Page 71 of Six Days in Bombay

He pulled a few strands of hair from my face and tucked them behind my ear. “You have a freckle on your earlobe. I noticed it the first time we met.”

“You did?” I lay on my stomach, my arms folded under my chin.

“I’d always wanted to see it close-up.”

I chuckled. “Is it everything you imagined?”

“More.”

I was sleepy and closed my eyes.

“Sona, my work will take me all over Asia during the coming year. Maybe longer.” He paused. “I would love for you to come with me.”

I opened my eyes and stared at him. That was impossible. Unmarried men and women didn’t travel together.

“But we’d be traveling to areas that are primitive, unsanitary. I can’t—it would be selfish of me—to ask you to take that risk.”

I was wide-awake now, my heart unsteady. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

“I wish I could. But there’s no way—not now. I would never put you in danger.”

I glanced at the sheets, at Amit’s naked chest, at the light filtering through the curtains. Did I want to marry Amit? I’d been so preoccupied with desire that I hadn’t considered marriage. But he wasn’t proposing, was he? He was giving me reasonswhy he couldn’t. Besides, he was Indian, fighting for a free India. A casteless India. I was half Indian, half enemy. What would that coupling look like in the eyes of those who considered the English their oppressors? Gandhi. Bose. Sardar Patel. Bhagat Singh. Even women like Begum Hazrat Mahal. None of them werehalf-half.

Amit was still talking. “I can’t ask you to wait.” It sounded less like a statement, more like a question. He blinked, waiting for me to respond.

I wasn’t about to repeat my mother’s life. Sleeping with the enemy. Wasn’t that what her family had thought? Wasn’t that what everyone would think about us, Amit and me? What they had thought of Dr. Stoddard and his wife? Amit’s work was meant to bring the world’s attention to a serious problem. It was meant to be public. That meantwewould be public. The two of us would be on display. People would judge not just his work but the choices he made in his private life. The results of his labor would be tarnished.Blackie-White.Chee-Chee. I didn’t want to be responsible for ruining the good he could do for his country. My country too, although my claim felt tenuous.

There was so much I could say and so much I didn’t want to. I turned my head to the other side of my pillow, away from him.

FLORENCE

Chapter 11

I arrived at Florence’s Santa Maria Novella train station on a Monday. I’d slept the whole way from Paris. The conversation with Amit had left me drained. I hadn’t been able to come up with the right response—if there was one. What if I’d said I would wait for him to complete his mission? Who knew how long it would take? How would India react to one of their own consorting with the other side?

I used to be able to do double shifts at the hospital without tiring. Now, I was as exhausted as I’d ever been, sitting on a train for thirteen hours. I’d saved money staying at Madame Renaud’s but I still had to be careful. Skipping the expense of a sleeping compartment, I slept sitting up the entire trip to Florence. My neck was stiff. My legs felt like rubber. I had a headache.

As I stepped onto the train station platform, I was surprised by its pristine simplicity. Unlike the train stations in Prague and Paris, the architecture of SMN bordered on severe. The gleaming travertine floor with alternating bands of red and white marble looked as if no one had ever walked on it. Men and women passed through unadorned entrances and exits. Even the signage—Uscita,Tabacchi,Giornali—was a simple typeface. The New India Assurance Building in Bombay was similarly plain, built as it was from reinforced concrete, but at least it boasted bas relief sculptures ofsari-clad women and turbaned men. The Florence train station was so spare it felt as if someone had forgotten to complete it.

A young boy in knickers called out headlines from the newspaper he was waving about. I slowed to look at the paper,Corriere della Sera. From the photo and a few words similar enough to French, I gathered that a woman had been fatally stabbed on a train and that she was involved with the resistance movement. Underground uprisings seemed to be everywhere—in Bombay, Prague, Paris and now Florence. Could Agnes have been a spy or a collaborator? I wouldn’t be here long enough to find out. Once I found Paolo, I was going back to Bombay.

My stomach gurgled. I’d only had a cup of tea and toast on the train. The British Embassy was twenty-five minutes away by foot, but I couldn’t muster the energy to walk there. I wanted simply to find a cheap pensione where I could drop off my trunk and then find someplace to eat.

Across the street from the station, the entire wall of a building was covered with a poster:Credere, Obedire, Combattere. In the center was a middle-aged man in a military uniform and shiny black boots, his mouth open as if he were making a speech, one arm extended. I recognized Mussolini from the newspapers. In Paris, café patrons had talked about him.Did you hear he wants to join forces with Hitler?The bottom of the poster readFederazione dei Fasci di Combattimeno. It didn’t take a knowledge of Italian to understand the Fascist doctrine. As I had in the parts of Europe I’d seen so far, I felt a watchfulness among the people. As if everyone were looking over their shoulder for the enemy.

I waited for a tram and a horse carriage to pass before crossing the street. If I followed the Baedeker map along Via degli Avelli, I would be in a big piazza flanked by Santa Maria Novella church. It was a popular tourist area, so I hoped I could find a cheap hotel nearby.

In a narrow alley to my left, I spotted a pensione sign. I looked up at the narrow building. The contrast between the austere trainstation I’d just left and the Renaissance building in front of me was jarring. I followed the arrow to the top of the stairs, lugging my trunk, which seemed to get heavier with each city. The building smelled musty, like a chest that hadn’t been opened in decades. At the top was a pitted wooden desk, empty except for a large ledger and what appeared to be a photo album (I could see a few photos peeking out that hadn’t been glued yet). As if by magic, an old woman in a loose black dress emerged from a curtain behind the desk. She was wiping her hands on the apron tied at her waist.

“Buongiorno, signora,” she said. Her eyes darted swiftly to my ring finger. She corrected herself. “Signorina.”

One of the advantages of being a nurse in a hospital were the different nationalities we encountered. I’d been able to pick up a few pleasantries in several languages:good day,hello,yes,no,excuse me,please.

“Buongiorno. On parle français?”

She gave me a small smile and shrugged. Her eyes were the color of acorns. The wrinkles fanning from them were those of a woman who had lived a long life.

I held up one finger and made a gesture to indicate I was sleeping in a bed. She laughed, revealing a missing tooth along her upper gum. From what I could gather, she then asked me how many nights I intended to stay. I wondered how many days it would take to find Paolo. I had no idea, but I held up three fingers.

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