An Encounter to remember

I got a call around 8.30 AM on Monday. “Cecile Rischmann?” a very cultured voice asked. My yawn halted midway, the reason being whenever I hear my professional name I feel like a soldier on duty.

“Yes.” I said, trying to stall another yawn.

“I bought your book The French Encounter at the Hindu Lit for Life Fest, and I’d like to know why you signed it without meeting the reader.”

Good question, as if I had a choice, I was grumbling under my breath. “There were paneled authors out there Mr X, so I signed my copies in advance. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I do mind. Why weren’t you there on the third day?”

At the back of my mind I was thinking whose face I could have possibly seen the previous night that resulted in being tortured at 8.30 am? “It was a Sunday Mr X. I went to church." And aired out my sins . . . a very long list.

“You know, I’ve come all the way from Tindivanum for this literary fest. I meet authors and make it a point to get the books signed by them. Sometimes, they write me a nice message.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do —”

“— I bought your book and read it and I want to meet the author.”

“Of course. That can be arranged. Maybe sometime —”

“—Today at the Taj Coromandel at 1.00. Not at 1.05. Ask for Shobita at the desk. She will show you where I am.”

Did I hear right? Did Mr X just say that he bought my book and read it and wanted me to come to The Taj Coromandel? OMG! Is he planning to remake that scene in the lounge? Or in the restaurant? I was wide awake now, wondering how to get out of this invitation which sounded more like an order. Who could have given him my number?

My husband opened one eye sleepily. “What is it now?” He grumbled in french. “Don’t tell me you have to go to another literary festival? There was slight indignation in his tone. The poor guy was stranded for last few days with me vanishing from dawn to dusk like as if my schedule was busier than E.L James. He gave a long sigh as he saw that pleading look I was throwing his way, and succumbed to silent pressure.

We landed at the Taj Coromandel fifteen minutes before the schedule time. I called Mr X.

“I’ve arrived.”

“So have I.”

“Where are you?”

“Just look for The French Encounter. I’ll be holding your book.”

I glanced at my husband whose lips were twitching into a smile. I seriously began to search for that provocative book cover which Mr X would be using as his banner. I found him and sighed in relief. He was not standing and waving my book in the air. He was sitting with The French Encounter proudly displayed on the centre table.

“So you are the author of this book?” He said, gesturing to JLC and Kat’s semi-clad frames while I sat stiffly on the canapé. I was beginning to feel as if I was back in school in front of my head-master, V. Abraham. “Are you Indian?”

My head began to nod in all directions. I wasn’t sure whether I should say yes, no, or sit on the fence. Then I remembered how Nikhil Raghavan presented me in his interview and said. “I’m a France-based Indian author.”

“I see. You know, that cover is a very provocative one. It reminded me of my days in this very same hotel. I used to work here, you know.” A melancholic smile touched his lips. “I fell in love with a beautiful woman and we used to hug just like in your cover.” His eyes flickered on the cover with longing.

My mouth was hanging open as I listened. “I was never lucky in love. All the women I loved fell for other men . . . well-off men. I don’t know why these women that I loved were already taken. I’m a bachelor by the way. I have no one, just me and The French Encounter.”

I glanced at my husband to see how he was doing. I saw the teasing glow in his eyes as if he knew what I was thinking. “Maybe you should take some pictures together, chérie.” He drew out his sleek camera and began clicking pictures of Mr X and I and The French Encounter.

“Let’s go the coffee shop.” Mr X said.
We went with him and shared a cappuccino together and clicked more pictures. Then we left him with a promise to see him for the next Hindu Lit for Life Fest.