Her short streaked hair dried quickly. She slid into a caramel cotton trouser and tucked into it a fitting white cotton tee. A dark leather belt and a classic Bally footwear of the same color completed her professional intentions. As an independant consultant to the hotel industry in Delhi, she now enjoyed her job more than she had ever before. Her additional knowledge of French and Italian had brought her some ambitious projects to research, and her eight years in operations with the Taj group of Hotels only made the comfort levels higher. And then, people liked to put faith in her.

Her trip to Evian concerned a private investment. The budget was alright but had worked out better considering her arranged accomodation. Whenever Shimona visited an organisation for her research, she promised it appropriate publicity (even an article in an established travel magazine did nicely) to smoothen the process. The manager of Spa Evian would help her in the capacity of a press member too. If there was one thing Shimona disliked about her job it was the dark side of marketing. Unfortunately for her, she understood the reason for its nature as she did people for theirs. And both, she knew, had no substitute.

The Spa was not far from the apartment and she walked to it. It was cool inside. The hall was extensive with tall glass windows and maintained quietness. Women in white bathrobes with relaxed faces tempted observors to experience the same. Shimona spotted the reception counter but was distracted by the sculpture of mountains beside it. It was carved with such desire she knew was exclusive to the French, and at its base were the words:

DANS LA CREVASSE DE TA VENTRE COULE TA VIE

-L’EAU D’EVIAN-

They were words she wanted to remember. They were mountains she wanted to see and taste the life that flowed in their belly. The cheery receptionist was expecting her arrival and took no time to hand her a pair of blue plastic shoe caps to slip over her footwear while guiding her down a flight of stairs where the perfumes of heaven filled the spots that gave smells their purpose. Shimona liked what she saw - the soft light, the clean floor, the sound of water falling off a wall- but then came the door too early and she pulled herself together.

After formal introductions, the manager, a thin super- neat woman with a flawless complexion and in her forties, offered her a tour of the spa; thermal baths, massages, water massages, starlight cubicles, and cafe, all of it. The lady was thorough in her knowledge of the place and spoke almost in a whisper as she hastened her steps past rooms that were occupied. Shimona made some jottings on paper when she found it important but her eyes studied much more. Inspite the sprawling property (that seemed to have more lawn than floor) the tour ended quickly and satisfactorily. But not quite.

“Here at Spa Evian,” said the thin lady as she led her guest to the cafe and ordered some herbal tea and asparagus vol-au-vents, “we have a day- care centre so that mothers can enjoy their theraphies while we look after their children. We have also introduced a new concept called Spa avec Bébé. It’s basically water theraphy for mother and baby.” She placed a picture before her- of a baby swimming under water- and continued, “Evian water is excellent for babies and little children. Its rich minerals are absorbed by their tender skin and are enriched faster.” Shimona listened with interest- about this and about recognising the qualities of good mineral water. How it always felt light and never left a residue in the glass. How its taste had a natural flavor and how magically it worked on the skin inside-out with regular touch. Of course, given her own skin, her mouth had chosen right words to speak. Shimona joted it as an essential.

She was led up a few stairs again where the walls of the corridor changed to pastel hues with soft white carpeting between them. The baby zone was evident. In a quiet and cozy room slept little babies under attendance, safely seperated from the big play-pen for slightly older ones that had everything to keep them occupied. The ladies stood at its door and Shimona said it was a bright idea as she watched intently a little boy climb a net because he reminded her of her son who had once played and lived and died. His thought did not disturb her. She had learnt to give pain an enduring place in her heart but not big enough to consume his eternal joy that was far greater.

Back in the office, she was handed a file- the material she needed for research- and of course, the press-kit.
“I have booked you for a complimentary treatment tomorrow. You may try any of them, though I strongly recommend the starlight cubile therapy. It takes 90 minutes. Does 3 o’clock sound alright?” asked the manager professionaly.

“It sounds perfect. Thank you very much, you are most kind,” said Shimona, extending her hand. After her hand had been met, she rose from her chair and removed from her bag a red box. She opened it to reveal a small golden idol of lord Ganesh and placed it in her transparent French palm. Timming was half the style and Shimona always left an impression.

“He may look small but he protects the land of a billion people. May his presence in Spa Evian keep it as peaceful,”

The manger thanked her for the gesture, first in a way of being touched and then, in a way of realisation. For the idol, less than the size of her thumb, felt solid and very heavy.

Shimona had noticed a supermarket nearby and stopped to pick some groceries for the appartment on her way back. She intended to eat a light lunch and change into something more appropriate before exploring this place that had more yachts than she thought they manufactured. She bought some bread and cheese, some juice, and from memory, a jar of rillette, a special spread, that had reached its end in the fridge.

On turning the lock she heard guitar strings. She had not expected him at home at this time. Under normal circumstances she would have liked to say hello but by not saying it, she hoped to keep them simple in the least . People like Fabrice prefered to be ignored. She headed straight to the kitchen and began arranging the groceries. It occured to her that she had been noticed when the strumming stopped, but her mind was on preparing a cheese and rillette sandwich and getting inside her room.

When she was about to leave the kitchen with the sandwich in her plate , a remark of surprise greeted her.
“Ah! I didn’t know you were here..!” he said stiffly.
So he did come out to say hello she thought and asked him if he had had lunch.
“In fact, I had just dropped-in to . . .” The word he used was ‘grignoter’ and she could not remember its meaning. Sometimes he spoke too fast. Sometimes he used words she’d forgotten. And he didn’t speak English. She asked him what it meant and he was eager to explain. He grabbed the baguette from the table and began to nibble at it like a mouse.
“C’est grignoter....je grignote...” he said seriously.
He looked like an idiot but Shimona sent her laughter to her eyes.
“Nibble” she said politely keeping a straight face.
“Neebul, yes!” he responded, as if he knew the word.
She decided to stay back and finish her sandwich at the kitchen table even if she missed the glint in his eyes on finding a fresh rillette jar in the fridge.
“I see you did some shopping like the locals today,” he said bringing the jar to their table.
“I see you play the guitar,” she said tucking a small bite on her cheek’s inside.
“I am learning.... By myself,” he said, generously slamming the rillette on a piece of baguette.
“Oh. I didn’t know one could do that...”
“Oh yes. One doesn’t need anyone for anything. You can do everything by yourself if you try”
“But a teacher would share his experience...”
“And take your energy. And your money. I don’t need a teacher.”
“I don’t agree with you Fabrice. And I can prove you wrong,” she said calmly giving him a look that was neither defiant or kind.
“Ah! There you go! You have this.....” He moved his fingers vigorously in the air without speaking and continued politely, “this....‘calm air’ about you. You just say things as if they are waiting to be said.”
“So will you let me?”
“Prove me wrong? How?”
“How long have you been learning the guitar?”
“About a month.”
“What have you learnt?”
“Bah...it’s not easy you know.... I know some rhythm patterns, but the chords are impossible!”
“Can you play a song?”
“I’m 51 madame. I have reasons to be a slow-learner...”
“Ok, here’s the deal then. If I teach you to play a song with chord changes in three days, you will admit that everyone needs a teacher. Agreed?”
He looked at her for some time and she did not look away. “Agreed,” he said, not because he had faith in her. But because it had been ages since he had enjoyed the company of another human being.

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