Salaam Paris

by Kavita Daswani

  Salaam Alaykum, my dear Tanaya. May peace be with you.

  Yours,

  Hassan Bhatt

  It was all too much. Losing the love of my grandfather, gaining knowledge of my father, letting myself slip into love with the man I had once used as an exit from my life.

  During the two days that Tariq was in Pakistan visiting his own nana, I barely left my hotel room. Nilu came to visit a few times, and we had lunch in the hotel café, she still enamored of my ability to sign my name on a piece of paper and have it be charged to a room for which I, and I alone, would ultimately pay.

  My aunt Gaura also stopped by, bringing me chunks of goat simmered in tomatoes, coriander, and cilantro, and pliant wheat chapattis-everything kept warm in the confines of a stainless steel tiffin. She said she was concerned about me, thought I might starve, not quite realizing that I had the ability to feed myself.

  “How is he?” I asked her during one of her visits.

  “Actually, I think a little better. Perhaps seeing you has helped him. I hope you will come back again, now you know that he doesn’t hate you.”

  “And Mamma? How is she?”

  “Still angry. Still sad. But I suspect it has nothing to do with anything you’ve done. I suspect that, instead, she sees you as the woman she never was.”

  I showed her the letter from my father, and the look of astonishment that appeared on her face as she read it mirrored my own.

  “We never knew,” she said, putting the pages down when she had finished. “Your mother always made it sound like it was his fault, like it was he who wanted her to get out. She couldn’t tell the truth, even to us.”

  Tariq’s plane was touching down close to midnight. I had taken a hotel car and was waiting for him outside the airport.

  I saw his handsome head bobbing through the crowds, an overnight bag weighing down his right shoulder, his laptop computer bag in his other hand. He was gazing straight ahead, not expecting me. I buoyed myself for the great welcome, a surprise airport reception for the man I loved. I smoothed down my hair, licked my lips, and made my way to the far end of the railings, where I could almost collide with him. I couldn’t wait for him to scoop me up, a bright beaming smile on his face, maybe twirling me around in his arms like they did in all the Hindi films. I couldn’t wait to smell his aftershave, to feel the strength of his warm hands pressing into my back. I couldn’t wait to start a life with him, away from all this.

  He looked at me, and the expression of surprise on his face stayed just the way it was, for a little longer than it should have. There was no bright, shining, “I’m so thrilled to see you” smile. There was no enveloping hug. Just a stony face, quiet and contained.

  “Tanaya, what are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you, of course. I really missed you.” I caressed his arm with my hand. He moved it away.

  “Tariq, what happened? What’s the matter?” Dread was growing in me.

  “This is no place to talk,” he said, glancing at the chaos around him. “Come.”

  The Sun ’n’ Sand never looked more forlorn. In the dead of night, the palm trees were quiet, the food hawkers, usually parked on the street outside, now long gone.

  We made our way back to the pool, attracting looks from the staff at the reception desk and the bellhop. I didn’t care who saw us, or what they thought. Tariq was still silent, as he had been on the ride over, ignoring my impassioned pleas to speak with me, glancing at our car driver as if he were from the FBI and Tariq were an internationally wanted criminal.

  We sat down on the same chairs we had used a few nights before, the night we had kissed.

  “OK,” Tariq said. He was wringing his hands. “Here’s the thing.”

  I drew a sharp intake of breath, promising myself I wouldn’t let it out fully until Tariq had spoken his mind, until whatever lumbered in the ether between us was gone.

  “You know, I really think you’re fabulous,” he said, his eyes cast downward on his hands. “You’re gorgeous and sweet and kind. The other night, after what happened between us, I was certain that I was falling in love with you.”

  He was looking straight at me.

  “But,” he said. The rest of the words tumbled out. I heard them, but couldn’t take them in. He talked for a full five minutes, pressing his hands together, then biting a fingernail, looking up at me and then down at his shoes again. As he talked, I felt my heart breaking. There were tiny fissures at first, deepening into cracks, finally forcing my soul open.

