She takes a deep breath. “That’s just it. I don’t know where she is. She left India—left our family—when I was six years old. I thought she was dead all this time. It was only after my papa passed away a couple weeks ago that I learned the truth.” She looks at him out of the corner of her eye. He does not flinch at her news, so she continues. “I thought I needed to find her now that I’m alone. But it’s been hard, given how much time has passed, and I have very little to go on.”
Manoj walks next to her, not sharing his thoughts. She lets the silence sit between them as they go another block.
“My mother died seven years ago,” he says. “Really died. Cancer. We were with her until the end, so I don’t have to worry about whether it happened or not. There is some peace in seeing someone who was suffering break free of that pain.” He looks at her. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I cannot imagine what it must be like to think your mother had died and then to later learn she hadn’t.”
These are the first moments of kindness Sophie has felt from Manoj. He had let her glimpse past his hard exterior. She sees a young man, and she thinks maybe he is as lost as she is and just wants to feel cared for. She believes she sees the bravado he puts on for his papa so that his papa doesn’t worry about him. She imagines that he goes into the restaurant each day and sees constant reminders of his mother and a different time in his life. Maybe it was she who helped him prepare the shaaks, and that is why he is so resentful of Sophie being in the kitchen with him. Sophie understands why he and his papa are so close and so invested in the restaurant that has been their family business for so many years.
“Everyone’s path is different,” Sophie says. “I can’t change the fact that this is mine.”
“Do you want me to help you find her?” he asks.
“Your family has already done so much for me,” Sophie says, not wanting to add to his burden, especially now that she understands it better.
“I know this city better than anyone. I used to do deliveries for the restaurant on my bike, so I know every hidden street or alley. And you clearly need some guidance on which streets are okay and which are not!”
From her first few days of being in the kitchen with Manoj, she has not been able to fathom that a friendship would ever ensue. But now she can see the gentleness beneath his gruff demeanor. She knows how much he could help her and is desperate to find answers and move on to the next stage of her life—whatever that may be. But she knows she can help him, too, and has found the right opportunity.
“How about if we make a trade?” Sophie says.
Manoj cocks his head, intrigued by her suggestion. “What are you offering?”
“I saw your papa looking over the books and ledgers for the restaurant. I can see how much the place means to both of you. I know the finances are tight, but I have a real skill at balancing budgets and finding efficiencies. It is my job back in India, so if you can convince him, then maybe we can help each other.”
Manoj looks at her pointedly. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“Neither do you,” she says as they turn the corner to her hostel, a smile creeping onto her face.
30
NITA
1999
The rain had started coming down harder while she had been inside, and her umbrella did little to shield her from it. It was even colder now that the sun had almost fully set. She strolled aimlessly through the streets of the Marais, realizing she had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. Dao was visiting her family in England. Even if she had been in town, Nita could imagine the knowing look on her face after she explained what had happened. Dao had tried to warn her about Mathieu. She’d said that she didn’t “get a good vibe from him” and that he “seemed more interested in himself than in her.”
The only other people she knew in Paris were Julien and Simon. Julien was obviously out of the question, and Simon had always been kind to her, but he was Mathieu’s friend. What could she even say to him?
Her fingers began to feel numb as the rain seeped through her wool knit gloves. She had 146 francs in her purse, so at least she could duck into a bistro and have a meal and tea while she thought things through. But then she feared spending that money, not sure if she would have a place to sleep or for how many days she’d need that money to last. She already regretted the fifty-four francs she had spent on the wine.
As she crossed over the Seine at Pont Neuf, she knew her feet had been taking her toward the only place she could think of going for the night: Le Canard Volant. The hostel looked so different to her now than it had when she had first arrived in Paris over six months ago. Or maybe it was that she had changed. Aged in the couple months since she had stopped taking on shifts there and had settled into her life with Mathieu and painting and posing nude. She hadn’t been good at keeping in touch with Dao or Cecile and suspected that was because she was ashamed of them learning who she had become. They were the first two people she had met in France, and they had seen the version of her before Mathieu. She could hardly recall that person anymore.
She opened the door and was surprised to see Cecile with her bright-red lips visible from across the dark room.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she said, rising from the reception desk.
“Cecile!” Nita was elated to see a familiar face, even if it was one she felt guilty for neglecting.
The two women exchanged kisses on the cheek.
Cecile smiled at her and asked, “What brings you to our fair arrondissement? I thought you were off living with that mysterious artist in the Marais. A rive droite person now.”
Nita’s eyes welled up, and Cecile’s expression turned somber. If there was a universal look that transcended all cultures and countries, it was the look of a woman with a broken heart.
“He’s probably got shit for brains anyways,” Cecile said as she led Nita to the old, battered couch in the lobby.
Nita smiled gratefully at the first person she had met in Paris. How far they had come. Or maybe it was more like how far Nita had sunk since that day. She was living a life she could never have predicted when she came to France to become the artist she had dreamed of. And yes, she had sold a painting that day, but at what price? Would she have been better off in Ahmedabad, painting at the window near their dining table? Rajiv, with his kind way, would indulge her curiosity and buy her picture books of France and Paris. It had all seemed so glamorous in the glossy pages, chic people with berets in cafés along the Seine, majestic views of the Eiffel Tower from all directions, lavender fields in Provence, pristine beaches in Saint-Tropez. Living the life was nothing like that. She had probably been too naive to realize that photographs were taken only of the good times. And she’d had far more bad times than good since she’d left. She considered this her karma. She had done such a selfish thing in leaving that it was bound to have negative repercussions. She had been crazy for not knowing that from the start and was now realizing she should never have left Ahmedabad in the first place.
“Are there any beds free for tonight?” Nita asked her.
Cecile nodded. “Let me check to see if I can finagle a private room for you so you needn’t deal with the riffraff. There’s a noisy group of British university girls who are impossible with their manners.”