The crystal chandeliers overhead glinted in the sunlight, the marble floors and pillars polished to perfection. The lobby seemed unusually busy for a Sunday morning, and then I realized why: a board announcing that day’s events and functions listed a fashion show that, according to my watch, had just ended.
I found an empty armchair in the lobby and sunk into it. I looked completely out of place, swaddled in voluminous clothes where everyone else looked defined, silhouetted against a beautiful backdrop. Crowds of people began to emerge from one of the rooms in the back, carrying programs and chattering excitedly. There were hundreds of them, far more than had been at Bruno’s a few nights before, and not a server in a French maid’s uniform to be found among them. I wished, for a moment, to have seen what they had just seen.
A waiter approached me and asked if I would like to order anything. I looked at the menu he showed me and realized that if I wanted the money to last me the rest of the month, I could maybe afford an espresso.
“Bon,” he said with a quick nod of his head.
The lobby went quickly quiet, with only small pockets of people clustered here and there, discussing the show. Two American girls were talking about a lilac chiffon gown as if it were the Shroud of Turin, marveling at its perfection.
Then I saw the models leaving, all of them lithe and willowy, their hair in neat chignons, subdued makeup on their pretty faces, looking every inch like I always imagined models would, one of them a dazzling redhead I even recognized from the cover of the magazine I was carrying. This must have been quite a show.
I took careful, slow sips of my espresso, wanting to savor every drop, aware that this was the only indulgence I was going to allow myself there. As the crowds in the lobby thinned out, I noticed that I was being stared at by a balding, dark-skinned man who was seated on a couch a few feet away. He didn’t smile, had no expression on his face, but his eyes were glued to me as if he were blind and didn’t know where he was looking. I had grown accustomed to being noticed in Paris, attributing it mostly to my clumsy Indian attire, although Mathias frequently told me that my looks had something to do with it. But usually someone would gawk and then look away again as soon as I noticed. This man just kept on staring.
Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, I decided it was time to leave. I paid the bill, gathered up my things, and walked quickly to the front of the hotel, trying to decide which direction to turn in. I made a right and headed back toward the Tuileries, thinking that if I was ambitious and energetic enough, I might continue on in that direction to the Left Bank and perhaps even return home on foot.
After five minutes of walking, something told me to turn around. The man from the hotel was behind me, his pace quickening to catch up to mine, leading me to speed up. He was taller and thinner than he looked back at the hotel, and he was far too well-dressed to be trailing a girl across Paris like some ruffian at night.
“Stop!” he said. “Please! I mean no harm. Please.”
We were on the rue de Rivoli, surrounded by tourists, so against my better judgment I came to a standstill and turned to face him as he caught up with me.
“Thank you,” he said, catching his breath. He spoke in accented English, but I knew it wasn’t French. Somehow, I found that comforting-that he was an alien here, just like me. “You walk fast,” he gasped.
“I thought you were chasing me. What do you want?”
He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out a name card, and handed it to me: DIMITRI MAROUNIS, VICE PRESIDENT, it said, and beneath it the name of a company with three different addresses.
I looked up at him, still puzzled.
“I am a scout,” he said. “It’s my job to find new talent. I saw you sitting there, and I thought that if you weren’t already a model, you should be. Are you? If so, to whom are you signed?”
“You are mistaken,” I said. “I am in Paris for just a short while and will then return to India. I have no interest in modeling, but I thank you.” I turned around to resume my walk home.
“But madam,” he said, stopping me. “You are a striking young woman. You could become very rich doing this if you would let me help you. We’ll start by getting some photos taken. I will help you through the whole process, and-”
I interrupted him mid-sentence. “I don’t believe you fully understood me,” I said. “I have no interest. But thank you.”
Shoving his card into my bag, I turned around again and headed home, leaving him standing there.
The next evening as I was showing my roommates how to prepare lamb curry, the doorbell rang. Juliette went to answer it and returned accompanied by a young man who looked like he had come from my part of the world.
“Miss Tanaya?” he asked, staring at me blankly.
“Yes?”
“My name is Sumeet. Mina Husain asked me to bring you these.”
He stepped aside, and I saw behind him three boxes, each addressed to me care of Aunt Mina.
I knew exactly what they were. My grandfather’s handwriting was immediately recognizable. I used to joke to Nilu that all my belongings in the world would easily fit into three small boxes, which were now positioned in front of me.
Once Sumeet left, the girls helped me open them up. Inside were all my clothes, the ones I used to wear when chasing the children of our building up and down the stone stairs; my leather chappals that I frayed walking back and forth to the market; the books that kept me company during my lonely nights.
At the top of the second box was an envelope, with my name written flawlessly on the front. Even at his angriest, my grandfather always had exceptional penmanship. A letter was carefully folded inside.
Tanaya,
You were supposed to return after two weeks in Paris. It has now been two months. I told you on the phone that you were dead to me, that you could never return home. Yet I waited. I thought perhaps someone had cursed you with insanity, but that you would eventually recover and come home to beg forgiveness, which I would have gradually given you. But now, too much time has passed. You are, I have realized, not insane. Instead, you are a horrible and shameless girl. I do not know what has come over you, and when Allah finally takes me to paradise, I still will not know. But here are your things. Having them around is nothing more than a painful reminder of your presence. You have crushed me, Tanaya. It is like you were never even my child.
My hands were shaking as I held the single piece of paper with which my beloved grandfather had effectively ended my life. The girls looked at me questioningly, and then one by one seemed to grasp what had happened and what the contents of that letter were. Karla opened up the last box, atop which rested my parents’ wedding photograph, the one I used to sneak into our room to look at. Affixed to the back with a piece of Scotch tape was a small note from my mother.
Your grandfather asked if there was anything I wanted to send you, as my way to say good-bye. I could think only of this photo, which always seems to have meant something to you. I am crying as I write this, because I am seeing that of all the tragedies and disappointments in my life, you, my Tanaya, are the greatest.