by Abha Dawesar
Her mother picked up.
“Maya here, Mom. How are you?”
“Okay.”
“I am in Paris. It is beautiful here.”
No response.
“Is Dad there?”
“No.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“No.”
“Will you tell him I called?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure you won’t forget?”
“No.”
“I’ll try later. Take care.”
She hung up. She put the plastic card in her pocket and walked down from the the top of the hill on Abbesses through the ninth. Then she walked past the Bourse to the river and on the quais of the Seine. Her mother’s flat, toneless voice had unhinged her. Her mother’s disease had distanced Maya from the entire world. As the link with her mother had broken, so Maya’s own connection with society had become tenuous. If something so basic as a parental bond could be so fragile, then where was the chance of anything permanent and lasting with a stranger who had met her at seventy-five?
She couldn’t understand how her father lived with it. She couldn’t understand how her brother managed to call each week and keep up a cheerful monologue on everything that had happened in his life in London. And she couldn’t begin to understand how she herself had become so entirely graceless and loveless when her mother showed no signs of recovering from the acute depression that had taken over a few years ago. In the beginning Maya had been like her father and brother—she had done everything to keep her spirits up and theirs. But when it became obvious that nothing was going to change, she suggested one night at Christmas, when she and her brother were both home, that their father hospitalize her and set himself free. Her brother had accused her of betrayal and regarded her with a slight suspicion ever since. Her father had understood her motive, her love for him, her wish to see him have a normal life. But he shook his head sadly and said he wouldn’t do it.
Father and daughter stayed up by the fire in the living room late into the night. Maya pressed on and on until he eventually said, “I can’t do it because she wouldn’t have done it if it happened to me.”
“It wouldn’t ever happen to you.”
“You know it’s not true. You were there when the doctor told us. Impossible to predict. Never any signs beforehand.”
“But you have to live too. How long can you go on like this?”
“Forever. I make time for myself. I play golf. I see Roger and Samantha once a week. I dine with Leif on Mondays.”
“You always lived so intensely. I can’t bear it.”
“This is life, Maya. I have to be a man. I couldn’t respect myself if I didn’t.”
Her father continued without complaining. Maya visited two or three times a year and did her best in front of her mother. But she couldn’t handle the phone. Her mother never recalled the phone calls, but they perturbed Maya. Her father realized this and started to call her. But with the time difference from Paris, their routine had been derailed.
Maya was still walking and had reached Pont de Sully. She must have been walking for well over an hour. The sky was getting dark. She looked at her watch. It was ten. She crossed over the bridge and walked back on the quai on the other side. Suddenly she was aware of being alone. She picked up speed. In the shadows by the side she saw two men lurking.
“Mademoiselle, venez dîner avec nous.”
She walked faster till she reached the quai by the next bridge, where people were still picnicking. She had broken into a sweat. Her tall blond father had a muscular energy; its mere presence made an area safe. He was the kind of man every girl and woman wanted around. You could take him to the devil and be sure he would give his life fighting for you. She missed that man. He had withdrawn into himself and diminished after her mother’s illness. And now Maya felt it was her turn to protect him the way he had protected her. It was the same protectiveness she felt for Prem, but Prem could be fiercely distant when he was most in need of comfort. Prem had lodged himself right beside her father in that chaotic swamp within where emotions held forth, in that mute, blind, deaf zone of feeling that was utterly unencumbered by reason.
At Notre Dame Maya climbed up the steps and left the quai. She walked through the back streets of the quartiers St. Michel and St. Germain to Prem’s building. She pressed the door code and entered the main courtyard, where she sat on the steps outside Prem’s entryway, sure deep down in herself that she shouldn’t ring his bell. She looked at the time. It was now midnight. The walk had exhausted her, and she got very cold. She left reluctantly and took a cab back home.
In the morning she tried calling Prem but got no response. She went to the Internet café and read Johnson’s e-mail. He sounded very upset. Prem’s agent had responded with a curt note saying the agency could not handle him. He had attached a story to his e-mail. The story pulled Maya into its world, provided her with a brief interlude from her own sorrow. She passed it to a mentor from her college days who was in publishing, suggesting Johnson e-mail the lady for advice.
She also wrote:
I’m depressed about my writing too. I saw a Fantin-Latour in the Orsay the other day, a painting of writers and thinkers including Rimbaud. At my age he had already produced all his best work.
I thought of you last night. I was deeply unhappy about something that happened and I felt as if you were the only person in the world who would understand me. I almost called you. I do have a boyfriend of sorts in Paris. But it’s just a summer fling. I was upset due to someone else. An unrequited love I cannot fully understand at this point. And I don’t want to talk about it. The fact that I thought of you last night when I was suffering and not of my other friends in New York or Paris told me something. I feel a complicity with you, Johnson. Only a writer can understand another writer’s loneliness. I am distraught by something that has taken a hold of me and is more powerful than me or my will. Thanks for your story—it took me away from this.
Maya tried calling Prem again. There was still no response. Her tears had run dry, but her chest felt like lead.
