Page 17 of Six Days in Bombay

Chapter 10

I was lonely. The visit to Petra’s had left me depressed, and I’d come away a little less enchanted with Mira. I missed my mother, who would have made her suji ka halwa and recited a lovely Tagore poem to soothe me. I missed Amit. I resisted the urge to ask Dr. Stoddard about him. I was sure he would guess how I felt about Amit, and I wanted to keep those feelings to myself. I missed the old doctor, too. And Edward. It made me smile every time I thought of our dance in the Grand Bazaar. I found myself wanting to be with someone to whom I mattered. I also missed India; I longed for the familiarity of her aromas, her heartbeat, her people.

After disembarking at the Gare de l’Est in Paris, I headed to the h?tel particulier where a brass plate informed me that I was at Her Britannic Majestic Embassy. Edward Stoddard’s advice to go to the British Embassy in every city I visited had been helpful so far. Where the one in Prague had been impressive, the one in Paris was dazzling. Like a palace from a fairy tale. Crystal chandeliers. Walls lined with tall mirrors and gilded columns. Under my feet, a plush carpet patterned in crimson and gold. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the back wall, my eye was drawn to a green lawn, exquisitely manicured.

When I announced myself to the receptionist, he handed me an embossed envelope. It was addressed to me in Dr. Stoddard’s cramped handwriting. I’d never been so happy to receive a letter in my life.

My dear girl,

I’m delighted you made the most of your visit to Prague. Hope you’re unraveling the mystery of that most mysterious painter. No need to be under any obligation to us. Edward only did what he would ordinarily do. We are here to assist you in any way we can.

Now, I have a matter to posit to you.

It’s understandable that you may not wish to visit your father, but if you leave this life without having said your piece to him, you will not be at peace yourself. I know he hurt you and your mother, but don’t let him hurt you anymore.

I’ve been wanting to tell you something ever since I met you. Not even Edward knows of it. But it might help you understand something about your father.

I left a fianc’ee behind in England when I came to India. I had every intention of sending for her and marrying her after I’d got myself settled in Bombay. But then I met Deva. Never known anyone like her. She had an inner calm that I found soothing. I’d been feeling so low about losing my patient back in England because of my carelessness. Mistakes are made, but I never thought I’d be the one to make one. The man who died in my care was my fianc’ee’s brother. She was heartbroken. I couldn’t forgive myself. I had to get as far away as possible to escape my feelings of failure. I had hurt her. She’d forgiven me, never blamed me for her brother’s death. Never changed her mind about marrying me. But I wanted to outrun my guilt. So I came to India. And fell in love with Deva. Did I do it to keep from returning to England, the scene of my colossal failing? Or did I want to start a life with an extraordinary woman?

I married Deva. We were happy together. Edward is the result of that union and the most magnificent accomplishment of my life. When he was eight, Deva was killed by a streetcar.

People looked at Deva and me in the way they probably looked at your father and mother. As if we’d broken some law. We were an abomination in their eyes. It didn’t used to be that way. There was a time when the British government encouraged marriages like ours—like your mother and father’s—to create liaisons and ease tensions between themselves and Indians. But the ill will could never be eased, not as long as the British were in power. Mixed marriages were the casualties.

There was such a cloud of disapproval around us that Deva and I didn’t often mix. There were others like us, but no one wanted to be part of a club of outcasts. When I first met you, I knew you were one of us. And you confirmed it.

I thought often about how callous I’d been toward my fianc’ee , breaking off our engagement in a letter. Too much of a coward to see her in person. I never went back to England. My family weren’t keen on connecting with me. Hers either. They were all ashamed of me. I was ashamed of myself too. I’d run from England. Then I’d run from my obligation to Elizabeth.

All this to say, my biggest regret in life is to never have faced Elizabeth and apologized to her for my callousness. I can’t help but feel that your father wants—needs—to tell you that as well, that he’s sorry for his desertion. And if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed… Promise me you’ll think about it.

