She nods. “I cannot take your charity without paying.”
He raises his hands in protest. “There is no need for any money.”
Sophie surprises herself with the courage in her voice. “I’d like to work for the food.”
He cocks his head, looking unsure of what she means.
Sophie takes a deep breath and stifles her need to be polite and tries to channel the Western women she has seen on countless television series—the ones who are not afraid to speak their mind and go after what they want. The ones who are probably more like Nita than she has ever been.
She looks directly at him. “I am in a difficult position, and I need a job.” She hesitates, teetering between maintaining her privacy and knowing she needs his help. Finally, she accepts that the balance swings against her privacy. “I was robbed when I arrived here, and I need to earn some money. Do you have any work I can do? I can do anything. I’m not choosy.”
Naresh looks at her, his warm eyes wanting to help her.
“Can you cook?” he asks.
Sophie hesitates. Less than two weeks ago, she would have been forced to say no. But her fois had just given her a crash course in Gujarati cooking for her upcoming marriage, and, while she can hardly consider herself an expert, she must do whatever it takes to get this job.
She nods but can tell Naresh is rightfully skeptical. Then she gestures toward the kitchen. “May I?”
He lets her pass through. The young cook who had prepared her food looks up when she and Naresh enter. He looks to Naresh for an answer as to why a customer is in the kitchen area. Sophie smiles at him, knowing she has only one chance to impress both men. She washes her hands with surgical precision in the sink toward the back. Then she heads toward a big mound of whole wheat dough for rotlis. She pulls off a small piece and begins rolling the cold, smooth wheat-flour-and-water mixture into a ball using the palms of her hands, just like her fois showed her. She then flattens the ball against the counter and dips the disk into the thali of rice flour nearby. Then she grabs a velon and begins rolling it like an expert, applying a little extra pressure to the right side so the circle automatically turns itself such that she can keep rolling it out into a perfect circle without ever having to stop to turn it. That was Sharmila Foi’s trick. She then places the thin dough onto the warm skillet next to her and watches it start to form small bubbles. She flips it over, allowing the other side to cook. Finally, she holds her breath and prays as she places it directly on the heat. Like magic, it puffs into a perfect circle, just like her fois had taught her! She wants to clap her hands in elation and relief, but she knows she must seem like she is an expert at this and not revel in her beginner’s luck.
She pulls the rotli off the flame and lets it deflate before adding a touch of ghee and presenting it to Naresh and his cook. The cook, still unsure of what is going on in his kitchen, looks at Naresh while he accepts the plate with the rotli from Sophie.
Naresh holds it up to eye level and smiles. “Manoj, could you use help in the kitchen? She needs to find work.”
His tone suggests that the answer needs to be yes, and Manoj shrugs. “More help is always good,” he says noncommittally, his eyes moving from Sophie to Naresh and back again.
“It is settled, then,” Naresh says. “Sophie, you can help Manoj in the kitchen.”
She beams, realizing this is the second job she’s had in her life and the first one she’s earned completely on her own, with no family help. It lifts her spirits to know that she has some survival skills outside of India, even if they are few and far between!
Naresh Uncle continues, “You must be willing to do cleaning and other things in addition to the cooking. I’ve taught my son here everything I know, so it will take time for you to learn the recipes as I like them.” Naresh put his arm around Manoj’s shoulders.
She nods eagerly. She feels good, knowing Taj Palace is a family-run business.
“We’ll need to pay you in cash . . . I suspect you don’t have any work permits.”
Sophie smiles appreciatively. “Thank you, Naresh Uncle,” she says, using the traditional conventions to show her respect for him.
While she is skeptical of Indians in Paris, given her experience with Anjali and Saumil, she knows she will get nowhere if she has no trust in her heart at all. She is a foreigner in this world, and if she has learned anything today, it is that the kindness of strangers in this city—regardless of the color of their skin—is the only thing that will help her survive and ultimately find Nita.
22
NITA
1998
Dao had made Nita promise to come by the bar with Mathieu. She had insisted on meeting the mystery man who was stealing her new friend. Le Verre Plein was small, with a dark interior. There were couches along a stone wall and bistro tables spread throughout the center. Many red and green ornaments decorated the place in celebration of the upcoming Christmas holiday. The bar had white lights strewn along the front to add to the festive feel. Dao was standing behind it, pouring red wine into two glasses and chatting with the couple sitting on the barstools in front of her. Nita steered Mathieu toward two empty seats a few down from the couple.
“Why is it so hard to get a drink around here?” Nita said loudly.
Dao made her way toward them. “Probably because you are trying to order in English when you should be speaking French,” she said, bringing her bright-red lips into a smile.
She leaned forward over the bar so Mathieu could give her bisous. “So, you’re the one occupying our Nita’s time. Very nice to meet you.” She was far more outspoken than both Nita and Mathieu, whose temperaments were more reserved. He did not respond to her comment and instead pulled out Nita’s barstool so she could sit.
“Quite the gentleman,” Dao said with a nod. “What can I get you both?” She dried her hands on a towel. “Well, I suppose I know Nita will be having a water on the rocks, but what about you, Monsieur?”
Mathieu looked at Nita with questioning eyes. She jumped in and said, “Actually, I’ll have a glass of white wine. Whatever you have open.”
Dao’s eyebrows raised. When she’d first arrived, Nita had told Dao that she hadn’t grown up drinking and it was a rare occurrence for her. Dao had told her not to worry about it, saying it was so common for the women in her family not to drink either. Since then, Nita had not told her friend about the frequent drinking and certainly not about the drugs when she was with Mathieu. She knew that participating in those things with Mathieu was one thing, but voicing her behavior to a friend was entirely another. She preferred to keep her shame private.
“As you like,” Dao said evenly, grabbing a bottle from the chiller.
Mathieu took a glass of the same, and the three of them chatted when Dao wasn’t busy pouring drinks for other patrons in the bar.
“You should come and stay with me,” Mathieu whispered into Nita’s ear while Dao was tending to another customer.
“What do you mean?” Nita said. His breath against her ear and neck always sent a shiver down her spine.
“Just as I say. Why should you pay so much rent for a boarding room you hardly use?” He nuzzled his lips just beneath her ear, sending a tingling sensation from her neck to her toes. “We can find better uses for the money we save.” He patted his coat pocket, the one where he kept his stash of hashish.