French Lover (8 page)

Nila lay down, picked up the phone and dialled one of his office numbers. A girl spoke rapidly in French. Nila asked if she knew English. The girl said no and slammed the phone down.

She tried the second number, got the same voice and the same treatment. Nila looked above Sunil’s name and found Sanal’s. He also had two numbers. She feared another slamming of the phone and didn’t dial the office number.

Finally she called the Taj Mahal to tell Kishan that he had forgotten his notebook. He wasn’t there. He hadn’t reached yet. The restaurant had just opened. The tables were being laid and napkins were being arranged in glasses. Loban was being sprayed.

Nila asked, ‘Don’t you hate the smell?’

‘People here like it. I hate it. Feels like someone has died,’ Mojammel replied.

‘What’s the menu for lunch?’

Nothing new was ever cooked. There was always half-cooked food in the fridge. It was fried afresh and mixed in the same old gravy. But the tandoori chicken and naan needed special attention. That’s what was most in demand.

‘Oh.’

‘You haven’t visited us in a while.’

‘I’ll come one day, to eat. I’ve almost forgotten the taste of meat, just chewing greens and vegetables like a goat.’

Mojammel laughed. He said, ‘But you know, they have a lot of vitamins.’

‘That’s true. The cup runneth over with vitamins.’ Nila also laughed.

‘Didi, are you studying or working?’

‘Not studying. But working, yes—running a household. Without pay.’

Mojammel and Nila both laughed.

‘Mojammel, you have worked in many places—could you look out for a job for me?’ Nila’s tone was serious.

‘You’ll work? Why don’t you tell Kishanbabu? He knows many people. I do small jobs and I know nothing of the good jobs.’

Even before Mojammel finished, Nila said, ‘I want a small job.
You’ve done your master’s in chemistry and you wash dishes—I may as well sweep the floor after a master’s in Bengali literature.’ Nila’s tone was as serious as before.

‘Oh no, no, didi. I do this because I have no choice.’

‘And do I have a lot of choice?’ They both laughed.

‘Kishanbabu earns a decent living.’

‘So?’

‘But that should be enough.’

‘Mojammel, Kishan earns and that’s his money, not mine.’

Mojammel was embarrassed. He spoke haltingly, ‘If you speak to Kishanbabu, I’m sure . . .’

‘He doesn’t approve of his wife working outside.’

‘But his first wife did.’

‘First wife?’

Mojammel was silent. Then he asked, ‘Didn’t you know?’

‘Well, no . . .’

Mojammel mumbled about some customers and hung up.

That evening Nila called Sunil at home and asked about Kishan’s first marriage.

‘But didn’t you know?’

‘No.’

‘Well, he had a French wife—Immanuelle. Didn’t Kishan tell you?’

‘No.’

‘Really! I thought you’d agreed to the marriage knowing all about it.’

Nila wondered if this fact about Kishan’s past life affected her in any way. But strangely enough, she didn’t feel anything. Nothing at all.

‘What’s wrong with you—sleeping at this time of the day?’ Kishan woke her up in the evening and asked.

Nila stretched and said, ‘Time is my biggest enemy and I’m trying to kill it—by sleeping.’

‘I’ve invited two people for dinner. You have to cook up a few
dishes. Why don’t you get going.’

Nila laughed and said, ‘See, you’ve just given me work. Who are these guests?’

‘A Punjabi couple. You haven’t met them.’

‘All these Indian friends—don’t you have any foreigners for friends?’

‘I do, but they’re for the workspace. The closer friends are all Indians.’

‘Was Immanuelle also a friend in the workspace?’

‘Who’s Immanuelle?’

‘Your wife.’

‘Oh. Who told you?’

‘Does that really matter?’

‘Looks like you’re upset.’

‘Not at all—that won’t do, right?’

‘If I hadn’t married Immanuelle, I wouldn’t be a French citizen and neither would you.’

‘But you never told me about Immanuelle.’

‘If I did, would you have agreed to the marriage?’

‘Perhaps not.’

‘Yes you would.’

‘How are you so sure?’

‘Because Sushanta, the great love, had ditched you and if I didn’t marry you, no one else would. News travels far and fast. You had slept with the guy, hadn’t you?’

A deluge of cold water flooded her heart.

‘Are you going to go on sleeping? There’s cooking to be done.’ Kishan raised his voice as he loosened his tie.

