Sophie’s eyes widen at the thought of her prim, polished, never-a-sari-pleat-out-of-place mummy with a cigarette. She does not know any women in India who smoke. Then she thinks about how happy Nita had been—away from Sophie and Rajiv—and her eyes fill with tears, the big fat kind that there is no way of demurely retracting. Before she can say anything, they spill onto her cheeks, and she swipes them away. She repeats Cecile’s last phrase in her mind again and again: Like there was no place in the world she would rather be.
“Oh, chérie. What is the matter? Is it something I said?” She puts a hand on Sophie’s shoulder to offer support.
Shaking her head, Sophie says, “No, you have given me so much with your words. I’m afraid the passing of my papa is still recent, and many things remind me of him.”
“I lost my maman a few years back. I understand the wave of memories that come with such a tragic event.” She walks to the reception area and returns with a tissue for Sophie.
Sophie dabs her eyes, collects herself, and manages a smile. “Do you know where she is now? Or where she went after?”
Cecile shakes her head. “I’m sorry, child. I know she moved in with her boyfriend, but I don’t recall where. Maybe in the Marais? I know she was still able to walk here, so it could not have been far. It’s been much too long since I last saw her to know where or what she is up to these days.”
“Do you know his name? The boyfriend?”
Cecile shakes her head again. “I wish I did so I could tell you.”
Even though she has learned more about Nita during the last twenty minutes than she has known in her entire life, Sophie’s shoulders slump as she realizes she has hit a dead end. “Thank you for your help. It is most kind of you to share so much.”
Cecile nods, standing to head back to the reception desk. “When you find her, tell her that Cecile says hello and she can still look me up here. I’d love to hear what happened to her. Hopefully she fulfilled those art dreams and had better luck with the men in this city than I’ve managed to have.”
12
NITA
1998
A week later, Nita showed up at the Luxembourg Gardens in her most elaborate sari, just as Mathieu had instructed her to do. Her coat covered the intricate stitchwork and heavy jewels sewn into the border of the cream-and-burgundy silk fabric. Her wedding sari. She had considered leaving it behind, given its bulk, but then decided to bring it as a reminder of the life she had left. Rather than it being nostalgic, she saw it as a source of strength if her resolve to pursue her passions ever weakened. She had sacrificed too much to be in Paris, and the six meters of fabric represented the life to which she had once agreed but never wanted. One meter for each year she’d spent as a mummy.
Mathieu had instructed her to go toward the back of the gardens, away from the fountain where they had sat the first time they had come there together. She walked down the gravelly path littered with fallen leaves. Statues adorned the sides, and the occasional tourist stopped to pose near one. The grassy areas somehow remained a vibrant green even as the cooler autumn weather settled in, although the bright flowers along the edge were starting to wilt and lose their petals. The air felt chilly against her cheeks, and she was glad to be wrapped in the secondhand coat she had purchased a few weeks earlier. The weather here was much colder than Ahmedabad, and she would need to adjust to it. She had never seen snow and had been told that it did not often get cold enough for that in Paris, but hoped that people were wrong and she might be able to see it. Feel it on her skin, let a flake fall onto her lips.
Toward the back gate of the park, she saw Mathieu leaning against one of the statues, a cigarette dangling from his lips as though it might fall out at any second, but by now she knew it never would. He had a scarf wrapped around his neck and looked rather dashing as she approached him and another man. Behind them, she saw a group of artists with portable easels set up around them.
“Bonjour,” Mathieu said, flicking the cigarette onto the gravel path and stamping it out with his shoe before kissing both of her cheeks.
The man next to him introduced himself as Simon. He was several inches taller than Mathieu, with broader shoulders and a more muscular build. He leaned in to give her bisous as well.
Nita was still getting accustomed to this French tradition of kissing people no matter the relation. It was quite different from the Indian way she had been taught to greet people, especially elders, by bringing her hands together in namaskar and then bending to touch their feet to show her respect. Kissing was reserved for her husband, and even then, it was used sparingly.
“Oui, Mathieu.” Simon turned to his friend. “T’as raison. Elle est très jolie.”
Nita felt her cheeks warm, knowing they were saying she was pretty. Here, those types of compliments fell fast from men’s tongues like raindrops on the pavement, but she appreciated them all the same.
“You have a traditional dress on?” Simon asked her, his English sounding just like all the Hollywood movies she had seen.
She nodded, holding open her coat so he could see her sari. “You are American.”
“Perfect,” he said. “Yes, my accent is a dead giveaway, I’m sure.” His smile was warm and inviting. “Originally from sunny California.”
She nodded, knowing only what she had seen in the movies or on television, but what she had seen seemed like a dream. She understood why she would want to leave a place like India to come to Paris, but it must be a more difficult decision for someone like Simon, who already lived in such a remarkable place.
He gestured behind him at the eight students, who looked in their direction. “My students have been learning to paint the full form and master the art of shading. I’ve been teaching them how to capture the figure in different types of dress, and this will be a challenge they haven’t faced yet.”
“Merci for the opportunity,” she said demurely. “What shall I do?”
“If you can just remove your coat—” He saw the way she was standing, with her arms folded around herself to lock in the warmth. “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, as it is quite chilly today. Will you be okay?”
She knew she would be freezing within seconds but had been raised to accommodate and not complain when around strangers. “It will be okay.” She smiled at him.
Relieved, he gave Mathieu a nudge to move him away from the statue. “The light here is good. Perhaps you can lean against this and tilt your face so that it catches the sun.”
Nita removed her coat and handed it to Mathieu. She stood as Simon directed her.
“If you need to adjust periodically, it’s okay. Just go ahead and do as you need to be comfortable,” Simon said before turning to his students.
“Alors, on a une personne originaire d’Inde où les femmes portent des vêtements de ce style. Vous avez une heure pour la peindre.” His French was slow and measured, like the phrases she was learning, making it much easier for her to understand. We have a person from India, where women wear clothing such as this. You have an hour to paint her.
Nita remained as still as she could in the cold. Following instructions in class was something for which she had always strived for fear of having the teacher rap her knuckles with a ruler when she acted out. While others in class had never had the ruler touch their skin, she had seemed to encounter it on a weekly basis. She would often be caught doodling on her science homework or sketching on the back of her book cover, activities that were punishable offenses in her school. Here, though, she did her best to be the perfect student. She remained still, listening to Simon as he went from student to student, offering tips and suggestions. She strained to hear his words and absorb them like a dry rag soaks up spilled milk.