It was foolish to try to re-create his first love. Meher had happened to him before his ego had been formed. How can I ever love anyone again more than I love myself? Why am I even trying to do this? There can be no such thing as total submersion. And I am not even having an affair with this girl. What am I doing here?
In the late afternoon Prem called Pascal.
“I need to change my ticket. What is your travel agent’s number?”
“What happened? Are you leaving earlier or later?”
“I’m leaving tomorrow if I can, or the day after.”
“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?”
“It’s over with that girl.”
Pascal whistled and then said, “I am having a café at Mabillon. Come by.”
Prem was agitated as he crossed the boulevard St-Germain. He felt even more irritated when he saw that Pascal was not alone.
“Prem Rustum,” he said, kissing the woman briskly on both cheeks.
“She’s just leaving,” Pascal said.
Prem continued to stand as if waiting for her to leave. He had never seen her before.
“Mon vieux, sit down.” Pascal pulled a chair from the next table.
Prem looked around, reluctant to get drawn into the conversation. He noticed she had pulled out a cigarette, but to his relief she got up from her chair after Pascal had lit it.
“It was nice meeting you,” the woman said before leaving.
“Une amie,” Pascal said in her direction by way of explanation.
Prem nodded.
“Why this sudden detachment from your enchantress?”
“You were right—the age gap is too much.”
“For what? I can’t even remember saying that. I only remember telling you to avoid the fifty-year-olds in favor of the twenty-year-olds.”
“For any true friendship.”
“What nonsense! You
are supposed to love her. You are supposed to fuck her. All this friendship crap is too American. It doesn’t suit you at all. Pas du tout,” Pascal declared.
“I am not you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m looking for more than a fuck.”
“So you have a higher morality now?”
“Yes,” Prem said. He was angry with Pascal too. He was angry with the world.
“Ooh la la! Mathilde, Liz, Catherine, Lilia, Tamar, Rhonda, Claire, Vedika, Angie, Mishka, Laetitia, Julie, Valérie—those were more than just a fuck?” Pascal said, listing the few names he remembered.
“Vedika was not just a fuck.”
“The exception that proves the rule.”
“Nor Julie and Valérie.”
“You were not in love with them.”
“Let’s forget about them now. I don’t want to just fuck. Not at seventy-five. I don’t even know if I can fuck. I haven’t in over ten years.”
“That’s a minor detail modern medicine can solve. But tell me why not just fuck? It’s worked for us all our lives.”
“Because in the end it hasn’t worked.”
“Well, I am sure this girl will be eager to have more than a fuck. At this age you can get the fuck only if you are giving her much more,” Pascal said cruelly.
“I don’t think she can ever love me.”
“What happened? I told you not to go to the nineteenth.”
Prem burst out laughing.
“At least you can laugh.”
“She said my art comes from angst.” It sounded ridiculous said aloud like that.
“But it does. You’ve said so yourself so many times.”
“It sounded like a glib advertising slogan.”
“What does this have to do with whether or not she can love you?”
“What does she know about my angst? What does she know about losing love when you are a teenager, just when you should be beginning?”
“Are you talking about your sister again?” Pascal always made light of Meher.
“I’m saying I have to stop looking for that love,” Prem said.
“And you should certainly not tell the poor girl you’re after her because you want to re-create your incestuous relationship.”
“Pascal,” Prem said in a threatening tone.
“I’ll stop, but at least admit to your double standard. You go on about your angst, but when Maya says the same thing, then it’s a betrayal. You go on about Meher, but when I call it by its name, you can’t take it.”
“Fine. You are right.”
“Your ego was hurt, mon vieux. This girl saw you for a moment as a fellow artist whose art she could understand, and it hurt your pride to not be seen all the time as a myth.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” Prem muttered.
“What you need is to let it rest for a few days. Let’s go away from Paris. Irène’s sister is here to look after her this week, and I really need a break.”
“Hmm.” Prem was listening to Pascal only remotely.
“I need to get out. Come with me.” Pascal placed a hand on Prem’s shoulder to emphasize himself.
“I don’t know.”
“When we’re back, you can take her to dinner. Even if I make fun of it, I don’t want you to lose something you don’t realize you have.”
“I don’t have her. She’s not mine.” Prem spoke with his teeth clenched.
“You have your sentiments. Even if it doesn’t fulfill the idealistic standards you’ve set for the last love affair of your life, it is still something very genuine and precious. I can see that she has done something rare to you. I admire you for exposing yourself like that.”
“Stop mocking me.”
“But I am not.” Pascal looked at Prem quizzically.
Maybe he wasn’t mocking him.
“What a day! First my grandson went on about Laloo Yadav over the phone, and then I had this scene with Maya. I’m exhausted.”
“Who is Lah-loo Yada Yada?”
“A politician. Un con. Pas très important. I can’t believe I’m talking about him. Anyway, where do you want to go?”
“A place with no memories of my past with Irène. Brittany or Normandy.”
“I’ve never been to either.”
“You haven’t seen Mont-Saint-Michel?”
“No.”
