“For take away,” I indicated as I paid, and Giselle gave me a curious eye. “Just a short walk, I promise.”
She pursed her lips and chuckled, knowing there was more to the walk—there always was—but chose to ask instead, “Are you settled in okay? I’m so sorry we ended up out of town this weekend when you got in.”
“Don’t apologize. I’ve been so busy unpacking and getting reacquainted, not to mention preparing for the next several weeks.” I smiled.
“I can’t believe you’re back.” She linked her arm with mine.
I nodded. “I know.”
The last time—and first time—I’d been in Paris was for six months almost six years ago. I’d been traveling through Europe studying medieval architecture to complete my senior thesis. Traveling… moving… it set my soul free.
Since receiving my degree, I’d taught at colleges and universities all over the world but took permanent positions at none.
I’d always been a wanderer. A nomadic soul. Possibly a consequence of being orphaned.
Or maybe because I never blended in.
Middle Eastern was a simple term with a complex definition of what I was. My father was Pakistani and my mother, Indian. A forbidden union in the eyes of both cultures and therefore, I, a product of both, could belong to neither.
Especially since they’d been killed when I was so young.
But I’d found the Middle Eastern bucket was the one I was usually dumped into, though my rich olive skin tone and jet-black hair was sometimes mistaken for Colombian or Puerto Rican.
I blended everywhere and belonged nowhere. So, I wandered and told myself it was inspiring to forge my own path by soaring so high… and that it wasn’t tiring at all to have no place to land.
“I can’t believe they offered me this opportunity,” I teased, murmuring a horrible attempt at ‘merci’ when the waitress delivered our two espressos.
Giselle waved me off. “Don’t even joke about that. Mathieu just wishes he’d known of your work sooner. He truly thinks it will make a difference in convincing the government to consider immediate renovations.”
Mathieu Lavigne was Giselle’s fiancé and the chair of the art department at L’École des Beaux-Arts.
He’d reached out to me when Giselle caught a small article National Geographic had done on my work on the National Cathedral in Washington D.C.—a project I’d completed while teaching a semester at George Washington University.
Not even a week later, I held in my hands letters from both the school, offering me a chance to teach a four-week intensive seminar on medieval architecture to its graduating class, and from one of the local politicians offering to sponsor my research and the project as long as it was guaranteed my work could be used to make a case for the complete renovation of Paris’ Notre Dame cathedral.
It was a no-brainer.
And being able to reconnect with Giselle and some of my old friends here was the proverbial icing on the cake.
“I certainly hope so.” I chuckled.
For a long time, the world looked at Notre Dame as Goliath. As though, because it had stood for so long, endured so much, it was never touched nor tarnished by time. As though it were indestructible.
But those who looked beyond the superficial fascination—many of us academics—knew the true state of the cathedral, and we mourned the lack of interest the French government had on doing anything to restore and preserve the treasure in their guardianship.
“Have you been to Notre Dame yet?” she asked, taking a very small, very Parisian sip of her coffee.
I nodded. “Just as incredible and memorable as the first time.” And after a slight pause, I added, “Maybe even more so.”
Pitch-black eyes set in a scarred frame snuck into my mind from the shadows, just like he had done.
Too many times since Friday had that same face lurked in the corners of my memory, begging me to come back to it. Begging me to wonder about all the little details of the startling stranger who’d confronted me, secrets physically scarred into his face, and a presence that had obliterated the awe I’d felt in the medieval monument in favor of something darker, richer, and more desperate to be explored.
“So, where are we going?” Giselle asked, pulling me back from the mystery man, and held open the door of the café. We stepped back out onto the street that bustled with the colorful fascination only springtime in Paris can bring.
“Not anywhere too exciting. Not yet.” I grinned, flipping down my round sunglasses and tugging at the sleeves of my woven sweater I had tucked into my favorite distressed black jeans.
We walked for a few blocks and she caught me up on what was new with her while I told her some of my plans for the seminar I’d be teaching at the school.
“Esme, where are we going?” she interrupted me finally with a hand on my arm after we passed a group of men who began to whistle and catcall at us, yelling things I didn’t need a translation for to know were vulgar.
I stopped and gave her a reassuring smile. Having lived in cities before, I wasn’t unfamiliar with this type of harassment.
“Just around the corner,” I revealed, linking my arm with hers and pulling her in the direction of our destination that lay just up ahead.
I glanced over my shoulder, my breath catching when I realized all three had chosen to follow us, the tone of their last remarks shifting decidedly lower, their looks more disgusting, because we ignored them.
Giselle’s gaze snapped to my face quickly, her gorgeous brow creasing with concern.
“You didn’t wear the hijab before,” she murmured.
“What did they say?” I replied with a question, knowing it was their words that had prompted her statement.
“Things that are, unfortunately, far too common in the city anymore, especially after Charlie Hebdo.” She sighed with dismay. Though she might look like a model, Giselle’s emotions were written on her face before she even had the chance to speak them.
I forced my head to remain upright.
