was bad for the teeth. Happy memories? When Nila did well in an exam she got a red frock and when Benoir went skiing with his friends to Austria.
When Nila was exhausted and her eyes were drooping, Benoir said, ‘Shall we go home?’
‘Yes.’ She said to herself, ‘I’ll go home and sleep, holding you tight, sleep in peace, without fear.’
Nila thought Benoir was crossing the Seine from Place de la Concorde, and heading for Rue de Rennes along Boulevard Saint Germaine. But after driving quite a distance, she realized they weren’t near the Seine, but on their way to Rue de Rivoli from the Concorde.
Nila asked, ‘Where are you going?’
‘Reaching you home.’
‘Oh.’
‘They love you a lot, don’t they?’
Nila wanted to say, ‘They don’t love me at all. Please take me to your home and save me from more humiliation, save me.’ But something gripped her vocal chords and she couldn’t speak.
‘Of course they love you, or why would they have you with
them for so long?’ Quite logical.
‘Won’t they wake up when you ring the bell?’
‘No, I have a key.’
‘Okay, my kitten, go inside and sleep well.’ He dropped her off, kissed her several times, reminded her when and where they were meeting next and drove away.
She punched in 30A59 on the big door and it opened from within. She climbed up to the second floor and then didn’t feel like sleeping on that bed. So she curled up on the stairs and spent the rest of the night thinking, wondering why Benoir didn’t ask her to stay with him. It wasn’t like his wife Pascale’s presence haunted the place. Nila was numb with fatigue, both mental and physical. Towards dawn she heard some footsteps and sat up in terror, perhaps it was someone coming to rape her. She cowered in fear. Some French people coming home after partying all night long. No one gave her a second glance or asked her who she was, why she was lying there. This was another reason why she felt at ease in Paris. No one poked their nose in your business; it was against their nature to impede the others’ wish. If Nila wanted to sleep there, she had the right to, as long as it didn’t disturb anyone else.
Nila walked alone on the streets at dawn, as the cool breeze fanned her face. It was perhaps the best time to view any city in the world. She drank tea in a café and whiled away the hours until ten o’clock. Nila’s day had no beginning and no end, she had no office and nowhere to go. After ten, when she was sure the house was empty, she slipped in and packed her suitcase. She thumbed the phone book and looked for a hotel. Each one she tried, was either full or too expensive. Finally, after much hunting, she found a room in a studio hotel in Rue de la Corvosion and it cost three hundred francs. Nila booked it deciding to rely on her credit card and called a taxi. It was to come in three minutes. Joy Goswami’s book was lying on the floor. She picked it and her suitcase up, walked to the door when the phone rang. She thought it could be Benoir and snatched it up. It was Danielle.
After the usual small talk, Danielle said, ‘There’s a letter for you; it looks important—from the bank.’
Nila was very excited, ‘I need the letter.’
‘I’d called your husband’s place, no one answered. Then I called here at Rivoli thinking I’ll leave a message at your friend’s. If you say, I can forward it to your friend’s place.’
‘No, no, I have no friend. I thought this man was my brother’s friend, but actually he is an enemy. I am leaving this house today.’
Danielle’s voice was cool, ‘In that case I am forwarding it to the bank.’
‘Could you open it and read it for me?’ Nila’s voice shook with eager anticipation.
Danielle opened it. The money from India had arrived and now there was two hundred and ninety thousand, seven hundred and eighty francs in her account.
Nila had known this money would come, but once it was here, she felt surprised, like it was a lottery prize-money.
Her voice was warm, excited, ‘Danielle, you have saved me.’
Danielle was detached, ‘You weren’t dying that I’d save you. You are doing well, much better than a lot of people.’
Then Danielle spoke about herself a bit; she was having tax problems. Nowadays half the income went in taxes and life was becoming increasingly difficult for the average people in this country. The government was busy giving aid to the poorer countries.
Nila left the key on the table, just as she had in Kishan’s house. In the same manner she stepped out towards a new life. She knew it was an uncertain life, but she hadn’t hesitated earlier and she didn’t start now.
I stamp your name
on the sky, on the wind, in the water and
on grass—Liberté
Nila had a good night’s sleep in the studio room and woke up ravenous. She had money in the bank, so she set off for a meal at a good restaurant. She had never come to this area before. As she walked around, she quite liked the area—cafés, restaurants, cinemas, metro, bus stop, grocery, boulangerie, everything was close at hand. It was a Thursday and market day in Corvosion. From beds and furniture to cheese and wines, everything was on sale. A girl was hawking rotisserie chicken and rabbits. Nila bought a rabbit. She waded through the festive market and bought two bottles of wine, some oranges, camembert cheese and that day’s particulier with ads for houses for rent.
She came back to the hotel and called Benoir. He said he had called Sunil’s place many times. No one knew where she was. He didn’t like her disappearing like this without telling anyone.
‘Where are you, mystery woman?’
