That Summer in Paris

by Abha Dawesar

  “Which do you like the most?”

  “It’s hard to have a favorite. After we met at Parrain’s house in Paris, I went back and read my favorite chapter from Meher, and suddenly you were no longer only the old man I had met but also at the same time the young man in the book. I kept thinking of myself as Meher, and you as the cousin she falls in love with.”

  “It’s fiction, Valérie. I slept with my sister, but the story of Meher is not true. The man she loves in the book is nothing like Meher’s real husband, but he has all the outer characteristics of that man because I didn’t want the book to destroy her personal life. Do you think now, while you read L’odeur de la boue humide, that I am the depressed New Yorker on the verge of finding wisdom in my motherland?”

  “Yes. I see you in every page I read now because you’re here in front of me and they are your words. I hear them as if you wrote them for me.”

  “Have you ever tried writing a story?”

  “I want to write a story. I’m trying to write about Julie.”

  “Are you in love with her?”

  “No. But we’ve had boyfriends at the same time and grown up at the same time in”—she struggled for the word—“in spurts. We wanted to experience something together.”

  She pointed to Prem with her finger as if he were an object in the room.

  “This is your common experience?” He pointed to himself.

  “Yes.”

  “But why me? Why not Cavalier? Or one of his friends?”

  “Our parrain is our parrain. We’ve known him since we were children.”

  “When did you both choose me?”

  “We talked that night after the dinner in Paris. Julie, who doesn’t like reading, started one of your books that night. She loves sculpture. When we were smaller, we could always get nearer to the objects in museums because we were children. One day she fell at the feet of St. Jean le Baptiste, you know the large one at the Musée Rodin, and started weeping over his toe. When she heard you speak about those Maillols, she said she had met her âme-sœur. How do you say that?”

  “Soul mate.”

  “Julie’s English is better than mine, but I’m going to improve mine. I’m going to read Meher in English. I want to read your words directly from your mouth.” She touched his lips with her thin fingers.

  They heard the sound of a car pull into the estate.

  “Everyone is here. I’m going to tell them I just gave you your tea.”

  Prem nodded.

  “Julie and I will take care of you tonight, okay?”

  “I’m well taken care of already. I don’t need anything more.”

  “I need something more,” Valérie said. She brought her mouth close to his and kissed him gently on the lips. Prem closed his eyes to receive them and kept them closed until she had left and closed the door behind her. There were moments when Meher had transformed from a young girl into an ardent woman, giving him glimpses at the ages of thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen, what it was to respond to a real woman, what it was to be a real man. Valérie had transformed in the moment of the kiss into a woman. He sat up and had his tea, though it was tepid.

  Prem walked to the gazebo, where he found Mrs. Werner still cooking in the sun. She had burned to an unsightly red color that made her look like a large rash.

  “You got some sun,” he said.

  “And you didn’t get any,” she accused.

  Prem smiled as pleasantly as he could and made a turn behind the foliage by the gazebo to find his host. Cavalier and Prem took a long walk around the vineyards and spoke about André Breton and Antonin Artaud. When they returned to the gazebo, it was already time for aperitifs. Madame Cavalier had prepared melon with ham, and the girls were setting the table. The Cavalier kids had just fought over the music for the party and were both sulking. After dinner Prem had a tisane and retired to his cottage. Mysteriously, the girls timed their appearance to perfection. Exactly when he was finished with his last page of Flaubert for the night, they opened his door and glided to his bed. As soon as the mattress pressed down on either side of him, he shut off the light.

  “It’s your turn now,” Julie ordered.

  “If it’s my turn, then do I get to choose what I really want?” Prem asked.

  “Yes,” Valérie answered.

  “I want you to run your hands on my back.”

  “No,” Julie whined.

  “Why won’t you let us give you what you have given us?” Valérie asked.

  “This will give me more than what you have given me,” Prem said.

