The Direction of the Wind: A Novel(23)
“Merci for the opportunity,” she said demurely. “What shall I do?”
“If you can just remove your coat—” He saw the way she was standing, with her arms folded around herself to lock in the warmth. “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, as it is quite chilly today. Will you be okay?”
She knew she would be freezing within seconds but had been raised to accommodate and not complain when around strangers. “It will be okay.” She smiled at him.
Relieved, he gave Mathieu a nudge to move him away from the statue. “The light here is good. Perhaps you can lean against this and tilt your face so that it catches the sun.”
Nita removed her coat and handed it to Mathieu. She stood as Simon directed her.
“If you need to adjust periodically, it’s okay. Just go ahead and do as you need to be comfortable,” Simon said before turning to his students.
“Alors, on a une personne originaire d’Inde où les femmes portent des vêtements de ce style. Vous avez une heure pour la peindre.” His French was slow and measured, like the phrases she was learning, making it much easier for her to understand. We have a person from India, where women wear clothing such as this. You have an hour to paint her.
Nita remained as still as she could in the cold. Following instructions in class was something for which she had always strived for fear of having the teacher rap her knuckles with a ruler when she acted out. While others in class had never had the ruler touch their skin, she had seemed to encounter it on a weekly basis. She would often be caught doodling on her science homework or sketching on the back of her book cover, activities that were punishable offenses in her school. Here, though, she did her best to be the perfect student. She remained still, listening to Simon as he went from student to student, offering tips and suggestions. She strained to hear his words and absorb them like a dry rag soaks up spilled milk.
At the end of the class, he allowed her to see the work created by the students. Their interpretations were so different from one another. Some tried to copy her image exactly, while others tried to gather the essence of her shape in abstract art. And it was clear they had varying levels of talent among them. Abstract art was something she had never practiced and was not well versed in. She found joy in capturing a perfect, lifelike moment, so she lingered on the canvases of the artists whose styles most resembled hers. Simon explained some of the shading techniques that the students were working on incorporating to give depth to the folds of her sari. He described strokes to her in a careful and methodical manner, using an imaginary brush against the canvas to demonstrate.
Once all the students had cleared out of the space, with flushed cheeks he handed her a small white envelope with the hundred francs she had been promised. “I’m sorry, but the school doesn’t offer more to the models.”
“There is no need to apologize.”
Mathieu joined them. “Shall we go get some wine?”
Simon looked at her and shrugged agreeably. “If you two don’t mind me tagging along, I could use a drink.”
Mathieu slung an arm around his shoulder. “Pas du tout. You are always welcome.” He then winked at Nita. “Perhaps we should go somewhere nice now that you’ve got some cash.”
She assumed he was joking but firmed up her grip on the envelope. She was so desperately in need of this money to pay her board at the hostel, so even a joke was not funny to her right now. She was not accustomed to paying when she was out with a man because until France, it had always been her husband, or papa, or a relative, and her money would never have been accepted, so there was no need to even offer. But men in Paris were not the same as those in India. She managed a half smile as she walked with them out of the park, tightly holding on to the cash.
At the café, she nursed a glass of wine, trying to fit in without Mathieu and Simon realizing they were the only ones refilling from the liter carafe in front of them. She had gone back to the hostel to quickly change out of her sari and into the jeans and sweater Cecile had helped her purchase a couple weeks ago. They were among the first items of Western clothing she had ever bought herself, and, while it was taking her some time to get used to seeing her image in a mirror dressed in formfitting tops and pants that traced the lines of her legs, she felt like she was blending in more. Fewer people glanced at her a second time on the street, and she continued to strive toward being invisible.
They sat at a small bistro table on the terrace, coats tightly wrapped around them as the sun began to set and the temperature began to drop.
“How is the wine in India?” Simon asked, exhaling from a puff on his cigarette.
Nita laughed. “Nonexistent.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Nita continued, “The state I am from doesn’t have alcohol. Those who get it acquire it illegally, and my”—she inhaled sharply, realizing she was about to say husband—“family would never have engaged in such illegal activity.”
Simon nodded. “That’s a real shame. Not sure I would have gotten through my twenties without it.”
Mathieu said to her, “It’s no wonder you wanted to leave.” He refilled his own glass.
“Most importantly for me, art was considered a hobby there,” Nita said, wanting to change the subject.
The cigarette smoke from both Simon and Mathieu had created a haze around them. Nita felt the stench absorbing into her skin, her hair, the fibers of her coat and sweater.