At the end of the class, he allowed her to see the work created by the students. Their interpretations were so different from one another. Some tried to copy her image exactly, while others tried to gather the essence of her shape in abstract art. And it was clear they had varying levels of talent among them. Abstract art was something she had never practiced and was not well versed in. She found joy in capturing a perfect, lifelike moment, so she lingered on the canvases of the artists whose styles most resembled hers. Simon explained some of the shading techniques that the students were working on incorporating to give depth to the folds of her sari. He described strokes to her in a careful and methodical manner, using an imaginary brush against the canvas to demonstrate.
Once all the students had cleared out of the space, with flushed cheeks he handed her a small white envelope with the hundred francs she had been promised. “I’m sorry, but the school doesn’t offer more to the models.”
“There is no need to apologize.”
Mathieu joined them. “Shall we go get some wine?”
Simon looked at her and shrugged agreeably. “If you two don’t mind me tagging along, I could use a drink.”
Mathieu slung an arm around his shoulder. “Pas du tout. You are always welcome.” He then winked at Nita. “Perhaps we should go somewhere nice now that you’ve got some cash.”
She assumed he was joking but firmed up her grip on the envelope. She was so desperately in need of this money to pay her board at the hostel, so even a joke was not funny to her right now. She was not accustomed to paying when she was out with a man because until France, it had always been her husband, or papa, or a relative, and her money would never have been accepted, so there was no need to even offer. But men in Paris were not the same as those in India. She managed a half smile as she walked with them out of the park, tightly holding on to the cash.
At the café, she nursed a glass of wine, trying to fit in without Mathieu and Simon realizing they were the only ones refilling from the liter carafe in front of them. She had gone back to the hostel to quickly change out of her sari and into the jeans and sweater Cecile had helped her purchase a couple weeks ago. They were among the first items of Western clothing she had ever bought herself, and, while it was taking her some time to get used to seeing her image in a mirror dressed in formfitting tops and pants that traced the lines of her legs, she felt like she was blending in more. Fewer people glanced at her a second time on the street, and she continued to strive toward being invisible.
They sat at a small bistro table on the terrace, coats tightly wrapped around them as the sun began to set and the temperature began to drop.
“How is the wine in India?” Simon asked, exhaling from a puff on his cigarette.
Nita laughed. “Nonexistent.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Nita continued, “The state I am from doesn’t have alcohol. Those who get it acquire it illegally, and my”—she inhaled sharply, realizing she was about to say husband—“family would never have engaged in such illegal activity.”
Simon nodded. “That’s a real shame. Not sure I would have gotten through my twenties without it.”
Mathieu said to her, “It’s no wonder you wanted to leave.” He refilled his own glass.
“Most importantly for me, art was considered a hobby there,” Nita said, wanting to change the subject.
The cigarette smoke from both Simon and Mathieu had created a haze around them. Nita felt the stench absorbing into her skin, her hair, the fibers of her coat and sweater.
“No cigarettes either, I suppose,” Mathieu said.
She didn’t want to say that she often saw men smoking in India, but they were from the lower castes. Certainly, Rajiv and her family members would have never engaged in a vice worse than the occasional paan after dinner, letting the tobacco and spice-wrapped betel leaves linger in their mouths until their tongues were deep red.
“They probably didn’t need them there,” Simon said, smiling at Nita. “I never smoked in California. It’s just so damn cold here that you need something to keep you warm.”
“It does get much colder here,” she agreed.
Simon winked at her. “You might find yourself turning to the tobacco stick soon. This isn’t even the worst of the weather!”
Something about Simon made her feel at ease, and she reached for his cigarette. “No harm in trying,” she said.
Mathieu looked between them curiously as she adjusted her grip on the cigarette. It warmed her fingers as she brought it to her lips and parted them slowly. It didn’t seem that bad as her lips moistened the paper.
“You need to inhale,” Simon said.
She slowly took a breath and felt the smoke in her mouth. The coughing was almost instantaneous, and she quickly removed the cigarette from her lips. The boys chuckled in a way that suggested her reaction reminded them of their first times smoking.
“You get the hang of it,” Simon said, taking back the cigarette, his lips now covering the place where hers had just been.
“You just need practice, ma chérie,” Mathieu said, passing his cigarette to her, the look in his eyes territorial, as if he wanted to make sure that if she were sharing a cigarette with anyone, it would be him. The waiter left the check on the table, and Mathieu retrieved some notes and coins to cover it. She was relieved that despite his comment earlier, he had picked up the bill.
She took his cigarette and tried again but had the same result. “Perhaps I will practice another time,” she said.
And practice she did over the next month. Simon had been right. As the temperature dropped, she got past the coughing and found the warmth in her mouth a relief from the cold air against her face. Mathieu was generous with his cigarettes and seemed to have an endless supply. She hadn’t bought a single one yet. When she wasn’t with Mathieu, she was with Simon, serving as a model for his students, and then he supplied her with them to help fight off the cold. It was a habit she was beginning to crave and one easily satisfied by both men she was spending time with.
13
SOPHIE
2019
On her walk back to the hotel in the Marais, Sophie feels adrenaline surging through her. She met someone who knew Nita! What were the chances of it being that easy? She cannot help but wonder if Nita is somewhere around her. Maybe just a few streets or even mere buildings away from the hotel. Maybe Sophie would even pass by her on the street. What would she look like now? Would Sophie recognize her after all this time? Would she recognize Sophie? She realizes it is crazy and Nita could be anywhere, but it was also crazy to find the same receptionist at Le Canard Volant who was there when Nita had first checked in. The odds of that had to be one in a million, if not more. Bhagwan was smiling upon her today, so she had to keep hope.
She also could not believe that her mummy had a boyfriend here. And so soon after leaving India. Was it so easy for Nita to forget about her life in Ahmedabad and move on? The thought incites Sophie even though she remains desperate to find the woman who had abandoned her and Papa for this racy new life in Paris. Sophie had had so little to warrant anger or resentment as a child because Papa ensured that she had everything she wanted, but now she feels bitterness on so many levels. She tries to imagine a world in which Nita would have a cigarette dangling from her lips and her arm around a man other than Rajiv! The thought of it is almost cartoonish, but Sophie must recalibrate the person she remembers as her mummy and replace those images with the person she became.