Kavita Daswani - Salaam Paris

By the end of the meal I was the only one sober, for which I was very grateful, as I had scheduled a breakfast meeting with Dimitri, the man who started all this, the next morning. I had noticed, as the evening wore on, that Kai had become increasingly sullen. For once, everyone in our presence was more interested in me than in him, and Kai didn’t seem very happy about that. While Shazia still wanted to talk to him about recording deals and performing gigs and his adventures on the road, he quickly grew weary of her relentless attention and looked to the others for the same kind of adulation. He didn’t find it. They all wanted to know about me, and me about them, and I could tell that Kai felt left out and disengaged, and the more I tried to draw him into the conversation, the more removed he became. By the end of the night, he was checking e-mails on his cell phone. Mathias looked over repeatedly at Kai, then at me, evidently puzzled. I avoided his questioning stare and, as we were getting back into our waiting car, I deflected Mathias’s questions about whether or not I was happy.

“He seems to be, how you say in America, a chuckle-head,” Mathias said quietly as we said our good-byes. Kai sat next to the window, waiting for me to walk to the other side. Mathias held my hand and kissed me gently on the cheek.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he whispered.

The phone next to my bed woke me up early the next morning, Dimitri’s voice deep and resonant on the other end.

“Just to let you know, I’m on my way,” he said cheerily, commuter noise in the background. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Hope I didn’t wake up Kai.” I looked across the living room at a closed door, behind which Kai was no doubt still fast asleep, and was grateful for two-bedroomed suites.

Dimitri looked smaller and stouter than how I remembered him, but was beaming.

“Such a joy to see you,” he said, kissing my hand as I sat next to him on the couch in the lobby. “You are more beautiful than before. Success becomes you. And I hear you are in quite the love affair,” he said, eyebrows raised, leaving me to wonder if he knew the truth or not.

“My cousin Stavros has, of course, kept me abreast of your many activities and assignments,” he said, his trademark formality rising to the fore. “I am delighted at how well you are doing. Yes, of course, Stavros and I benefit financially from your success, but beyond that, I have always felt that you, more than anyone else I have encountered, deserved to have it. And I can see now that becoming a famous international fashion model has not changed you one little bit. Your family would be proud, if they cared to know,” he said, shaking his head, the smile momentarily disappearing from his face.

“Anyhow, apart from wanting to simply see you and tell you how proud I am of you, an interesting business opportunity has arisen. Stavros called me about it the other day. I think it’s perfect for you. And, if I do say so myself, my instincts as far as you are concerned have not yet been proven wrong.”

In my absence from New York, Stavros had received the call that all modeling agents wait for. It was from a film producer in London who was working on an as-yet-untitled movie project, and who seemed to think that I had the right “look” for it.

“But I’m not a trained actress,” I said to Dimitri when he told me.

“Who is?” he countered, his smile returning. “How many of the really great movie stars today are really properly trained? Many of them worked hard or were discovered. Now that’s happening to you.”

It was being pitched as a romantic comedy about a young, white, preppy, uptight banker who falls in love with a gypsy girl from Morocco with rumored terrorist ties-to be played by me. In the mix was also a dunce of an ex-boyfriend who was trying to extricate himself from the mujahideen.

“It plays into every single silly stereotype,” I told Dimitri after he had finished recounting the plot.

“I agree, which is why it will get made,” he said, smiling. “It is being packaged for the masses, and therefore is a wonderful opportunity for you. Anyway, the reason it is a matter of some urgency is because the financing is coming from Germany, and the producers are doing their final casting in the next few days. They are flying in from Frankfurt tonight and want to see you tomorrow. In principle, the role is yours. It’s just a formality, and to see if they can develop some acting chops in you. I’ve checked the calendar, and you have nothing on after Chanel, so I’ve scheduled a meeting. And please, leave your boyfriend at the hotel.”

The drive to Neuilly was shorter than I expected, with less traffic than usual heading out to the Parisian suburb on an otherwise fashion-frenzied afternoon. My hair felt gummy, my eyelashes still clumped together, as I rushed out of the show without bothering to remove any of my makeup, assuming that the casting people would want to see me in my full fashion-model glory anyway. I stepped out of the long gray car and went up a flight of steps that led to a wide podium that flanked the building on all sides. Through the glass double doors and up an elevator were the offices of the law firm that was handling the deal, where the producers were having a meeting that preceded mine, and from where we would be headed to a café down the street to talk. As I rode up in the elevator, I hoped that Dimitri, who was supposed to be meeting me here, had already arrived.

The elevator doors opened onto the foyer of the company, and a pretty receptionist told me to take a seat and wait. After a few minutes, two men-one broad-shouldered and with a full head of dense, wavy hair and the other slight and balding-emerged from one of the office suites, smiling as they approached me, their hands outstretched. The larger one introduced himself as Werner, the executive producer of the movie, which was being unofficially christened Honey in the Hamptons, Honey being the name of the girl in question, and a title that sounded like that of a porn film. Werner’s associate was Max, whom Werner introduced as “the brains behind the film.”

“Shall we go and find a quiet place to talk?” Werner suggested as Max led the way.

As we made our way the few feet toward the elevator, a voice sounded out from behind.

“Wait, you left these behind!”

We all turned around, and I stopped breathing. Walking toward us, holding a sheaf of papers, a tiny pair of gold loops pinched through his ears, was Tariq.

My breath finally returned, but my body felt like it had been shoved into a microwave on high. He stared at me, the smile disappearing from his face.

“Oh, thank you,” said Werner, taking the papers out of Tariq’s hand. “We can’t afford to lose these!” he said, sliding them into an attaché case he was carrying. Then, almost as an afterthought, he introduced us. “Tariq Khan, I am pleased to present Miss Tanaya Shah. I am certain you know of her. She is a famous model, and will most likely be starring in the movie we were here discussing with you.” Although Werner was standing right next to me, his words were faint. My eyes were still on Tariq’s face.

“Yes, of course; I am familiar with Miss Shah,” Tariq said tightly. I had seen that look before, the last time right before I left India, on my grandfather’s face at the airport. It was one of disapproval and disappointment, and it always made me sad. There, standing in front of the man I had first come to Paris for a year before, the man I should have married, I suddenly felt naked. Despite the expensive clothes on my body and the brilliant colors on my face and the showy flamboyance with which my hair was coiffed, I felt like nothing but a silly, small girl, simply playing dress-up.