Page 18 of Six Days in Bombay

“Josephine?” The man scratched his cheek. “You mean Josephine Benoit? She’ll be at the Marché today.”

I’d come looking for Josephine in the Seventh Arrondissement, which is where Madame Renaud said art galleries were located. On a city map, she showed me how Paris was shaped like a nautilus and divided into sections called arrondissements. After trying several streets along the Seine, I found Josephine Benoit’s name on a glass door. Through the display windows, I spied two paintings that could have been Mira’s. But the door was locked.

Monsieur Maillot, whose name was on the gallery door adjacent to Josephine’s, was a beefy man in an expensive suit. Around ten stone. He showed all the signs of an overexercised heart. Flushed cheeks. Perspiration across the forehead although it was a fine day. The roll of his neck bulging from his starched shirt collar. My nurse’s training wanted to tell him to cut down on meat and walk after dinner.

“Which marché , monsieur?” I asked.

He looked me up and down. I might have thought he was assessing my fashion sense just as the women of Paris had when they saw me approaching, but the instinct to shield my body from him told me otherwise.

“Le Marché aux Puces.” He pointed vaguely toward the north of Paris, his eyes on my breasts.

I didn’t want to be there any longer than I had to be, and I was anxious to leave. “Will I be able to find her there easily? There must be a hundred stalls.” I’d read about the large market in Baedeker’s.

He looked at me more closely, as if noticing me for the first time. “Are you related?”

I didn’t know what he meant. “Pardon?”

“You’re Miss Benoit’s cousin from Martinique?”

“Uh, no. I’m from India.”

His forehead creased. “India? Miss Benoit represents an artist from India, doesn’t she?”

He must have been referring to Mira, but I didn’t want to talk about her with anyone but Josephine. I pretended not to hear.

Monsieur Maillot’s cheeks resembled balloons as he blew air through his mouth. “The Marché is large. Gets larger every day. There you must be careful what you buy, eh? There are some…” He rolled his hand in the air. I caught his meaning. That was what people always said about our Bombay markets.

His phone rang. He backtracked to his desk as he talked to me. “Ask for Louis Le Grand. He’ll know where to find her.” I heard his “All?” as I closed the door behind me.

Walking to the flea market would take me an hour. But because I was saving money on lodging, I decided to take the metro. The flea market turned out to be a warren of stalls along narrow passageways with a variety of items for sale, not unlike Bombay’s Hutatma Chowk. Instead of betel juice stains on the walls and the aroma of incense, fennel seeds and honest sweat, the French flea market smelled of plaster, stale cigarette smoke, leather and something metallic, like brass. To my left was a man selling used china and porcelain. The stall to my right featured a wrought iron chair, delicate in comparison to the sturdy teak chairs in old Bombay houses. At other stalls, used household wares and framed paintings were displayed on makeshift walls, vintage tables or hanging from the ceiling. I saw birdcages, antique books, enamel cookware, heavy mahogany furniture (much like the sideboards in St. Joseph’s visitors lounge). After a half hour, I’d turned down so many alleys that I felt as if I had walked in a circle. How would I ever find Josephine in this maze?

Every few stalls, I would ask if the shopkeeper could point me to Louis Le Grand. A few shrugged their shoulders. Others ignored me completely. I tried not to disturb those who were in the throes of a negotiation, but I couldn’t help but overhear, fascinated that vendors here used the same tactics that Bombay vendors did. Madame will not find anything finer than this lace. Even in the Netherlands they are begging for anything this delicate. I have customers as far as China who would pay four times what I’m charging, but they cannot travel so easily here as madame can.

Finally, a gentleman I’d spoken to a few stalls back whistled. I turned around, as did several other customers and shopkeepers. He gestured to me to come closer. When I did, he leaned in and pointed to a store at the end of the lane. I thanked him and hurried along.

