Page 22 of Six Days in Bombay

Borgo San Frediano was on the other side of the Arno. Tourists tended to stay on the Duomo side of the river so they could visit the cathedral, or the Uffizi Gallery. I had to cross the river to the south side by way of the Ponte Vecchio where I heard English being spoken everywhere. As I walked across the bridge, I found myself envying the English and American women, their flowing silk dresses and skirt suits, their wedge heels—which seemed to be all the rage here. I felt conspicuous in my nurse’s uniform and sensible shoes. The Inglese , as they were called, were asking to see the heavy gold bracelets and necklaces on display at the shops along the bridge. And shopkeepers were only too happy to usher them into their stores—an espresso and almond biscotti at the ready. I wondered what it would be like to be as free with money as these women were.

I skirted around the shoppers and stepped up my pace.

Paolo’s street turned out to be only two blocks long. I walked up and down the street hoping to find—what?—a sign for a painter? Or a painting tutor? I still didn’t know Paolo’s exact address. I would have to knock on doors. My heart thudded in my chest. I was confident within the walls of a hospital, but outside of it, my courage often faltered. I took a deep breath and knocked on the door to my right. No answer. I knocked on the next door. And the next. If someone answered, I asked, “Paolo Puccini?” After several shakes of the head, a man with a broom answered his door and pointed to the building opposite.

I knocked on the door he indicated. No answer. I turned to the man with the broom, who nodded and gestured with his hand that I should knock harder. I did.

“E adesso?”

The bellow had come from above. I staggered back several steps to look up at the second floor. The man with a paintbrush in his hand and an appropriately paint-stained white shirt must be Paolo. The pregnant woman at the Accademia had not been wrong; he was striking. Dark curls framed his face. His complexion was that of a betel nut—smooth, earthy brown. He wore his shirt open at the throat and his sleeves rolled up his forearms. He was the man in Mira’s painting of the Man in Abundance.

“ Mi scusi , signor.” It was all I could manage before I relapsed into English. “I’m looking for Paolo Puccini, the painter.”

“Why?” he asked in accented English.

I didn’t want to shout Mira’s name on the street or cause people to pull the curtains open on their windows. I looked around to see if the man with the broom was still watching. He was.

From above, I heard Paolo firing rapid Italian at the man, who tapped his chin with the back of his hand and disappeared into his building.

I sighed. “It would be easier if you could let me in or you could come down to talk to me.”

“Do you want to commission a painting?”

“What? No.”

“Well, I’m painting now.”

“But I have something for you. It’s important that I give it to you.”

He examined me more closely. He hesitated. “Do you know Caffè Doney?”

“No.”

He disappeared inside the room. When he came back to the window, he had a piece of paper in his hand. He blew on it before letting it float down to the ground in front of me.

“That’s the address. I’ll finish up here. Meet me at four o’clock there.”

He disappeared inside the room again.

I picked up the paper. On it was scrawled, in black paint that was still wet, No. 81 Via de’ Tornabuoni.

***

I had just enough time before meeting Paolo to go to the British Embassy, which, according to Baedeker’s, was only a few blocks away. My pulse quickened; perhaps there would be a letter from Amit. I’d told him the British Embassy was the place he could reach me. Or perhaps there would be a message from Dr. Stoddard. I had not answered his last letter because I wasn’t sure how to respond. His revelation—how he had deserted his fiancée—had changed something between us, at least in my mind. I had found him wanting, as I had found my father. Yes, there was the other half of him I loved, the half who had looked after me on the Viceroy, shown me unimaginable kindness. He’d taken such delight in teaching me gin rummy. Introduced me to port and caviar. Taught me to trust my instincts when it came to card games. He’d brought out a daring in me I hadn’t known I possessed. And he’d connected Amit to me in Paris. How could I find half of someone agreeable and spurn the other half?

But…didn’t I feel the same way about my mother sometimes? Loved the half of her who made me nimbu pani when I was sick? And secretly despised the part of her so blinded by love that she had made my existence shameful? I didn’t want to love and hate in equal measure. I didn’t want to be consumed by these ugly thoughts.

I didn’t realize I’d been standing at the door to the British Embassy with my fists at my sides, my gaze fixed on the cobblestones below.

A woman was talking to me. I looked up. She was holding the door open, asking if I was coming in as well. I followed her inside.

A letter from Edward Stoddard was waiting for me. I read it as I walked back down the stairs.

Dear Miss Falstaff,

This envelope contains two letters. One from my father, who speaks of you often and always in affectionate terms. And this one, from me.

I hope you don’t think me too forward to write to you directly for I feel as if I know you as well as Father does. He has told me about your mother in India and your father in England. Please don’t be cross with him for that. I practically forced it out of him after I pestered him for details about you. (And now I hope you’re not cross with me.)

