Page 60 of Six Days in Bombay

I stood with the letter in my hands a long time. All around me, serious men in dark wool suits, British colonels and majors, secretaries in pencil skirts and sweater twinsets bustled about the reception area, walking purposefully from one direction to another. And still, I stood without moving.

Dr. Stoddard had been married to an Indian woman? We’d had twelve days on the steamship together. Why hadn’t he told me then? I’d shared feelings with him—being rejected by the hospital, being rejected by my father—that I hadn’t shared with anyone but my mother. He had listened. He’d looked at me as a parent might—with acceptance, without judgment. But he had done exactly what my father had: abandoned someone who had placed her faith in him, as my mother had done with my father. I’d hated my father for it. Had I been a fool once again, placing my faith in the doctor? How could he so easily have won my affection, which I usually doled out in small measure—and snatched it away so brutally?

Another stunner: Edward was ahalf-halflike me? I’d mistaken his darker skin for time in the sun when it was actually his birthright. Had he grown under the shadow of disgrace as I had? Been subjected to the same hurtful slurs? Had he cried in his mother’s arms as I had? Yet, I hadn’t seen in him the hard kernel of resentment I carried. Was that because unlike mine, his father had stayed, brought him up even after his wife died? Edward worked for the British Embassy, not the Indian Embassy. Which meant he had British citizenship through his father, a father who acknowledged parentage. Edward had true privilege.

Someone touched my elbow. It was an older woman with short blond hair and a button nose. In her younger days, she would have been quite handsome. There were soft pillows under her eyes.

She had a soft, soothing voice. “I’m afraid if you stand here much longer, you might get run over. Is it bad news?” She glanced at the letter in my hand.

I realized she thought I’d received word of a death. To show her it wasn’t that, I smiled. “Nothing like that. But a shock just the same.”

“Then you must come to the lounge and we’ll get you a cup of tea. Alright?”

I picked up my trunk and let myself be led to an elegantly appointed room. A steward came forward. “How may I assist, Madam Phipps?”

“Tea for the lady please.” When the steward left, she turned to me. “Anything else I could get you? Have you come for a travel document?”

“No, ma’am. I came for help with lodging. For two or three nights.”

Her eyes went to my trunk. “Of course. You are from—no, let me guess—your accent—India?”

“Bombay.” I held the letter aloft. “I was instructed to come. Dr. Stoddard and his son, Edward Stoddard, suggested—”

She brightened. “Eddy? Yes, of course. He told you to come here?”

I nodded.

Madam Phipps grinned. “Then let’s see whom we can get to help you.”

“Are you also with the embassy?”

She laughed charmingly. “I guess you could say that. I’m the ambassador’s wife.”

In the end, Mrs. Phipps gave me the name of an old friend, a Madame Renaud, who lived alone and liked company. I counted the money I had left. It was just enough to get me to Florence. But here in Paris, which I’d always heard was an expensive city, I would have to be very careful and hope my lodging wouldn’t cost too much. If worse came to worst, I could always spend the night at the train station.

I checked the address for Madame Renaud. The white apartment building came to a point where Boulevard Raspail intersectedwith Rue Bréa. Filigree balconies framed the windows. On the ground floor was a café, one with bicycles parked on the cobblestone sidewalk. I almost walked away. Surely, this lodging was far above my budget. The ambassador’s wife hadn’t discussed terms with me, and I’d been too cowed to ask.

Madame Renaud was a graceful woman whose home might have been majestic in another era. She lived in one of three apartments on the fourth floor. The sofa cushions sagged but were covered in a beautiful rose-colored mohair. Over time, thousands of footsteps had worn a path on the Persian carpet. The floor-to-ceiling velvet drapes looked like they needed a good cleaning. I wondered if the Great Depression had anything to do with the state of her home. In precise French, Madame Renaud told me to take the first room to the left of the front door.

All day long, I’d been carrying my trunk and my arm ached. As if I’d said it out loud, my hostess said, “You must be tired. Get settled and then we’ll have dinner.”

Dinner was cod lightly sautéed with mushrooms and onions. Warm bread and a green bean salad accompanied the meal. She poured red wine in our glasses. The table was set with fine china and silver utensils. I unfolded the damask napkin in my lap, wondering whether she ate this formally every day. She was perhaps sixty years old with thinning gray hair pulled up and tied in a knot on the back of her head. Her black dress was a good cut made from heavyweight wool jersey. She wore small pearl earrings and a thick chain around her neck that held her eyeglasses.

She picked up her wineglass. “Frances—Madame Phipps—tells me you know Edward Stoddard.”

“Yes, madame.” I took a mouthful of the fish. It was delicately spiced with salt and butter. It was delicious. I hadn’t eaten since I got off the train, and I was ravenous. “I know him through his father, Dr. Stoddard.”

“Ah, I have not had the pleasure of meeting his father. I’vesat next to Edward at the Phipps house for dinner. He is quite charming.”

I flushed, hoping she didn’t notice. Why did it matter whether she thought he was charming?

She buttered her bread. “How do you find Paris, Mademoiselle Falstaff?”

“It’s just as beautiful and seductive as Hemingway described it. Or Zola. Or Guy de Maupassant.”

“You’re a reader, mademoiselle?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ve never had many friends.” That I would reveal something so personal about myself—an unflattering portrayal at that—surprised me.

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