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Anjali thought Pearl needed an outing. So she invited her to do what she was hankering to do: go back to the 20th arrondissement—to Belleville to be exact—to the poetry slam, to be even more exact.
Pearl had said yes, and had gone to her meeting early in the day to be free Saturday evening.
The hill up Rue de Belleville to the poetry slam café was full of slow, two-way traffic on the street, and strolling pedestrians on the sidewalk. Anjali was accustomed to walking purposefully, either to her job or to write at the library or a café. This ambling was annoying. Then she made an effort to use the time to look in the shops. “Try to be someone on whom nothing is lost,” the writer Henry James had said.
Lots of Asian people milled in the shoe shops, boutiques, barbershops, and alimentaires, where crates of strange Chinese vegetables, like cucumbers covered in spines, spilled out onto the street.
Anjali imagined Edith Piaf as a young Sparrow, here in Belleville, belting out La Marseillaise for coins to live on. She probably stood somewhere along this very thoroughfare.
This jostling crowd—do they know the lyrics the Sparrow sang? Anjali wondered. When people all over the globe watched a French athlete who’d won gold at the Olympics, and heard the French national anthem played, did they have any idea how violent the lyrics were?
Do you hear the roaring
of these fierce soldiers?
They come right to our arms
To slit the throats of our sons,
our friends!
Let us march! Let us march!
May impure blood water our fields!
The music sounded jolly. Probably based on a drinking ditty, as so many anthems were. But the lyrics were full of bloodlust. Well, it had been the national anthem since 1795. The violence was a bit grandfathered in at this point, she thought.
When they arrived inside the café, Pearl looked around eagerly at the dark blue walls, and the stage area with its backdrop of posters and bumper stickers. They had made a point of arriving early, to sit up front. They claimed seats at a big table. Anjali ordered Perrier instead of white wine, to help Pearl out.
When they had their drinks—a diabolo grenadine for Pearl, Anjali was relieved to see—they began to chat, since chatting while walking on the crowded Belleville sidewalks had been impossible.
“Do you speak French?” Anjali asked Pearl.
“Mais oui. I’ve lived here all my life.”
“But when you speak English, you sound totally American.”
“My father’s American, my mother’s French. So I speak both languages sounding like a native. Or so natives tell me.”
“What good luck for you!”
Just then a group of three guys loomed over them.
“Can we share this table? Do you mind?” one of the young men asked in English.
“Mais oui,” Anjali answered, trying to see if she could convince the newcomer that she spoke French. She moved her handbag from a chair onto the gritty floor between her feet. You couldn’t be too street smart in Paris.
“How are you two young ladies tonight,” said the blond-haired man among them. He appeared quite the dashing young blade, loaded with extra charm. He spoke in English. Either he hadn’t fallen for her ploy, or he couldn’t speak French, so Anjali switched gears.
“I’m fine, how are you?” Oh, if my parents saw me now, being friendly with a stranger in a bar, she thought. Especially a bar—and a stranger—that look like this.
“I’m Lee, from Pittsburgh,” he said and offered his hand.
Anjali and Pearl each shook it in turn.
“So you’re into poetry?” Lee said. He’s directing his comments more to me than Pearl, Anjali thought. She seems quite detached, subdued, her eyes down on the table. What if she knows him from her days as a—. Oh well. What does this guy want? To talk about literature?
“Yes, I write poetry and movies,” she said. “The poetry writing helps me, because in a movie, the images and the text should work together like poetry.” He was looking at her intently. Was he listening intently? “And you?”
“Can’t write. But I like a good poetry slam, and I heard this was a good one.”
“It can be good. Mixed bag, usually.”
“Where are you from?”
“Mumbai,” she said.
“So you’re Hindu, aren’t you?”
“Yes?” A bit of a question crept into her answer. Why was he asking that?
“If you’re from India, then you must know the meaning of life.”
Was he serious?
“Tell us the meaning of life,” he said, gesturing between himself and his two friends, who were watching her with interest. “Tell us in Hindi.”
Anjali wondered if she were being mocked.
“I’m afraid not,” she said, crossing her arms and locking eyes with Pearl, who looked up that instant.
“What’s wrong? Hey, did I offend you? Sorry,” Lee said and turned back to his friends.
Pearl smiled at her. “You okay?” she whispered.
“I can’t believe what he just said. What an idiot.” She hoped he’d overhear.
“Maybe you can use it in one of the movies you’re writing.”
“People think Indians know the meaning of life? What a stereotype! How can they think that with all the problems we have in India?”
“People believe weird things,” Pearl said.
