by Abha Dawesar
“For one, you should stop wasting your time with me and profit as much as possible from Paris. I’ll fly back next weekend to the United States.”
“I have this terrible anxiety about leaving Paris. I’m afraid things will change in New York. You live so far away. You may not want to see me as much.”
“I have a proposition for you. I’ve been thinking.”
“What have you been thinking, Mr. Rustum?”
“Ridiculous as it is for a man of seventy-five to say this, I’ve been thinking about the future.” Prem laughed self-consciously.
“I want a future. Let’s move to Paris.”
“At my age you don’t think of forever and ever. You think of today, tomorrow, day after. And in any case, I don’t think a young woman like you should have to worry about wheeling around an eighty-year-old man.”
“Unless I want to,” Maya said quickly.
“No, not even then.”
The waiter came to their table to take away their salads. Maya had not finished hers.
“I haven’t finished yet,” she said.
“Sorry, mademoiselle. The soufflé waits for no one,” he said, walking away. In less than a minute he was back with their soufflés and put Prem’s in front of him. Maya moved her salad plate to the side, and he put hers down.
“Anyway, I don’t want you forever and ever. I want you for a limited period of time. Say for five hundred hours.”
“Like a lease on an apartment. Or a hotel room rented on an hourly basis.”
“Exactly.” Prem had been stroking her hand but withdrew it to eat his soufflé.
“Are you suggesting this for my sake or for yours?” Maya asked.
“For both of us.”
“You don’t trust me, is that it? You think I’m just going to up and leave?”
“I think that we’ll both live it more uncompromisingly if we are doing it for a limited period of time. We can always renew the lease, if we both want to, at the end of the period.”
“Is your soufflé good? Mine is heavenly.”
“Try some for yourself.” Prem offered a spoonful to her. The creamy gorgonzola melted in her mouth.
“So is this lease for your apartment or mine?” Maya poured some of the morel sauce they had given her over her soufflé and offered it to Prem.
“It’s in my house. In suburbia.”
“You’re testing me!”
“Ideally I’d like you to feel you have your own room in my house. You can come and go as you like. Maybe spend the weekend or a few days in the week.”
“And maximum how much time can I spend with you on the basis of this contract?”
“You’re making fun of me!” Prem said. He ate more of his soufflé at a leisurely pace, not bothering to respond immediately to her question. When the waiter came by to ask if they were enjoying their meal, Prem ordered champagne.
“Maya, there’s no minimum or maximum. I don’t want you to get sick of me. I’ve got a very quiet life, and I’m too old to be going out all the time and doing the kinds of energetic things you young people do.”
Maya looked at Prem’s eyes as he spoke. He was just trying to make it as easy for her as possible. The vestige of rationality in Maya appreciated him for this. But Maya had not felt compelled by irrational impulses in a very long time. And with Prem she felt not just their immediacy but also felt safe in giving in to them.
“Can we keep this simple?” she asked him.
“Of course.”
“Are you basically saying that I can bring two suitcases and come to your house for five hundred hours when you have returned?”
“Yes.”
“Good, we’re agreed then.”
The waiter offered Prem and Maya a chocolate soufflé, which they shared before walking back. The César statue of the half-man half-horse at the carrefour was gleaming in the moonlight. As Maya walked over the metal grille that surrounded the statue, a gust of air blew up her skirt, making it billow like a parachute. Prem thought she would rise up and fly away.
Back in bed as they were lying in the dark, Prem said, “I have something to tell you.”
“Je t’écoute.”
The full moon high in the sky glowed on the lower edge of Prem’s bed.
“I only came to Paris because you were coming. I had not made any sure plans for the summer until I saw you.”
Maya whistled.
“You didn’t tell me how you found my ad online.”
“Pascal said he met women by searching for his own name.”
“If I’d had any idea you’d be there, I’d have been too embarrassed to write that ad. It would have been like mixing the kingdom of the gods with the kingdom of mere mortals.”
“Gods? I feel more a satyr than a god.”
“At the Rodin Museum that day I could not get enough of all the old man–young girl type pieces. Or the hands. I should have seen this coming that day.”
“Do you remember which ones?”
“Minotaurs and centaurs corrupting young maidens. And all the hands, of God, of satan, of lovers. Hands with women contained within. There was also a Plexiglas box with a work in plaster of an old man on his knees kissing a girl’s midsection.”
“I know that one rather well.”
“What is it called?”
“L’homme et sa pensée. She is his thought the way you are mine.”
“Am I your thought? Am I in it? Part of it?” In the clair de lune he could see her upper lip trembling like a bird beating its wings when it has been caught.
Slowly, as if desire were like water at the bottom of a deep well, needing time to be drawn up, Prem started to kiss Maya with increasing passion.
“I feel like Galatea coming alive to Pygmalion’s kiss,” she whispered, moaning at the sensation of his flesh everywhere against her own. Prem was touching her with the same expertise with which he wrote sentences and books.
Maya came.
A few minutes later she started kissing Prem and moved her hand down his chest, and then farther down his body. He was no longer stiff. He pulled her hand up and brought her into his arms and caressed her to sleep.