France, but especially Paris, clung to a harsh separation of church and state. The hijab, a scarf head covering similar to what I wore, was banned in schools in the early 2000s. Then, a few years after my first stay in Paris, the former president, Nicholas Sarkozy, made it clear the burqa, a full face and body covering, wasn’t welcome in France at all.
“After all this time,” I murmured sadly, knowing this issue burned hotly for decades.
“There’s a lot of unrest in the city, Esme. A lot of good people fighting against Islamophobia. There’s even talk of a march in the fall…” She trailed off and sighed, her hand tightening on my arm when she noticed the men following us, too. “But there’s still a lot to fight against. And a lot of people who see the veil as an easy target.”
“Good thing I’m always prepared,” I reassured her, sliding my free hand into my pocket and pulling out the concealed metal casing of my CRKT folding Karambit knife. With a flick of my thumb, the deadly curved blade opened beneath my hand.
Her eyes bulged. “I see that.” She paused and asked, “Do you always wear hijab?” Her tone revealed nothing but pure curiosity.
“Only sometimes.” I shook my head. “Mostly when I’m in public. For solidarity.” My smile quirked up on one side. “I’d like to see someone try and tell me what I can and cannot do with my body.”
“I hope you didn’t bring me out here to start a revolution and teach those pigs a lesson because my fighting skills are about as good as your French,” she chided with a nervous laugh.
“Oh, I’m sure they’re better than that. Plus, those heels look like weapons.” I flicked my eyes to her nude pumps. “Don’t worry, we’re just meeting some old friends of mine.”
“Old friends?” She eyed me curiously, momentarily distracted from the men still walking behind us.
I nodded.
One more block brought us to the Place des Vosges, the oldest square in Paris. One more block until there were more people and
more deterrents for the pigs who taunted us. And even though I was prepared, I breathed a small sigh of relief when we crossed the threshold into the public square.
The small green courtyard with shapely-trimmed shrubs coalesced around a fountain in the center. Most of the grassy spots were filled up with locals and tourists alike, lounging and enjoying the refreshing spring day.
I pulled my sunglasses onto my head and scanned the area quickly, breathing a little deeper when we both noticed how our followers’ steps slowed, and they began to lag back. My fist tightened around the knife, almost hoping they would’ve been brave enough to come closer and harass me to my face.
Then again, I wasn’t surprised that a man who taunted a woman for simply covering parts of her body was nothing more than a pitiful coward.
My eyes caught on the group I was looking for and all other thoughts fled.
“This way,” I said with a widening smile, tugging Giselle over to where the path turned and a group of familiar and a few new faces were waiting… and setting up.
The ensemble also happened to be a group of much larger, very muscular men, and when Giselle realized who we were heading toward, her arm relaxed in mine.
“Ahh! Esme!” Khalid’s hearty laugh reverberated throughout the park, drawing several stares. Well, maybe for more than his laugh.
The Algerian immigrant was all muscle and always sporting a precisely-trimmed beard and buzzed haircut. Tall, dark, and handsome fit him to a T, but it was his kind and genuine personality that made him a real catch. His rich brown eyes were as deep as his laugh and, six years ago, I would’ve been happy to get lost in them. More than happy. But now, when my gaze met his, I didn’t get lost, I took a detour, straight to the gorgeous gargoyle from the cathedral and his pitch-black stare.
I shuddered and pushed the hauntingly handsome shadow from my mind.
By day, Khal Benkerri worked in private security for the Algerian Consulate and sometimes for French intelligence. I’d only ever seen him come from work once, wearing a suit that fit so well it didn’t seem possible he’d ever be able to defend himself, let alone anyone else, while wearing it. It was safe to say that this Khal would’ve put Khal Drogo to shame had he been given the opportunity to make it to the big screen before Game of Thrones.
By night—or when he wasn’t working—Khal was an accomplished guitarist. I’d stared in awe the first time I heard him perform—here, in fact—before walking up to him and his band of seemingly gypsy performers to ask if they’d be interested in one more.
“It’s so good to see you.” I laughed as he enveloped me in a brief hug before pulling back and motioning to the rest of his small group.
“So good to see you again,” he returned. “I’m so glad you reached out.”
I’d messaged him as soon as I arrived in Paris. The thought of performing anonymously throughout the city once more made my fingers itch. There was just something about playing music meant to bring people together and take them away—take them some place far from their troubles and from the troubles of the world.
I’d only learned later that Khal and his group were like me—professionals who performed as a hobby, not as a means to make some money.
That was why they never left a hat or open case out.
“Not sure if you remember Malik Nekkaz, my cousin.” The tall slender, but still built, man beside him stepped forward to shake my hand while his other held the set of bongo drums that jogged my memory.
“Yes, so good to see you again. You were just finishing law school when I was last here.”
He smiled and nodded, a lock of hair falling in front of his eyes that appeared much older than he had to have been.
“And then Rodrigo just went to grab us some water.” Khal peered over his shoulder. “I forget who was playing tambourine when you were here…”
“Maria,” I replied. It was hard to forget the woman whose white hair, unnatural for her young age, floated around her like a cloud.
