Paris Was the Place

by Susan Conley

  “He’s steady. He’s having what Sara calls a summer reprieve.”

  “More good news. That is tremendous. When will you know about Sara’s baby?”

  “As soon as Rajiv calls me back.”

  “Then you should probably get off the phone in case Rajiv’s trying to reach you.”

  “You’re trying to rid yourself of me?” I pretend to joke. But I feel sick. It’s such a thin line connecting me to him.

  “Call me. When the baby’s born. Please call me.”

  “I will. I will do that,” I say. I can’t tell yet. I can’t tell if he’s really softening to me. But he hasn’t hung up. He hasn’t yelled.

  “Good. I’ll be waiting.”

  Then I pace my apartment. I reorganize all the books and notes for India. Maybe I’ll hardly bring any books. Just notepaper and copies of Sarojini’s papers, and some Tolstoy to read on the long train rides when I’m alone. I go into the kitchen and do a full assessment of the fridge. We have lots of tomatoes. We have onions. We have cheese. I make lasagna and place the glass dish in the oven. How many babies born two weeks early have complications? How long does the average labor last? Is she in extraordinary pain? For how long? How long?

  The phone rings. I run from the dining table to the bedroom and do a full leap onto the bed to grab it. “Rajiv? Is it you?”

  “Baby girl and mother are both doing very well.”

  “A girl! You have a girl!” I scream.

  “She’s a funny little girl. She didn’t even cry at first.” He’s still so calm.

  “Oh God, I’m so happy for you guys! You’re a father, Rajiv.”

  “She studied us as if she’d been expecting to see us. Then she let out a battle cry that told us how hungry she was. Her name is Lily Rouse Amarnath.”

  “Two weeks early! How is Sara? Is she really okay?”

  “Sara’s sleeping, and so is the baby right now. Maybe I should try to sleep. We’re going to be back in the apartment tonight.”

  “Tonight? So soon?”

  “It’s hallucinatory, I tell you. I’ve never done drugs, but I feel like I’m on something. We’re going home because Sara’s never wanted to sleep here. She wants us all to sleep in our own home.”

  I hang up and call Luke and scream when he answers. “Sara’s had the baby! The baby’s here! She’s here!” Then he screams and I’m still screaming and I start to cry. Really cry. Because I’m happy. Finally some good news.

  “Don’t cry. You’re supposed to be glad. You’ll make me get weepy and I hate the mess of it.”

  “Tears of joy.” I sniffle into the phone. “And I know you’re crying too. It’s a girl. Lily Amarnath.”

  “I love that name. When do we get to meet her?”

  “Tonight. I’m going over to their place to hold the baby. I get to hold the baby! Come! You should come!”

  “I’ll try. I really want to. But that means I’d need to pull myself together. Kiss her for me if I don’t make it. Give that baby a kiss for me.”

  I GET TO Rue Lecourbe at seven and knock on their door. It’s as if time’s stopped in their living room. Sara sits on the couch holding the baby, and I watch how she surrenders to the girl. Then she hands her to me. God, don’t let me drop her. “Well, she’s beautiful,” I say. “She has black hair that sticks straight up from her head. Whose hair is that, Lily? Let’s hope it’s your mama’s. I think you’re perfect and that your parents should camp out in here with you and never go outside again.”

  “She’s not kicking.” Sara laughs. “That means she likes you.”

  I stare at Lily’s tiny lips. Rajiv pokes his head in the living room and announces he’s going for takeout. He waves at me. It’s the most we’ve talked since I let Gita walk away. Sara told me he was so angry for a while that he couldn’t speak to me.

  “Mango chutney, please! Extra mango chutney!” Sara yells. “Money in my bag.” Then Rajiv’s gone in his sweatpants, and I walk the baby in circles in the dark kitchen.

  “She’s stronger than you think, Willie. When she latches onto my boob it’s like she’s never letting go.”

  “Watch your feet,” I say and lower myself down next to Sara on the couch. “I don’t want to hurt them.” Then we both sit and stare at the baby’s face. “She is you,” I laugh. “Those are your eyes, Sara.”

  “You can’t tell yet. For one, her eyes are always closed, and two, they change every few weeks, I think.”