This stall was different. Instead of a canvas covering, there was a glass door at the entrance. It looked like one of the more prosperous shops. I stepped inside. On every wall, and even on the ceiling, were paintings. Some framed, most not. In the center of the store was a desk with even more canvases piled on it. In front of the desk, her back to me, stood a very tall woman in an elegant navy skirt suit. She wore a mustard cloche on her blue-black hair, which was styled in waves, as I’d seen on other European women. She was examining a canvas in her gloved hands.

The man I assumed was Louis wore a striped cotton shirt, sleeves pulled up to his elbows, and black pants with suspenders. His arms were crossed over his chest. “I talked to her just last week. She doesn’t want to take anything less.” His crowded teeth were like the slats of a fence that were about to collapse.

The woman murmured, “The painting is not good enough for my clients.”

The shopkeeper pointed his palms to the ground. “Madame, she has the hashish. It has taken her like a lover. If it’s good enough for Hugo and Baudelaire… That’s what she says. Et alors , she needs the money.”

“That may be, but my client won’t pay as much as the artist wants.”

“Which client is that?”

I could tell by the way she tightened her shoulders that the woman was annoyed by this question. “Monsieur Le Grand, I never reveal the names of my clients,” she said as if she were scolding an unruly child. She lowered the canvas, set it on the desk.

Louis waved his hands about. “I know, I know. Désolé. ” But he seemed more exasperated than sorry.

“We will pay half of what you’re asking.”

Louis ran a hand across his mouth and shrugged. “Leave it then.” He seemed to notice me for the first time. He lifted his chin at the painting under my arm and asked. “Mademoiselle?”

I’d been so absorbed in their conversation that I jumped. That was when the woman turned around. She was the color of coffee with just a dab of milk. Her eyes were the same color as her skin. She might have been South Indian. In fact, it was how Mira had described her. Josephine was wearing cream gloves. A strand of pearls glowed against her dark skin. The only thing that gave away her age were the creases around the corners of her mouth. She might have been forty or fifty—it was hard to tell. Maroon lipstick lined her thin mouth.

I must have been staring because Louis asked again, “ Puis-je vous aider? ”

I’d forgotten to greet the proprietor with the bonjour Ralph Stoddard had told me was customary. I nodded to Louis. “Bonjour.” Then I took a few steps toward the woman. “Madame Benoit?”

A frown creased her forehead.

“You knew Mira Novak?”

She blinked. “I know Mira,” she said cautiously.

“I’m afraid I have some sad news.” Noticing Louis, whose eyebrows had risen in surprise, I said, “Perhaps we could talk privately?”

But Louis was quick. He was grinning now, his overbite on full display. “There you are, Madame Benoit. Mira Novak’s work will fetch a pretty penny on the art market now. You have a few yourself, don’t you? Your future is looking very bright indeed.” He picked up the small canvas from his desk. “Shall I wrap this for you? Full price?”

Josephine, whose high heels brought her eye level with Louis, stared him down as if she were a foot taller. Her jaw tensed. She reached into her purse and placed a wad of French francs on his desk.

Louis clasped his hands and moved them up and down. “ Merci , madame.” He began wrapping the small painting in brown paper, inserting cardboard on both sides of the canvas to protect it.

As soon as he handed it to Josephine, she turned and click-clacked her heels out of the room. She was walking so fast I had to run to catch up to her.

Once we’d passed a few stalls, she tucked the painting under her arm and stopped to light a thin cigar with a gold lighter. She snapped it shut and took a deep drag. When I’d caught up with her, she said. “You cost me a negotiation.” She didn’t look angry, but her voice was tight.

I was a little out of breath. Sweat had made my underarms damp. The temperature was sixty degrees, twenty degrees cooler than Bombay. I should have been cold. “I’m sorry, madame. But I’ve come a long way to talk to you. From Bombay, in fact.”

Her eyes shifted from the cigar to my mouth. It was as if she were deaf and trying to read my lips. “And you are…?”

