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Anjali walked home across the Pont Royal. Its streetlights clicked on, and below, the Seine’s turbulent waters grabbed the light from the streetlamps and played. A bateau mouche plied the waters under the bridge, and she could hear the pre-recorded spiel echoing against the stone embankments. “Notre Dame took two centuries to build...”
Yes, but it was built. It was still standing. It was a success, by any measure.
What was her measure? Instead of hiding at such a distance from people, alone writing screenplays that might never get produced, she ought to get involved with humans, help out in some way.
As she walked down Boulevard Saint Michel towards her tiny, sixth-floor maid’s room, she passed a brasserie. Outside of it stood a thin girl in very high heels, very short tube skirt, tube top, and with hair in a messy bun. The girl was vomiting against the wall of the brasserie, heaving great, wretched bursts. Anjali paused, kept her distance. There was a distance around the girl, too, a force field of human dignity despite the wracking heaves that her body was subjecting her to. What could Anjali really do for a person like this?
The girl’s nausea seemed to have subsided. She looked furtively over her shoulder and caught sight of Anjali. She turned away from the puddle she had made and leaned her back against the stone building, looking exhausted.
“Are you OK?” Anjali asked. This poor girl might be just like Philippe’s daughter. There seemed to be a softness about her. Perhaps she wasn’t totally hardened to the streets.
The girl didn’t answer, she just leaned with her eyes closed. A tiny purse on a long gold chain hung from one bony shoulder.
“What’s your name?” Anjali said.
“Pearl.”
Just then a red-faced man came out of the brasserie, wearing a suit that strained at its buttons and seams. He walked up to Pearl and grabbed her arm.
“Come back to the party, kid,” he demanded.
“She’s sick,” Anjali said, scared to death he’d punch her for interfering, wondering what she was doing getting involved in this dark scene. What would Amma and Appa say? Yeah, and Ravi? And his aunties?
“Who are you?” the man demanded, his pig eyes encased deep in fleshiness.
“I’m her friend. Come on, Pearl, let’s go home.”
“Wha’?” Pearl said.
“Home. Come on.” Anjali chose to ignore the man. Maybe he’d just go away. She took Pearl’s other arm.
“I’ll tell Gaspard, and you’ll see, you’ll pay,” the man said to Pearl, and tossed her arm away.
At the name “Gaspard,” Pearl shivered. She glanced with big eyes over her shoulder, down Boulevard Saint Michel. Anjali looked too and saw a few couples strolling, not an angry pimp marching towards them.
“Come on, let’s go,” she said and tugged at Pearl’s arm. Am I really doing this? Isn’t writing screenplays enough service to humanity? Do I have to get entangled like this?
“Say goodbye to your face,” the man said and walked back into the brasserie.
Pearl gasped with fear, but took a few steps forward with Anjali steering her.
Anjali was terrified, too. Oh my God, what have I gotten into? Gaspard could come around the corner any second. She figured the best thing to do was to get off the street as fast as possible.
She hustled Pearl toward her tiny flat. Where could this girl sleep? On the narrow passage between bed and closet? In her bed? With her? What if she had lice? Madame de Denichen would throw them both out.
“Come on, Pearl, we’ll figure this out,” Anjali said. She decided to hail a taxi rather than risk meeting Gaspard on the street. As they settled into a cab, Anjali thought, you’re five minutes into this project and you’re over budget already. She said a prayer, she wasn’t sure who to, exactly. Then she remembered the face of Jesus she had seen, the one portrayed in the mosaic at Sacré Cœur. Maybe he’d help with this mess she was in.
