French Lover (11 page)

Nila’s voice was humble, ‘Danielle, I know it was wrong. It won’t happen again. Please forgive me?’

Danielle was relieved.

In her effort to make her friend happier, Nila continued, ‘Do you know which party has ruled West Bengal for the last thirty years? The Communist Party.’

Danielle stopped walking and her mouth fell open.

‘Thirty years?’ She spewed out some white smoke and these two words alone.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean why? We like them, we vote for them.’

‘You vote for the communists?’

‘Sure.’

‘Shame!’

Danielle shook her head all the way back home and exclaimed that Hitler had killed far less people than Stalin. She claimed Marx was wrong and so was Engels, Lenin was a fake, he was actually a terrorist.

Danielle and her Indian castaway of a friend were invited to dinner at Nicole Nemeret’s house. Danielle had a rendezvous with a reporter of a new magazine at Café Cairo. Before going there she told Nila to be ready for the dinner party at seven.

When she returned, Nila was still lying and reading
A Moveable Feast
. Danielle was puzzled, ‘What’s up? Why aren’t you dressed yet?’

Nila stretched lazily, ‘So soon? What time is it?’

‘Seven.’

‘That’s not too late.’

‘I told you to be ready at seven.’

Nila sat up, ‘I haven’t even showered yet.’

‘What?’ Danielle was amazed.

‘I haven’t ironed my clothes.’

Danielle dropped down on the chair, ‘We have to reach Nicole’s place at seven thirty. I told you that.’

Nila couldn’t understand what was the harm in reaching a half-hour or so later. In Calcutta they always attended invitations a few hours late. It was rude to reach at the invited time. For Danielle, of course, the opposite was true. Nila would have to use the common bath for her shower and by then Danielle would kill herself. Danielle was wearing a long black dress. Nila didn’t bother with ironing and pulled on whatever came to hand. Nila knew that few people wore ironed clothes here. Most of the winter months the clothes were hidden under heavy coats or sweaters.

‘Jeans? It’s a dinner party.’

‘Does it look bad?’

‘Jeans are for the daytime, the workplace.’

They were so short of time that Danielle went along with her jeans. Nila quickly stuck a red bindi on her forehead, hoping that’d
make up for her lack of formals.

It was two and a half minutes from Danielle’s house to Gare d’Austerlitz; from there to the metro station near Nicole’s house was twenty-two minutes and then it took five minutes to walk to Nicole’s house. That left them with one and a half minutes. One minute would be needed if they came up against a red light while crossing the street and another half a minute to take the stairs if the lift was too crowded. They didn’t face a red light and the lift wasn’t crowded. Still, when they entered Nicole’s house, it was seven thirty-seven.

Danielle apologized for the delay as soon as they entered. Nicole, with red hair and green eyes, dressed in a long black dress, taller and older than Nila, forgave Danielle.

There were three others invited: Maria Svenson, Michelle Kauz and Rita Cixous. Everyone was standing with champagne glasses in their hands. Only Maria had orange juice in hers. They all wore long black dresses. Nila assumed there was an intimate connection between a dinner party and long black dresses. The minute they entered, Nicole and her guests kissed Nila and Danielle on both cheeks.

Maria was from Sweden and she headed a feminist organization. She’d come to Paris to give a speech at a conference about women’s participation in politics. Michelle wasn’t from Paris. She lived in a place called Fizaq in the south of France and she was here to attend the same conference. Rita Cixous was Jewish, born in Algeria and she lived in Paris; she directed films, was a close friend of Nicole and was always present at any gathering in her house. Nicole taught at College de France. Danielle also had an identity: she was a writer. Nila’s singularity? She was from India. What did she do? Nothing.

Nila thought, ‘That’s true; in Paris I am either Mrs Kishanlal or Nilanjana Mandal, labourer.’

Danielle took pity on her and gave her another identity as her friend. Nila was relieved. But just then two huge dogs pounced on her. Nila screamed and ran for life; the whole room burst into laughter. Danielle called out to one, picked it up and began to kiss it. Nicole picked up the other one and began to rock it as if she was soothing a baby.

Maria asked tentatively, ‘Are you scared of dogs?’

No one in that house had ever seen anything as strange as someone screaming instead of hugging dogs. The way the five pairs of eyes were observing her, Nila felt they suspected her to be crazy.

Rita asked very mildly, ‘Do you have any problems? Sometimes there are certain conditions in which if you see a dog . . .’

Danielle rescued her from the fate of being diagnosed as mentally ill, ‘Perhaps she has never seen a dog before. They don’t have dogs in her country.’