“You have to. It’s our Taj Mahal. I have to show it to you.” Pascal rose from the table as if the decision had been made.
“Where are we going now?” Prem said, getting up after Pascal.
“Let’s eat, and I’ll come pick you up tomorrow around eleven. I want a head start on the lunchtime traffic.”
“Is it a long trip?”
“Four to five hours if we’re lucky. It’s the middle of the week after all.”
Prem lagged a step behind Pascal as they walked to the Marché Mabillon. Pascal seemed undecided between two restaurants but eventually chose one, mumbling to himself. Prem followed and sat at the bistro table Pascal had chosen.
“I’m too old for this.”
“For what? The road trip?”
“That too. I meant pursuing Maya.”
“Your problem is that you’re not pursuing her. You want her to land in your lap.”
“I want to be sure she’s interested in the real me. Not in all the feathers in my cap.”
“You talk as if someone other than you won that prize.”
The waiter bustled around them. A man with a pitted face and a strong nose. Prem vaguely recalled the face and recalled sitting at the same bistro table. He had a moment of déjà vu. The serveur looked at Prem and asked, “Et pour vous?” Pascal had apparently already ordered.
Prem tried to look at the menu in his lap.
“Just order the coquilles Saint-Jacques like me. It’s what’s good.”
“Deux, monsieur,” Prem said to the serveur without arguing.
“You won’t regret it. They have a good white to go with it.”
It was pointless explaining that even if the dish wasn’t great, he wouldn’t regret it. Couldn’t regret it. Whenever he felt a malaise about the world, Prem didn’t really relish food.
The waiter had poured some wine for Pascal, who lifted the glass to his nose. He turned the wine around in the glass and let it slosh on the sides before inhaling more deeply. Prem watched. Finally Pascal sipped it and then, a dramatic pause later, nodded.
The waiter poured their glasses. Prem, despite himself, brought the glass to his nose and sniffed it. He kept his nose in it for a long time. Could he discern the bouquet in it if he tried? The aroma of his lovers from the past?
“There’s a hint of mint in it.”
“And the smell of a young woman who has just hit puberty,” Prem offered wisely.
“See, you’re doing better already.”
Prem laughed.
“I, on the other hand, really need to escape.”
“Quelque chose ne va pas?”
“I picked up a woman yesterday. I’ve met her a few times at literary soirees.”
Prem listened carefully. Pascal had rarely exhibited such grimness.
“I finally got her to bed. But I couldn’t.”
“For the first time?”
Pascal nodded.
“You are the one who wrote that Viagra article for Le nouvel observateur.”
“It wasn’t that. I was preoccupied with Irène and her sickness. I kept thinking she’s going to die, and I’m fucking.”
“But she and you have not had that kind of relationship for a long time. Or have you?”
“No. But it’s like a sister dying.”
Prem was quiet.
“I didn’t mean to remind you of Meher. Irène and I have become like siblings.”
“I know.”
When their food arrived, Pascal attacked the shells and their slithery insides with single-minded determination, almost as if he had given himself a mission. Prem could sense
Pascal’s fear of his own death. Irène’s impending death had thrown him off entirely.
Prem went back to his apartment and took two sleeping pills that knocked him out. On the drugged sleep from the pills he dreamed of Angie. Angie, the sexy beast of his passage into virility. Angie, the salope, the whore, the cunt, the big-breasted, perpetually slick-pussied, cock-hungry bitch. In his dreams she found him lying naked in a prison cell and got on all fours over him, her heavy breasts hanging over his mouth, her crotch gyrating over his penis. She took him till she fulfilled herself and then disappeared through the grilled entrance just as mysteriously as she had entered. Why is she haunting me after fifty years? Prem felt stuck in a permanent time machine where his age advanced but his feelings remained static.
After a shower Prem walked to get a newspaper and have his coffee. He stared at the front page without registering much, then looked at the early-to-work Parisians and the traffic on the street. A few odd people were cycling to work—men in suits, women in skirts and formal jackets. They compromised nothing even on their bicycles, their heels pointed and long, their purses stylish, their hairdos spectacular.
Two American women came and sat down at the table beside his.
“What is this invalid thing here?” one of them asked the other.
“Let’s see. Army museum, Napoleon’s grave, used to be a hospital for the soldiers.”
“The Napoleon?”
“This guide doesn’t have too much.”
“I loved the movie in which Brando played Napoleon.”
“We should go just as a homage to Brando. Let’s do that first.”
Prem picked up his paper again. In India the Italian woman had refused to take on the prime ministership. Opinion was divided as to whether it was a strategic move or a great sacrifice. Some sycophants in the Congress were comparing her to Mahatma Gandhi.
“Missyou, can we get the addition, please,” the American ladies asked the waiter.
They left. The ensuing silence pulled Prem back into his past. Women hung heavily on his conscience. Every woman he had dumped had taken it badly. But I thought you loved me. In fact, I know you love me. You’re afraid of how much you love me—that’s why you’re leaving me. This had pretty much been the refrain. And Prem, who had never once made a false promise or used the word love, would ask, quite naturally, why they thought so.