French Lover (20 page)

The two bodies entwined, enmeshed, rolled from one side of the bed to the other and fell on the floor.

‘Can you dance?’ Benoir whispered again.

Nila couldn’t dance, she had never learnt.

‘Dance, wildly, turn your back on me and dance.’ Benoir turned her around and made her dance. She had never danced like that before. He stroked her back and taught her how to dance. Then he bent her forward and lay her face down and covered her lovely body with his beautiful one. The storm crashed on the backyard and it was havoc all over again. Nila shrieked as lightning flashed. The storm didn’t abate one bit and just heaved Nila’s pelvis up. Her hips were in his hands. He knelt down and raised waves in her ocean once again. Nila was panting. Benoir picked her up from the floor and put her down on the bed. He brought a glass of water, drank half of it and gave her the
rest. As she drank the water, from the corner of her eye she saw that the red giant’s tongue was hanging out and it was still quivering. Benoir picked her up, sat on the sofa and made Nila sit on him He kissed her all over, aroused her again and said, ‘Why do you keep such lovely hips passive? Shake it, shake it, shake my universe.’

She didn’t know how to shake it. Benoir had to do it for her. When the storm grew intense Benoir stood up holding Nila in place. He lifted her and pushed her against the wall, storming her insides again and again. The room swayed as Nila climaxed, Benoir swayed. As they swayed, he put her down on the bed, on her side, as if she was a little child. He held her from behind, her breasts, his cherries. Then the storm whipped up all over again, that destructive crazy storm which entered Nila’s tranquil temple turbulently and ripped her apart, sweat mixed with lightning, the shock waves transmitted from Nila to Benoir and back to Nila. Benoir drowned her, soaked her entire world.

Sweat dripped off Benoir’s chest, back and hair. He hugged Nila’s throbbing body close to him and lay there.

The candle had gone out and Bryan Adams had stopped singing. The hands of the clock had moved past three hours, past midnight. Nila was half asleep, taking in the scent of Benoir’s chest. She felt he was that prince of her dreams, who would come and carry her away on horseback. This was that palace and he was her prince. There was a strange calm in her body, joy in her heart. Nila believed no one could be happier than this. She had never felt love so strong. Her voice shook as she said, ‘Benoir, I love you very much.’

Benoir opened his eyes, kissed her lips lightly and said, ‘I like you, I like you a lot.’

Nila asked, ‘Don’t you love me?’

‘Not yet.’

She sat up in bewilderment. ‘What did you say? You
don’t
love me?’

‘No.’ Benoir was calm.

‘If you don’t love me, how could do all this like the devoted
lover? How does your body get aroused at the sight of someone you don’t love?’

Benoir said, ‘I like you. Why wouldn’t it arouse me?’

‘I hate myself. Yuck!’

Benoir sat up. ‘What are you saying?’

‘You thought she’s from a poor country, she can hardly feed or clothe herself. I can easily talk her into bed!’

Benoir’s forehead and eyes crinkled up. Nila dressed as quickly as she could.

‘Are you a fool? How can you love someone so soon? Maybe I will, one day,’ Benoir said.

‘Maybe you won’t.’

‘Are you leaving?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s late, Nila. Stay here.’

‘Stay here? Aren’t you scared? Pascale, whom you love, may come over suddenly.’

Benoir, naked with a limp and sated penis, sat there stunned as Nila walked out.

Nila was stalked by the humiliation, it walked in front of her, it flanked her as she walked. It held her against the wall and wreaked havoc within and without. Nila now knew that what Benoir had done had nothing to do with love; he had enjoyed her body, just as a lusty rapist would enjoy a stupid silly girl. Shame, Nila, shame! Why don’t you die? Hang yourself, like Mithu.

This wasn’t Calcutta; it was Paris. It stayed awake all night. Lift your hand and a taxi was there; reach out and a lover was there.

When Nila came back home Sunil woke up from sleep and opened the door for her. He asked, ‘Where were you?’

‘At a friend’s place.’

‘One Mr Benoir called twice. He has asked you to call him when you return.’ Sunil went towards his bedroom.