  I didn’t move. I didn’t speak.

  And when he was done, I realized that I hadn’t properly exhaled yet.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  This time I was in jeans, a pink cashmere sweater hugging my curves, kitten-heeled mules on my feet. I stared out the window as the plane flew over the Indian Ocean, my ears still blocked from the takeoff, but open enough to hear a baby crying several rows behind me.

  Tariq’s grandfather had disapproved.

  It was as simple as that. His grandfather, best friends for decades with my own nana, had told Tariq that under no circumstances was he to even consider a future with me. Any type of association, he had dictated, was now completely out of the question. I had been tagged as a “woman of poor reputation,” not just because I had left home against my grandfather’s wishes, but because I had spent the better part of the past year wearing bikinis and plunging-neck dresses in front of cameras held by strange, lustful men.

  “It’s not like I don’t understand,” Tariq had said to me the previous night on the deck chair, his voice plaintive, his eyes wishful. “I get who you are, and what all that was about. I know that behind all the show and clothes and makeup, you’re this really simple girl. I’m OK with it. But my nana… he is like your own-of another time, unable to comprehend modern life. He has forbidden me from having anything to do with you. I’m sorry, Tanaya.”

  And he had gotten up and walked away, leaving me sitting there, the wide plastic bands of the chair pinching into my thighs.

  The first flight back to New York that I could get a seat on was the following evening. Before I left, I went to say good-bye to Nilu, stopping by her house, driving past mine on the way. I turned toward the ground-floor apartment and saw my mother sifting a tray of rice on the balcony, picking out tiny stones and pieces of gravel and tossing them onto the street, her face blank and empty.

  Nilu had cried, hugging me tight, knowing that if she ever wanted to see me again she would have to fly to New York.

  “I don’t think I can ever come back here,” I said. “Not after everything that’s happened. I can’t spend the rest of my life waiting for them to accept me.”

  “I understand,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “Here, for the plane.” She reached under her mattress and pulled out a copy of Teen Cosmo, the most recent issue, stashed in the same place as when we first looked at them years ago, when I was still innocent.

  Felicia was thrilled to see me. She called Stavros and suggested a “get-together,” so they could come up with a “POA”-a Plan of Attack-about what I should be doing next. The next round of shows was about to start, castings soon to begin. A car maker was willing to throw a big chunk of cash my way to film a commercial. There were a few offers for paid appearances at nightclub openings. And Playboy couldn’t wait to talk to me about disrobing for a spread they wanted to call “Behind the Burka.” I blanched at the thought of it, knowing that even I would draw the line at centerfold nudity.

  “You’ve been out of the news for a week,” Felicia said, stubbing out her cigarette. “In this business, that’s a friggin’ lifetime. Oh, by the way, what happened at home? Everything good? Family all copacetic with your career?”

  “Yes, fine,” I lied.

  Back at my apartment, which Stavros had held on to in the hopes that I might return, my mail was stacked atop the coffee table. I quickly went through it, tossing out the catalogs and the mailers until I came across a postcard. The picture wa
s vaguely familiar. I flipped it around and saw that it had been sent from Parrot Cay, in Turks and Caicos. Kai’s handwriting was compacted into a few square inches of space.

  T. I’ve absconded! Trey and I are in love. He’s going to keep teaching scuba diving, and I’m going to write music. It’s blissful. I don’t care what people say anymore. I’m done with the charade. Love you lots. Thanks for everything. K.

  With feigned enthusiasm, I attended all the meetings that Stavros had set up and sat down for a couple of magazine interviews that Felicia had arranged, where the reporters only wanted to know about my life in the wake of Kai leaving me.

  Otherwise, throughout all the small talk and discussing of business details with Stavros and Felicia, I kept my sorrow at bay. Each time Nana’s pale, ashen face appeared in my mind, I would squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the images out. Each time I reheard Tariq’s words of good-bye echoing in my ears, I forced my attention back to the subject at hand, to contractual details and scheduling, something I actually had some control over.

