The Direction of the Wind: A Novel(35)

“C’est tout?” That’s all? he asked with a devilish grin. “I will make you not tired again.”

He slipped his finger inside of her—hard—sending a jolt through her that he probably intended as pleasure but that resonated through her body as pain. She stared into his eyes, trying to be present. She hid her grimace as he pushed deeper. She tried to let herself relax so that the pain would turn into the pleasure she was used to feeling with him. She had faked joy in this intimate position many times, but only with Rajiv, who had never been this forceful. He had always been courteous toward her, even during their acts of intimacy, and never pushed her or tested any limits. But with him there had never been the same passion she felt with Mathieu, and perhaps with passion there was pain.

She tried to make her body rock in time with Mathieu’s as he climbed on top of her, his breathing and rhythm quickening until he was spent. He stroked her hair and smiled at her wistfully, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. She smiled back even though she had never felt so ashamed. Between her marriage and whatever this new relationship with Mathieu was, she’d become accustomed to hiding herself.

When he rolled over and began to prepare a joint for them to share, she was relieved. She just wanted to forget. Forget Rajiv. Forget India. Forget Sophie . . .



Although Nita tried to forget, the more she painted, the more Sophie wove her way into Nita’s art. She began painting her daughter’s face whenever she picked up a brush. When Mathieu commented that the faces in her work resembled each other, she waved him off, pretending she hadn’t noticed. She painted a girl with laughter in her eyes and without a care in the world. A girl who didn’t suffer from tuberculosis. It was the only way she wanted to see her daughter.

The drugs made it easier for her to escape her thoughts. It had started off with the cigarettes and then hashish, but then Mathieu brought home some pills that Simon had given him. The first one had made her head spin in the best way, fitting since Mathieu said it was called ecstasy. She would forget everything for hours, and when she woke up, she would crave that feeling again. What had started off as an occasional indulgence had turned into something she and Mathieu engaged in several nights a week. Mathieu would often paint in the middle of the night, when the pills’ magic was at its peak. Even Nita could see that his work had improved. The pills allowed him to focus and unlocked the depths of his creativity. She hoped they would do the same for her, so she would try and paint alongside him. It was only when she woke up groggy after the pills had worn off that she realized that even though she had felt like she was able to forget, her painting from the night before was inevitably of a child with Sophie’s face.





21


SOPHIE


2019


After hanging up with her foi, Sophie returns to Taj Palace. It is now empty, and Naresh raises his eyebrows, looking surprised to see her return.

“Did you forget something?” he asks, moving toward the front door from the kitchen pass.

She nods. “I cannot take your charity without paying.”

He raises his hands in protest. “There is no need for any money.”

Sophie surprises herself with the courage in her voice. “I’d like to work for the food.”

He cocks his head, looking unsure of what she means.

Sophie takes a deep breath and stifles her need to be polite and tries to channel the Western women she has seen on countless television series—the ones who are not afraid to speak their mind and go after what they want. The ones who are probably more like Nita than she has ever been.

She looks directly at him. “I am in a difficult position, and I need a job.” She hesitates, teetering between maintaining her privacy and knowing she needs his help. Finally, she accepts that the balance swings against her privacy. “I was robbed when I arrived here, and I need to earn some money. Do you have any work I can do? I can do anything. I’m not choosy.”

Naresh looks at her, his warm eyes wanting to help her.

“Can you cook?” he asks.

Sophie hesitates. Less than two weeks ago, she would have been forced to say no. But her fois had just given her a crash course in Gujarati cooking for her upcoming marriage, and, while she can hardly consider herself an expert, she must do whatever it takes to get this job.

She nods but can tell Naresh is rightfully skeptical. Then she gestures toward the kitchen. “May I?”

He lets her pass through. The young cook who had prepared her food looks up when she and Naresh enter. He looks to Naresh for an answer as to why a customer is in the kitchen area. Sophie smiles at him, knowing she has only one chance to impress both men. She washes her hands with surgical precision in the sink toward the back. Then she heads toward a big mound of whole wheat dough for rotlis. She pulls off a small piece and begins rolling the cold, smooth wheat-flour-and-water mixture into a ball using the palms of her hands, just like her fois showed her. She then flattens the ball against the counter and dips the disk into the thali of rice flour nearby. Then she grabs a velon and begins rolling it like an expert, applying a little extra pressure to the right side so the circle automatically turns itself such that she can keep rolling it out into a perfect circle without ever having to stop to turn it. That was Sharmila Foi’s trick. She then places the thin dough onto the warm skillet next to her and watches it start to form small bubbles. She flips it over, allowing the other side to cook. Finally, she holds her breath and prays as she places it directly on the heat. Like magic, it puffs into a perfect circle, just like her fois had taught her! She wants to clap her hands in elation and relief, but she knows she must seem like she is an expert at this and not revel in her beginner’s luck.