Page 66 of Six Days in Bombay

Josephine and Berthe were arguing about a commission Berthe still needed to paint.

After my third Campari, I needed to use the WC. I asked the waiter where it was, and he pointed to the stairs. I wound my way behind Josephine’s booth a little unsteadily. It felt good, like my limbs were so loose my body could fold into itself. The imagemade me smile. I held on to the banister as I made my way down the stairs. When I opened the door to the WC, someone pushed me from behind so hard I fell against the sink, hitting my head on the mirror above. A man was pressing against my body. I smelled beer and the woody scent of a cigarette. The rim of the sink was putting so much pressure on my stomach, bile rose to my throat. I felt clumsy hands pushing my skirt up around my hips. It had happened so fast I hadn’t thought to scream. Then I realized I couldn’t. He had his meaty hand clamped around my mouth and nose. I couldn’t breathe. I gnawed at his hand until I found skin I could bite. He screamed,“Guenon!”I tried to use my right hand to punch him in the ribs. But his body was too close and my fist landed on his back without impact. He caught my arm and bent it upward. The pain brought tears to my eyes. I bit him harder. All at once, I felt his body lift off my back. I fell forward and braced my arms on either side of the sink. I rested my head against the mirror, breathing hard.

“Ça va?”

I turned to see Josephine. Behind her, a man stumbled out the door, holding on to his hand, and headed for the stairs. Josephine’s back was to the overhead light. I couldn’t see her expression. Three glasses of Campari shot up my gullet and I turned to the sink in time to vomit. I didn’t realize I was crying. Snot was running down my nose. The blue sweater the doctor had knit for me was soaked. Was it water or vomit?

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I cried, feeling humiliated. “Why am I here? In Paris?”

“Wash your face.”

I turned on the tap and splashed water on my face. There was a small towel on a wall hook, which a hundred hands had wiped. Josephine reached around me to give me her handkerchief. I wiped my face.

She gripped my arm and led me out of the WC.

I stopped. “I have to pee.” I was five years old again, needing my mother to hold my hand.

She said, “Go.”

Before I came back out, she handed me her suit coat and told me to take my stained sweater and blouse off.

She walked me to her booth and helped me sit down. Berthe had disappeared. She’d taken the wrapped painting with her.

“Merde!”Josephine let out a sigh of frustration. She shook her head. She called the waiter over. I was too tired to understand their rapid French.

When he left, she gave me her glass of water. I drained it in one swallow. “You have to take it easy with the Campari.” She asked Henri for another glass of water.

I should have known better. Hadn’t I made a fool of myself on the Viceroy in front of Dr. Stoddard with a few too many glasses of port? I felt so idiotic I couldn’t look at her. “Where did he go?”

“He ran.” She lit a cheroot with her gold lighter and blew out smoke. “I haven’t seen him here before. There was a time when I knew almost everyone here. But so many—painters like Gris, Matisse—and writers—Hemingway, Fitzgerald—they’ve left Paris. The cafés used to be so crowded the tables spilled out onto the streets. Now, it feels more like a ghost town.” She tapped her slim cigar on the ashtray.

“The ones who are left are the surrealists. Like the men outside. The one with the battered nose is Fernand Léger.” She exhaled smoke through the side of her mouth to direct it away from me. “Next to him, Marcel DuChamp. The third is Man Ray. They call him Manny. The one at the other table is Louis Aragon. More of a writer and a collector of art. Each of them is a genius in his own way. Then there’s Picasso—he’s still here. He’s a little of everything: a surrealist, a cubist, a futurist, a pioneer.”

Henri returned with a clean tablecloth, the same as the onesthat were draped over each table. Josephine instructed me to wrap my damp clothing in it.

“I’m sorry,” was all I could say.

Josephine regarded me through the smoke. “What’s your name?”

“Sona Falstaff.”

“Falstaff as in Shakespeare?”

I cocked my head, stumped. It felt as if water was sloshing to one side in my brain. I’d never given any thought to my father’s surname.

“You shouldn’t be here. You’re too young to be by yourself.”

It was what I’d been feeling but hearing her say it was embarrassing. “I’m twenty-three.” I could hear my voice, sounding all of twelve years old.

Henri brought another glass of water and Jo pushed it toward me. “My point.”

I took a sip. Then another. “Miss Novak told me you only represent female artists.”

She inspected her cheroot and dropped more ashes into the ashtray. “I’m not ready to talk about her. But if you’re asking why I don’t have male artists in my stable, I would ask you, don’t you think men have had enough of a head start?” She pulled the ashtray closer to her, let me consider her remark.

“They’re special, artists are. Like children. Very talented children. But they need love. They need to be told they are doing work that people need to see. That they are important.”

“You sound like a mother.” I didn’t know if Josephine was married or had children.

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