  “It’s the shape of the lids and underneath the eyes that’s like you.”

  Rajiv comes home with the food, wet from the rain but smiling. He has an easiness about him that I haven’t seen before, not in college in California, certainly not at his own formal, Indian wedding in London. “It’s the baby, guys. It’s Lily,” I say while he unpacks the bags. “She’s the first thing I’ve ever seen calm you both down. It’s so peaceful here.”

  He gets out the bowls and forks and smiles, and I whisper things to the baby about how wonderful her parents are and how lucky she is to have them. No one talks about Gita or how mad Rajiv was when Sara told him what I’d done, and this is how I know I’ve been forgiven.

  “You are going to Delhi! Delhi!” Sara says. “A great city! Curl up in some hotel and rest, Willie. Baby Lily and I both think you need to rest.”

  “I’m going to be on the move, Sara. No nice hotels. It’s an austerity program. A research trip. It’s all about how long my money can last.”

  “Well, don’t expect for one second to see India as an Indian. I’ve been trying for ten years to do that. I see Rajiv’s mother almost every day, and every day she makes it clear that I’m from away and they’re from here—their French version of India.”

  The baby falls asleep in a basket on the dining table while we eat. Just the eating of the meal in their apartment feels sacred because there’s a baby with us. A baby with a round, bald Buddha head. Before I leave, I walk over to the bookshelf by the couch and take down that Naipaul novel. Then I quickly pull Gita’s letters out and put them in my bag. No one says a word.

  I don’t get home until after ten. The phone rings once I’m in bed. Macon says, “You didn’t phone back. Please tell me that the baby was born healthy? I’ve been worried.”

  I can’t believe he’s called me. It sounds like him again, not someone guarded and angry. “I didn’t want to bother you all on Pablo’s birthday. Lily Rouse Amarnath. She is perfect in every way.” I smile into the phone. If he were here I would throw my arms around him.

  “Well, that’s a very impressive name.”

  “And a beautiful one.” There’s a long silence now. I don’t know what else to say. I could gush. I could tell him how much I love him and then he might hang up.

  “Would you meet me at the train station tomorrow if I came in?”

  “I would do that.” I remain restrained. But I allow myself another small, relieved smile. “You know I would do that.”

  I GET TO the Gare du Nord the next night at seven-thirty, five minutes before the commuter train from Chantilly arrives. Will he be on it? I hold my breath. He’s been gone long enough for me to forget the exact shape of his face. Then he’s moving down the platform with his beat-up backpack. He comes to me, and I put my arms around his neck. Then his hands reach for my waist and we stand together like that without saying anything.

  When we get in the cab he says, “What I don’t understand is why you planned it without telling anyone.”

  “But I didn’t plan it. I’m not asking you to understand.” I move closer to him on the seat. “I was trying to please her. I wanted to make her happy. It’s my genetic predisposition. I’m not making excuses. But it’s hard for me not to give people the things they say they want.”

  “I missed you. I missed holding you and listening to you, but that doesn’t mean I forgive you. Are you wearing a dress?” He stares and takes me in. “I’ve never seen you in a dress.”

  He pays the driver at Rue de la Clef, and we climb out onto the sidew
alk. I got the dress last year at a flea market in Neuilly with Luke—sleeveless and vintage and pink. Macon smiles. “Promise me you will wear this dress every time I have to leave you.” I do a small twirl for him inside the elevator. “If you wear this dress every time I have to go away from you, I will undress you slowly with my eyes whenever I see you in it. Then I will take you home and ask you to stand very still so that I can unzip this silver zipper.”

  He pulls on the zipper inside my front door until the dress opens. Then he slides his hand down my back and slips each shoulder strap off and tugs at my hips until the dress is on the floor.

  “I’ll wear it,” I whisper. “Will you always come back?”

  He kisses me slowly on my face, and finally at the end, as if in answer, on my mouth. I take his hand and walk him to the bedroom. He steps out of his jeans and takes off his T-shirt and we lie down on the bed holding hands. “You’re back.”

  “Tell me where it feels good,” he whispers. Then he licks along the edge of my underwear.