  “You don’t want us,” Julie accused, then added, “Would you have preferred Mrs. Werner with her gros seins?”

  Prem ignored the comment on Mrs. Werner. He was in her boat, and he didn’t want to forget he was older and only a little more attractive than she. “Today I just want this. I let you do what you wanted yesterday.”

  “But that was yesterday.”

  “I think we should do what he wants.” Valérie, the voice of reason.

  Prem turned on his stomach and felt their light touches and fell asleep for the first time in over forty years without missing Meher.

  The party the next day was an array of France’s intellos who were holidaying in St. Tropez, Nice, and Monaco. Julie and Valérie were dressed in glittering silver dresses and were the center of attention of Cavalier’s dirty old friends. Prem spoke to a young couple struggling to make it as artists in Cassis. They had moved to the South for the light, but it was hard to sell their paintings here except to American tourists in the summer. Now they were thinking of splitting their time in Lille in the winter months to teach at an art school.

  “You have to persevere. Since there’s no set path for the artist to take, the ability to hold your horses counts for the greatest part of success.”

  “Monsieur Boutin bought one of our paintings,” the woman said to Prem.

  “Is it in his house? Which one?”

  “The long narrow one with the violet candy pattern and the woman’s silhouette. She painted that one,” the husband said.

  “I love that one. It reminds me a little of Klimt.”

  “I was in a Klimt phase,” she said.

  “Maybe I can see your paintings.”

  “We’re around for the next few days since there’s a big artists’ exposition in the village nearby.”

  “I’ll come with Cavalier.”

  After dinner Valérie turned on the music at top volume. Cavalier’s son had helped her install a strobe light in the gazebo, and they had cleared out some of the plants. Julie grabbed Prem’s hand and led him under the strobe. He followed, trying not to think of all the people who would look at him. He swayed a little, with the energy level appropriate for a man of sixty and not like the sixteen-year-old he was feeling inside, and made a hasty exit after the first song. Twenty minutes later he was back. Cavalier and his wife were shaking their behinds vigorously. Many of the guests had got into the groove too; Mrs. Werner was waltzing in her flowing dress with a balding French actor in his forties who reminded Prem of a younger Pascal. He found the girls in a corner and gave them a spin.

  The party went on until two in the morning. Except for a few people who were spending the night in Cavalier’s mansion, almost everyone had an hour’s drive ahead.

  “I’m wiped out,” Prem said. He kissed Madame Cavalier, the two kids, Mrs. Werner who was spending the night, Julie and Valérie, and even Cavalier.

  “I’ll take you to the cottage,” Valérie said to Prem.

  The garden and the poolside were well lit, but when they got to the gravel path near the house, Prem had trouble seeing and was grateful for Valérie’s slow steps and steady hand.

  When she’d deposited him in the cottage, she said, “It might be difficult for us to slip out today with a full house, but leave the door open.”

  “Okay.”

  Prem removed his clothes and fell asleep as soon as he put his head on the pillow. He heard the door open
and woke up with a start.

  “Shh.” It didn’t sound like either Julie or Valérie. His eyes could make out the vague silhouette of a larger person.

  “C’est qui?” he asked loudly.

  “Mrs. Werner.”

  Prem turned on his bedside lamp and instinctively shut his eyes from the brightness. She was still in the long white robe she had worn while dancing. He rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch. It was almost three in the morning.

  “Mrs. Werner?”

  “Can I join you?”

  “Now?”

  “We are both here. We are both alone. Je me suis demandée pourquoi pas?” Her French accent was much better than his. She was walking closer to the bed.

  “Mrs. Werner, I don’t think so,” Prem said, getting out of bed. He stood in his boxers.

  “Why not? Cavalier won’t mind.”

  “I’m sorry, Madame, it’s not possible.” Prem walked to the door and held it open wide. She made no move to exit. He stepped out of the threshold barefoot onto the gravel, his chest cold.

  “You are cruel, Mr. Rustum. Am I too old for you? C’est ça?”

