Page 67 of Six Days in Bombay

“I suppose I am a mother of sorts. To Berthe, whom you met. Chana Orloff. Sonia Delaunay. Germaine Richier. More importantly, I’m their guardian. I protect them from bad news. I bring opportunities to them. I hold on to their money for them when I know they can’t do it for themselves.”

“You love them?”

She plucked a piece of tobacco from her tongue. “I do. If I could do what they do, I would. But you see, I don’t have the talent. I know how to massage it, but I don’t have it.” She signaled for two cups of coffee. “I’ll tell you this though. I would rather spend time with any of my artists—even those who drink too much or gamble—than the people who come to my sister’s Friday evening salons. They talk a good game about equality, and how everyone must have the same earning power and so on. But in the end, they’re just talking to their boeuf bourguignon and champagne. The artists? They’re doing something. They’re saying something important in the process.”

Henri brought the coffees. He talked to her in French so rapidly that I couldn’t catch it with my rudimentary skill. Josephine answered him just as rapidly. He laughed and went to take an order at another table.

She smiled at me. “He asked if you were related to me.”

For the second time today, my skin color had been called out. “Your gallery neighbor, Monsieur Maillot, asked me that too.”

“You’re an attractive woman. The French love the exotic. The mysterious. Josephine Baker. Kiki de Montparnasse. Fujita, that artist from Japan, because he has a quirky look. The French eat it up.”

I wondered what my mother would think of being called exotic. In a land of Indians, she had hardly stood out. Here in Paris, would she spit at the ground, warning the evil spirits away, or would she be pleasantly surprised, taking in the compliment? I found myself chuckling.

Josephine grinned at my reaction, her even teeth on display. She crushed her dwindling cheroot in the ashtray and drained her coffee.

She began gathering her pack of smokes, her gloves and her clutch. “How many days will you stay in Paris?”

I thought about it, about my remaining funds. “I will probably leave the day after tomorrow.”

“Where are you staying?”

I told her.

She regarded me with somber eyes, pupils dark like the bottom of a well. “I’m probably going to regret this.” She sighed. “Meet me at the Musée d’Art Moderne tomorrow at eleven o’clock. It’s far enough from the Expo that you won’t be swallowed by the crowd. And do be careful. People are crafty. If they can, they will take advantage of you.” She slid out of the booth.

Her remark reminded me, as I’m sure she intended it to, of what had happened in the bathroom earlier. My eyes watered. It felt like I was being reprimanded. Or was Jo mothering me the way she mothered her clients, the way my mother had, protecting me, making sure I was safe? When would I no longer need that protection? Had Josephine ever needed it? She seemed like someone who catapulted from childhood to adulthood, skipping the insecurity in between. Maybe I was teetering on that edge. On one side, a woman who sheltered behind the front lines, and on the other side, one who marched into battle. Josephine was in the second camp. So was Mira. Which side would I end up on?

***

The next day, I stood with my back to the Musée d’Art Moderne, watching people enter the Expo grounds. A shuttle carrying a dozen passengers wove its way through the masses. Visitors were taking a break along the stone walls of the Seine, watching the boats float along the river. Others consulted their maps and pointed to the pavilions on the other side of the Seine they wanted to visit.

“Not as many people as they expected,” Josephine said, approaching me. She was wearing another well-cut skirt suit in maroon wool with a matching tilt hat. She took me by the arm and guided me toward the Avenue du Président Wilson. After yesterday, when she’d been so brusque, her casual touch—as if we’d known each for ages, as if we were friends—surprised me.

“The Expo was supposed to be an opportunity for Paris to get back on its feet,” she said. “But there’s so much uncertainty in the air about war that many who had planned on coming didn’t.” We stopped at the Place du Trocadéro.

Josephine said, “They asked for seven hundred murals to be created by artists around the world. I thought it would be a great opportunity for Mira. I knew she would have been accepted because of what she painted. South Indian women.” She uncoupled our arms and began walking toward the Trocadéro Fountains. “Mira refused. She said the fight for power between the Soviets and Nazi Germany would upstage everything else. Now look at the two largest pavilions flanking the entrance. See their flags?” She was pointing to the tallest structures on either side of the Pont d’léna.

“Those two countries are declaring their fight for world domination. If Germany wins, and Mira was convinced they would, she feared for the future of the Jews. She said she would never participate in anything that hated half of her without just cause.” Jo looked at me. “She was always so sure of herself, her convictions. I respected her for that. It frustrated me and made me proud of her at the same time. Unlike Berthe, who cannot stand up for herself. Poor thing. She’ll always let people use her.”

As Jo talked, I studied her. Yesterday, she didn’t even want to talk about Mira. After what Mira had told me, I could understand Jo’s anger. But here she was, telling me what she admired about the painter.

The art dealer skirted the fountains and walked toward the Pont d’léna. The Eiffel Tower loomed on the other side of the Seine. Up close, the tower was massive. We were quiet as we crossed the bridge. Josephine stopped to lean on the stone wall and watch the boats below as so many others were doing.

“So. You were fascinated by Mira.” She regarded me, assessing me. I felt my neck flush. Was it so obvious?

“Her stories took me outside of myself, outside of India. She’dbe talking about an art exhibition she’s seen in Vienna one minute and Mozart’s symphony the next. Things I’d not been exposed to.”

Josephine laughed lightly.“Eine Kleine Nachtmusik?”

“Yes. What’s so amusing?”

“It was part of her seduction routine. She took your hand in hers like this, right?” Josephine held my hand the way Mira had, hers so dark against mine.

My mouth fell open. Were none of the moments with Mira, moments where I’d felt special, privileged to be in her company, exclusive to me?

“When Mira wanted you to love her, she had a repertoire she employed. Mozart was one of them. But it wasn’t real, Miss Falstaff. She did it because you were there. If you hadn’t been there, she would have done the same thing to someone else who was.”

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