If Nila could have gone along with that, she would have been safe. But she said, ‘We do have dogs.’

‘You do?’ Nicole was startled.

The five pairs of eyes held the same question, ‘Why were you afraid?’

Nila didn’t dare to answer. The eyes looked away, as did the dogs and the four black cats.

In the lengthy discussion that followed, Nila’s participation wasn’t solicited. The discussion over champagne was all about cats and dogs, which one Nicole found still asleep in the morning and which jumped up on her bed, which one looked at her and then moved away and which one didn’t like the food that morning, who was sleeping on the sofa watching TV and forgot to eat and which one was sulking for the last two days, etc. etc. Nila noticed everyone joined in with great enthusiasm, exclaiming and stroking the pets as they nodded and talked. Nila was holding her breath because she couldn’t stand the smell of cats. She found everyone standing and talking although all the seats were empty. Perhaps they wanted to show off their dresses or the accessories. Nila glanced down at her blue jeans, bright yellow, crumpled T-shirt and green jacket and realized that she looked quite hideous. In order to spare everyone the sight of her, she broke the circle and curled up on the sofa. Immediately she realized she had done something terribly wrong. You should keep standing in the circle until you were asked to take a seat. If you wear something crazy, don’t know your manners or have any decorum, don’t know how to stand upright and carry yourself, then let that be so. Nevertheless Nila now sat there and sweated
heavily; she realized that everyone had hung their coats as they entered the room because it was warm inside, with the warmth of people, animals, culture and pride.

The fireplace in the corner was lit and a grand piano stood in another corner. These two were indispensable in a rich home. Carefully, without attracting their attention, she went and hung up her green jacket. But the bright colour gave off the sparks of uncultured taste, nonetheless.

‘Flune loves spring,’ Nicole came towards the sofa and asked them all to take a seat. ‘Can you smell spring in the air?’

They all acquiesced: the smell of new leaves, new blooms; the windows were open and the smell tumbled in. Nila took a deep breath to get what they were talking about but all she got was the stench of animal coats.

Rita said, ‘The winter was terrible.’

Maria and Danielle didn’t agree that it was colder than Montreal or Upsala. Danielle had left Canada six years ago. She didn’t want to ever go back to that cold country or even take its name because that brought on a snowy mountain of memories upon her, like an avalanche.

Now they looked at Nila, who sat in one corner of the sofa, picking her nails, ‘What season is it now in India?’

It was Danielle who asked the question. Perhaps she wanted to show off that her friend wasn’t all that dumb and she knew what season it was in India. She also wanted to rescue Nila from her solitude.

Actually Nila wasn’t feeling lonely till now. In a rueful tone she said, ‘Spring.’

‘Spring?’ Nicole’s brows were tinged with disbelief.

‘Is India to the north or the south of the equator?’

Rita said, ‘North.’

Nicole said, ‘Oh no, it’s to the south.’

Danielle said, ‘If it’s spring there, it must be in the north.’

Nicole got up and returned with a huge book. Five heads were gathered over the world map: red (Nicole’s), blonde (Maria’s), black (Rita’s), chestnut (Michelle’s) and titian (Danielle’s).

Nila looked at the five heads from afar.

Now Rita, the one who gave the right answer, leaned towards Nila and said, ‘What was that director’s name, the one who made
Salon de Musique
. . . Satyajit Ray. I have seen his films.’ Rita’s face wore a wide grin.

Nila smiled and asked, ‘Which ones have you seen?’

‘Almost all of them.’

Nila was eager, ‘Have you seen
Pather Panchali
?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t like it that much.’

‘No?’ Nila was surprised. ‘
Charulata
?’

‘Yes. But his best film is
Salon de Musique
.’

Since Nila liked
Pather Panchali
the best, she was a little taken aback to hear Rita’s opinion; but then Rita was the only one in the room who had some thoughts about an Indian and a Bengali. So, even if she’d said she liked
Kapurush Mahapurush
the best, Nila wouldn’t have shown any surprise. Actually Rita was the one who rescued Nila and truly set her free.

Nila asked, ‘Have you seen the films of any other Indian director?’

‘I’ve seen a few. But there’re too many songs and dances in your films.’

‘That’s true, cheap fights and no taste.’ There was no way Nila could disown those Hindi films.

Have you seen films by Ritwik Ghatak, Mrinal Sen, Aparna Sen, Budhhadev Dasgupta? No. Have you heard of them? No.

So far Rita hadn’t made any full-length films. They were all short ones, two minutes, five minutes or fifteen minutes. She had made three films on the life of Kurdish women and another one on the prostitution of Russian women in Turkey. A full-length film? It was easy but getting a producer was tough.