After Kishan left the next morning, Nila lazed around in bed. She was thinking of the big hubbub with his Punjabi friends the night before. She had heard them laughing and talking until midnight. Kishan told her that the cooking wasn’t up to the mark, the naan was burnt and there was something missing in the daal makhani and although the Punjabi friend’s wife said the cauliflower curry was good, Kishan felt it could have been better. Nila suddenly felt she was her mother,
Molina. Anirban used to invite friends suddenly, just like this, and ask Molina to cook dinner. She would slog in the kitchen and then Anirban would criticize it all, just like this. Molina tried very hard to please her husband, but she failed miserably each time.

Nila called Sanal. He didn’t recognize her voice. There was no reason for him to.

‘Nila, Nilanjana Mandal.’

‘Oh, Mrs Kishanlal.’

Yes, Mrs Kishanlal.

‘So, Mrs Lal, what’s up?’

Nila could tell that he was expecting some significant news.

‘I just called you . . . no reason . . . just got your number and I thought I’ll ask you how you are doing.’

‘I am fine. Doing very well indeed. And how are you?’ Sanal’s voice was merry as usual.

‘Oh all right I suppose. Why don’t you come over some day, it’s been a while since we saw you.’ Nila’s voice was fervid.

‘So where is the husband, is he with you?’

‘Oh no, he is busy all the time.’

‘Hm. In this country you have to be busy. So, bhabhiji, I also have a lot of work. I must rush.’ Sanal’s tone was impatient.

‘Oh, fine. I’m sorry for calling you at a bad time.’ Nila hung up. She was angry with herself. She didn’t know why she made that call, to hear how busy Sanal was, so busy that even though Nila called him, not only was he unable to talk, he didn’t even say when he’d be able to talk. He was so busy that even after Nila hinted that she wasn’t fine, Sanal had no interest in knowing why or what was happening in her life. Why did she want to talk to Sanal? Was it just to talk to someone? If that was it, she could have talked to Molina or any of her friends in Calcutta. Although Calcutta was far away and Kishan had warned her that if she made international calls too often, the sharp razor of French telecom would slit their throats, she could have talked to Sunil and Chaitali here in Paris. She didn’t because she wanted to talk to Sanal and no one else, the Sanal who was infamous for fooling around with other people’s wives, pouncing on them and eloping with them—Nila
wanted
him to take her away from that house,
somehow. She asked herself if that was indeed the reason. She didn’t come up with the answer. These days she felt she didn’t know many things. She had no idea why she was lying around all day or why she didn’t even get up and have a cup of tea. She had no idea why she didn’t get up to bathe, eat or even look out of the window, why she started reading the books she brought from Sunil’s and then couldn’t go on.

In the evening the phone rang. Nila turned her back on it and lay there. When she heard Sunil’s voice on the answering machine she picked it up.

‘What’s wrong Nila, why didn’t you pick up the phone?’

‘I was sleeping.’

‘Now? How are you doing?’

‘Okay.’

‘Is Kishan at home?’

‘No.’

‘But he’s not in the restaurant either and he isn’t answering the mobile. So I thought he must have come home.’

‘No, he hasn’t.’

‘How do you spend your time—what have you seen in Paris?’

‘The Eiffel Tower.’

‘And?’

‘And some shops.’

‘You haven’t been to the Louvre?’

‘No.’

‘Musée d’Orsay?’

‘No.’

‘You haven’t seen Picasso or Rodin?’

‘No.’

‘I’d asked Kishan to let you come with us one day so that we could take you to the exhibitions—there’s so much to see here. But he said he’ll take you himself and anyway, the first few months after marriage everyone sticks to their wives.’ Sunil laughed his familiar laugh. ‘I’ve seen it with myself. After my marriage to Chaitali, I didn’t even go to work for two months—we were stuck to one another
with glue.’

Suddenly Nila asked, ‘Sunilda, do you know of any jobs?’

‘Jobs? Why? For whom?’

‘For me.’

‘You will work?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you told Kishan? What does he say?’

‘I haven’t told him.’

‘But that won’t do!’

‘Kishan, Kishan, Kishan—it’s as if there’s nothing else in my life!’

‘It’s not that. But you must learn the language first . . .’

‘Where can I learn the language?’

‘Why don’t you go to the Alliance Française? Just tell Kishan—’

‘Give me the address and tell me how to go there—I can find the place.’

‘Kishan would mind . . .’

