The Direction of the Wind: A Novel(19)

The woman puts down her phone as Sophie approaches. “Vous avez une réservation?”

Sophie looks at her blankly, finally registering what the woman must be asking based on the context. “Do you speak English?” she says.

The woman sighs and nods even though her expression suggests she is annoyed by the question.

Sophie pulls out a picture of Nita that was taken the year before she left. She is dressed in an ornate blue sari studded with white beads for a Diwali party. A radiant smile adorns her face, and it is still hard for Sophie to imagine how a woman who smiles like that could be willing to leave her life, her husband, her daughter.

“I realize this is very strange, but do you happen to know this woman? She would look older now, but she stayed here twenty-two years ago.” She holds out the photo.

The woman raises her eyebrows in a way that could mean she is intrigued or annoyed but humors Sophie and takes the old photo. Her eyes narrow as she inspects it carefully, bringing it close to her face like she had done previously with her phone, then moving it away and peering over her red-framed glasses at it before bringing it closer to her face again.

“Why do you ask?” She looks at Sophie but does not move to hand the photo back to her.

Sophie has not thought through how odd the truth would sound to strangers and realizes she must alter it to avoid seeming crazy. She says, “She’s my relative. I haven’t seen her since she moved from India, and I’m trying to find her.” It is somewhat close to the truth.

The woman points her finger to the photo. “This woman is your relative?”

Sophie nods.

“What is her name?”

“Nita.” Sophie’s voice has a hint of excitement.

The woman hands back the photo. Sophie sees that she’s wearing a name tag that reads “Cecile.”





10


NITA


1998


“Well, you look like the cat that swallowed the canary,” Dao said to Nita when she walked into their shared room at the hostel and sank onto the bed after her day with Mathieu in the Luxembourg Gardens. Dao’s hair was wet, and she was using a towel to wring out the excess water.

Nita looked confused.

Dao waved a hand, dismissing the comment. “Just meant that you have a look on your face like you had some really good sex or something.”

“No, definitely not,” Nita said, bringing her hand to her chest.

“Well, then you’re thinking about it,” Dao said with a good-natured laugh.

Nita blushed even though she hadn’t been. Nita had noticed in the last few weeks that Dao was able to relate most things to sex. She was far more open about it than Nita, and far more open than Nita expected any Asian person to be, but despite their very different outlooks on life, the two had developed a fast friendship. Nita enjoyed hearing Dao’s stories about the people who came into the bar where she worked and the random escapades she went on with some of those men. “Life is for living!” Dao would say. As much as Dao seemed content with her carefree lifestyle, Nita could not picture the same for herself, nor did she want it. Her dreams were focused on her craft. If she could successfully connect with people through art, she believed she could finally connect with the world in the way that had left her wanting for so long.

Nita told her about Mathieu and tried to make things sound as platonic as possible, but Dao refused to humor her.

“Well done, you, mingling with the locals. It’s about time you had a fling,” she said.

Nita knew there was no point in telling her there was no fling to be had.

“Just be careful,” Dao warned. “The accent will charm the pants off you if you let it. I should know!” She laughed to herself as she picked up her blow-dryer. “And you need to watch out for the ones that only like you because of some fetish . . . I know too much about that too! So many of these white guys are in it for the conquest!” She shook her head as she strode down the hall toward the bathroom.



Over the next few weeks, Nita began spending more and more time with Mathieu. He taught her about wine, and although she still didn’t have much of a taste for it, it was a part of life in Paris, and she had to embrace that. She had also begun to watch him paint. He had called her his muse, saying he was producing more than he had in years and liked having her near him. Watching his moods change as he stroked the canvas and seeing his ultimate creation made her realize how much she still had to learn. She had become less timid about showing him her work, and he guided her through different techniques, always encouraging her to peindre du c?ur—paint from the heart.

One afternoon in mid-October, she sat in his small apartment while he worked and stared at her own blank canvas.

“Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas?” he asked. What’s wrong?

“Rien,” she said softly, her French having improved considerably the more time she spent in Paris and the more time she spent with him.

He stood and came near her, then placed his hand on her back. “You cannot say ‘nothing’ when it is clear there is something.”

She turned to face his searching blue eyes. “I’m worried that I haven’t found a job yet. I’m not able to pick up many shifts at the hostel now that the summer holidays are over and no one is taking vacation. I fear I will run out of money soon.”