"Mishti!" a voice called.

Rita's eyes flew open at the familiar nickname. "Baba?" she said softly.

Her brother's head popped in. "Wake up!" he said, sounding just like their father. "We have to get you to the airport before we open the store."

His head disappeared, and Rita fended off a stab of pain. The timbre of Raju's voice, his long-legged stride, his lopsided smile — they were all exactly like her father's.

Think about Paris, she thought, dry-eyed. Worry about Jardine. The other winner of the essay contest was the school's star running back. He'd moved from somewhere in the South and turned the team around.

“He's white, Catholic, and a jock,” Rita had told her best friend. “I'm doomed.”

Dozens of beaded braids had danced around Sahara's face. "Give the guy a chance, Reet."

Rita groaned. "What's it's called when two completely opposite words are put together? Like `Jumbo Shrimp'?"

"An oxymoron."

"That's us," Rita said. "Paul Jardine and Rita Das. An oxymoron. We've got absolutely nothing in common."

"He's God's child," answered Sahara sternly. "And so are you. Besides, a real oxymoron puts `two opposites together to form a new meaning,' remember?" Her voice had grown gentle. "You used to be easier on people, Reet. Before the accident, I mean."

Rita had turned away, but Sahara didn't give up. "It's been a year,” she said, “And you still won't talk about it. Not even with me."

"I can't, Sahara. Not yet."

Her friend had sighed. "It's like your heart's locked away somewhere. You never laugh anymore. I don't think you've even cried yet. "

Sahara was right. Rita hadn't cried, not even in the Emergency room, when Ma's high-pitched wail had identified the body. Her brother had taken Ma in his arms and they had wept together, but Rita had stood silently. A door had been locked inside her that day and now she couldn't find the key.

Making her way to the kitchen, Rita inhaled the familiar smells that drifted up the stairs from family's grocery store. Her expert nose could identify sandalwood, turmeric, bay leaves, incense, and mango pickle.

Rita's mother was frying pooris. A pile of the light, round, puffy breads was waiting on the table. Ma heaped huge servings of simmering egg curry on their plates.

When she'd eaten as many pooris as she could, Rita went to the landing where Baba's photo was garlanded. I'm going to Paris, Rita told the picture. I won an essay contest. Good-bye, Baba, good-bye.

A hand squeezed her shoulder, and she whirled around. Raju was standing behind her. Ma was beside him, wiping her eyes with the end of her saree.

While her brother loaded the car, Ma lit incense and offered fruit and flowers at the small altar of Hindu gods in the store.

"Come, Mishti," her mother called. "Ask for blessings on your journey."

"No, Ma. Your prayers are good enough."

Her father hadn't prayed to these statues. He used to ride his bicycle to the Berkeley Rose Gardens and pray there instead. Rita had joined him a few times. He'd pointed out the symmetric perfection of a butterfly, the sunlight shimmering on the Bay, the delicate aroma of a yellow rose. "These were not made randomly, Mishti," Baba had said. "A mathematical mind, the greatest mind, a mind full of love — this type of mind is behind creation. The mind of a Creator."

Before the accident, Rita dutifully prayed to Baba's Creator. But when he died, her fragile faith in his God crumbled. Questions began screaming in her head. How could a God of perfection allow such pain and disorder? How could he allow a world full of suffering? Like the suffering Rita's own father must have endured, his limbs, organs, and bicycle mangled by a hit-and-run driver, dying by the side of the road before the paramedics could reach him.

_______________

They didn't linger over the good-byes. Rita kissed her mother. Her brother cupped one of her hands in his bigger, warmer ones. Rita wondered if he knew how often Baba had used that same gesture. Slowly, Raju let go.

She was waiting in line with the other students at the security gate when she spotted Paul Jardine. He was surrounded by smaller blonde replicas of himself, all boys. One rode high on his shoulders, another squirmed on his back, and two were clutching his legs and riding on his shoes.

She watched him hug a well-dressed middle-aged couple. The woman held him for a long time before letting go.

Finally, Paul came over to join the line. "All set?" he asked Rita.

"I think so," she said, forcing a smile as the little boys swarmed around them.

Paul's mother and father were chatting with the other parents, but the brothers were staying close till the minute before Paul passed through security. "Who's she?" one of them asked.

Another one snickered. "Paul's girlfriend.”

"That's not his girlfriend, stupid," said the oldest of the four. "Paul doesn't like girls. He likes football."

Paul caught Rita's eye, and she couldn't help smiling. "You guys go on back to Mom and Dad,” he told his brothers. The boys ignored him, and Paul turned back to Rita. “Your family here?" he asked.

"They had to get back. We own a store in town."

"Das' groceries. My mother buys spices there."

"She does?" Rita stole another glance at the immaculately dressed blonde woman.

"One of our neighbors in Louisiana was from India."

"Pooris!" shouted one of Paul's brothers. "Yum!"

"That's what I had for breakfast," Rita told him. "I can't believe you know about pooris."

"I'm full of surprises, Rita Das," Paul said, grinning.

Rita smiled back, and this time it came easily. "I guess so.”