“Ahh.” He nodded. “And who…”
“Oh, of course. This is my friend Giselle,” I introduced the tall blonde, taking the opportunity to confirm that the men who’d followed us had now completely disappeared from sight. “We just grabbed some coffee and she so kindly walked with me over to meet you.”
There was another minute of introductions when Rodrigo, the short, round Catalan man who chortled when he laughed and seemed to have a permanent jolly smile on his face, joined us, I turned back to Giselle with a guilty but giddy smile.
“You brought me to hear you play.” Excitement blossomed over her face. “You know how much I love it.”
“I do.” I winked at her and shrugged out of my sweater.
“I should’ve known that giving a class and mapping the most famous cathedral in the world wasn’t enough,” she charged with her brows raised in amusement.
I laughed and reached into my large tote bag, pulling out my violin case.
“It was enough of some things,” I replied.
But I needed something else.
When I played with Khal, there was no expectation. There were no rules or boundaries, no lines to stay inside of. There was no world except for the music. The notes, the beats, they all kept moving. Always. Never stopping.
The movement of the music was the only thing that allowed me to stay stationary for so long.
“Just be careful, Esme,” she said cautiously, looking around as more and more eyes turned our way as the intermittent notes that prefaced music to come encouraged their attention.
I frowned.
“Just… You aren’t far from Charlie Hebdo. And lately, with all the protests and unrest…” she trailed off, and I knew she returned to the seed of worry those men had planted in her mind.
After the terrorist attack at the satirical newspaper, Charlie Hebdo, the ethnic tensions in France had risen to unprecedented levels. Against Muslims. Against Arabs. Against the ethnicities I belonged to.
“We’re just playing music for a little, Gis. It’ll be okay,” I reassured her, adjusting my scarf around my neck so my violin could rest on my shoulder
“It’s not just playing when you are involved,” she said softly with a poignant look. “They become absorbed with you—your intensity, your passion. It’s intoxicating.” She paused. “And intoxicated people don’t think rationally.”
I knew as well as Khal did that when I played with him, the crowds did more than listen; they became consumed.
“Things have changed in six years. I just want you to be careful.”
Her caution was warranted. Even with the new legislation that fined offenders who engaged in public sexual harassment, I’d still been catcalled and leered at almost a dozen times since I stepped off the plane a week ago.
And though my French was barely passable, I knew salope and connasse weren’t compliments being yelled in my direction when their attentions were ignored.
The similar but mixed heritage of my parents resulted in something striking in me. Rich black, heavy waves that fell below my waist, too thick that I was always forced to tie them back with something. My chest made a full, C-sized statement no matter what I wore, before it tapered into a small waist and flared into wide hips.
Eye-catching and attention drawing.
One of my students at Vassar two years ago had professed his feelings for me at the end of the semester. (Unfortunately, he wasn’t the first, and I was sure, not the last, to do so.) He’d told me my beauty fell somewhere in the ethereal realm between Penelope Cruz and Priyanka Chopra.
While incredibly flattered, I assured him he would have better luck with one of those two women than myself. Maybe it was harsh, but it was the truth. Even if he wasn’t my student, I wasn’t interested in a relationship.
I never had been.
Maybe my appearance was one of the things that pushed me to keep my life moving to different places… because staying would mean letting someone look for too long. Because staying would mean having t
o build something I had no idea how to build.
In some ways, I felt like the incredible cathedrals I spent my career studying—breathtaking to look at until you looked too close.
Until all the fatal flaws became clear.
I’d never had a lasting relationship with… anyone… And perhaps the most fatal flaw in my attraction was that I didn’t know how to. I could map out and analyze and assess how buildings had been made to last, but when it came to building something lasting with another person, I was clueless.
I belonged nowhere and to no one.
Once again, the disfigured face appeared in the shadows of my memory, and his gaze that resounded stronger than his words that I’d invaded his space—that I’d walked myself into his cage… that I was his.
I shook my head at the foolish thought and returned my focus to Giselle and the warm yet weighted concern in her eyes.
“I’ll be fine,” I repeated. “I promise. Now, please. Just enjoy.”
She sighed and, with a resigned smile, agreed, “Alright, let’s hear what you’ve got, mon amie. It’s been a long time since I stopped to listen to a street performer. The last time, I ended up with a new friend.”
We both laughed, her stepping back as I raised my violin to my shoulder, letting the bow fly over the strings for a few notes to get my bearings and the attention of the crowd in front of me.
I caught Khal’s wide smile over my shoulder. “Es-tu prêt?” Ready?
“Je suis prêt,” I replied in the affirmative. I was ready.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, hearing the beat start from Malik’s drums. The rapid tempo of Khal’s guitar and the distinct tap and shake of Rodrigo’s tambourine began a few seconds later.
My eyes flew open as my bow hit the strings once more, moving like a gypsy over the notes, hardly lingering on one before it was on to the next. A smile graced my lips as the beat sunk into my bones, making my body shift and sway with a will of its own.
Within minutes, the small crowd that had gathered grew larger, clapping and dancing to the music.
I smiled, catching Giselle’s gaze, noticing her calm expression and the uncontrollable way she moved along with the music.
The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1) Page 5