The Direction of the Wind: A Novel(16)

“And yours?” she asked.

“Mathieu. What do you do here?” he asked, looking directly at her with those penetrating eyes.

She boiled under his stare. In India men looked from afar, and when they made eye contact, it was different, more an observation and possible judgment. Mathieu stared at her as if he was intrigued. She glanced at the canvases around them. She could not tell this man with so much talent that she was a painter. It would have been like comparing herself to Chagall.

“I’m looking for a job,” she responded instead.

“People always talk about work, work, work.” He moved closer to her, and she froze, not sure whether to step out of the way. Then he knelt and readjusted some of the canvases near her feet, the heat from his arm radiating through her clothing just a few centimeters away. “Life is about passion.” He met her gaze again from his stooped position.

“Passion comes at a price.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

He looked at her, amused, and stood up. “En effet, Mademoiselle. Vous avez raison.”

She moved away from him, fingering the canvases as she took a few steps back. “I hope one day to live a life where I have a stall along the river as well. But I am not as far along in my work as you.”

He smiled the half smile she had seen when she first met him. “You are an artist, then. I see.”

She shook her head. “I am a woman who needs to work so she can learn more about her craft to one day become an artist.”

“But you don’t aspire to be a successful one?” he asked.

She was taken aback by his comment and felt her face falter.

“I only mean that you aspire to be a bouquiniste,” he said. “People aspire toward fancy galleries and museums”—he gestured around him—“not to wooden, green boxes along a river. You must dream more grand, Mademoiselle.”

She chewed her bottom lip. “It is hard to think of something such as that. It’s a life I could not even begin to plan for.”

“Planning can be quite tedious.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Sometimes it is better to just do what you feel.”

Nita thought about how she had acted on emotion to get to Paris in the first place. Given where things were now, she had serious doubts about whether she had made the right decision. But anytime she thought of calling Rajiv, of going home, the shame put her back on her path. He would have received her letter by now telling him not to come back to Paris and look for her. There is no going back after what I have done, she kept telling herself, because she needed to believe that in order to move forward in this new life.

“If only life could be that simple,” she said.

“You don’t think it can be?”

She shook her head. “There is so much pressure. So many people to consider. Being selfish is a luxury many do not have.”

“Then we should consider ourselves lucky,” he said.

She had already been selfish, but she wasn’t sure if she would consider herself lucky. Selfishness was contrary to the core values of the collectivist society in which she had been raised but was further evidence that she hadn’t belonged there in the first place and needed to escape those cultural handcuffs. Her current life wasn’t luxurious like her old one, but this was the first time she had picked her desires over convention, and it had freed her mind and spirit.

“Have you ever lived outside of Paris?” she asked.

He shook his head. She envied him. How must it feel to know nothing other than the life one currently had and be so happy with it? From birth, her life in Ahmedabad had been prescribed in every meaningful way. She couldn’t even blame her parents for it because the roles society expected her to play went far deeper than any single family. There was no place for someone like her—a dreamer who wanted a life beyond being a wife and mummy. Even her friends had not been able to understand her preoccupation with painting and curiosity about what existed in the world outside of India. Everyone—including her—had assumed her passion was a phase and the feeling would eventually leave her, but it never had. And more and more she had felt like she had to hide that part of herself as people’s patience with her unconventional ideas began to dwindle.

“Do you miss your old life?” he asked.

It was her turn to shake her head. “I was ready for a change.”

“Have you found it?”

She looked around them at the Parisians and tourists strolling along the River Seine, knowing none knew her or her family. None had expectations set out for her. None cared if she fit society’s mold or created her own. None cared if she embarked on her dreams or stayed exactly where she was. They cared only about themselves, and it was this anonymity that gave her peace.

“I could not fathom being anywhere else right now.”



A few weeks later, on a day that was especially warm compared to the weeks earlier, she treated herself to a rare tea in a café along the sidewalk on the north side of the river near Pont Neuf. Cecile had been on holiday for two weeks, and Nita had picked up all her shifts and had her board paid for the next month. It had eased her money woes for the short term as she only had to worry about food and sundries and didn’t feel the constant stress that she might become homeless. She felt someone’s stare on her as she sipped hot mint tea and sketched on the pad propped between her legs and the table. Looking up, she saw Mathieu standing on the sidewalk, no more than two meters away from her.