When you return to Bombay, I hope you will do us the honor of gracing us with your company. As it happens, I have recently been posted to the British Embassy in Bombay and will be leaving within a fortnight. Father will accompany me. A blessing, since I have wanted to look after him. He has always been such a loving force in my life. After my mother died, despite his long hours at the hospital, he redoubled his efforts to spend time with me. We fished weekends with the Koli seafolk along the Bombay coast. We spent hours designing and building fighter kites to be entered into festivals. He arranged for the daughter of his closest friend to put a rakhi on my wrist because I didn’t have sisters to wish me health and happiness. Nothing will give me more pleasure than showing him the kindness he has always shown me.

If at any point you require assistance, know that I am here to help. My offer (our offer?) of hosting you in Bombay at our humble abode will stand until you tell us otherwise.

Your friend,

Edward Stoddard

I walked out of the building and across the road to the stone wall beyond which the Arno flowed gently. I looked at the gray water below. My reflection was in shadow, but I knew my cheeks were flushed. First Amit and now Edward? What would my mother say about this turn of events? She, who wanted the best for me but felt Mohan was the best on offer. I wish you were along on this ride, Mum. It’s been full of lovely surprises!

I looked inside the envelope and extracted the other letter.

My dear girl,

By the time you read this, you’ll be in Florence. Promise me you’ll take a gander at the Uffizi, especially the secret passageway leading all the way to the Pitti Palace. So many stories, so many assignations that corridor could tell! I’ve always thought it would be lovely to have secret corridors in hospitals where we could take refuge from needy patients or mourn a favorite patient who had just passed. Tell me you don’t favor the idea even a little bit.

I didn’t hear from you after my last letter. I realized you might bear a grudge (or, in my more hopeful moments, only a tiny grievance) at my callous desertion of Elizabeth, my fiance-e. I assure you that my only intention in divulging such a private matter was to show you that my cowardice might be equal to that of your father’s when it comes to making amends.

You have tremendous courage, my dear. You’ve held your own where many fatherless children haven’t. You’ve undertaken an impossible task by the painter you so admire. You’ve ventured forth on your own. Many women—Indian or European—would never consider doing that. I have no doubt you will accomplish your goal. You are that determined (and that foolhardy if you’ll pardon the old man in me). It’s because of your pluck that I know you will be able to face your foe.

Did I tell you I looked for Elizabeth a few years ago? Age makes one reconsider one’s decisions and atone for transgressions. I found she had never married. My fault, I suppose. I kept meaning to write a letter, apologizing for my unforgivable behavior, but I never did. Would it only have served me, released me from my guilt, or would it have helped her to know that I still thought about what I’d done all these years later? I suppose I’ll never know since I was too much of a coward to send that letter.

Now it’s your turn, dear Sona. I don’t encourage you to see your father because it will help him feel better, but because it will help you feel better. Your resentment has no place to go until you talk to him.

Did you know military uniforms have buttons with a regiment number? Your father is wearing such a uniform in the photo you showed me. Edward did some digging and found the last known address of Owen Falstaff. I know you’ll think me a nuisance for pushing the issue, but humor an old man, will you?

Give it another think. I hope you will. If you are in need of that address and/or of funds, please write to Edward. He would rather love to hear from you. He’s talked of you often since you left. Godspeed.

In love and friendship,

R. S.

I folded the letters and stuffed them back in the envelope. The bells of the Duomo began ringing, reminding me that if I were to make it to the Caffè Doney to meet Paolo by four o’clock, I had to hurry. Crossing the Ponte Santa Trinita, I walked past an impressive brick building with a crenellated top. A small bronze plate beside the entrance read Officina di Salvatore Ferragamo . Ah, the shoe designer mentioned in Baedeker’s. A small square in front of the building led to Via de’ Tornabuoni.

The buildings on both sides of the street were a far cry from Paolo’s humble—slightly run-down—studio. Standing solidly side by side were the palaces of the wealthy, palaces built five hundred years ago during the European Renaissance, according to the guidebook. On the ground floor were boutiques (there were men standing just inside the entrances to hold the doors open for clients) and cafés. The upper floors, with their long drapery, appeared to be residences. I passed a couturier where an elegant woman was pointing to a photo in a magazine. A few of my mother’s clients—Englishwomen—had sometimes asked her to copy a dress featured in Marie-Claire or Vogue . As I passed the shoe store, I heard a customer say in English, “Oh, what Mr. Ferragamo could do if he weren’t confined to those ugly Italian materials!” In the shop across the street, a saleswoman was showing fine lace to two women. Straight ahead was an enormous poster for an exhibition of Giotto, the painter whom Mira had drawn inspiration from.

Finally, I arrived at the Gran Caffè Doney, which Baedeker’s touted as a favorite of expats, many of whom owned residences along this street. The café was so crowded that it was impossible to move around the tables and chairs without dislodging a lady’s hat.

