(Source : The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri)
He didn't feel jealous of her past, but it was only that sometimes Gogol wondered whether he represented some sort of capitulation or defeat. He didn't feel this always, just enough to nag at him,settling over his thoughts like a web. He looked round the apartment for reassurance, reminding himself of the life they'd set up together and shared.
In March they went to Paris, Moshumi was invited to give a paper at a conference at the Sorbonne, and they decided to make a vacation out of it, Gogol arranged to take the week off from work. Instead of staying in a hotel, they stayed in an apartment in the Bastille which belonged to a friend of Moushumi's, a male friend named Emanuel, a journalist, who was on holiday in Greece. The apartment was barely heated, minuscule, at the top of six steep flights of stairs, with a bathroom the size of a phone. There was a loft bed just inches from the ceiling, so that sex was a serious hazard. An espresso pot nearly filled the narrow two-burner stove. Apart from two chairs at the dining table, there was no place to sit. The weather was raw, cheerless, the sky white, the Sun perpetually hidden from view. Paris is famous for such weather, Moushumi told him. He felt hidden himself ; men on the streets stared at Moushumi constantly, their glances lingering plainly, in spite of the fact that Gogol was at her side.
It was his first time in Europe. The first time he saw the sort of architecture he'd read about for so many years, admired only in the pages of books and slides. For some reason, in Moushumi's company, he felt more apologetic than authentic. Though they journeyed together one day to Chartres, and another to Varsailles, he had the feeling she would rather be meeting friends for coffee, attending panels at the conference, eating at her favorite bistros, shopping at her favorite stores. From the beginning he felt useless. Moushumi made all the decisions, did all the talking. He was mute in the brasseries where they ate their lunches, mute in the shops where he gazed at beautiful belts, ties, paper, pens ; mute on the rainy afternoon they spent together at the d'Orsay. He was particularly mute when he and Moushumi had get together for dinners with groups of her French friends, drinking Pernods and feasting on couscous or choucroute, smoking and arguing around paper-covered tables. He struggled to grasp the topic of conversation ; the euro, Monica Lewinsky, Y2K - but everything else was a blur, indistinguishable from the clatter of plates, the drone of echoing, laughing voices. He watched them in the giant gilt-framed mirrors on the walls, their dark heads leaning close.
Part of him knew it was a privilege, to be here with her who knew the city so well, but the part of him wanted simply to be tourist, looking at all the buildings in his list, getting lost. When he confessed his wish to her one night as they were walking back to the apartment, she said, "Why didn't you tell me that in the first place ?" and the next morning she instructed him to walk to the Metro station, had his photo taken in a booth, got a Carte Orange.. And so Gogol went sight seeing alone, while she was off at her conference. His only companion was her Plan de Paris, a small guide, with a folded map attached to the back cover. And she warned him as was walking out the door, "Avoid ordering a cafe creme unless it's morning. The French never do that."
It was quite cold outside, brisk air stinging his ears. He remembered his first lunch with Moushumi, the afternoon she'd dragged him to the hat store. He saw a young couple standing in a patch of sunlight on the side walk, clinging to each other for warmth. Suddenly he wanted to go back to the apartment, climb into the loft bed and forget about sightseeing, hold Moushumi in his arms. He wanted to lie with her for hours, as they did at the beginning, skipping meals, then wandering the streets at odd hours, desperate for something to eat. But he knew that she was seriously preparing for her paper presentation at the end of the week, and he knew she would not be roused from her task. He consulted his map, wandered along the famous boulevards, through the Marais, arrived at the Picasso Museum, after many wrong turns. He sat on a bench and sketched the town houses in the Place des Vosges, walked along the desolate gravel paths in the Luxembourg Gardens. He photographed the narrow sidewalks, the dark cobblestone streets, the mansard roofs, the ancient shuttered buildings of pale beige stone. All of it he found beautiful beyond description, and yet at the same time it depressed him that none of it was new to Moushumi, that she'd seen it all hundreds of times. He understood why she lived for so long as she did, away from her family, away from anyone she knew. Her French friends adored her, waiters and shopkeepers adored her.She both fitted in perfectly and yet remained slightly novel. Here Moushumi had reinvented herself, without misgivings, without guilt. He admired her, even resented her a little, for having moved to another country and made a separate life. He realized that this was what their parents had done in America. What he, in all likelihood, would never do.
No comments:
Post a Comment