  “In words?” I don’t want to say a single thing.

  “In words, Willie. I’m going to keep this underwear on you.” He kisses the inside of my thigh. “Until you tell me what you like.” I keep my eyes closed. The underpants feel wet from where he’s touched. “If you can’t tell me, I’ll stop.” He sits up.

  “But don’t stop.” I open my eyes. “I think that would be a very bad idea.”

  He brushes the inside of my thigh with his face. “So you like the kissing?” He looks up.

  “I like it.”

  “I thought you did.” He focuses on the small strip of silk between my legs.

  “That’s what I want.” I smile.

  “What do you want?”

  “For you to do that.”

  “To do what, exactly?”

  I blush. He keeps running his fingers over my underpants. “I want you to take these off,” I whisper. “I want you to take these off me.” And he does. I’ve never been able to say it out loud like this before. I’ve never wanted to name these things, but he makes speaking them feel right and natural.

  A WEEK PASSES. Macon brings a few clothes over in his backpack. I begin to trust that he’s really staying. My piles for India grow taller. Gaird takes Luke to Provence for a vacation. Luke calls me on Saturday and says, “We’re staying in some stunning château where they keep filling my champagne flute whenever it gets below the halfway line.” They mean to stay until Thursday.

  “Do you love it there?” I’m in the kitchen watching Macon play guitar on the couch. I’ve been waiting for him to say that he’ll come to Delhi. He’s arranged for the days off at work. He’s convinced Delphine. But he hasn’t made peace with leaving Pablo.

  My flight is on Wednesday night. The Air India ticket sits on the counter under the phone like an ultimatum. Departure Date: July 12, 11:00 p.m. What if something happens to Luke while I’m gone? What if he comes back from Provence and falls down on the sidewalk or something?

  “There are lots of trees here,” he says. “The willows look like they have dreadlocks. Your namesake trees. I love trees, Willie. Have I ever told you how much I love trees?”

  Maybe he really is drunk. “It’s so good you went,” I say. “You needed this.” I can’t hear any cough or shortness of breath. The virus is going to be more complicated than we think. I know this. And it will try new ways to reinvent itself. But right now he’s in Provence. This is more than any of us could have hoped for.

  “You’ll be all right while I’m gone, Luke? You’ll do the injections and take the medications and you’ll eat? Promise me you’ll eat.”

  “Gaird’s become worse than you at forcing delicious food on me. Truly I will be good. Go find the missing poetry. Go meet the crazy daughter. I’ll talk to you when you’re in India.”

  “Have you called Dad, Luke? Have you told him anything?”

  “Dad and I talk about the circumference of the pipes for the new Shaanxi project. We don’t talk about my health.”

  “I’ll be looking for phones in India. I’ll be thinking about you. And if you’re not feeling good, then I’ll come home. It’s only a seven-hour flight.”

  “Seven hours to India. Seven hours to a different world. I’m hanging up now. There’s more champagne here.”

  “Hanging up now. I love you.” I put the phone down and stretch my back.

  “How is Provence?” Macon asks.

  “He’s drinking champagne.”

  “Then there is no excuse, is there?” He leans the guitar on the couch. “For you not to get on that plane.” He walks into the kitchen and puts his arms around my waist and kisses me. Then he picks up my ticket on the counter and stares at it. “I don’t have any excuse. Pablo says India has elephants. As long as we take pictures of elephants for him, he sanctions the trip.”

  “You’re serious?” I don’t believe him.

  “I’m afraid I’m often much too serious.”

  “You’re coming?” I take his face in my hands.

  “I can’t miss this.”

  “You’re coming.”

  “I’ve got to get on the phone with the airlines. Delphine will be glad to have me out of the way.”

  “What about the hearings? What about the kids?”

  “That is why I have colleagues.” Macon smiles.

  “You’re coming!” I kiss him on the mouth and put my arms around his neck and squeeze him. “Thank you for this! You’re going to love it. I’m scared to leave Luke, but I think this is going to be good. This is going to be okay.”

  “I hope you thank me when I get us lost in some Indian village. I’m not the best with directions.”

  “There are maps for that. I am very good at reading maps.”