Nila also walked towards hers. Just when she had switched off the lights and was about to go to bed, the phone rang. Tumpa cried, ‘Ma, Ma.’ Sunil called out, ‘Nila, it’s a call for you.’

It was Benoir.

‘Why have you called at this hour? People are sleeping.’

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Now, at this hour?’

‘Yes.’

‘No. I am sleepy and I’m going to sleep.’

‘Will you meet me tomorrow?’

‘No.’ Nila hung up. As she walked away, it rang again. She took it off the hook and went to bed.

Nila went out early in the morning. She knew that if she stayed at home she’d have to face a hundred questions, who was this Benoir and why was he calling late in the night and disturbing everyone, why didn’t Nila finish her business with him outside, etc. etc. Once outside, Nila walked around aimlessly; there were people everywhere. Women walked around showing off their waxed, hairless legs, wearing backless dresses. They walked and their breasts, their hips swayed. All winter they had chewed on salads and maintained themselves, got rid of any flab and now they were showing off. It was summer, the time of joy. Nila was sweating in the sweltering heat and she searched for shade as others walked in the sun. Everyone was
sweating, but they wanted the sun; their white skin would get sunburnt and yet they wanted the sun. People left their homes in summer when the sun poured out shafts of hot rays. The cinemas and theatres were empty. Four walls and a roof were for the winter, not summer. No one sat indoor in the cafés and restaurants—always on the terrace, basking in the sun, drinking, eating. In the scorching heat of the afternoon Nila saw a hundred men and women lying half naked in the Jardin des Tuileries. While Nila could hardly bear the heat, the people of this wintry land were lapping it up as if it was the tastiest dish in the world. In the milling crowds, Nila was the only one who walked alone. Everyone had a partner, everyone was busy kissing. It was the same in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

Nila walked around for a while after leaving the Luxembourg gardens, bought some books at William and Smith and went into Passage Bradis for some Indian food. Books were the only recourse for those who didn’t have a lover. They used books to hide their loneliness in gardens, cafés, trains. At the Passage Bradis she saw, for the first time that day, a girl alone. The girl was very dark, but her nose wasn’t snub and her hair wasn’t curly, she couldn’t be from Africa. She was the only other diner at the place. Nila took the table next to the girl and thought, ‘She is bound to be an Indian.’ But when the girl spoke in perfect French instead of any Indian language, and asked the waiter for water, food (less spicy), Nila looked up from her book and tried to gauge the girl in a new light. Their eyes met several times. So Nila felt a sense of obligation to exchange a few sentences. She asked, ‘What is your mother-tongue?’

The girl replied, ‘French.’

Nila was prepared for Tamil or Malayalam. ‘Aren’t you Indian?’

‘No.’

‘Then where are you from?’

‘France.’

Nila was curious, ‘Where were you born?’

‘In India.’

Nila laughed. Foreigners dubbed themselves French the minute they got their citizenship and they forgot all about their country. Nila
kept aside the Umberto Eco she was reading and asked, ‘Where in India?’

‘Perhaps Calcutta.’

‘Calcutta?’ Nila’s eyes lit up and she spoke in Bengali. ‘Since when are you here?’

The girl smiled and said, ‘I don’t know the Indian languages.’

Nila asked, again in Bengali, ‘You are from Calcutta and you don’t know Bengali?’

The girl stared at her blankly. Her food, non-spicy, arrived and she began to eat. Nila wasn’t sure if she should go on talking to the girl or mind her own business. Of course, she didn’t have a business of her own; bohemians seldom did. Nila looked at the girl’s attractive face and large eyes and decided that she wasn’t avoiding contact with Nila. She volunteered, ‘I am from Calcutta.’

The girl extended her hand, ‘I am Morounis Vernesse.’

Nila’s lunch also arrived: rice and chicken curry. She started eating. But she realized her curiosity hadn’t abated. She was curious that although she was from Calcutta, why didn’t Morounis feel any interest in talking to her.

After the meal Morounis lit a cigarette. She wore a black T-shirt, shorts, white keds and carried a backpack. She stared distantly at the Passage.

Nila asked, ‘I suppose you came here long ago?’

Morounis said, ‘Yes.’

‘I hope you don’t mind my asking you so many questions?’

