Kavita Daswani - Salaam Paris

“Dimitri, I am grateful for what you have done, but I must make one thing clear,” I blurted out before he even had the chance to say hello.

“You need to tell me what I am doing before I start doing it. I arrived here, and felt like a fool. I know that my career is in your hands, but I need to know what you are up to with me. I am sure I will agree to it, but you must tell me.”

He nodded sheepishly.

“I didn’t want you to concern yourself with these boring details. Just trust me. I am capable,” he said.

“I am sure of that,” I said as the blond woman applied foundation to my face with a wedge-shaped sponge. “But this is my life too. Let’s be partners in it.”

Compared to the exercise in humiliation I had undergone the previous week during my first real modeling job, this particular event was almost enjoyable. Everyone in the studio was uniquely focused on me, weighing in on whether my hair should be flatter or fuller, whether to go with the pink lipstick or the burgundy. Lights were moved around, music turned on so I could, Robert said, “get into the mood,” and food was brought to me on pale green ceramic platters. When the time came for me to be photographed, I was told to stand on a large X-mark taped onto the floor, a sheath of thick white paper behind me. Robert told me where to look, where to put my hands, how much or little to smile, and I followed his instructions without thinking. He told me he could see that I was new to this but that I would pick it up in no time, and I felt reassured by that. He would only look frustrated when I lapsed into the habit-one that I thought all models had-of pouting like some coy Bollywood heroine about to be romanced for the first time.

“Stop that,” he said when I did it for the fifth time. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like an idiot.”

Even though Robert told me that he would have to take hundreds of pictures to find the perfect few that the company would use, I was still amazed at how long it took and how many outfits I was asked to change into. At one point, five people in the room were debating the merits of a particular belt, or would spend twenty minutes rearranging a cuff on my shirt. I couldn’t imagine that the people who read the magazines these pictures would be used in would notice if a crease or a fold wasn’t exactly where it should be. I did more poses than at one of my yoga classes back home-hands on hips, hands on butt, hands in air, legs crossed and then set apart, hair in ponytail one minute or spilling onto my shoulders the next. Even I, as accustomed as I was to the sight of me, didn’t realize I had this many faces.

Five hours later, Robert announced that we were done. As his assistants packed everything away, he said he wanted to show me some Polaroids which, he explained, were always taken at the start of each session to make sure the lighting was right.

“In the end, I think this is the one they’ll go with,” he said. He lifted up a small square, showing me a photo of a girl I couldn’t recognize. She was wearing skinny low-cut jeans that were held up by a thick belt covered in stones, and a sunshine yellow halter top. Her hair was combed completely straight and parted in the center. Large hoop earrings dangled from her ears, a thick ring studding her middle finger. She stood there, legs about a foot apart, her right thumb hooked through one of her belt loops. She looked like me, but older, sleeker, smarter-like in one of Nilu’s magazines. She had, in her eyes, not even a hint of the fear of Allah preparing to destroy her. Her face betrayed none of the sadness of being made an orphan, and showed no sign of the loss of an entire life before this, an entire culture. As I stared at the sunny strength of the girl in the photo, I started to cry, knowing that I so much wanted to be her, but never could.

Robert, who had momentarily left my side to go check something with his assistant, turned around when he heard me sob.

“Gosh, they’re not that bad, are they?” he asked, a look of genuine anxiety crossing his face.

“Oh no!” I said. “It’s not that. They’re very good. That’s why I’m crying.”

He looked at me, puzzled, and shook his head. I felt his hand rest on my lower back, and he turned to kiss me on the cheek, ignoring the tears that seemed to have collected by my earlobe. I felt his eyelashes flutter against my face, and it caused a tingle to run up and down my body. I drew in a sharp intake of breath, shocked at the newness of the sensation, and quickly moved away.

It took me a while to realize where the sound was coming from. For a few minutes I had been hearing an intermittent knocking from somewhere in the apartment. I listened some more, then heard my name being called. Softly at first and then a little louder.

“Tanaya! I’m here! Downstairs!” the voice said. I ran toward the window, peered into the street a couple of floors below, and saw Robert standing there, grinning up at me. Under one arm was a large flat, black case.

“I’ve been tossing pebbles at your window. Your buzzer thing down here doesn’t appear to be working,” he yelled up. “Just wanted to show you the final pictures from our shoot. I think you’ll be pleased. Can I come up for a minute?”

I pressed the button to let him in and quickly dashed to the bathroom to rinse out my mouth; I had been eating tuna for lunch, straight out of the can, and our tiny living room and I both reeked of it. I grabbed a bottle of perfume from Teresa’s closet and spritzed it into the air, waving away the bold, overflowery scent and causing the room to smell of jasmine and fish.

Robert was knocking on my door by the time I was done.

“Hello,” he said. “Hope I’ve not come at a bad time. I was in the neighborhood, so thought I’d drop in, take a chance you were at home.”

“Please, come in. May I bring you something to drink?”

“Coffee would be great if you have some. Sorry to just barge in like this, but I was so excited about these shots that I couldn’t wait to show them to you. It’s not something I usually do. But for you,” he said, looking right at me, “I made an exception.”

I excused myself for a minute to go into the kitchen and brew up a fresh pot of coffee, suddenly horrendously self-conscious-at the way I smelled, the way the apartment looked, at being alone with a man whom, I was now sure, was here for more than he let on. There was no reason I would know how to handle it.

Nervously I reentered the living room and sat on a chair across from Robert. He patted to the space on the couch next to him.

“It’s OK. I can see from here,” I said. He got up, walked around the table with his black case, and crouched next to me.

“No need to be nervous,” he said quietly, putting his hand on my back again. “I’m not going to bite you, darling.” He opened his case and pulled out some large colorful photos: a carefree smile hovering on my lips, my hair tossed over one shoulder, my arms folded in front of me. I looked like I had been doing this for years.

“We had to do some retouching, just to even things out,” he said, turning to look at me. “I mean, it’s not like you’re anything less than completely stunning.” His eyes lingered on my mouth now. I stood up, telling him I needed to check on the coffee. He stood up too. Then he wrapped one strong arm around my waist and pulled me toward him.

“So tell me,” he said in a grunting whisper. “That silver patch of yours up there, does it match the one down there?” His eyes lowered, and his hand started to move down my body. I grabbed it, holding it tight in my grasp. Then his mouth landed on mine, his tongue forcing my lips open. He smelled of cigarettes; his skin was coarse and rough. I felt a wave of nausea come over me, fear gripping my belly. I instantly had a flash of my mother and father on the night I was conceived, a miserable man pressing down on top of a desperate woman. I thought of those articles in Teen Cosmo, about how to attract the boy of your dreams and which lip glosses were most kissable, and I wondered why girls chased after something that was so obviously repulsive. As another surge of sickness overcame me, I pushed Robert away, ran back into the kitchen, and threw up in the sink.