The next morning Maya and Prem walked over to his usual haunt by the carrefour for their morning coffee.
“When do you want me to come over to suburbia?” Maya asked him.
“I’ll send a car over to pick you up on Sunday if you like.”
“I can take the bus.”
“I live in the boonies, my dear. New Jersey Transit will take you four hours with changes and waiting times. The car takes just over an hour.”
“Why did you move there?”
“I used to have a place in the city. So when I was looking for something outside the city, I wanted something as far away as possible. Or rather as inconvenient as possible, so that it was hard for people to find me if I didn’t want to be found.”
“I’m going to sort out my mail and find my friends when I get back. I’ll be ready to try out the ’burbs once you are back.”
“Do you have a lot of friends in New York?”
“A few. I never told you, but someone else responded to that ad before you did. He had met you the same night at a party. It was such a coincidence. He’s become a friend of sorts. He’s going through a rough patch. I feel like he’s a kindred spirit.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
“I slept in his bed. But we didn’t have sex.”
Maya pulled her jacket closer around her as a breeze hit them.
“What are you doing today?”
“I’ve still not been to the Carnavalet. I’m going to have dinner with Nadine one night. She’s the neighbor. I also want to have a coffee with Jean-Pierre if possible and make some peace. I met two writers through the Paris Fiction Fellowship offices. I need to see them too.”
“You better run along and start your day.”
“I’m going to miss you.”
“I’ll give you something to keep. Something I wr
ote.”
Maya’s eyes lit up.
“We have to go back to my flat.”
They paid the bill and left.
Maya grabbed Prem’s hand as they walked. “Remember I told you I’d started writing?”
Prem unlocked the door to the flat. “Of course. I was too afraid to ask you questions about it after what happened the last time we discussed your writing.”
“I was writing something to you, for you. It’s rightfully yours.”
He went to the bedroom and returned with his orange notebook.
“There is one condition—you won’t read it until you get on the plane,” he said.
Maya raised herself on her toes and kissed Prem on the lips when he handed her the notebook.
Despite the temptation to pick it up in her last few days in Paris as she ran around trying to stock up on French books and cheese, Maya refrained from opening Prem’s notebook. She settled instead for touching its cover. She read it on the plane. Once she started reading it, she was no longer aware of the wailing babies or the unpleasant smell of mass quantities of packaged food being heated up.
Prem had missed nothing about her, the small mole on the tip of her right ear, the configuration of her teeth, her habit of walking with her right foot angled open. He had grabbed her by the elbows once and noticed that the skin on the elbows was rough; he had imagined her resting on her elbows as she thought of what to write next. The roughness of her elbows and his tenderness for the roughness had told him just how much trouble he was in. But these things came after the first half of the notebook. The half without reflection. It lacked entirely that basic element of writer’s craft: observation. Prem’s direct, unadulterated desires roared from every page. Maya’s hands trembled. She was vaguely aware of feeling hot, of removing her sweater, and then her scarf, and then of sweating. But this registered rather dimly on her consciousness. The second time she read through the notebook on the plane, after lunch and coffee had been served, she understood more. Shapes and forms emerged from the notebook, ghosts of people, the past. Nothing concrete, just an intuition that there was a past, a rich past. Possibly an unforgiving one. At one moment Maya thought for no reason of Hegel. She remembered a teaching assistant in class saying that if they took away anything from Hegel, it should be the phrase the end of history. On the third reading, an hour before the plane touched down at JFK, things were clearer. The ghosts from Prem’s life would live through her.
p a r t v i i
In the beginning, there was desire, which was the first seed of the mind. Sages having meditated in their hearts discovered by their wisdom the connection of the being with the non-being.
—THE RIG-VEDA
Sex is also revenge on death.
—DAVID KEPESH IN PHILIP ROTH’S
THE DYING ANIMAL
Prem woke up in the morning after having slept for eleven hours. Mrs. Smith made him scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast.
“It’s nice to be back home, Mrs. Smith.”
“August was very humid. The whole summer was horrid. It was good you got away.”
“Mrs. Smith, someone’s going to be coming for dinner, and she’s going to stay.”
“I’ll air out the guest room in that case. Will she just rest one night or more?”
“She’s going to stay, Mrs. Smith.”
Mrs. Smith, taken aback, looked at Prem for a second before recovering herself. “Right then, Mr. Rustum. I’ll prepare the room.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Smith. And for dinner, could we have something rich by way of dessert?”
“Sure, Mr. Rustum.”
The tension in the house was palpable as Mrs. Smith went about the floor above. He could hear her punch the pillows and do the laundry.
Maya knew she had arrived back in New York when she was addressed variously as Hello beautiful, Will you be mine, Wow!, Sexy, and Mamasita on her way to the grocery store by men of assorted colors. The air was cold for early September, and the sky that ultraclear blue that gives New York its crystalline quality in the fall and winter months. Maya walked briskly. Her white skirt and black boots were not warm enough. For breakfast she ate a bagel. She had missed bagels. She and Johnson arranged to meet at the greasy spoon in her neighborhood for lunch. Maya wanted to see if Mrs. Nona and Costas were still alive and kicking.
