Page 61 of Six Days in Bombay

But Madame Renaud only laughed. She held up her glass for a toast. I clinked mine to hers. “That makes two of us.” She took a sip. “I suspect you are not here for a sightseeing tour.”

“No. I’m here to deliver the news that someone has died.”

She put her fork down. “Mon Dieu.Frances said you had come from Bombay.”

I chewed on a green bean. “I needed to give the news in person. And hand over a painting as well.”

“A painting? That sounds interesting. Would I know the artist?”

“Her name was Mira Novak. In recent years, she mainly painted scenes of Indian women and men in the rural areas.”

“I have heard of her. I think there was an exhibit of her work here some time back. May I see the painting?”

I left the table to look through my trunk. I unwrappedThe Pledgesand brought it to the table. She wiped her mouth on the cloth napkin and extended her arms to take the painting from me.

She felt for her glasses and put them on. She took her time studying the painting. “Quite good. The composition is striking. As is her subject matter. My husband and I went to India in ’22. Such a beautiful and unknowable country. We encountered spiritual people like these. Praying for the lives of others all day long.” She removed her glasses, letting them hang on herchain. She handed the painting back to me with a shaky hand. “Such a warm people, the Indians are. They invited us into their homes and fed us when they barely knew us.” She took a sip of her wine. “My husband would have enjoyed meeting you, mademoiselle. He died last year.” Her lips trembled, a prelude to tears, but she held them back. She took another mouthful of wine instead.

I reached for her hand. The skin was papery but warm. She clasped mine. Every time I experienced death in the course of my nursing career, the tear in my heart grew just a little wider.

We continued eating our dinner. She moved to take our plates, but when I rose from my seat to help her, she said, “Sit, sit. I cannot bear to have people in my kitchen.”

She returned with two plates of what looked like custard. She’d added three blueberries on the top of each. It looked too perfect to eat. “Panna cotta,” she announced. “It’s Italian. But no one is perfect,” she chuckled.

I took my first bite. It was likerasmalaibut lighter, more delicate. I couldn’t enjoy it as I normally would have, however. I was so anxious about my diminishing resources. I set my spoon down.

“Madame…if it’s not too impertinent…may I know how much you require for my stay?” I flushed to the roots of my hair, sensing this was a vulgar question, but one I needed to ask.

Her lips curved in a smile. “It is most impertinent. Friends of Frances are friends of mine. And I do not ask friends to pay for their stay, mademoiselle.”

I released the breath I was holding.

Before turning off my bedside lamp that night, I read Dr. Stoddard’s letter again. I wanted to see if my thoughts were any clearer. On the one hand, the doctor was my friend, helping me from thousands of miles away. On the other, he was the enemy, a deserter, as my father had been. How could I reconcile the two? Was Dr. Stoddard telling me that the reasons for my father’s badbehavior were more complex than I realized? That I must forgive my father the way the doctor wished to be forgiven? I willed my thoughts to settle, but they refused. My sleep was fitful. My dreams, dark.

***

“Josephine?” The man scratched his cheek. “You mean Josephine Benoit? She’ll be at theMarchétoday.”

I’d come looking for Josephine in the Seventh Arrondissement, which is where Madame Renaud said art galleries were located. On a city map, she showed me how Paris was shaped like a nautilus and divided into sections called arrondissements. After trying several streets along the Seine, I found Josephine Benoit’s name on a glass door. Through the display windows, I spied two paintings that could have been Mira’s. But the door was locked.

Monsieur Maillot, whose name was on the gallery door adjacent to Josephine’s, was a beefy man in an expensive suit. Around ten stone. He showed all the signs of an overexercised heart. Flushed cheeks. Perspiration across the forehead although it was a fine day. The roll of his neck bulging from his starched shirt collar. My nurse’s training wanted to tell him to cut down on meat and walk after dinner.

“Whichmarché, monsieur?” I asked.

He looked me up and down. I might have thought he was assessing my fashion sense just as the women of Paris had when they saw me approaching, but the instinct to shield my body from him told me otherwise.

“Le Marché aux Puces.” He pointed vaguely toward the north of Paris, his eyes on my breasts.

I didn’t want to be there any longer than I had to be, and I was anxious to leave. “Will I be able to find her there easily? There must be a hundred stalls.” I’d read about the large market in Baedeker’s.

He looked at me more closely, as if noticing me for the first time. “Are you related?”

I didn’t know what he meant. “Pardon?”

“You’re Miss Benoit’s cousin from Martinique?”

“Uh, no. I’m from India.”

His forehead creased. “India? Miss Benoit represents an artist from India, doesn’t she?”

---