__________________

Paris was even more thrilling than the descriptions Rita had devoured in her guidebooks. She and the other students climbed the Eiffel tower, rode a boat down the Seine, and drank steaming coffee in cafes.

At the Louvre Museum, they joined the crowd around Da Vinci's famous picture of Mona Lisa. Beside it, another painting glowed with rich colors. Rita drew closer. Inside the lavish gilt frame, a crowd of men surrounded a woman. One man tugged the woman by her long braid, and the rest leaned forward, their eyes leering to catch her reactions. The woman was looking down, clutching a green sheet around her body.

Rita studied her expression and decided it was a combination of fear and shame. And hopelessness — Rita could tell that the woman had lost all hope of escape.

But a man was walking into the center of the painting with one hand upraised. The crowd had parted to let him through, and they seemed to be demanding a reaction from him. Rita felt an overwhelming desire to know what happened next. She read the words beside the painting to see if she could find a clue. "Le Christ et la Femme Adultere," she read, painted by Lorenzo Lotto in the sixteenth century.

Paul came to stand beside her. "I love this story,” he said.

"You know it? What's going on?"

"They're about to stone her to death for committing adultery."

"And did they?"

"Nope. They asked him to condemn her, but he bent down and wrote something in the dirt. Then he stood up and looked at them. `He who is without sin,' he said, `Let him throw the first stone.' One by one, they all left."

"What happened to her?"

"'Where are your accusers?' he asked. 'All of them are gone,' she answered. 'Then neither do I condemn you,' he said. 'Go and sin no more.'"

Rita gazed at the painting again. "It turns out okay then," she said quietly, wishing she could see the woman's face again, after the fear and shame had left it.

Outside the museum, they strolled through the gardens. Fountains splashed and the scent of honeysuckle drifted through the air. Paul and Rita lingered to watch an artist paint.

He was wearing a black beret, a white blouse with billowing sleeves, and a black scarf. Beside him, a bottle of red wine and a baguette were spread on a checkered cloth. He was painting passionately, with huge, violent sweeps, squinting at the soft, muted colors in the sky.

Rita studied his painting. Brown and black splotches were scattered across the canvas in a haphazard design. I don't get it, she thought, her eyes drifting back to the delicate hues of the sunset.

As Paul and Rita continued to watch, a flock of pigeons rose squawking from the grass. One of the birds paused and hovered over the painter. As though it were aiming and firing, it splashed a glob of white neatly onto the black canvas below.

"AAAAARRRGH!" bellowed the painter. “Bird crap! What's next in this godforsaken country?”

He was an American. Muttering obscenities, he tried to daub off the white spots. Soon, though, he stopped and began scrutinizing the canvas again.

Rita and Paul watched in amazement.

Then: "Wi! Tres jolie! Oh, wi-wi!" the artist moaned, becoming more French by the minute. With elaborate sweeps of his brush and huge sighs of satisfaction, he began to blend the bird's contribution across his canvas.

Rita looked at Paul. Paul looked at Rita. Later, she wouldn't be able to remember who laughed first. They collapsed on a bench, leaning against each other, breathless with mirth. When they finally managed to stop, Rita felt a curious sensation of lightness, as if something trapped inside had managed to escape.

__________________

Storm clouds gathered as they explored the Sorbonne, Paris' famous university.

"Let's go in there," Paul told Rita, pointing to the Cathedral of St. Etienne Du Mont. "Meet you in an hour!" he called to the others, who were running into a cafe. The group's chaperone waved her permission.

"Is it free?" Rita asked.

"Of course," Paul answered, holding the door open.

High marble arches circled the inside of the sanctuary, and a carved, filigreed screen divided it. Above the screen hung a wooden figure on a cross.

Paul walked off, and Rita watched him kneel to pray. Sahara was right, she thought. It didn't matter that Paul was a jock; that he was white; that he was Catholic; that he was Southern. Paris had made them into an oxymoron — a combination of contradictions that made sense in this time and place.

Despite the rain, the stained glass gathered enough light to fill the cathedral with color. The windows glowed in patterns of mustard, saffron, indigo, coral. Arches and vaults curved above, soaring so high she could hardly see where they intersected. Bells began to toll and then echo in the rafters.

The glossy wood of the cross shone as if it were sweating. Rita's eyes rested on the twisted, half-naked figure. So this was what had happened to the man who had rescued the adulterous woman. He, too, had been attacked and condemned. And killed.

Talk about an oxymoron, Rita thought. The ultimate contradiction. A suffering God.

Sahara had told her how the women who loved him claimed they'd seen him alive again. What would that have been like? To grieve, to ache, to be torn apart, and then ... to hear his voice call your name again, feel the touch of his hand once more...

"Baba," Rita whispered. "My Baba."

As if a strong wind had swept through the Cathedral, the locked door inside Rita flew open. A year's worth of tears poured out, and she wept and wept.

Paul came to sit beside her. When she could catch her breath, she tried to explain. "Baba —" she began, but couldn't finish.

Just as her brother would have, just as her father would have, Paul reached over to take her hand in both of his. Rita closed her eyes, and the unfamiliar hands became Raju's, and then Baba's, until finally she felt the strong, scarred hands of a stranger's sheltering her own.