  “You know, this whole thing with Kai-him leaving you and shacking up with a male lover in the Caribbean -it’s just such a blessing,” said Felicia. “The press is all over it. You’re the gorgeous girl that he left behind. He’s the one that looks like a jerk. But what a great opportunity for us. And hey, it’s not too soon to start thinking about a rebound, about who we can set you up with next. But maybe this time, we should find someone who swings your way, huh? You want to give the sex thing a try? Add a little sizzle?”

  I stared at Felicia and thought that, for once, maybe she had a point. I had been alone long enough.

  “I’m happy to try and meet someone,” I said. “Maybe it’s time I lived in the real world, not the one my mother lived in. New York is not Mahim, is it?”

  Felicia ignored me and started going through her Rolodex.

  His voice crackled through static and background noise.

  “I’m on a plane,” he said. “On my way to you. It was last-minute. I just wanted to know that you were there. I would have waited, even if you weren’t.”

  I asked him what he wanted, why he was calling. I was angry at first, then in tears, standing on a corner of Lexington and Fifty-fourth, waiting for the light to change so I could cross the street, being pushed and pummeled on all sides by office workers on their lunch break.

  “Please, Tanaya, don’t make the same mistake again,” said Tariq. “Don’t do it. Look, we’re landing in five hours. I’ll call you.”

  He stared at everything in my apartment, as if expecting to find more hints of debauchery, more windows into the life of bacchanalia he thought still I led.

  He looked surprised that there were no mirrors on the ceiling, packets of cocaine on the windowsill, a library of porn tapes on the bookshelf. He looked pleasantly surprised that there were fresh flowers on the dining table, that family photos were still everywhere, at the smell of suji halwa rich with cardamom, my favorite dessert, emanating from the kitchen.

  “I still don’t know what you’re doing here,” I said to him. “You can’t just keep showing up like this. It’s not fair to me. You made your feelings very clear to me when I last saw you in Mumbai.”

  “They weren’t my feelings. They were my grandfather’s.”

  “Same thing,” I said sourly.

  “I was in Los Angeles the other day, another meeting. I saw a copy of the Star at the supermarket checkout, that picture of you on the front, holding hands with that famous new actor. I thought you were done with all that, Tanaya. I thought that after seeing your nana you were going to lead a more respectable life. I figured that maybe, if you calmed down, stayed out of the press for a while, maybe embraced Allah again, my grandfather would reconsider, and we may perhaps have a future together.”

  It occurred to me as he was speaking that I had never gotten angry before. Never really, really angry. I had had my moments of irritation and despondency and mild aggravation. But now, as I looked at Tariq’s face, still handsome as he beseeched me to “change my ways,” the rage that had simmered away in my belly for what was probably most of my life was finally getting ready to pop.

  I picked up an empty vase and threw it in his general direction.

  “Stop judging me!” I screamed. “More than anyone else in my life, you should be the one to understand! You are the one that walked away from me that night in Mumbai, leaving me sitting alone by an empty pool in the middle of the night! Where was I supposed to go? What was I supposed to do? How dare you lecture me! You are not my grandfather! And now you’re telling me that you flew across the country so you could tell me about what to do with my life? What gives you the right? Who are you to me? Nobody! Not anymore! Not the day you decided to listen to your grandfather and pay more attention to what an old man has to say than to how it would make me feel! Now please, just get out!”

  The look of alarm that had appeared on Tariq’s face at the start of my rant was still there when I was done. Even I was taken aback by the depth of my anguish, the realization that Tariq, standing before me in his slim black suit, represented my nana, and my mother, and the father I had never known.

  He said nothing. Instead, he picked up his laptop, turned around, and walked out the door.

  It was five p.m. when he left.

  I figured I would never hear from him again. I figured that he was the last remnant of an old life that I had to let go of, following my grandfather and my mother down a sinkhole of people who would never even try to understand me.