All my love and admiration,

Ralph Stoddard

I stood with the letter in my hands a long time. All around me, serious men in dark wool suits, British colonels and majors, secretaries in pencil skirts and sweater twinsets bustled about the reception area, walking purposefully from one direction to another. And still, I stood without moving.

Dr. Stoddard had been married to an Indian woman? We’d had twelve days on the steamship together. Why hadn’t he told me then? I’d shared feelings with him—being rejected by the hospital, being rejected by my father—that I hadn’t shared with anyone but my mother. He had listened. He’d looked at me as a parent might—with acceptance, without judgment. But he had done exactly what my father had: abandoned someone who had placed her faith in him, as my mother had done with my father. I’d hated my father for it. Had I been a fool once again, placing my faith in the doctor? How could he so easily have won my affection, which I usually doled out in small measure—and snatched it away so brutally?

Another stunner: Edward was a half-half like me? I’d mistaken his darker skin for time in the sun when it was actually his birthright. Had he grown under the shadow of disgrace as I had? Been subjected to the same hurtful slurs? Had he cried in his mother’s arms as I had? Yet, I hadn’t seen in him the hard kernel of resentment I carried. Was that because unlike mine, his father had stayed, brought him up even after his wife died? Edward worked for the British Embassy, not the Indian Embassy. Which meant he had British citizenship through his father, a father who acknowledged parentage. Edward had true privilege.

Someone touched my elbow. It was an older woman with short blond hair and a button nose. In her younger days, she would have been quite handsome. There were soft pillows under her eyes.

She had a soft, soothing voice. “I’m afraid if you stand here much longer, you might get run over. Is it bad news?” She glanced at the letter in my hand.

I realized she thought I’d received word of a death. To show her it wasn’t that, I smiled. “Nothing like that. But a shock just the same.”

“Then you must come to the lounge and we’ll get you a cup of tea. Alright?”

I picked up my trunk and let myself be led to an elegantly appointed room. A steward came forward. “How may I assist, Madam Phipps?”

“Tea for the lady please.” When the steward left, she turned to me. “Anything else I could get you? Have you come for a travel document?”

“No, ma’am. I came for help with lodging. For two or three nights.”

Her eyes went to my trunk. “Of course. You are from—no, let me guess—your accent—India?”

“Bombay.” I held the letter aloft. “I was instructed to come. Dr. Stoddard and his son, Edward Stoddard, suggested—”

She brightened. “Eddy? Yes, of course. He told you to come here?”

I nodded.

Madam Phipps grinned. “Then let’s see whom we can get to help you.”

“Are you also with the embassy?”

She laughed charmingly. “I guess you could say that. I’m the ambassador’s wife.”

In the end, Mrs. Phipps gave me the name of an old friend, a Madame Renaud, who lived alone and liked company. I counted the money I had left. It was just enough to get me to Florence. But here in Paris, which I’d always heard was an expensive city, I would have to be very careful and hope my lodging wouldn’t cost too much. If worse came to worst, I could always spend the night at the train station.

I checked the address for Madame Renaud. The white apartment building came to a point where Boulevard Raspail intersected with Rue Bréa. Filigree balconies framed the windows. On the ground floor was a café, one with bicycles parked on the cobblestone sidewalk. I almost walked away. Surely, this lodging was far above my budget. The ambassador’s wife hadn’t discussed terms with me, and I’d been too cowed to ask.

Madame Renaud was a graceful woman whose home might have been majestic in another era. She lived in one of three apartments on the fourth floor. The sofa cushions sagged but were covered in a beautiful rose-colored mohair. Over time, thousands of footsteps had worn a path on the Persian carpet. The floor-to-ceiling velvet drapes looked like they needed a good cleaning. I wondered if the Great Depression had anything to do with the state of her home. In precise French, Madame Renaud told me to take the first room to the left of the front door.

All day long, I’d been carrying my trunk and my arm ached. As if I’d said it out loud, my hostess said, “You must be tired. Get settled and then we’ll have dinner.”

