Page 16 of Six Days in Bombay

My hostess sent me off the next morning with strong coffee and homemade apple rolls. The coffee was bitter until I added a little sugar and a lot of milk. Perhaps someday I would get used to this taste that Europeans seemed to prefer. In halting French, she asked me about my next destination, I told her I was going to Paris to speak to Mira’s art dealer.

“Be well.” She smiled. Her baby smiled too, showing me his first two teeth.

Trunk in hand once more and the leather belt around my waist (I hoped it looked more like a fashion accessory than an eyesore), I walked to Petra’s apartment. I wanted to give her time to recover from the art reception the night before, so I loitered around New Town for an hour. Given the way everyone had been drinking last night, I had a feeling the reception had lasted until the early morning hours. The same maid let me into the Hitzig residence. I walked to the top floor and knocked.

When Petra didn’t respond, I tried the handle as I had the day before. It was unlocked—again. Petra was sprawled on her bed, the sheets covering only half her body. I crossed the room to the bed and held my hand under her nose to make sure she was breathing. Her mascara had run down her eyes, giving her a ghoulish appearance. The hair on one side of her head was matted and her sheath from the day before was stained with vomit. She had a bruise on one arm.

I set down my trunk and went into her makeshift kitchen to boil water. A search of the cabinets revealed a bag of coffee and an open packet of biscuits. The only cups were in the sink, waiting to be washed. I plunged them under hot water (there didn’t seem to be any soap). When the coffee was ready, I poured it in one cup and put cold water in the other. I brought both to her with the packet of biscuits.

“Petra?”

She stirred.

“Drink the water first, then the coffee. I have something for you. From Miss Novak.”

She opened her eyes, gummy with mascara and eyeliner. When she saw me, she groaned. “You’re the nosy one.” She closed her eyes again.

I’d been called worse by patients. With stubborn ones, you have to have a stern hand (but a kind one, per the nursing handbook). I pulled her up by her hands, which were sticky. She pushed me away and sat up, bunching the pillows against her back. She reached for the coffee first, but I held it away from her and handed her the water.

She drank greedily and held her hand out for the coffee.

“Mira cared for you, Petra,” I said. “I could tell by the way she talked about you.”

I had her attention now. Petra shot a look at me, her eyes large in her elfin face. “Really?”

“She told me she wouldn’t have survived school without you. The two of you saw every Voskovec and Werich movie that came to the cinema and laughed until you fell out of your chairs. You both cried at the showing of The Bartered Bride and cursed the scheming matchmaker. You ice-skated every winter hand in hand. You skipped classes to sketch together at the park above the train station.”

Petra wiped her nose on the sheet covering her. Her cheeks were wet with tears, but she was smiling. “She was so much fun! Always up for an adventure. She led; I followed. That’s why she called me ovce. Sheep. I didn’t mind. She meant it as an endearment. She was a good mimic and could imitate everyone in class—our teachers, the tutors, the gym instructors. We had this chemistry teacher with only three fingers on his left hand. It fascinated us.” She hiccupped and giggled. “We spent hours imagining what could have happened to him. Was he born that way? Did he have his fingers cut off just like that fable of The Girl Without Hands ? Did he pass out in a winter storm and get frostbite? In class, he would hold up all eight of his fingers and say something like, ‘I want you to memorize ten elements for tomorrow.’ We knew he did it on purpose to shock us.

“One day, Mira—” Petra began to laugh hard. She had to start again several times before she could finish. “One day, Mira folded two fingers of her left hand into her palm and taped them down. She did the same to me. All day, we went around saying, ‘There are ten rules I want you to follow,’ and held up all eight fingers. He caught us, you know, in the hallway. We felt awful, but he just laughed and said he could have us do an experiment that could make it happen. He became our favorite teacher that year.”

Petra looked down at her ruined dress and plucked at a wrinkle. “I’ve missed her. Every single day since she left Prague. I spent some time with her in Paris when she studied there, and we had such fun. I can’t believe she’s gone.” She chewed on a fingernail. She looked so small and fragile. I could picture the little girl she once was, in pigtails, waiting for her friend Mira after class so they could go off on another adventure. Mira told me she’d outgrown her friendship with Petra, but clearly Petra hadn’t outgrown her fondness for Mira. She would never again share those escapades with her girlhood friend.

“Mira left a painting for you.” I pulled The Waiting from my trunk.

She set the coffee cup down on the floorboards and took it from me with both hands. She ran her finger over the layers of dried paint. For several minutes, she said nothing. “Do you know why she chose this one? It’s one of her most famous. She would never sell it.”

“No. She left instructions for me to give it to you. There is another painting for Paolo, whom you’ve heard of. And one for Josephine, whom you must have met in Paris when you were there with Mira…”

I turned the painting over to show her the P on the back of the canvas. “She left this too.” I showed her the note Mira left with the paintings.