Inside, I looked for Paolo. He wasn’t at any of the tables. While I waited next to the counter, I considered the pastries in the glass case, which lacked the hot oranges, pistachio greens and marigold yellows of Indian mittai . Here, there were jellies, petit fours, biscuits, all manner of biscotti and something labeled tiramisu, a word I tried out loud—quietly, of course. A generous coating of chocolate powder atop several layers of custard and wafer-thin pastry. My mouth watered.

I pried my eyes from the pastry bar and looked around again. A couple was leaving, and I made my way to the empty table with a view to the street. To my left was an old gentleman in a lightweight suit reading a paper. Osservatore Romano . There was a tiny coffee cup on his table. The waiter, in his black-and-white uniform, approached him, bent toward his ear and spoke in a low voice. The man looked up at the waiter. I could catch the gist of what he said. I will read what I want… I’m not scared…don’t need Fascists. The waiter cleared his throat and went to stand behind the pastry counter.

I waited an hour for Paolo, nursing a cappuccino, which I decided I liked better than the other coffees I’d tried in Europe.

“Signorina?”

I looked up. If I hadn’t been sitting, I might have swayed. Up close, Paolo was even more beautiful. A few errant curls from his dark hair fell across his forehead. And those sculpted lips! The bottom lip was a plump pillow with an indentation down the middle. His mouth was framed by a mustache and goatee. On another man, it might have looked gauche, but he looked like a modern day Ali Baba. A straight nose, perfectly symmetrical. Eyes that made him seem at once sleepy and alert. Had he looked the same ten years ago, when Mira first met him?

“You have something for me?” He held a lit cigarette between his thumb and index finger.

I tried to stand up, but the area was too crowded, and I ended up in mid-bow, feeling foolish. “I’m…Sona Falstaff.”

He nodded and sat down. He signaled to the waiter for two coffees.

“I nursed Miss Novak.”

“Mira?” His voice went up an octave. “Is she alright? We haven’t heard from her in weeks and we’ve been worried.” He grasped my hands and leaned forward until our heads were almost touching. “Tell me she and the baby are okay.”

He knew Mira had been pregnant? He suddenly seemed so overwrought that I felt the café was the wrong place to be having this discussion. Paolo must have seen the shock on my face. He ground his cigarette in the ashtray. “You’d better come up.” He left a few coins on the table.

We walked less than twenty paces before arriving at the entry to a circular courtyard. Two cars were parked in front of the palazzo’s doors, an Alfa Romeo and a Mercedes-Benz. Framing those doors were frescos of maidens watering flowers. Around us, ivy climbed the walls. There were four wooden mailboxes. Four apartments then.

Paolo held the lift door open and gestured for me to enter before him. We took an elevator up four flights.

“My wife will not appreciate your being here.”

After all the stories of his womanizing, I was surprised to learn he had a wife. I frowned, wondering what I’d done to offend a woman I’d never met.

“Oh, it’s not you. It has to do with any woman I look at. But she is at the cinema, so…”

The lift opened onto a grand apartment. He gestured to the white velvet sofa where I took a seat. There were two pale blue armchairs opposite. The coffee table was framed in tubular chrome, defying the old-world character of the room: tall ceilings and windows, plastered walls, elaborate moldings. I wondered who played the grand piano in the corner. Hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room was a crystal chandelier.

Paolo was still standing. “Now tell me about Mira.”

I thought I should get to it, like ripping off a bandage, quickly. “I’m sorry to bring you such sad news, Mr. Puccini. Miss Novak passed away several weeks ago.”

Paolo stared at me. A crease formed between his brows. “What? How?”

“She was admitted to the hospital for a miscarriage.”

He put a hand over his mouth. His eyes were wet. He made a sign of the cross. “The baby… How did it happen? How does a woman die of a miscarriage in 1937?”

The door to the lift opened. The woman who entered the apartment was in a simple black dress that hugged her curves. This must be Paolo’s wife. She must have been a good ten years older than him. I’d seen it the other way around, with men decades older than their wives, but never with the man so much younger. If Paolo was in his forties, his wife must be in her fifties. Although she had kept her figure, her jawline was starting to soften and her ankles had thickened. She kept her eyebrows thin and her lips painted red.

Paolo was still standing in the middle of the living room, mute.

The woman took off her black slouch hat and considered her appearance in the baroque mirror above the sideboard. “Well, that was hideous. The film was nothing but propaganda.” Her flat nasal tones, which I recognized as American from patients I’d met in India, was a stark contrast to Paolo’s more melodic speech.

She removed her gloves one finger at a time and laid them on the sideboard. “This one was about food if you can believe it!” She mimicked an Italian voiceover. “Mussolini thinks that using poetry and music to awaken the flavors of food is the ticket.” She laughed and slipped out of her high heels. “I was sure that Florence Foster Jenkins was going to invite us all back to her place to listen to her awful singing. I was lucky to get away!”

