Page 63 of Six Days in Bombay

“I was Miss Novak’s nurse. She took ill in Bombay. I’m afraid she did not live more than six days at the hospital.”

We were stopped in front of a group listening to a jazz band. The guitarists were improvising, each playing a solo. I had hadto speak loudly to be heard over them. Several people looked over at us.

She stood perfectly still, oblivious to the customers who had to go around her. Her eyes were fixed on the ground. It was littered with bits of food from hurried lunches, cigarette butts and sales chits. I gave her time to digest the news. She didn’t appear upset, just shocked. Everyone grieved differently.

“Miss Benoit?”

So deep in thought was she that she didn’t hear me call her name. I tugged the burning cigar from between her gloved fingers and threw it on the ground, squashing it with my shoe. Gently, I pried the wrapped canvas she’d just bought from under her arm; it was in danger of falling to the ground. Taking care of the needs of others was as natural—and automatic—to me as breathing.

After several minutes, Josephine straightened her spine and considered me. She seemed to have made up her mind about something.

Finally, she looked up at me. “Mira’s gone?”

I nodded.

“Good.” Her tone was businesslike. She took sunglasses out of her purse and put them on. If she’d appeared remote before, she was more so now. Were the sunglasses part of her daily ensemble or were they meant to conceal emotions visible on her face? She checked her watch. “I’m late for an appointment.” She went around me to leave the flea market.

“But, Miss Benoit, I’ve come a long way.”

She wheeled around to face me. “Are you deaf? I don’t care.” The spit landed on my face. Without another word, she turned on her heel and quickly wound her way through the busy market.

I was still holding the painting she had bought. “No, wait, Miss Benoit!” I shouted. “I have your—” She only walked faster. But I didn’t want to be accused of stealing her purchase. If French society was anything like the British Raj, I would automaticallybe branded a criminal. Age-old bigotry would be my judge and jury. I fought my way through the throngs, keeping my eye on the mustard cloche ahead. I was used to the Bombay bazaars where patrons allowed the current of the crowd to guide them instead of carving their own path through the whirlpool. Here in Paris, I needed to elbow my way through the mob to catch up to Mira’s friend.

She was headed for the metro, the same one I had taken to get to theMarché. I followed, clutching two paintings now, one of them Mira’sThe Pledges. Josephine entered a first-class car. I hesitated for only a second; I had a ticket for second class, but the doors between the first-class and crowded second-class carriages were locked. I knew that if she disembarked, I would lose track of her.

The first-class compartment was empty except for two businessmen and a heavyset woman surrounded by shopping bags. Josephine looked at me, astonished, when I sat down next to her. This close, I could smell her fragrance—a hint of citrus with musk, peppercorn and the cheroot she’d been smoking. It was subtle but enough to mark her as a powerful woman.

“I don’t want to know.” Abruptly, she rose and took another seat.

“But…” I followed her and offered the painting she had purchased from Louis. She looked at the parcel. Her mouth opened and then closed. She grabbed the painting without a thank-you.

Hers was not a reaction I’d expected, especially when Petra’s had been the opposite. She had grieved the way I’d thought she would. Mira had told me once that Petra could never pretend. Her emotions came hot and fast. Josephine was completely different. What confused me was that she was Mira’s art dealer. Shouldn’t she at least want the details of her death? Mourn for her friend and client? Show an iota of feeling? Surely, she needed to know who would handle any paintings left in the estate.

My hands curled into fists. I wasn’t used to showing my anger,but I felt it bubble to the surface. I’d come thousands of miles to tell this woman about Mira only to be rebuffed in such an ill manner. Josephine seemed angry—not pained—by the news. I could, of course, simply thrustThe Pledgesat her and leave it at that. My duty would be done. But Josephine’s reaction was baffling. Maybe it had something to do with Mira’s betrayal of Josephine and her husband.

I made an attempt to sit next to her. She held up a palm. “Don’t.” It was a command. “She obviously got to you. The way she got to everybody. Fine. You’ve said what you’ve come to say. Now go.” She turned toward the window.

I found another seat and kept my eye on her. I needed to give her Mira’s painting. I just needed to find the right time.

I followed her from the underground to the Vavin exit, adjusting my eyes to the sunlight. On all four corners of the intersection, patrons dotted the terraces of cafés on Boulevard du Montparnasse. To my left was a graceful café called Le Dôme.

Josephine crossed the street. I followed. Josephine wove around the tables of another large café on the corner: La Rotonde. Down the street were two other sparsely populated coffeehouses, La Coupole and Le Select. At La Rotonde, everyone seemed to know Josephine. On the terrace, patrons waved to her from various tables. The waiters kissed both her cheeks. I hung back. She seemed not to know I was there. She stopped in front of a table where three men sat smoking and chatting. All three stood to kiss her.

Josephine asked the one with the high forehead, “Picasso’s not with you today, Marcel?”

Marcel smiled. His eyes were narrow and his nose sharp, but the symmetry of his features made him handsome. “He’s at the studio with Dora. Working furiously on his painting for the Expo.”

Another man at the table, his eyes deep-set and brows in a permanent frown, said, “That’s an angry painting. He’s furious with Franco and Germany for bombing Guernica.”

The man with the coarse face and pug nose of a boxer looked at him. “Miró is angry too, Manny. If you were a Spaniard, wouldn’t you be?” He took a sip of his beer, leaving a line of foam on his mustache.

Josephine smiled. “I hear anger only makes the two of them paint faster.”

The men laughed.

From another table, a mild-mannered man in a suit and bow tie piped up. “Picasso’s lucky they gave him a studio to paint in. They didn’t do that for everybody.” He had papers in front of him, which he was marking with his pencil.

Marcel said, “Louis, you stay out of this. Stick to your own propaganda.” It was a friendly thrust.

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