Page 62 of Six Days in Bombay

He must have been referring to Mira, but I didn’t want to talk about her with anyone but Josephine. I pretended not to hear.

Monsieur Maillot’s cheeks resembled balloons as he blew air through his mouth. “TheMarchéis large. Gets larger every day. There you must be careful what you buy, eh? There are some…” He rolled his hand in the air. I caught his meaning. That was what people always said about our Bombay markets.

His phone rang. He backtracked to his desk as he talked to me. “Ask for Louis Le Grand. He’ll know where to find her.” I heard his“Allô”as I closed the door behind me.

Walking to the flea market would take me an hour. But because I was saving money on lodging, I decided to take the metro. The flea market turned out to be a warren of stalls along narrow passageways with a variety of items for sale, not unlike Bombay’s Hutatma Chowk. Instead of betel juice stains on the walls and the aroma of incense, fennel seeds and honest sweat, the French flea market smelled of plaster, stale cigarette smoke, leather and something metallic, like brass. To my left was a man selling used china and porcelain. The stall to my right featured a wrought iron chair, delicate in comparison to the sturdy teak chairs in old Bombay houses. At other stalls, used household wares and framed paintings were displayed on makeshift walls, vintage tables or hanging from the ceiling. I saw birdcages, antique books, enamel cookware, heavy mahogany furniture (much like the sideboards in St. Joseph’s visitors lounge). After a half hour, I’d turned down so many alleys thatI felt as if I had walked in a circle. How would I ever find Josephine in this maze?

Every few stalls, I would ask if the shopkeeper could point me to Louis Le Grand. A few shrugged their shoulders. Others ignored me completely. I tried not to disturb those who were in the throes of a negotiation, but I couldn’t help but overhear, fascinated that vendors here used the same tactics that Bombay vendors did.Madame will not find anything finer than this lace. Even in the Netherlands they are begging for anything this delicate. I have customers as far as China who would pay four times what I’m charging, but they cannot travel so easily here as madame can.

Finally, a gentleman I’d spoken to a few stalls back whistled. I turned around, as did several other customers and shopkeepers. He gestured to me to come closer. When I did, he leaned in and pointed to a store at the end of the lane. I thanked him and hurried along.

This stall was different. Instead of a canvas covering, there was a glass door at the entrance. It looked like one of the more prosperous shops. I stepped inside. On every wall, and even on the ceiling, were paintings. Some framed, most not. In the center of the store was a desk with even more canvases piled on it. In front of the desk, her back to me, stood a very tall woman in an elegant navy skirt suit. She wore a mustard cloche on her blue-black hair, which was styled in waves, as I’d seen on other European women. She was examining a canvas in her gloved hands.

The man I assumed was Louis wore a striped cotton shirt, sleeves pulled up to his elbows, and black pants with suspenders. His arms were crossed over his chest. “I talked to her just last week. She doesn’t want to take anything less.” His crowded teeth were like the slats of a fence that were about to collapse.

The woman murmured, “The painting is not good enough for my clients.”

The shopkeeper pointed his palms to the ground. “Madame, she has the hashish. It has taken her like a lover. If it’s goodenough for Hugo and Baudelaire… That’s what she says.Et alors, she needs the money.”

“That may be, but my client won’t pay as much as the artist wants.”

“Which client is that?”

I could tell by the way she tightened her shoulders that the woman was annoyed by this question. “Monsieur Le Grand, I never reveal the names of my clients,” she said as if she were scolding an unruly child. She lowered the canvas, set it on the desk.

Louis waved his hands about. “I know, I know.Désolé.” But he seemed more exasperated than sorry.

“We will pay half of what you’re asking.”

Louis ran a hand across his mouth and shrugged. “Leave it then.” He seemed to notice me for the first time. He lifted his chin at the painting under my arm and asked. “Mademoiselle?”

I’d been so absorbed in their conversation that I jumped. That was when the woman turned around. She was the color of coffee with just a dab of milk. Her eyes were the same color as her skin. She might have been South Indian. In fact, it was how Mira had described her. Josephine was wearing cream gloves. A strand of pearls glowed against her dark skin. The only thing that gave away her age were the creases around the corners of her mouth. She might have been forty or fifty—it was hard to tell. Maroon lipstick lined her thin mouth.

I must have been staring because Louis asked again, “Puis-je vous aider?”

I’d forgotten to greet the proprietor with the bonjour Ralph Stoddard had told me was customary. I nodded to Louis. “Bonjour.” Then I took a few steps toward the woman. “Madame Benoit?”

A frown creased her forehead.

“You knew Mira Novak?”

She blinked. “IknowMira,” she said cautiously.

“I’m afraid I have some sad news.” Noticing Louis, whose eyebrows had risen in surprise, I said, “Perhaps we could talk privately?”

But Louis was quick. He was grinning now, his overbite on full display. “There you are, Madame Benoit. Mira Novak’s work will fetch a pretty penny on the art market now. You have a few yourself, don’t you? Your future is looking very bright indeed.” He picked up the small canvas from his desk. “Shall I wrap this for you? Full price?”

Josephine, whose high heels brought her eye level with Louis, stared him down as if she were a foot taller. Her jaw tensed. She reached into her purse and placed a wad of French francs on his desk.

Louis clasped his hands and moved them up and down. “Merci, madame.” He began wrapping the small painting in brown paper, inserting cardboard on both sides of the canvas to protect it.

As soon as he handed it to Josephine, she turned and click-clacked her heels out of the room. She was walking so fast I had to run to catch up to her.

Once we’d passed a few stalls, she tucked the painting under her arm and stopped to light a thin cigar with a gold lighter. She snapped it shut and took a deep drag. When I’d caught up with her, she said. “You cost me a negotiation.” She didn’t look angry, but her voice was tight.

I was a little out of breath. Sweat had made my underarms damp. The temperature was sixty degrees, twenty degrees cooler than Bombay. I should have been cold. “I’m sorry, madame. But I’ve come a long way to talk to you. From Bombay, in fact.”

Her eyes shifted from the cigar to my mouth. It was as if she were deaf and trying to read my lips. “And you are…?”

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