“I was Miss Novak’s nurse. She took ill in Bombay. I’m afraid she did not live more than six days at the hospital.”

We were stopped in front of a group listening to a jazz band. The guitarists were improvising, each playing a solo. I had had to speak loudly to be heard over them. Several people looked over at us.

She stood perfectly still, oblivious to the customers who had to go around her. Her eyes were fixed on the ground. It was littered with bits of food from hurried lunches, cigarette butts and sales chits. I gave her time to digest the news. She didn’t appear upset, just shocked. Everyone grieved differently.

“Miss Benoit?”

So deep in thought was she that she didn’t hear me call her name. I tugged the burning cigar from between her gloved fingers and threw it on the ground, squashing it with my shoe. Gently, I pried the wrapped canvas she’d just bought from under her arm; it was in danger of falling to the ground. Taking care of the needs of others was as natural—and automatic—to me as breathing.

After several minutes, Josephine straightened her spine and considered me. She seemed to have made up her mind about something.

Finally, she looked up at me. “Mira’s gone?”

I nodded.

“Good.” Her tone was businesslike. She took sunglasses out of her purse and put them on. If she’d appeared remote before, she was more so now. Were the sunglasses part of her daily ensemble or were they meant to conceal emotions visible on her face? She checked her watch. “I’m late for an appointment.” She went around me to leave the flea market.

“But, Miss Benoit, I’ve come a long way.”

She wheeled around to face me. “Are you deaf? I don’t care.” The spit landed on my face. Without another word, she turned on her heel and quickly wound her way through the busy market.

I was still holding the painting she had bought. “No, wait, Miss Benoit!” I shouted. “I have your—” She only walked faster. But I didn’t want to be accused of stealing her purchase. If French society was anything like the British Raj, I would automatically be branded a criminal. Age-old bigotry would be my judge and jury. I fought my way through the throngs, keeping my eye on the mustard cloche ahead. I was used to the Bombay bazaars where patrons allowed the current of the crowd to guide them instead of carving their own path through the whirlpool. Here in Paris, I needed to elbow my way through the mob to catch up to Mira’s friend.

She was headed for the metro, the same one I had taken to get to the Marché . I followed, clutching two paintings now, one of them Mira’s The Pledges . Josephine entered a first-class car. I hesitated for only a second; I had a ticket for second class, but the doors between the first-class and crowded second-class carriages were locked. I knew that if she disembarked, I would lose track of her.

The first-class compartment was empty except for two businessmen and a heavyset woman surrounded by shopping bags. Josephine looked at me, astonished, when I sat down next to her. This close, I could smell her fragrance—a hint of citrus with musk, peppercorn and the cheroot she’d been smoking. It was subtle but enough to mark her as a powerful woman.

“I don’t want to know.” Abruptly, she rose and took another seat.

“But…” I followed her and offered the painting she had purchased from Louis. She looked at the parcel. Her mouth opened and then closed. She grabbed the painting without a thank-you.

Hers was not a reaction I’d expected, especially when Petra’s had been the opposite. She had grieved the way I’d thought she would. Mira had told me once that Petra could never pretend. Her emotions came hot and fast. Josephine was completely different. What confused me was that she was Mira’s art dealer. Shouldn’t she at least want the details of her death? Mourn for her friend and client? Show an iota of feeling? Surely, she needed to know who would handle any paintings left in the estate.

My hands curled into fists. I wasn’t used to showing my anger, but I felt it bubble to the surface. I’d come thousands of miles to tell this woman about Mira only to be rebuffed in such an ill manner. Josephine seemed angry—not pained—by the news. I could, of course, simply thrust The Pledges at her and leave it at that. My duty would be done. But Josephine’s reaction was baffling. Maybe it had something to do with Mira’s betrayal of Josephine and her husband.

I made an attempt to sit next to her. She held up a palm. “Don’t.” It was a command. “She obviously got to you. The way she got to everybody. Fine. You’ve said what you’ve come to say. Now go.” She turned toward the window.

