“Take this.” He nuzzled her neck as she took it from his fingers.
She held it awkwardly, not quite sure what to do with it. She could tell this was something different from the usual cigarette. She wanted so desperately to get through this night without scaring him off that she brought the white paper to her lips. She looked at him questioningly.
“It’s hashish. Stronger than the other cigarettes. Breathe in and hold the air for a few seconds. This will help you relax.”
He was infinitely more relaxed than she was, so maybe this was the answer. She coughed through it but tried to do as he said. The smoke was more pungent but sweeter than the stale cigarette smoke she had gotten used to.
After a few minutes, Julien poked his head out to check on them. “Vous êtes prêts?” Are you ready?
Mathieu looked at Nita before nodding. “Un instant.”
A calm began to set over Nita, as if she wasn’t in her body anymore. Her head felt light. She rested it against Mathieu, and he seemed happy to let her do so. He gingerly helped her rise to her feet and put his arm around her waist so she could lean against him.
“Once we finish here, it will be only us again.”
The words he whispered in her ear left a warm, tingling sensation that stayed with her as they made their way back inside and to the corner with the curtain. This time, she didn’t even notice the students in the room because the only presence she felt was Mathieu. He came behind the curtain with her and, with a delicate hand, undressed her, studying her body with his eyes as if they were the only two people in the room. A black robe hung on a nail, and he helped her slip into it. Her gold bangles clinked together, and she was about to remove them and slip them into her purse when Mathieu put a hand on her forearm.
“Leave them,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.
Nita looked at them on her wrist, glinting as she moved. No, she decided. She could not have this last memory of her parents on her arm as she did something she knew would strip her family of their dignity. It was as if by her wearing them now, her parents would somehow sense who she had become. She slipped them off and put them in his palm, closing his fingers around them.
“You must take care of these.”
He nodded. Then, giving her one last kiss, reminding her of what would come, he led her to the wooden platform at the center of the room. Julien had placed a chair there and asked her to sit with her legs crossed at the knees. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders in unruly waves, and Julien moved half of it behind her ears, revealing more of her face and creating a clean line of sight to her left breast.
“Try not to move so it does not disturb the shadows while the students are working,” he said.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Mathieu leaning against the wall, admiring her, as if he knew that her body was already his for the taking. A shudder passed through her.
17
SOPHIE
2019
After leaving her suitcase in the room upstairs, Sophie wanders along the streets, not sure of what to do next. As she is walking along Rue Saint-Michel, she smells familiar scents from home—sautéed garlic and ginger with coriander, turmeric, and chili—wafting out of a restaurant and looks over to see an Indian bistro with the name Taj Palace written in red script on the door. A menu hangs in the window, but Sophie doesn’t need to read it to know what dishes will be offered inside. The aromas make her feel as if home is not quite as far away.
“Come in. We have very tasty food,” a man says with a thick Indian accent.
Sophie hesitates, doing the math and knowing she can’t afford to spend her money on food like this. “I think I should not,” she says shyly to the man, who appears to be in his late fifties. He has a head of thick black hair that is starting to show more gray, just like her papa did.
“Come now. The food is quite good.” He cocks his head from side to side in that familiar Indian way.
“No, I did not mean to offend. I’m sure it is quite good. I have very little money right now.” She looks at the ground as she makes her final statement, feeling ashamed to be speaking about money with this stranger, but she has never been robbed before, so money is on her mind more than usual.
The man stares at her in that direct, pointed way with which most Westerners are generally too polite to look at strangers, and after a few moments motions her in. “Please come. The meal is on me. You can try some of my new recipes to tell me if you think they are authentic enough. We have to make some changes for this Western palate, but I don’t want to stray too far!”
Sophie wrestles with the idea of taking charity and what Papa would think if he were alive, but she is on her own now, and it is an offer she cannot refuse.
Taj Palace is cozy, with seating for about forty people, but there are only four patrons in the restaurant, two tables of two, all of them white and speaking rapid French to each other as they eat their meals using silverware. The walls are adorned with authentic beaded Indian artwork on black cloth. The pictures are of elephants and camels, and in the center of the main wall is a large beaded image of the Taj Mahal. Incense burns near the front door, filling her nostrils with the familiar scent of sandalwood as she follows the man into the restaurant. He gestures toward a small table in the corner, near the kitchen and away from the other diners.
“Are you Gujarati?” he asks.
She nods, already knowing from his accent and familiar features that he is Gujarati as well. She feels the weight of her body as she drops onto the cushioned chair he has pulled out for her. It has been a very long day, and she has had a lot of those lately, each one piling on top of the other.
“Will you like Indian spicy or Western spicy?” he asks.
She looks at him, confused.
He laughs and says, “I will make it like home. Saag paneer and channa masala is good for you?”
Sophie salivates at the thought of those familiar flavors, and she eagerly nods.
“My name is Naresh,” he says, bringing his palms together and bowing at the waist in respect even though she is the younger of the two and it is she who should be bowing to him.
“Sophie,” she responds.
His eyes flicker with the same quizzical look that crosses all Indians’ faces when she tells them her name. He masks it quickly and makes his way toward the kitchen, where she sees another Indian man, younger than Naresh and probably closer to her age, in a white chef’s coat, peering out from the pass at her, his eyes narrowed. Naresh and the chef exchange a few words, and the chef glances at Sophie and then nods, picking up a steel pan to heat it on the stove before disappearing into the back. There are some faint noises from the kitchen, and Sophie closes her eyes and lets the aromas transport her back to a simpler time.
She recalls her parents preparing for a Diwali dinner the year before Nita left. The bungalow had been filled with the smells of freshly made paneer and ginger and garlic sautéed in ghee. The blender was whizzing up the greens for the saag. In the background was the sizzling sound of the puri hitting the hot oil and puffing up to create a soft and chewy bread to accompany the vegetable dishes. The whistle on the pressure cooker sounded, signifying the rice was ready. Nita was rushing through the house, instructing the servants, the pleats of her blue sari rustling as she glided over the tiles, making sure everything was as it should be. Just before everyone arrived, Sophie found her sitting on her bed alone with her shoulders slumped. She straightened upon hearing someone enter but then relaxed her body again when she realized it was only Sophie. She held out her arms to welcome Sophie into them and pulled the little girl close to her bosom. “I hope you are better at this,” she whispered into Sophie’s thick dark hair. At the time, Sophie had assumed she meant planning a Diwali dinner, but after everything she has learned, she now suspects Nita meant more.