Dinner was cod lightly sautéed with mushrooms and onions. Warm bread and a green bean salad accompanied the meal. She poured red wine in our glasses. The table was set with fine china and silver utensils. I unfolded the damask napkin in my lap, wondering whether she ate this formally every day. She was perhaps sixty years old with thinning gray hair pulled up and tied in a knot on the back of her head. Her black dress was a good cut made from heavyweight wool jersey. She wore small pearl earrings and a thick chain around her neck that held her eyeglasses.

She picked up her wineglass. “Frances—Madame Phipps—tells me you know Edward Stoddard.”

“Yes, madame.” I took a mouthful of the fish. It was delicately spiced with salt and butter. It was delicious. I hadn’t eaten since I got off the train, and I was ravenous. “I know him through his father, Dr. Stoddard.”

“Ah, I have not had the pleasure of meeting his father. I’ve sat next to Edward at the Phipps house for dinner. He is quite charming.”

I flushed, hoping she didn’t notice. Why did it matter whether she thought he was charming?

She buttered her bread. “How do you find Paris, Mademoiselle Falstaff?”

“It’s just as beautiful and seductive as Hemingway described it. Or Zola. Or Guy de Maupassant.”

“You’re a reader, mademoiselle?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ve never had many friends.” That I would reveal something so personal about myself—an unflattering portrayal at that—surprised me.

But Madame Renaud only laughed. She held up her glass for a toast. I clinked mine to hers. “That makes two of us.” She took a sip. “I suspect you are not here for a sightseeing tour.”

“No. I’m here to deliver the news that someone has died.”

She put her fork down. “ Mon Dieu. Frances said you had come from Bombay.”

I chewed on a green bean. “I needed to give the news in person. And hand over a painting as well.”

“A painting? That sounds interesting. Would I know the artist?”

“Her name was Mira Novak. In recent years, she mainly painted scenes of Indian women and men in the rural areas.”

“I have heard of her. I think there was an exhibit of her work here some time back. May I see the painting?”

I left the table to look through my trunk. I unwrapped The Pledges and brought it to the table. She wiped her mouth on the cloth napkin and extended her arms to take the painting from me.

She felt for her glasses and put them on. She took her time studying the painting. “Quite good. The composition is striking. As is her subject matter. My husband and I went to India in ’22. Such a beautiful and unknowable country. We encountered spiritual people like these. Praying for the lives of others all day long.” She removed her glasses, letting them hang on her chain. She handed the painting back to me with a shaky hand. “Such a warm people, the Indians are. They invited us into their homes and fed us when they barely knew us.” She took a sip of her wine. “My husband would have enjoyed meeting you, mademoiselle. He died last year.” Her lips trembled, a prelude to tears, but she held them back. She took another mouthful of wine instead.

I reached for her hand. The skin was papery but warm. She clasped mine. Every time I experienced death in the course of my nursing career, the tear in my heart grew just a little wider.

We continued eating our dinner. She moved to take our plates, but when I rose from my seat to help her, she said, “Sit, sit. I cannot bear to have people in my kitchen.”

She returned with two plates of what looked like custard. She’d added three blueberries on the top of each. It looked too perfect to eat. “Panna cotta,” she announced. “It’s Italian. But no one is perfect,” she chuckled.

I took my first bite. It was like rasmalai but lighter, more delicate. I couldn’t enjoy it as I normally would have, however. I was so anxious about my diminishing resources. I set my spoon down.

“Madame…if it’s not too impertinent…may I know how much you require for my stay?” I flushed to the roots of my hair, sensing this was a vulgar question, but one I needed to ask.

Her lips curved in a smile. “It is most impertinent. Friends of Frances are friends of mine. And I do not ask friends to pay for their stay, mademoiselle.”

I released the breath I was holding.

Before turning off my bedside lamp that night, I read Dr. Stoddard’s letter again. I wanted to see if my thoughts were any clearer. On the one hand, the doctor was my friend, helping me from thousands of miles away. On the other, he was the enemy, a deserter, as my father had been. How could I reconcile the two? Was Dr. Stoddard telling me that the reasons for my father’s bad behavior were more complex than I realized? That I must forgive my father the way the doctor wished to be forgiven? I willed my thoughts to settle, but they refused. My sleep was fitful. My dreams, dark.

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