  “Mrs. Werner, please don’t make a scene,” he said coldly.

  She walked past him, and he could see tears in the corners of her eyes.

  “One day someone will do this to you,” she said bitterly as she stepped out.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Werner, but I can’t help my feelings,” he said regretfully. He knew someone would do it to him and he would suffer. Tant pis.

  Back in the cottage Prem rubbed his feet on the towel by the shower in the bathroom before getting back into bed. Five minutes after he had shut off the light, the door opened again. This time it was the girls.

  “We saw that,” Valérie said.

  “We waited for her to get back in the house,” Julie said.

  “Was it difficult?” Valérie asked. A question less than innocent, full of the arrogance of youth.

  “Vieille vache,” Julie laughed.

  Prem sat in bed, his back resting on a pillow. His heart thick with guilt for the fat cow because he’d rejected her. If Meher were alive, she would be his age. Would he reject her too in favor of the milky skin and downy hair and erect upright tits of these lovely young maidens?

  “You look sad,” Valérie said.

  “I’m one of her, one of them, the old cows,” he said.

  “You are a great writer. You have been invited by Monsieur le Président de la France to accept the Légion d’honneur,” Julie said, running her hands over his chest.

  “Nonetheless, I’m old and decrepit.”

  “Decrepit? What is that?” Julie asked.

  “Usé, brisé.”

  Valérie had ducked under the duvet and placed her head on his thigh. She was running her hands up and down his legs. Do you think Mrs. Werner would hesitate if a sexy young bull were by her bedside? This is a gift—accept it graciously. You may never again have this in your life.

  Julie licked little circles on his nipples. Prem let his sensations take over. He felt both their hands reach down into his caleçon at the same moment and cup his couilles with such tenderness that love flooded his heart before gushing to engorge him.

  The girls had already left when Prem woke up. At breakfast he learned that Mrs. Werner had driven away without saying goodbye to anyone.

  Sunday was relaxing. In the morning Cavalier took Prem to the village exposition to see the young painters’ work. Prem bought one and asked for it to be shipped to his address in Paris. Bathed in light and outlining two youthful figures, it reminded him of the weekend he had just spent with the girls.

  When they got back to the mansion, Prem splashed in the pool all afternoon. The Cavalier kids were in the pool too, and Julie and Valérie played with them. Monday passed the same way. The idyllic warm weather and the light breeze from the seaside inspired Prem to look for hours at the blue sky. Cavalier’s wife pampered them all by baking fresh olive bread. They left on Tuesday. Valérie and Julie took the train with Prem while the Cavaliers drove back. Prem was to receive his medal on Friday. By the end of the long train ride the girls had convinced him to make all the phone calls necessary to have them invited to the presidential ceremony.

  After the ceremony and the banquet the press got wind of the girls. Prem had invited Pascal to sit at the table beside him for the function. The girls had another table farther away from Prem. After Prem had been pinned and photographed, the girls made their way to him shyly through the crowd. Elated to see them, he had held out his arms and taken their kisses naturally. White flashbulbs had gone off around them. Later the girls had gotten into his limo and come home with him. Julie grabbed his medal and placed it on her stomach. She slowly pulled it down and pushed it inside her underwear.

  “Fais pas ça,” Valérie said looking worriedly at Prem.

  “Oh, I don’t care!” Prem was delighted at how much delight it seemed to give Julie. The outline of the medal and its spokes were visible through her underwear. Prem rotated it slowly so that the ten beadlike nodes brushed past her sensitive spots one after the other. She moaned. Valérie watched enthralled. Julie pulled it out from her panties and placed it on Valérie’s triangle.

  In the morning Prem was the first to wake up. He went down to Poilâne to buy croissants for them all. They would start school on Monday, they would go back to their friends and their lives. His heart felt heavy. They had talked about visiting him in New York for a weekend in the fall. The idea cheered him.

