The Direction of the Wind: A Novel(50)



“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she said, rising from the reception desk.

“Cecile!” Nita was elated to see a familiar face, even if it was one she felt guilty for neglecting.

The two women exchanged kisses on the cheek.

Cecile smiled at her and asked, “What brings you to our fair arrondissement? I thought you were off living with that mysterious artist in the Marais. A rive droite person now.”

Nita’s eyes welled up, and Cecile’s expression turned somber. If there was a universal look that transcended all cultures and countries, it was the look of a woman with a broken heart.

“He’s probably got shit for brains anyways,” Cecile said as she led Nita to the old, battered couch in the lobby.

Nita smiled gratefully at the first person she had met in Paris. How far they had come. Or maybe it was more like how far Nita had sunk since that day. She was living a life she could never have predicted when she came to France to become the artist she had dreamed of. And yes, she had sold a painting that day, but at what price? Would she have been better off in Ahmedabad, painting at the window near their dining table? Rajiv, with his kind way, would indulge her curiosity and buy her picture books of France and Paris. It had all seemed so glamorous in the glossy pages, chic people with berets in cafés along the Seine, majestic views of the Eiffel Tower from all directions, lavender fields in Provence, pristine beaches in Saint-Tropez. Living the life was nothing like that. She had probably been too naive to realize that photographs were taken only of the good times. And she’d had far more bad times than good since she’d left. She considered this her karma. She had done such a selfish thing in leaving that it was bound to have negative repercussions. She had been crazy for not knowing that from the start and was now realizing she should never have left Ahmedabad in the first place.

“Are there any beds free for tonight?” Nita asked her.

Cecile nodded. “Let me check to see if I can finagle a private room for you so you needn’t deal with the riffraff. There’s a noisy group of British university girls who are impossible with their manners.”

She went to the reception desk and flipped through some pages in the bookings ledger. She then returned with one of the oversize keys that Nita had not used in a while and a blue airmail envelope.

“It’s good that you came by,” Cecile said. “I’ve been holding this letter in case you ever did. Even told the staff to be on the lookout for an Indian woman who speaks terrible French,” she said with a playful nudge.

Nita forced a smile and small chuckle. For the slightest moment she felt herself release from the pain and anger she’d been carrying with her. She took the letter, knowing what it was without having to see the handwriting. She wasn’t ready to read it yet, though. It could say the thing she had feared most. That the tuberculosis had been real and Sophie had not survived it. She could not bear such news right then. There had been enough pain for one night.





31


SOPHIE


2019


The next afternoon, before her shift at Taj Palace, Sophie heads back to Bistro Laurent to try to find the owner. The neighborhood is lively and full of people, a stark contrast from the solitude the night before. Today, she does not feel unsafe at all, although she does keep an eye out for Manoj on his bike, expecting him to pop out from anywhere.

It is just after the lunch rush, and Bistro Laurent is still full of diners, but most appear to have finished their meals and are lingering over coffee and conversation before tackling the rest of their days.

A portly older bald man is behind the bar counter, drying some cutlery with a towel and placing it in a holder.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” he says with a warmhearted smile.

“Bonjour,” Sophie says before confirming he speaks English and is Laurent.

The man has a much kinder demeanor than the gangly server she spoke with the night before. He wipes his hands on the towel before asking how he can help her.

Sophie retrieves the photograph of Nita from her bag and offers it to Laurent. “Do you remember if she worked here?”

Laurent’s smile grows wider. “Bien s?r. I never forget a beautiful face. But I cannot recall her name. Her French was terrible, but a bit better as time went on. She was one of the first people I ever hired who was not French, but at that time, we had so many tourists who needed English servers, so it was okay.”

Sophie’s heart dances. “Nita Shah. She doesn’t still work here, does she?”

Laurent laughs. “Non, ma chérie, not for many years.”

It is the answer she had expected, but she still had not been able to stop herself from hoping for more. “Do you know how I could find her now?”

“Désolé, Mademoiselle. This job is not the type where people stay in touch after. She maybe worked here a few years before moving on.”

“Do you know where she went after?”

“When she told me she was leaving, she said she was returning home. She’d had enough of France by then, I suppose.”

Sophie processes his words. Nita had never come back to Ahmedabad. Or what if she had and had just opted to stay away from Rajiv and Sophie? Had Sophie come all this way when Nita was back in India?! It couldn’t be. Ahmedabad was far too small for someone to hide in plain sight like that. The gossip would have trickled over to her family in no time. And Sophie’s relatives on Nita’s side would surely have known if that were the case, and they had never spoken of it either. Maybe “home” had come to mean something different for Nita, but Sophie couldn’t imagine where else.

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