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Anjali had told Aasha just a little about Pearl. She had to say something, because now she wasn’t as available as before to go out with Aasha and do things.
As Anjali stirred a new batch of dal, she wondered why she hadn’t said anything to the group about having Pearl stay with her. For one thing, she didn’t want to make Philippe feel bad, that here was a girl getting help while his daughter was treated like trash on the streets of Paris. She stirred again, and the aroma of curry spices and the extra cumin she’d added wafted up.
And the other reason: she didn’t want to tell them and fall into the trap of being proud of the fact that she was helping a streetwalker to escape that life. It was a weird reverse hubris. She didn’t want them to think she was making herself look altruistic and selfless. Even at her best, it seemed, she had a selfish motive.
She turned the heat off under the finished dal and set the pot’s lid ajar so the fragrant, steamy comfort food could cool. She thought of Aasha, who had decided to leave Paris and go back to India a month before she had to. Anjali tried to understand her going back early but couldn’t.
Anjali and Aasha had made a plan to meet at Le Louvre before Aasha left for India. Anjali got ready; Pearl left for an AA meeting. The two young women had gotten extremely skilled at evading Madame de Denichen. They were enjoying putting one over on the formidable aristocrat.
Anjali ruffled her hands over her blouses in the drawer, looking for one to wear with jeans. She picked one out, donned it, grabbed her sac, and headed toward the door.
As she passed the closet and opened the door to her flat, the collection of praise and critiques from the writers’ group that she’d written down acknowledged her passing.
The little yellow pieces of paper taped to the white surface lifted up, fluttered, and fell back into place.