Danielle said, ‘If you set out to exhibit women in a film, producers would queue up at your doorstep.’

Nicole corrected her, ‘Male producers.’

There were many kinds of liquor on the table and they were all helping themselves. Nicole was pouring out the drinks. Maria shook her head vehemently, she wouldn’t drink because she would be driving. Why had she rented a car for just these two days in Paris? She was headed south, to Cannes, after her stay in Paris. Was she speaking
there as well? No, she would sunbathe in the southern sun.

Michelle Kauz winked, ‘She’s Swedish and if they know nothing else they know how to obey rules. We, the French, can never touch the steering without a few pegs down our throat.’

Nila asked for a Porteau as the bottle looked prettier than other bottles and she had to drink something because otherwise they’d think her unsophisticated. When Nicole handed her the glass, she remembered to thank her, ‘Merci beaucoup.’ It had taken her a long time to learn to pronounce these words. She used to pronounce it phonetically and people would look at her strangely. Nila was convinced that this was one language that you couldn’t learn from books.

The discussion veered from male producers to female producers to female directors—from there it shot back a hundred years: Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth, Cady Stanton, the suffragettes. From there it was one jump to the labour movement and from there to birth control to the number of women in the parliament of egalite: not even ten per cent. Such a shame! Elizabeth Gigout deserved some credit—fifty per cent women should be nominated by a party! That was a lot.

Maria’s nose was high in the air when she said, ‘We have no such hassles. Women are more than forty per cent in the parliament.’

Nicole looked crestfallen, ‘Whatever happens, it’s all in Scandinavia.’

Maria’s tone was angry, ‘Rubbish. Take a look at the academic positions, they are all filled by men.’

They all listened to Maria intently, Maria of the snowy lands. It was originally the land of the Vikings who used to attack other villages, loot and kill. Now their scions were known to be the most civilized in the world. Equality and peace reigned supreme in the Viking lands.

Michelle said, ‘Times have changed, you must admit. Just think of the condition of women once in Europe—the church used to burn them alive, didn’t it?’

Nicole raised her hands and silenced everyone. Then she uttered each word slowly and clearly, ‘Things have changed only on the surface; beneath it all, everything is the same as always: man still
exploits woman and the frameworks of exploitation haven’t changed at all.’

‘What do you mean by always, Nicole. Once there was a matriarchal society. Man used brute strength to snatch power away from woman.’

Nicole was vehement, ‘There was never any matriarchy anywhere in the world. What there was once, was matrilocal and matrilinear. Women inherited property and children took their mother’s name. That doesn’t make it matriarchy.’

Danielle had said that they’d decided to speak in English for Maria’s and Nila’s sake. But if Maria wasn’t there, Nila knew they’d have spoken in French because it wasn’t a discussion in which Nila could even participate. So she tried to show off her knowledge of French and compensate for the lack of her knowledge of feminism: ‘Jay pore avoir du bhin rugee, sil bhous plait.’

No one understood what she said. Finally when she repeated her request in English, everyone was rolling with laughter. Danielle corrected her, ‘Je peux avoir du vin rouge, s’il vous plait.’ Nila kept her lips tightly shut as it seemed every time she opened them, she was in trouble. In the wave of laughter Nicole raised her head like a seal and began to discuss the menu for dinner. She wanted to cook some pork with garlic.

Mmmmm, everyone else said.

‘Mashed potatoes, salad and cheese. There’s also some tart,’ Nicole said.

Mmmmmm.

‘Finally, coffee.’

Mmmmmm.

Nicole went into the kitchen to take the pork out of the fridge. Danielle and Rita followed her. Nila was sure it would take ages for the meal to be ready. But hardly a few minutes had passed and the pork was on the table. Nila had no clue how the meat cooked in such a short time. Quickly Nicole pointed to each one her chair and ordered them to come to the table with their respective drinks. ‘Help yourselves to everything.’

‘How has this been cooked?’

‘Fried in butter with a clove of garlic mashed into it.’

Garlic pork! Nila held the knife in the left hand and the fork in the right and tried to slice up the pork. The cutlery went flying out of her hands. She slid a glance around and realized she was holding them wrong. Quickly she changed them around and tried again. It was pointless. No one was looking at her, perhaps to spare her the embarrassment. But Nila felt, if they’d fussed over her instead and commented on her unwieldy use of the cutlery, she could also have laughed and said, ‘Actually, we are used to eating with our fingers. The food tastes heavenly and brings you closer to it.’ But the silence at the table only made her squirm some more and feel uncomfortable.