Morounis smiled, ‘No, not all.’ It was a sweet smile. Over coffee, Morounis spoke, ‘Actually my English is not very good. So I am a little shy.’

‘Who said it’s not good? You are doing fine.’

Nila was eager to dispel Morounis’s hesitation. ‘I have heard much worse English than yours. Your grammar is fine and these days no one speaks proper English.’

Nila asked, ‘Have you studied here?’

‘Yes.’

‘When did you come to Paris?’

‘Twenty-seven years ago.’

Then Morounis Vernesse spoke in her broken English: she had been in Mother Teresa’s Home in Calcutta when a French couple adopted her. Since then, from the age of two months, she had been in Paris. She was a Parisienne from head to toe. The people of the Home had picked her up from the rubbish heap when she was a month old. Her name, Morounis, was given by them.

Nila heard her story with wonder.

‘Then?’

‘Then nothing.’

‘You don’t know who your parents were?’

‘No.’

Morounis asked for another cup of coffee.

‘Have you never been to Calcutta since then?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t you want to?’

Calcutta was just like any other city to her. She didn’t have any special feelings for it to want to go there.

‘Morounis, do you ever feel sad that you couldn’t live in your own city, your own country?’

‘No, why should I? Instead, I feel it’s all for the best or else I would have died in that rubbish heap.’

She spoke the truth. But somewhere in Nila’s heart the feather of a sorrow flew in and lodged itself.

Morounis didn’t know who had dumped her there, nor could she ever know. She couldn’t even have known where she was born. When she grew up, her adoptive parents told her all this. In the documents from the Home there was only her name; beside the birth date and birthplace there were question marks and beside the parents’ names also there was a big question mark.

Nila said, ‘Suppose it was your mother who dumped you there, do you have any idea why she would have done it?’

Morounis shook her head, she had no idea at all.

Nila said, ‘It was because you are dark. No one marries women who are dark. Or perhaps your mother was unmarried and it is a great sin to be an unwed mother. Or perhaps because you are a girl. No one wants girl children; they need a dowry and maybe your parents were
poor and already had a few girls.’

Morounis laughed.

‘Doesn’t it make you feel angry?’

Morounis laughed again and said, ‘No.’

Her contentment surprised Nila.

‘Do you enjoy Indian food?’

‘Yes, very much.’

‘If I had a home here in Paris I would have cooked Bengali food for you. You don’t get the real Indian food in Indian restaurants. I have many photos of Calcutta, I’ll show you. If you want to pick up some Bengali words, I’ll teach you.’

Nila’s enthusiasm amused Morounis. Nila didn’t feel she had any desire to learn Bengali or see photos of Calcutta.

Morounis was a vibrant, lively girl and there wasn’t a trace of sorrow about her. Even after Nila told her the possible reasons for her mother dumping her in the dustbin, she wasn’t affected at all.

‘Do you know any Indians in this city?’

‘No.’

‘Have you never wanted to meet them?’

Morounis shrugged. She had never asked herself that question. Nila realized that to Morounis meeting an Indian and meeting a Portuguese would be the same experience. Nila thought that if someone, her parents, hadn’t thrown Morounis into the rubbish heap so cruelly one night, she would have grown up in Calcutta, spoken Bengali and worn a sari. She was dark and no one would have married her. Like Mithu, she would have had to hang herself.

After the third round of tea and coffee, a Frenchman, the same age as Morounis, came into the café, kissed her, held her around the waist and walked away. Before they left Morounis gave Nila her phone number and took Nila’s temporary number. Nila saw that she was not only alive, she was happy. Nila assumed the Frenchman would kiss her all day long; like all other French people Morounis would also lie around in the sun and darken her already dark skin; she hadn’t learnt to use sunshades, to wear lotions and creams and sit around all day long to make herself fairer. The Frenchman must have told her a million times, ‘What a beautiful colour you have, Morounis.’

Nila came home. Of the twelve messages on the machine, eleven were from Benoir. ‘Nila, please call me. I am thinking of you. Please come home, I am waiting for you.’

