Kavita Daswani - Salaam Paris

The anger I had been sitting on threatened to erupt. I put down my fork, a clump or beige rice stuck on its end, and picked up my things.

“Wait, Tanaya, don’t leave,” Tariq said, a look of alarm suddenly crossing his eyes.

I sat down again.

“I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I must have sounded like your nana there, for a minute,” he said, his face softening. “I just want to understand what this is all about. The last time I saw you, you had just left India for the first time, standing there in your aunt’s house. I could tell you didn’t feel welcome. You were so sweet and shy, and I wanted to hug you and take you away. But you told me how you felt by not saying anything at all. You only got out from under your grandfather’s thumb by agreeing to marry me. But once you got to Paris, you were done with that idea. Am I right?”

I pushed my plate away. I suddenly felt ashamed. I had used Tariq, something that had only just occurred to me.

“All I wanted to do was to see the world,” I said, my voice breaking. “All I wanted to do was to glimpse some of what my nana had seen, to share life through his eyes. I thought it would never happen. I put it down to teenage madness. But then I saw that movie, Sabrina, and I saw Paris for the first time ever in a black-and-white film, and I knew that I should be here. There was something about her in that movie, something graceful and strong. I aspired to that and thought it would happen for me if only I would be allowed to set foot in that city. It was only meant to be for two weeks. But then my cousin Shazia showed me how different my life could be. It wasn’t what I planned. But it was what happened. I was praying to Allah that my nana would understand. But my prayers weren’t answered, not that time anyway.”

“Sabrina?” Tariq asked, smiling now, acting as if he had heard nothing but that. “You went to Paris because of Audrey Hepburn?” He laughed. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!”

“Don’t make fun of me,” I said quietly. “I don’t expect you to understand. It was something I just had to do.”

“Well, you made it to Paris,” he said. “But you didn’t have to take it as far as you did. There was no need for the improper behavior. And then, to top it all off, you hook up with a rock star who I am sure is on drugs. Were you so desperate?”

Nilu was the only person I had told the truth to. Now I broke the confidentiality agreement once again, telling Tariq exactly what my arrangement had been with Kai.

“So, you didn’t, um, do anything with him?” he asked when I was done. “You are still saving yourself?”

“Of course,” I said quietly. “My life has not changed me that much. Every woman in my family waited until their wedding nights to give of themselves. I will be no different.”

The disapproval that had lingered on Tariq’s face the past couple of times I had seen him was now gone. His jaw relaxed; his eyes regained their brightness.

“It was a charade,” I said to him. “This thing with Kai.

My career. I don’t know what I was seeking, but in the end, I didn’t discover what I thought I would. I never had my Sabrina moment. Right now, I feel like I have nothing but heartache.”

He put his hand on top of mine.

“We may not have married,” he said. “But because of what our grandfathers once had, I would like very much to be your friend.”

At home, an hour later, Tariq back at his hotel, I sat on my couch. My high-heeled sandals lay under the coffee table, a red light flashing on my answering machine. It was probably Stavros. And Felicia. And Kai. I didn’t want to see anyone.

I went into the bedroom, opened my closet, and pulled out my tattered brown suitcase.

Damn that Page Six. Or thank Allah for it. I wasn’t quite sure, two mornings later, as I lay in bed with the newspapers, Felicia at the foot of the bed like a minder in boarding school, her arms crossed in front of her bosom, her left foot tapping on the ground.

“Disaster,” she said, shaking her head. “Absolute, bloody unmitigated disaster.”

“It’s not so bad,” I said, reaching over for my bowl of cornflakes. “At least now the truth is out.”

Right there, as the lead item, was a little story about Kai, the hot new British rock star, being caught in a rather compromising position with his bass player, a lovely fellow named Jerome, in an alley outside Chimera.

“You know, it’s all because you weren’t there,” she said. “This whole thing could have been avoided if you had just shown up as promised. His career is probably in tatters now. But I couldn’t really care less about that. It’s you I’m worried about. What is going on?”

“Nothing,” I said as I threw off the covers and put my feet on the floor.

“Well, now that Stavros is done fixing the mess you made with those German filmmakers, we can start from scratch. I know I’m your publicist and not your business manager, but a few opportunities have come up that we can look at. You’ve gone pretty much as far as you can go with your modeling career, so I really do think it’s time to move on. You’ve made it clear that acting isn’t for you. You’ve got the beauty endorsement. So what else? What else shall we do?” she asked, lowering herself onto my bed.

I could see what she was getting at, but at this point in time, my work, my career, this thing I did, was meaningless.

Felicia’s eye fell on a photograph that was lying flat on my bedside table. It was the picture my mother had sent to me, the one of her and my father on their sad wedding day, the one with which she effectively said good-bye.

“Who are all these people?” Felicia asked, glancing at it. Her finger rested on top of my mother’s semiveiled head. “And who’s that? She could be a candidate for Extreme Makeover,” she said.

“That’s my mother,” I answered, my voice now brittle.

“Oh, my, I’m sorry,” Felicia said, now contrite. “That was really insensitive of me. I think I overdid it with the caffeine this morning, and this whole thing with Kai and Page Six has really gotten me wound up. I wasn’t thinking. Of course it would have to be a family picture. Why else would you have it? But,” she continued, “has anyone ever told you that you look nothing like your mother?”

“Everyone,” I replied.

“Anyhoo, back to business,” she said, getting up and pacing around the room. “I’m thinking your own fragrance line, you know, à la Naomi Campbell. Or perhaps a really sexy and exotic ready-to-wear collection, something that has haute bohemia written all over it. You’re perfect for that kind of look. People would expect it from you. What do you think?” she asked, oblivious to the fact that I was opening drawers and pulling clothes out from them.

“I think I’m done,” I said.

“You can’t leave!” she shrieked. “Not now! Not with all this going on! You’ve peaked! You’re the hottest you’ll ever be, especially with the new scandal!”

She was waving newspaper clippings in the air again. She knew that her phone would be ringing off the hook all day today, from In Touch and Star and the all the entertainment news shows, desperate for a quote or an interview and more insight into the spectacular revelation that one of the hottest men in rock, in a supposedly sultry affair with a luscious exotic model, was, in fact, gayer than Christmas.

“You will emerge from this smelling of roses,” she said, her voice now calmer. “You’ll have everyone’s sympathy. Everyone will be throwing deals at you. You could open any business you want, with as much backing as you need. You could become an empire!” she said, raising her voice to the sky as if summoning some majestic power.