The greasy spoon itself wasn’t—it had undergone a drastic renovation. There were no vacant high stools by the counter and no Mrs. Nona. The prices were up—and not by fifty cents or a dollar. Fancy items with fresh basil, tamarind, and saffron were featured on the menu.
“I don’t know why New York feels so amplified,” she told Johnson.
“Is it New York, or is it you? Is your writing going better?”
Maya nodded.
“I saw something on the street and got it for you.”
Johnson put his hand into his messenger bag and brought out a brown paper envelope. He hesitated.
“Aren’t you going to give it to me?”
“I don’t want you to misunderstand.”
Maya reached out and opened the envelope. Three postcards of nudes fell out.
“These are like Schiele,” she said.
“Exactly what I thought. Schiele did all his work before twenty-eight. He died young. It reminded me of what you had said about Rimbaud. On his deathbed Schiele said that he had already created everything he had to. He was ready to die when he was my age.”
“That’s not heartening at all.”
“Yes and no. The woman who made these started her art only after she turned fifty.”
Maya smiled. “You’re telling me I have time?”
“We both do. We’ll manage.”
“What’s her name?”
“Carolyn Weltman.”
“I’m glad you’re feeling optimistic.”
“Prem’s agent called me all of a sudden. He wanted to see the rest of the stories.”
“That’s fantastic! Did you send them yet?”
“Yes. He’s taking me on.”
“I’m so glad for you. I can’t believe you took so long to tell me.” Maya reached across the table and took his hand in hers.
“You haven’t told me anything about the unrequited love that is more powerful than your will.”
“No longer unrequited. I’d like to tell you about it, but now is not the time,” Maya said, getting up. Prem’s car would soon be coming to pick her up. She gave Johnson a hug when they parted.
Maya arrived in her deep pink skirt looking flushed. Oblivious of Matthew, the driver who had chauffeured him for many years, Prem took his time to kiss Maya on the mouth. Matthew looked away, smiling to himself. Mrs. Smith came out and directed the driver to carry the bags up to the guestroom.
“Maya, this is Mrs. Smith.”
Maya shook hands with Mrs. Smith.
Prem held her by the shoulder, and they walked to the studio. Matthew would, no doubt, question Mrs. Smith. Prem hadn’t been able to think of a way to prepare her. They hadn’t had a woman spending the night in the house in at least fifteen years, maybe longer.
Maya instantly made herself comfortable. She slid from the sofa to the chair, examined the books, the high lectern on which he wrote, the stacks of translations of his books in German, Dutch, Hebrew, Japanese, Arabic, and Finnish, the framed awards and plaques honoring him.
Prem buzzed Mrs. Smith on the intercom. “We’ll take our tea here, Mrs. Smith.”
Then he turned to Maya. “Give her a few days. I haven’t told her anything. She’ll figure it out for herself.”
Maya nodded. Outside the writing studio the sun cast long shadows as it glowed like a pink grapefruit on its way to sleep.
After tea Prem took Maya for a tour of the house. His bedroom was at one end of the house past the dining room, living room, and den.
“Here’s our love nest,” he said, shutting the door to his room.
Maya kicked off her white sandals and sat cross-legged on the bed. Facing her
was a long, narrow painting some six feet in length, radiating gold.
“Is that a real Klimt?”
“It’s good, isn’t it? I bought it from some artists in France. It’s so whole. The figures, the background tones, the material of the canvas itself, all are from a single source.”
“This is the energy I felt from those statues in the Bois de Boulogne, when I saw them from across the lake.” Maya extended her legs and relaxed back, staring at the picture.
At dinner Mrs. Smith produced a soup, fish, and a chocolate pudding.
“That was a delightful meal, Mrs. Smith,” Prem said, wiping his mouth with his napkin after he was finished with dessert.
“Yes, thank you,” Maya said formally.
“Would you like tea or coffee?”
“No, we’ll make some ourselves if we want,” Prem said.
“See you in the morning then,” Mrs. Smith said, taking the plates away.
“Mrs. Smith, don’t bother to get here before nine. Goodnight.”
“Where does she sleep?” Maya asked.
“The other side of the house from the studio. It used to be a barn, but I had it redone for her with a bedroom and a kitchenette. When I told her I was leaving for the summer, she bought a huge TV. Apparently she’s addicted to crime shows.”
Prem put on a Prokofiev CD. They listened to it together.
“My apartment is invaded by ambient noises. I like listening to music here, because one hears only the music.”
“You’re going to go crazy with this life in retirement in about two days.”
“Or adjust.”
“I haven’t given you time to settle in since you got here.”
“I want to unpack. Can I come down to your room when I’m finished?”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“Can I leave you waiting with something? I wrote a reply to the first entry in your notebook to me.”
He put out his hand.
“I’ll be right back.” Maya charged up the stairs, and he heard her on the floor above him. Then she came running down the stairs again with a few pages.