The Direction of the Wind: A Novel(17)

“I still have your painting, Mademoiselle,” he said.

Nita slipped her hand over her sketch pad, turning it away so he could not see. She could not help feeling self-conscious around him.

“Merci,” she said, knowing her French had improved ever so slightly since she’d last seen him. “I still have nowhere to hang it. You are not at your stall?” She silently chastised herself for stating the obvious.

“I needed a stroll. And the fates have made me run into you, so it was well worth it.”

She felt her cheeks flush in a way they never had when Rajiv had looked at her.

He did not move his eyes from her. It was as if he didn’t even need to blink. “Would you like to join me?”

“Now?”

“Pourquoi pas?” Why not? His lips curled into that half smile that had haunted Nita’s thoughts since she had first seen it.

She felt her body standing before her mind had even made a conscious decision to go with him. She was wearing a light pair of jeans and a navy blouse she had purchased at a secondhand shop, and, in her new Western attire, she felt more and more local every day. After slipping her sketch pad into her oversize bag, she placed several francs in the small metal cup resting on her bistro table with the check peeking out of it. She draped her shawl over her shoulders and flung one side toward her back to keep it in place.

“Where will we go?” she asked.

“Anywhere we want,” he said with a shimmer in his pale-blue eyes.



The Luxembourg Gardens were rather desolate on that late September day. A few tourists roamed about with cameras dangling from their necks, taking the obligatory photos near the center fountain with the Palais du Luxembourg in the background. The usual vendors with their ice cream and snack carts were not present. Some individuals were scattered about, reading or writing in journals. A few teenage couples sat on green benches, their lips suctioned together in an impenetrable seal. Nita still had not gotten used to the ever-present displays of affection she saw throughout the city. Such behavior was staunchly discouraged in India, and even if it had not been, she’d never desired Rajiv in that way.

They had stopped along the way, and Mathieu had purchased some pastries and a bottle of wine. Nita hadn’t had the heart to tell him she didn’t drink alcohol. Their shoes crunched against the gravel as they made their way to a particularly empty area at the side of the fountain. Mathieu pulled two grayish-green metal chairs closer together and placed the paper bag with the food and wine on a stone bench behind them. He sat and squinted as he looked up at her still standing.

She slowly lowered herself to the chair next to him, grateful that he hadn’t chosen one of the benches where there would have been no barriers between them. She had passed through the gardens before but had not stopped to sit and take them in. The neatly manicured flowers that outlined the plush green grass created a bold color palette of purples, oranges, yellows, and pinks. Butterflies and bees flitted between them. The bees in particular had been difficult for Nita to get used to when arriving in Paris because they were everywhere. Nita inhaled and concentrated on the sweet aroma of the flowers. She stared at the carpet of bright-green grass within the flower border, and she longed to lie suspended on the thick blades. It was something she had never seen in Ahmedabad. The climate there was too hot and the city too congested for this type of nature to thrive. But she saw that people respected the INTERDIT signs and not a single person was breaking the rules, and thus she would abide by them as well.

“Do you come here often?” Nita felt silly the second the question left her lips.

He smiled at her, reaching for the bag. “I find inspiration here when it is not overrun with tourists.”

He pulled out a pocketknife and revealed the corkscrew folded into its casing. There was a pop as he released the cork from the glass bottle with a practiced pull. They didn’t have any cups, so Mathieu touched his lips to the rim first, letting the red liquid flow onto his tongue. Nodding in approval, he passed the bottle to Nita.

She hesitated, not wanting to tell him she had never tried wine. She didn’t want him to see her as some innocent schoolgirl.

What’s the worst that can happen? she asked herself as she took the wine from him.

The thick glass rim felt cold against her lips. She parted them slightly to take the tiniest sip. She felt sweetness on her tongue, followed by a burning sensation as she swallowed. She coughed and handed it back.

“You don’t like it?” he asked, his eyes showing concern.

“I don’t drink much wine,” she said, knowing the best lies were grounded in truth.

He handed her the bag of pastries, and her face lit up. The sweets in France were a different story. She loved how the chocolate here tasted so deep and rich and luscious, a perfect complement to the buttery flakiness of the pastries. It was very different from the brightly colored mithai in India made with food coloring, milk powder, cornstarch, and oil. She pulled out a pain au chocolat, the flaky layers already falling from her fingers to the ground. The light, airy exterior surrounding the dense, rich chocolate center was much more pleasing to her palate than the wine.

“You do smile.” His blue eyes shimmered as the late-afternoon sunlight bounced off his face.

She paused, midchew.

“You always look so serious,” he continued. “It’s intriguing. What makes you so serious?”