Read Online Salaam, Paris by Kavita Daswani - Free Book Online Page B

onto the catwalk. They say here you were not bad, quite good actually, maybe it’s a new career for you. You look good here, no?” Mathias said, pointing to the photograph again.
    “Ah, but this newspaper, it’s a small one, not famous, pas du tout, ” he said, looking at the front page. “Nobody will see it, unfortunately. Such a shame.”
     
    When I had returned home the night before, my eyes still rimmed with thick black liner, my hair still stiff and coiled and smelling of chemicals, my roommates squealed in surprise. When I told them what had happened, they listened to every word in silence, their only sounds being the crunching of toffee-coated peanuts that sat in a bowl on the coffee table. After I had finished recounting the hysteria of a couple of hours earlier, they squealed some more.
    “Yes, but how did you feel ?” asked Teresa. “Were you nervous?”
    “To begin with, yes, of course. But after a few seconds—maybe less—it became easier.”
    In truth, the previous night had been perhaps the most exciting of my life. Walking down the runway had been the shortest sixty seconds of my life, and also the longest. When it was beginning, I couldn’t wait for it to end, but once I had taken my final twirl, mimicking the girls who had gone before me, I wished I could do it again. It had been a moment of pure frivolity and spontaneity, two things I had never experienced before. I longed to call my grandfather and tell him about my night. But instead I told three girls who were still strangers to me.
    Bruno, the designer, sent me flowers at work the next day. I could barely read the scrawl on the tiny card that accompanied it, and wouldn’t have been able to understand it anyway, so Mathias deciphered and translated for me.
    “ ‘With all my heart I thank you for your bravery,’ ” Mathias recited. I thought Bruno’s words were dramatic, as if I had rescued someone from a burning building. “ ‘Your willingness to model my creations saved my show. If there is anything I may ever do for you, you have only to ask.’ ”
    “Sweet,” said Mathias, looking up. “He sounds most grateful. I am certain that Bruno will give you some free clothes whenever you’d like.”
    I thought back to the pink hot pants he’d put me in and confessed I could do without.
     
    With the tidy little bonus I had received from Bruno, I decided to spend a beautiful Sunday on my own, exploring the city again. I set off from the apartment just after breakfast, carrying with me a packed lunch and a copy of Elle that I had borrowed from Juliette, who tended to pilfer magazines from the fashion house she worked for.
    I took the Metro to Place de la Concorde and made my way into the Jardin des Tuileries, which I had first visited with Shazia during my first few weeks here. I found a stone bench that was empty, set down my things, and took in the glorious morning. Joggers sprinted by, and mothers wheeled their babies in strollers. There was a clear crispness in the air, as if the world had overnight been cleansed of all its troubles and was suddenly sparkling new again. I took a deep breath, wanting to feel as invigorated as the atmosphere. I had nowhere to be and nothing to do and realized as I sat there that the heaviness and loneliness I had been feeling since Shazia had left was slowly starting to lift. Not a day passed when I didn’t think of Nana and my mother or when I wouldn’t yearn for a platter of bhel puri from a Mahim street vendor or hope to walk into a community gathering and hear the tinkling of glass bangles and the familiar rustle of silk saris.
    But I was beginning to feel happy and at home. I took out my purse and counted, again, the two hundred euros that Bruno had paid me, shoving it into my palm as if it were a tip. I knew the other models had received far more, but they were professionals, and I was simply a cashier who happened to be tall and slim and there.
    After an hour of sitting on the bench, during