Chaitali and Sunil were not back from work yet. Nila erased Benoir’s messages from the answering machine. In the evening when they returned, neither of them asked about Benoir or questions about his relationship with Nila. Tumpa was playing in the room and Sunil and Chaitali began to discuss whether they should go to India for the Pujas or not. Chaitali felt they should go, since there was a lot of politics in the Puja Committee in Paris already. Sunil said since they’d gone home last year, this year they should go somewhere else, in Europe perhaps. Where? Sunil had an uncle who lived in London, they could visit him. The Puja in London was no less than that in Calcutta.

‘Nila, what do you feel?’ Sunil asked.

Nila shrugged and said, ‘It is entirely up to you two. But if I was given a choice between London and Calcutta, I’d have chosen the first.’

Chaitali said, ‘All our people are in Calcutta and we get a chance to see them just once a year. We shouldn’t waste the opportunity. If you want to go to London, we can take the Eurostar and be there on any Friday, spend the weekend there and come back by Monday.’

‘Fine, then go shopping and fill your suitcases. The relatives are endless. You know Nila, everyone wants something. It’s not that they need it. But they like to have some foreign odds and ends in the house. And we have so many relatives and friends. It’s not possible to take something for everyone. Tumpa’s clothes take up half the space. We have to see some disappointed faces, but that doesn’t stop us from going to Calcutta.’

Two hours passed and they still hadn’t decided about the holiday.

That night, before she went to bed, Nila got an unexpected call from Morounis. ‘If you want to go anywhere in Paris or around here, I have the next two days off and I can take you.’ Nila was delighted. She wanted to go to Giverny to see Claude Monet’s garden. Morounis told her when and where to meet her. Nila thought about Morounis
until late into the night. She need not have called Nila. This was what happened in Calcutta, but Nila had never heard of something like this in Paris. If Morounis didn’t have anything of Calcutta, then why this generosity towards Nila? She believed that although Morounis had denied it, she had felt some sort of kinship with Nila. She also believed that Morounis sometimes thought of the mother who gave birth to her, what she looked like, what she was called. Had that woman ever forgiven herself for her cruelty? Did she ever wake up at night, having a nightmare? People could be so violently cruel and so pliably soft at the same time. Nila could never make sense of them.

The next day Morounis took Nila to Giverny in her Mercedes. When she was driving on the highway at a hundred and eighty kilometres per hour, her mobile rang many times. She held her phone in the right hand and the steering in her left. As Nila stood in front of the tiny pond in Claude Monet’s garden and watched the lotus leaves floating on the restless water, she meditated on Morounis. Now Morounis was the pampered daughter of rich parents. She had studied philosophy in Sorbonne and perhaps one day she’d be a great philosopher. If she had lived in Calcutta, perhaps she wouldn’t have known her alphabet, or got two square meals and she could have died from starvation and a hard life or ended up in a brothel. There too, she’d have had less customers because she was dark.

After a few hours in Giverny Morounis took Nila to Rouen, to that famous church which Monet painted in different lights. She showed Nila the place where Joan d’Arc was burnt at the stakes, behind another church. She showed her the churches, but also said she didn’t believe in religion. Nila thought, if she had grown up in Calcutta she would have been religious, worshipped Shiva and bathed in the dirty Ganga.

When she learnt that Nila was interested in art and literature, Morounis took her to Ouver sur Oassee the next day. Twenty kilometres from Paris, it was a tiny town called Ouver on the river Oassee. Famous painters like Daubigny, Camille, Pissaro had lived here once. Paul Cezanne had also lived here and Van Gogh had come
at the invitation of an art expert, Dr Gosset. They walked through the cornfields, entered the cemetery and Nila perched on the edge of Van Gogh’s grave, covered in vines and creepers. Morounis sat on a corner of Theo’s, Van Gogh’s brother’s grave.

Nila asked, ‘Does anyone ever have all their wishes granted and all their dreams coming true in one lifetime?’

Morounis felt one didn’t; it would take the fun out of living.

Nila said, ‘Life is too short. Human beings should live to be at least two hundred.’ Morounis didn’t agree with her.

Suddenly Nila thought of something weird. ‘Tell me, Morounis, if you find two people drowning in a river, me and a French girl, and you can save only one of us, whom would you save?

Morounis said, ‘You.’