Petra skimmed her fingers over the handwriting. “That’s definitely Mira’s scrawl.” She looked at The Waiting. “This reminds me of the young girls we once were.” She pointed to the subjects. “I know these girls are Indian, but in their faces, I see our young selves just before we changed. A time when we trusted our fathers and mothers because we didn’t know them well enough. When finding the feather of a songbird was the most important thing in the world before boys came along. When we were made aware of our femaleness that would come to overpower any other part of us.” She caressed the painting once again with her fingers. “But why did she give it to you? Had you known each other in Bombay before she came to the hospital?”

I sat on the bed next to her. The nurse in me had to ignore the soiled bedding and pretend the yellow smudges on the pillows were makeup. “No, I’d only known her for six days while I was her night nurse. But we talked a lot during that time. She told me something about you that I think she wanted to say to you directly.”

Petra cocked her head, like a bird listening for a call.

I was careful with my words. I wanted to make sure I conveyed Mira’s thoughts accurately. “She was happy you came to Paris. She thought you made a great model. You sat for her for the painting that won her a place in the Paris Salon. But when you showed an interest in becoming a painter, she said she was not very kind. She told you that you would never be any good, that you should give it up before you disappointed yourself.” I paused. “Miss Hitzig, she truly regretted saying those things.” I paused. “She said, ‘I don’t know why I did that.’”

A tear fell from Petra’s cheek onto the sheet. “Oh, how I hated her when she was cruel. She often was, you know. But it was true. My father paid for a place for me at the art institute here. I could never had gotten in on my own. I really wasn’t good. But I wondered if I would have been better if she had just encouraged me a little. I worshipped her.” She looked up at me. “I’m a better painter now than I was then. Still, Mira did hurt me. A lot.”

I felt like apologizing to her even though I hadn’t been part of their circle. “I knew her for such a short time. But I wish I’d known her longer. She told the most wonderful stories about you, about Paolo and Josephine.”

“She was like that. It was her gift. I always hated when a new girl arrived at school and Mira would become fast friends with her. They would do everything together for the first week, and then Mira would drop her just like that.” Petra snapped her fingers. “Then she would come back to me.” She smiled. “Sometimes she did it only because she wanted something from me. Usually it was money.”

I cocked my head, puzzled.

“Her parents wouldn’t support her unless she sold a painting, but she couldn’t paint that fast so she was always short of money.” She shrugged. “And I was always lending it to her. Of course, I knew she’d never pay me back. I understood. Filip never earned anything.”

That image unsettled me. Was Mira only interested in people as long as she was getting something from them? Did she show interest in me because she needed me to do her bidding? Like delivering these paintings? But that was absurd because she couldn’t have known she was going to die. Perhaps the woman Petra knew had been savage and selfish but she had changed with time? Or were there two sides to Mira and she chose which side to show to whom. Which was the real Mira Novak?

I sucked in a breath. “There’s something I haven’t told you. Miss Novak died from a morphine overdose. It’s not clear who administered it. Sometimes I’ve wondered if she took it herself, but that seems preposterous.” I glanced at Petra to see how this remark had landed. She was playing with the bedsheet, frowning. “Still, if there’s anything you know about her that might help…” I didn’t finish because I didn’t quite know what to ask.

Petra was thoughtful. Then, she said, “As her nurse, wouldn’t you have been responsible for administering the morphine?”

I looked down at the sheets. “It’s complicated. I know I didn’t give her the overdose but I don’t know who did.”

“She wrote that note to you while she was in the hospital, right? Why would she have done that unless…?” Her eyes filled again.

She left the sentence hanging in the air. I sat with that a moment. It was hard to imagine any of us knew when or how we were going to die. “Last night, you said you called your exhibition your farewell to Miss Novak. What did you mean?”

She sighed. “I thought that the paintings would allow me a release. Like I had finally gotten over her. A goodbye of sorts. I know what they all say about me. And I wanted for it to be over. But it only made me miss her more.”

I rose from the bed, taking her coffee cup with me to the kitchen. I scrubbed the cup and dried it.

“You know what’s strange?” she asked.

I turned to her and rested my weight against the counter.

“What Pavel says is true. My grandfather won’t be the only one buying my paintings anymore. With Mira’s death, they will sell easily. And I’ll have plenty of my own money, separate from my father. Do you think I should sell them?”

She sounded like a child asking if she could have another ice cream. I didn’t know what to tell her. I shrugged and tried my most sympathetic smile.

“Well, at least I’ll keep this one. The Waiting . It’s beautiful.”

We were quiet for some time.

She finally said, “Mira and I hadn’t talked since her last visit to Prague. I’m pretty sure she and Paolo stayed in touch though. Talk to him. He’ll know more.”

“I’m hoping he might. I’ll see him in Florence.” I paused. “Would you have an address for him?”

She shook her head and said in a small voice. “We’re not friends.”

I took Mira’s note from her and put it in my waist belt.

Petra hiccupped. I gave her another glass of water. She took a large gulp. Her large eyes, so naked with feeling, studied me. “I hope you find peace, Miss Falstaff.”

It startled me. A sentiment like that coming from a woman I’d dismissed as a child. Was I seeking peace? I thought I was searching for Mira’s sake. Was Petra implying I was searching for mine? Maybe there was more to Petra than I’d given her credit for.

I picked up my trunk. It was time for me to leave for Paris.