‘Didn’t you say you like rabbit?’
‘I do. Have you turned into one? If so, let me grab the salt and pepper and come to you.’
‘Please do.’
She gave the hotel’s address to Benoir. Before he arrived, Nila studied the papers for the houses which had a rent of five to seven thousand francs and called the landlords. Most of them were already rented out. For the ones that were left, she fixed appointments to meet them.
Benoir came into the hotel room and dropped into a chair. He simply couldn’t fathom why Nila had come to a hotel.
‘Was there a problem in that house?’
‘No.’
Benoir drank some water and tried to guess her reason for staying in the hotel, ‘It’s better to have your own space, right?’
Nila said, ‘Yes, like you have.’
The rabbit, wine and cheese lay on the table. He was thirsty and it wasn’t for wine. It was for her kisses. He was hungry too, but he didn’t want that dead rabbit that lay on the table. He took a long time over lunch.
In the evening they showered together and went out to see a house in Emile Zola Avenue. The rent was eight thousand. Nila liked it.
She asked Benoir, ‘Should I take it?’
He shrugged, ‘If you like it.’
He was right. She should take it because she liked it; he didn’t have an opinion on it.
But Nila’s wish wasn’t everything. The landlord turned her down because Nila didn’t have a job. But she had money in the bank. The landlord didn’t care about that.
Rejected.
She saw and liked another house and asked when she could take it. The landlord asked her who would be the guarantor for her. Nila looked at Benoir appealingly. But she saw his indifferent face and shook her head, there was no one.
Rejected.
Benoir got into the car, shook his head and said, ‘Without a guarantor you won’t get a house in Paris.’
‘Even if I am a millionaire?’
‘Not even if you are a millionaire.’
‘So what should I do?’
Nila hoped he would say he would do it. But he didn’t.
‘You have Indian friends—why don’t you ask them?’
‘No, I don’t feel like asking them.’
‘Ask your friend in Rivoli.’
‘He is not my friend.’
‘But you stayed with them for so long!’
It was on the tip of Nila’s tongue to say, ‘Why don’t you stand guarantee Benoir; you have a well-paid job in Alcatel.’
But she didn’t say it because she felt Benoir must have thought there was no telling what this girl would do next and she could easily default on her rent. She wanted to dispel any such notions he may have had and said, ‘My mother has left me a lot of money. I can live comfortably in Paris without a job for three years at least.’
She heaved a sigh and said, ‘My mother hadn’t wanted me to live abroad. If I was in Calcutta, renting a house would be no problem at all. Over there, no one asks for guarantees. If the tenant has money, no landlord refuses him.’
Benoir told her that it was a very old system in Paris and even explained to her why and how it came about. He chanted a hundred rules of giving and taking a house on rent. He also said that he’d bought the flat in Rue de Rennes; if he hadn’t, it would have been equally difficult for him to rent a place. Nila relieved him by not probing any further. He also didn’t ask anything about ho
w she’d find a place.
He stopped the car on the way to Pigalle, walked on the dazzling street and said again and again, ‘Je t’aime.’
There were bright lights on both sides of the street. The sex-toy stores were selling plastic penises and vaginas by the dozen. There were sex acts on display, not on film, not by puppets but by live human beings.
Nila knew she would never have walked on this street alone. She would have been too shy and afraid. She could dare to walk comfortably here because Benoir was with her.
She said, ‘Let’s go to the Moulin Rouge.’
‘Oh no. I don’t have the money to spend.’
‘I do. Come on. Let’s go and see what kind of dance Toulouse Lautrec watched.’
‘You won’t get that these days.’
Nila knew that, but she went in. She knew it was nothing but a tourist trap. Nila wanted to show off her carte bleue to Benoir and pay the huge bill. She wanted him to see that she was no pauper and it was true that she had a lot of money, given by her mother. Let him know that she never lied.
When they came out of the Moulin Rouge, Benoir said, ‘I have seen many women, but none as lively as you. You know how to enjoy life. No one is more spontaneous. You are exceptional. French women are very calculating.’
‘And French men are not?’
Benoir was so lost in his praises of Nila, that he didn’t hear her question.
That night Benoir stayed over in Nila’s room. It was a night of love. In the morning Benoir left for work and Nila went out. She went into the bright and inviting brokerage offices and asked if she could rent a place. Of course she could, any time, but who would be the guarantor? She checked out two houses in Place d’Italie and Rue de Vouyeer, and lay on her bed feeling utterly helpless. She had shown them her bank documents and it was useless. Benoir could see her helplessness, but didn’t offer to help her.
Nila called Danielle in the hope that her anger had abated, since she had called and informed Nila about the letter from the bank and not thrown it away like her easel and paintings.
Danielle said she was going to Sweden the following week with Nicole and Michelle. Rita also wanted to go but she had to go to Israel for the making of a film. Maria Svenson had invited them to her new house of redwood, by the ocean. She had built it with her own hands.
French Lover Page 22