Finally, she turned toward the living room and noticed me. “Oh,” she said, with a questioning glance at Paolo. Her voice was tight. “Who is this?” Her eyes darted from me to her husband.

Paolo seemed dazed. “This is the woman who took care of Mira. Miss Falstaff, this is my wife, Whitney.”

Whitney frowned. “Took care of her…how?”

Paolo ran a thumbnail across his forehead and inspected the floor. “When Mira was in the hospital.”

His wife narrowed her eyes. “Mira was in the hospital?”

I stood up calmly. I was familiar with her type, the kind of woman who could easily spiral into hysteria. “I was her nurse, ma’am. At Wadia Hospital in Bombay.”

Whitney, who still hadn’t moved from the sideboard, said, “Why?”

I was confused. “I work there, ma’am.”

“No, you goose. Why was Mira there?”

I looked at Paolo. It was his duty to tell his wife. But he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the floor.

“Is someone going to tell me what’s happened?” Whitney then looked at her husband. “Oh, my god. Has something happened to the baby? Paolo! Is the baby alright?”

I looked from one to the other. Mira had said something about Paolo after learning she’d lost the baby. How did Whitney figure into it? I was in the middle of something I didn’t understand and didn’t want to understand. My neck was getting hot, and I hoped they hadn’t noticed the pink mottling around my throat.

Whitney stood with her mouth agape. She turned to her husband. “So there is to be no baby?”

Paolo looked at his wife, incredulous. “There is no more Mira. Mira’s been stripped of her life. Think about that.” Anger turned his skin darker.

His wife raised her tweezed eyebrows, incredulous. “But we were supposed to have a baby. We were supposed to get the baby. That was the bargain.”

“But Mira—”

Whitney walked toward him. She pointed a pink fingernail at her chest. “I don’t care about Mira. I never have. If we don’t have a baby, we don’t get this.” She spread her arms wide. “We don’t get the apartment. We don’t get the monthly allowance. We don’t get anything but what you make from your…paintings…such as they are.”

Paolo’s eyebrows drew together. “What does that mean?”

His wife waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, for God’s sake, Paolo. You’re copying old masters.”

Paolo’s nostrils flared. “Isn’t that what you told me to do?”

“Because your other paintings don’t sell, caro ! I thought you were going to be one of those successful painters like de Chirico.” She put a hand to her forehead. Paolo’s jaw tensed. He opened his mouth to say something just as Whitney seemed to realize I was still in the room. She turned to face me. “Is there anything more you have to tell us?”

I thought of the painting in my bag, but I didn’t think it wise to give it to him in front of his wife. “No. I should—I should go.” I started to walk toward the front door. “Perhaps, Mr. Puccini, you could walk me out. It’s getting dark.”

“Of course.” Was that relief I saw on his face? He would rather deal with his wife later, which I understood. We left before she could object.

In the elevator, Paolo reached for the packet of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. He tapped one out of the pack—it was labeled Nazionali—and reached for his vesta case for matches. “We even have to smoke Italian cigarettes because of him,” he muttered. “They taste like cow piss.”

I assumed he was talking about Mussolini.

When we crossed the courtyard to the street entrance, Paolo said. “Whitney’s father owns this palazzo. He’s American. Shipping magnate. He bought this building cheap from an Italian family who lost everything in the stock market crash. Then he divided the residence into four apartments, one of which we live in. He’s never taken to me. Probably because I’m not the kind of person he wanted for his daughter.” Paolo sighed. “He will let us stay in our apartment and Whitney will inherit the entire building upon his death but only if we give him a grandchild. Whitney and I can’t have children. Which is why Mira was helping us out.”

Under the streetlight, he watched me while I thought about what he’d said. So Mira was having a baby for the Puccinis? I supposed there were all sorts of arrangements for couples who wanted to adopt. This one shocked me, not only because I hadn’t come across it before but because this one involved Mira, a woman who, by all accounts, hadn’t wanted children.

When I could find my voice, I asked, “But how?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, wouldn’t her husband want to claim the baby? I mean he would think it was his, wouldn’t he?”

Paolo sighed. He looked crestfallen.

“Look, can you meet me tomorrow? I will explain everything. Now is not the time. Whitney will think what she usually thinks if I spend too much time with another woman. I must go to her.”

“Of course.”

He rubbed his chin. “Mira and I used to meet at Cascine Park. It’s—it’s along the Arno…”

“I can find it.” I could tell he was finding it hard to concentrate.

“There’s a statue there of an Indian prince. I can meet you…at ten. That’s when I’m supposed to be at my studio, working.”

So his wife would suspect nothing. “I’ll see you then.” I didn’t want to imagine the heated discussion that would follow upon Paolo’s return to his apartment.