Nila sighed.

Sunil said, ‘When Kishan comes home, just tell him to give me a call at home.’

‘Anything important?’

‘Yeah, it’s about that Puja Committee. He had said he’d find some people who’ll give donations.’

‘Oh.’

Nila used the key, which Kishan had advised her to use only when the house was on fire—and walked aimlessly on the street. She had a map of the city and some money in her pocket. She went into that palace called Gare du Nord and saw people milling around, catching the train and getting off it, trains starting and stopping. Nila leaned against a pillar and watched them; she wanted to go somewhere far off. The blue-eyed, blond-eyed princes were dashing off on those trains; no one asked Nila to come with him. Suddenly she wondered if she was visible. She looked at herself, dressed in a pair of new black jeans, a white silk shirt and a pink cardigan, shining black shoes on
her feet—Nila didn’t think she was ugly. In fact if she walked like that in the streets of Calcutta many men would have turned to look at her.

She came out of the palace and walked aimlessly again. When she came to a bus-stop, she found buses arriving by the minute and she boarded one, without knowing where it went or what number it was. Kishan had once said that she could get lost in the city if she went out alone. She felt it could be a nice thing actually. She wanted to lose herself, to go to a place from where she wouldn’t know her way back. She went as far as the bus would take her. Then she got into another bus. Her eyes held a mixture of sorrow and excitement. In Calcutta the buses were crammed full, it was sticky and hot and you got dust in your eyes and face. Here the buses were air-conditioned with lots of windows and no dust at all. You had to get in by the front door, hold up the ticket in front of the driver (the orange ticket for the whole month) and go in. If you didn’t have the orange ticket, then you bought the green ticket from the driver for eight francs, put it into the small machine which would noisily stamp the date and time on it. Then you sat on the cushioned seats. There was no ruckus, no stories about politics or the fish market or household gossip. Everyone was calm, everyone wore a smile and no one poked their nose in other people’s lives. A brown-skinned girl sat among a sea of white faces. No one came forward to ask her where she was from or where she lived. Nila gazed at the happy faces all around her. A couple got into the bus, with a child in a pram. The baby slept while the young couple kissed in front of the busload of people. An intimate kiss, it was a French kiss. Nila’s ears burned but she noticed that no one else in the bus was even glancing at the kissing couple. In Calcutta they would have been promptly pushed out of the bus for indecent behaviour. Nila felt that this kiss, simply because they wanted it and didn’t want to keep it for the bedroom or a secluded spot, was the most decent and beautiful thing in the world. In Calcutta she had never been able to hold Sushanta’s hand for fear of people’s gaze. That same fear had driven them four miles out of Calcutta to a secluded place behind a shanty to steal the odd kiss or two. Nila and Sushanta had feared people the most. They hadn’t minded the odd fox or two
behind the woods, but it was people they had been terrified of.

Nila saw the young man kissing the woman and stroking her back lovingly. The two bodies were entwined. Nila wanted to be kissed like that; she wanted such a handsome young man to love her, hug her and kiss her as deeply. When the bus reached the Seine, Nila got off. She walked along the river looking at the rows of green box-like bookstores on the pavement. There were tourists thronging the place, not to buy books but to take pictures. As she walked she came up to the Louvre. Like a crazed being she ran towards the museum. She felt like a tiny ant before the massive structure and surrendered the minuteness of her existence before this vastness with pleasure. She lost herself in the endless world of the Louvre. She no longer remembered that she was Nilanjana Mandal, daughter of Anirban Mandal of Calcutta; she didn’t feel her existence anymore and the occasional hand that brushed her shoulder or neck went unheeded. She walked from Rassolio to Soulis, from Soulis to Denot like in a trance as if she wasn’t walking but was being carried on wings from one section to another. It was way past noon and Nila felt no hunger or thirst—she was far removed from this world. Nila’s evening passed in the throes of a beautiful trance. Even after she left the Louvre Nila wasn’t herself. She sat like a statue beside the glass pyramid. Nila forgot that she had to go back home, forgot that she had just one identity—that she was Mrs Lal, Mrs Kishanlal.

She returned home to find that Kishan wasn’t back yet. Nila had a good soak in the bathtub. She didn’t feel like getting out and cooking. When Kishan came back, he found her immersed in the white froth. He stood at the bathroom door and said, ‘What’s wrong? Why are you having a bath at this time? Come on, get up.’