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Pearl seemed happy enough in the chambre de bonne, Anjali thought, high above the threatening streets, but eventually she’d have to get out for some sun. Anjali had given her a pair of jeans, which were a little too long, so Pearl walked on the hems. They’ll be ruined, Anjali thought. Oh well. She had bought a packet of underwear, a sports bra, and two “I love Paris” T-shirts for Pearl. Anjali’s expense spreadsheet was screaming.
“Let’s get some fresh air,” Anjali said. Pearl looked wary.
“You look so different from the night I met you, I don’t think you have to worry. Wear your hair loose, it’s the perfect disguise.”
Pearl still didn’t say much, even though they’d been in this tiny space together for days now.
Anjali dug a pair of flipflops from the closet.
“Here, carry these. As we go down the stairs, you step silently in bare feet at the same time I do in shoes. We have to avoid Madame.”
They snuck out onto the street.
Anjali turned in the opposite direction from Boulevard Saint Michel. They strolled along, Pearl watching the street carefully from behind a curtain of dark hair, kinky from being braided wet.
“Do you have family anywhere?” Anjali asked. “Mine is in Mumbai.”
“Yes, I have family. They’re just outside Paris.”
“Are they good to you?”
“Yes.” Tears sprang into Pearl’s eyes. “I admire them both.”
“Why don’t you go back to them? Not that you have to leave today, don’t worry, but eventually?”
“I’m too ashamed.”
Anjali didn’t know what to do with that one. They entered Jardin de Luxembourg—Gaspard probably didn’t frequent this place full of couples and families—and they promenaded with other strollers.
Pearl volunteered something for the first time in their relationship.
“I would have to give up drinking to go home,” she said. “I don’t know if I can. I really like it.”
“But you end up vomiting?”
“Yeah, it’s so stupid. I’m trying to figure out a way to not do that. It’s drinking beer with whiskey shots that does that. I’ll start drinking only bourbon, I think.”
“When did you start drinking?”
“Oh, when I was about 15. I did it to rebel, but soon I was drinking—like—more than other people, I guess. Like I said, I don’t know if I can give it up. I’m hungry, can we go to the store?”
They ended up in the Franprix closest to the flat. Oh, my budget, Anjali thought. I could barely feed myself, how’s this going to work? They picked out chicken thighs, salad greens, rice, and a box of microwave popcorn.
At the check-out counter, Pearl dug in her jeans pocket. “I have some money.” Then she blushed.
Anjali could guess where it came from, but it helped, and she was not going to quibble about the source. “Thanks,” she said simply.
They were in the de Denichen’s foyer ready to climb six flights when Madame opened the door to her apartment. Behind her Anjali could see fine draperies, thick carpet, a beautiful armoire, armchairs upholstered in soft colors, fresh flowers.
“Bonjour, Anjali,” Madame said. As usual, she spoke condescendingly.
“Bonjour, Madame.” This woman was such an experience, she was in Anjali’s screenplay, unbeknownst to her, of course.
“Who is your friend?” She eyed Pearl suspiciously.
“Let me introduce you.” That formality completed, Anjali added, “We’re just having dinner together.”
“I see, well, that’s fine,” she said and stepped back into her apartment and closed the door.
That woman had seven senses and eyes all over her head, Anjali thought.
She heard Pearl giggle for the first time as they stepped into the stairwell.