  But at six the next morning, after a night of fitful sleep, I picked up the phone when it rang. His voice was immediately contrite, lacking the bravado he had always displayed, the superiority with which he had spoken to me.

  “I’m supposed to be leaving later today,” he said, sounding as if he, like me, had had a bad night’s sleep. “Please, just give me five minutes. Please.”

  Central Park was busy, joggers checking their watches, mothers calming fussy babies as they walked, looking desperately as if they, like me, needed to go back to bed. The reservoir sparkled under the early morning August sun, pigeons coming to rest on its edges, foraging for food in the dewy grass.

  Tariq was in sweatpants and a T-shirt, his eyes slightly red, his hair uncombed. We walked in silence for a while, then sat down on a bench, pushing aside a brown paper bag that had been left there by its previous occupant.

  “I’ve been an asshole, haven’t I?” he said, looking at me. “I don’t know what it is. I think that I’m this man of the world, and then I go back home and all that goes out the window. It’s like I become my grandfather, seeing the world through his eyes. It’s pretty pathetic.”

  “It is,” I said.

  “But you’ve got to admit, you don’t exactly make it easy on me. Or on yourself. I mean, look at what you’ve chosen to do. It’s unconventional, even for the most liberal of Western families. And here you are, from one of the oldest and most reverential religions of all time, where women are shielded and protected, and you’re letting it all hang out. I mean, you have to admit, it would be a stretch for anyone to accept.”

  “I thought all I wanted to do was to see Paris,” I said, looking down at my hands. “I think I knew I was running away from something, but at the time, I wasn’t sure what it was. That life, the one that Nana had in his mind for me, it wasn’t what I wanted. Not at nineteen. And then everything happened, and I went along with it, loving it as I went, making these choices that would once have been incomprehensible. There have been struggles, but so much of it has made me, well, happy. My heart is ready now, for whatever might come next. It wasn’t before, you know.”

  I looked up at him.

  “But that’s how it started. I just wanted to see Paris.”

  “And you did. And you will again, I’m hoping.” Tariq smiled. He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead, wiping away a tear that had escaped from my eye.

  “What are we going to do?” I asked.

  “Do
n’t worry. We’ll figure it out,” he said, putting his arms around me, both of us turning to gaze at the gleaming reservoir.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  We don’t celebrate Christmas in our religion. But in Paris, you couldn’t not. So there was a big tree in our living room, more for decoration than anything else, reaching almost to the ceiling, with that fresh pine smell that I had only ever read about. Tiny red lights sparkled on the lush green branches, a stack of presents beautifully wrapped and beribboned piled underneath.

  The sun had set already. But I loved the evenings, when we would light a fire and cuddle up in thick knitted sweaters and drink from a large pot of herbal tea.

  I glanced around the room, which glowed from the lights on the tree and the fire in the hearth and the warmth in Tariq’s eyes. He was looking through his CD collection, his back toward me. Next to him, on a long wooden console, was our wedding picture from three weeks earlier at Tariq’s home, just he and I with a mullah and a smattering of friends. Shazia was there, my only link with my old life, the one who had started all this. She had hugged me as the mullah recited prayers, reminding me that she had, long ago, tried to convince me that everything would turn out OK. Next to the picture was a folder containing flyers announcing a charity I had set up, a group for Muslim youth living in Paris who were confused about their cultural identity. Through it I had already met girls like the one I once was, girls who didn’t know where they belonged, who felt alone, clashing with a culture they didn’t know how, or whether, to embrace.

  Tariq found the CD he was looking for. It was Edith Piaf, and her classic rendition of “ La Vie En Rose.” He slipped it into the player. I smiled at him across the room and moved toward a mahogany desk that nestled close to the window. A tasseled lamp shone brightly onto it. The windows were closed, but beyond I could see the dark surface of the Seine running its course through the city, the lights in other households shining in the distance.