I found another seat and kept my eye on her. I needed to give her Mira’s painting. I just needed to find the right time.

I followed her from the underground to the Vavin exit, adjusting my eyes to the sunlight. On all four corners of the intersection, patrons dotted the terraces of cafés on Boulevard du Montparnasse. To my left was a graceful café called Le D?me.

Josephine crossed the street. I followed. Josephine wove around the tables of another large café on the corner: La Rotonde. Down the street were two other sparsely populated coffeehouses, La Coupole and Le Select. At La Rotonde, everyone seemed to know Josephine. On the terrace, patrons waved to her from various tables. The waiters kissed both her cheeks. I hung back. She seemed not to know I was there. She stopped in front of a table where three men sat smoking and chatting. All three stood to kiss her.

Josephine asked the one with the high forehead, “Picasso’s not with you today, Marcel?”

Marcel smiled. His eyes were narrow and his nose sharp, but the symmetry of his features made him handsome. “He’s at the studio with Dora. Working furiously on his painting for the Expo.”

Another man at the table, his eyes deep-set and brows in a permanent frown, said, “That’s an angry painting. He’s furious with Franco and Germany for bombing Guernica.”

The man with the coarse face and pug nose of a boxer looked at him. “Miró is angry too, Manny. If you were a Spaniard, wouldn’t you be?” He took a sip of his beer, leaving a line of foam on his mustache.

Josephine smiled. “I hear anger only makes the two of them paint faster.”

The men laughed.

From another table, a mild-mannered man in a suit and bow tie piped up. “Picasso’s lucky they gave him a studio to paint in. They didn’t do that for everybody.” He had papers in front of him, which he was marking with his pencil.

Marcel said, “Louis, you stay out of this. Stick to your own propaganda.” It was a friendly thrust.

Except for the dapper one called Louis, the others had the look of my patients after three days in the hospital. Their hair unkempt. Their skin a little sallow. Their shirts rumpled. On the train, I’d heard one tourist tell another that the Montparnasse area, where we were now, was a refuge for poets, writers and painters. The men talking to Josephine were probably taking a break from their art.

The boxer lit one of his Pélican cigarettes. He blew smoke through his nostrils. “What about you, Jo? Will you return to Martinique? There’s talk—”

Josephine shook her head. “There’s always talk, Fernand. If it comes to that, then yes, my sister and I will go back. I’m trying to get her to be a little less political in her essays.”

“She is a bit of a champagne socialist,” Marcel said with a sly grin.

Josephine smiled. “Don’t tell her that. She would be shocked.” She stole a look inside the café. “Have any of you seen Berthe? I looked for her at the Marché but I couldn’t find her.”

“One of your lost causes, Jo,” said Manny. He winked at me. “Is this another one?”

I was mortified to have the men turn their attention on me. I tried to look away but Josephine saw me. Her face froze. She turned back to the men and spoke sternly, “No, Manny. She’s not. If you see Berthe, tell her I’m inside. She’s a talented painter…when she’s working. Better yet, say nothing. Or she’ll run the other way.”

The men chuckled. I was envious of how easily Josephine chatted with the men outside. How deftly she thwarted their attempts to engage her in topics she didn’t want to participate in.

She walked the few feet toward me, her back to the men. “Stop following me. Don’t you have a shred of dignity?” she hissed.

I flexed my jaw. I’d had enough of bullies in my life. I’d lost my job. I’d lost my home. My family. I’d traveled far. I wasn’t going to let this woman treat me as if I were nothing. My pulse was racing, and I was furious, but I managed to control my voice. “I have to give you something from Mira and I’m not leaving until you let me hand it to you.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t want it.”

“Why not?”

She pressed her lips together as if she were trying to keep from saying something she’d regret. Josephine struck me as the type of woman who didn’t like scenes, and I was forcing one upon her. She shook her head as if she couldn’t be bothered to answer, turned around and entered the café.

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