  “Petit déj, mes filles.” He stood at the edge of the bed, watching their bodies move up and down as they breathed. He woke the girls and showered with them.

  After eating two croissants each, they left. Later, when Prem bought his newspaper and sat over his lunch at a restaurant, he saw the photos of the girls. He bought some other newspapers and tabloids. They all carried the pictures, two of them on the front page. A few days later the weeklies carried the same. He thought he would hear from Cavalier, but Cavalier never commented, not even when he called Prem to set a date for Prem’s lecture. Nor did the parents of the girls. With each passing day he dreaded the worst.

  After two and a half weeks he got a short note from Valérie saying she would drop by one afternoon after school. He paced up and down the apartment all day, anxious as to the news she would bring.

  “Julie barely acknowledges me in school. She said she never wants to talk about what happened.”

  “Did your parents say anything?”

  “No. My father started to say something, but my mother told him I was old enough.”

  “Do you think her parents have forbidden her to talk to you?”

  “No. She said it has nothing to do with anybody else. Not even us. I see her with a young guy all the time. He’s in his first year at Sciences Po.”

  Jealousy pierced Prem.

  “I love her, I miss her,” Valérie said, and started crying.

  Prem sat beside her and ran his fingers through her hair. He could smell the scent of her apple shampoo. The jealousy passed.

  “I don’t want that guy of hers. I just want to be close to her again.”

  “Do you think she thinks you want her guy?”

  “After we shared you, maybe she does. We had planned it with you. We were both tired of our experiences. I had one boyfriend who was twenty and one who was my age, and neither was any good. And she had the same.”

  “Why didn’t you contact me earlier if you were so unhappy?”

  “My boyfriend didn’t want me to. We had a short fling before the vacation, and when we came back to school, he said he was still attached to me. He got madly jealous of all the photos in the magazines and said that if I ever saw you again, he would kill himself.”

  “And now?”

  “I broke up with him. I changed in the summer. He’s too young for me. I read Meher in English when I couldn’t see you. I was scared that you would go to New York and never come back.”

  “I have
to come back to Paris. I have to finish the novel I am writing.”

  “Is it about Paris? What is it called?”

  “Paris a Halfway House.”

  “When will you finish it?”

  “I don’t know. I’d written most of it when I met you, but since then I haven’t been able to write.”

  Valérie giggled.

  “What’s funny?”

  “That we managed to distract you.”

  “You’ve distracted me a lot.”

  Valérie moved to Prem’s lap and played with the buttons of his shirt as she talked. She told him everything that had happened since she had last seen him. Her English class was fun, but her French literature class was a drag, they had a new puppy at home, the boyfriend she had dumped could not understand even the first page of The Symposium but she had read the whole thing. She had written a twenty-page story about Prem.

  She opened all the buttons of his shirt and placed her cheek on his chest. He could feel her light breath on his nipple.

  “Can I read the story?” Prem asked, touching the skin under her panties.

  “Yes, but not now. Your hands are like magic. I wrote about your hands, how you write books with your hands. When I think of your hands touching me, it becomes hard to control myself. I feel I am drowning in a flood. I haven’t been able to control myself.”

  She pulled his hand and slid it inside her underwear and guided it to the flood.

  “Oh, Valérie!”

  They kissed for a long time.

  “Come,” she said, finally rising from his lap and leading him to the bedroom.

  When Valérie could not take the long languorous touch of Prem’s fingers any longer, she whispered, “I want more. I want you.”

  Lost in the moment and completely her slave, Prem lay down and pulled her over him. She slid and glided like a river, a silk scarf, a feather, like the young girl she really was. Then she started moaning like a woman, she churned faster and faster. The transition from river to sea, from feather to rope, from girl to woman, was so extreme that Prem too changed from being the teenager he had been with Meher to the virile man he had been with Vedika. Under the light weight and white skin of Valérie’s body, his own muscular darker one now moved with a force and will of its own.