  26

  Aeroflot: a Russian airline

  On the cheap Aeroflot flight we get an apple and a baked potato and a block of white cheese for dinner. No one stays in their seats after takeoff. Women in saris walk the aisle and share samosas and chapatis from plastic bags. Many men stand and smoke. Russians with Russians and Indians with Indians and plumes of cigarette smoke fill the cabin. The fire alarm goes off again and again and no one seems to care. We’re in row 28, across from the bathrooms. I will the plane not to crash. I visualize the pilot in my mind and what he’s had for breakfast and how he said good-bye to his daughters. Then I wish him good luck and ask him not to let us crash. I can’t abandon Luke in that way. He’s the one fighting for his life. I can’t crash.

  Before we left I made a list of the names of the towns we’ll be in and the hotels we’ll stay at. I gave a copy to Luke and one to Gaird and one to Sara. But there are going to be days out of reach on trains and buses. We’ll be in villages without phone lines. How will anyone find me if something goes wrong?

  I’ve written three letters to Dharmsala this month to an address I hope is Sarojini’s daughter’s house. She never replies. Then I made two phone calls there and an older woman answered and said she’d been expecting me. Her name was Padmaja, and she screamed into the phone: “Maybe I will let you see the manuscripts and maybe not! I won’t know until I meet you!”

  So we’re on our way to meet Padmaja. I doze and wake up and read War and Peace. Then I make sure to wish the pilot more good luck. I will him not to fall asleep now. Not to get even a little bit tired. Not him. Not his copilot. Macon snores lightly for what seems like the whole flight. I can never really sleep on planes. Too much worrying to do. Too much piloting. We land in Delhi at dawn and haul our backpacks off the crowded luggage carousel. Then we walk outside the teeming terminal into a blast of sticky heat. The taxis are ancient—boxy yellow Ambassadors from the ’50s. Everywhere I look men in white tunics push staggering stacks of luggage on metal carts.

  “Do you feed them?” I ask the cabdriver after we slide inside his car.

  “Who, madame?” He looks in his rearview mirror at me.

  “The cows.”

  “Goodness no, madame. We are getting tired
of the cows. We are wanting them to go away, but no one says so. They hurt business. But still we cannot get them into trucks and drive them. They have to go away on their own.”

  “No one gives them food? Someone must feed them.”

  “Tourists feed the cows. In the old city, madame. Yes, a shopkeeper, a Hindu, for example, will leave his garbage out from time to time for the cows when he closes. The cows are our mothers. The cows get fed, madame, this we know.”

  Macon smiles at me and goes back to gazing out his window. It’s sweltering in the cab. He’s got sweat on his upper lip and looks rumpled and exhausted. For the second time the driver gets out and claps at a stubborn cow, who hoists himself up. There’s the idea of the book I want to write, yes, but this city with its cows and heat is so much wilder than I imagined. Why did we come, really? How did we get here?

  The fields give way to cement shacks and one-room homes linked by corrugated roofs. We drive farther into the center. Women in saris walk in the ditches with iron pots on their heads. I’ve been in France too long. I should have come to India sooner.

  We get a room on the second floor of a tiny hotel jammed in the middle of a block in the old city. Crowds of people shop the storefronts and eat food from stalls set up next to the road. The walls inside the hotel room are pale violet. There’s a wooden bed and a matching bench. A decrepit, peeling bathroom is attached with a hole in the floor for squatting. The tin can of water next to the hole is called the lota.

  “I know this.” I point to the can. “I researched this.”

  “You researched the can in the bathroom next to the toilet hole?” Macon smiles.

  “It’s the custom. It’s meant for washing the wiping hand.”

  “What else did you research?” He takes me by the waist and pulls me down onto the bed and wraps his arms around me. We sleep the deep, drooling sleep of people who’ve been on an airplane for a long time.

  Three hours later, a thin boy bangs on the door with his metal bucket. There’s no lock. He walks in and flushes the toilet hole with cold water from his bucket and washes the stone floor on his knees. I can hear the cows and motorcycle rickshaws outside. It’s not Paris. But what country are we in? India is only an idea in my hot sleep—a foreign land so far away from where I grew up in California that it seemed to be make-believe.