by Samira Ahmed
If Zaid were some random guy, say, one I met while scraping crap off my shoe, I might be wary about sharing details, but Zaid isn’t any guy. We know his family from school and the mosque. Like me, Zaid is Muslim and has one Indian parent. Unlike me, he’s absolutely mastered tameez, the art of appropriate desi behavior, especially around parents. He started a tutoring program at our mosque for the younger kids, and his Urdu kicks ass. On paper, Zaid is the perfect desi catch. In my current Instagram-shaped reality, he’s a lot less so.
As it stands, a lot of people probably side-eye my “good” Muslim desi girl qualifications because they find them . . . lacking. My French is fluent. My Urdu, not so much. I have my dad’s language and my mom’s religion. I’m a bunch of disparate parts that aren’t enough to make a whole. But I’m trying to stop caring about what everyone else thinks about me. I am enough.
Even when I waffle and question my own devotion, even if I miss Friday prayers, being Muslim is part of my identity, as much as French or American or Chicagoan. It’s in my bones and my blood. And no one can take that away from me.
Yeah, Mom knows about Zaid. But that doesn’t mean I want to share every single detail. I still keep some things tucked away in secret.
“Maybe it’s a technical glitch, beta,” Mom suggests, gesturing toward my phone.
“Un pépin technique? Where?” My dad chooses the perfect moment for his entrance. He walks out of the bedroom and gently places his hand on my mom’s shoulder. She looks up at him, and he smiles without showing teeth. He’s lived in America a long time, but not long enough that a toothy smile comes naturally.
I watch them lovingly gaze at each other. In many ways they’re opposites—my dad has pale blue eyes, and his fair skin burns every single summer, while my mom’s deep brown skin defies the sun. I’m somewhere in between. When I was a kid, I wished I wasn’t so in the middle. I wanted to look exactly like my mom because when she and I went out alone, someone would inevitably ask if she was my nanny. It made me mad, but she would wave it off, seemingly unbothered. “I know who I am,” she once explained. “I don’t have to prove it to anyone.” She’s always been enough for herself, too.
My mom takes my dad’s hand in hers. “Khayyam was hoping to hear from Zaid, but—”
I bolt from the couch and grab my purse from the table. Sure, my mom knows about me and Zaid. Papa does, too. But I’m not ready for their academic unpacking of my relationship. I’m not the subject of an undergrad seminar. Before they can protest, I grab my bag and am halfway to the door.
“I’m out of here. You guys can talk about me behind my back like regular parents. I’m going to get a goûter and then head to Place des Vosges.” One good thing about being stuck in Paris for the summer is the comfort of an afternoon pastry. Or three.
They laugh a little. My mom blows me a kiss. My dad tells me to text them when I get to Place des Vosges as he settles in next to my mom on the sofa. My parents exchange another loving glance. I swear, you’d think it’s their third date. I wonder what it takes to sustain that kind of adoration for over twenty years. Or even twenty weeks . . .
I push open the centuries-old wooden doors to our apartment and step into the dark hall. Maybe I should keep more secrets from my parents—less chance of getting trapped in an awkward conversation about my nonexistent love life. I sigh and sidestep the claustrophobia-inducing elevator—it’s the size of a double-wide coffin. We’re on the fifth floor, but I take the stairs up and down every time. Halfway down the wide, winding staircase, my phone buzzes.
Alexandre: Bonjour. I have spoken with the mayor of Paris, who has agreed to clear your path of merde—both real and figurative—for the rest of your stay.
Me: . . .
Me: . . .
Me: Who is this?
If Alexandre is the diversion the universe has presented, I might as well have fun.
Alexandre: Is that American humor?
Me: Ha! Touché.
Alexandre: I lay down my épée. Shall we meet?
Me: Place des Vosges? Thirty minutes?
Alexandre: Perfect. I will bring a surprise.
Me: A surprise?!
Alexandre: I will make it an American surprise so it comes with many exclamation marks!!!
Me: I see I’m not the first American to get a surprise from you?
Alexandre: You’re by far the most beautiful.
This guy seriously knows how to turn on the charm. Sadly, some of that charm is lost on me. I don’t feel completely enamored; I feel a little resigned. Because cute as it is, it’s not the text I was hoping for. My memory of Zaid is the anchor weighing me down. Zaid, whose easy smile and warm embrace felt like home no matter where we were. He was my home, but now he’s packed his bags and moved on. Why can’t I do the same?
Maybe the real question is, why are my own feelings a mystery to me?
Leila
“Haseki,” he whispers.
I cringe at the word. It is no title, but bondage.
“Giaour,” I whisper back. Infidel.
He pulls me into the heart-hollow of the twinned trees.
I place my hand on my chest, drop my eyes, pause. Then raise them to him in a flash. “I may be Pasha’s favorite, I may be confined here, but I still own my name.”
He lifts my chin toward him. “Leila,” he murmurs. “You think you are powerless, but I am under your command.”
“Thus the world is as it should be.” I smile and remove the diaphanous veil I’ve wrapped over my head; it wafts gently to the ground.
He smiles back. Flecks of gold dance in his hazel eyes. He traces an index finger over my lips. His touch is coarse, nothing like Pasha’s, whose hands are massaged with scented oils by girls of a lower rank before they slip on his silken sleep gloves. But Pasha is not soft; I harbor no such illusions. He could slash us both down with the curve of his kilij in two deft strikes.
“Did you forget to wear your riding gloves again?” I chide.
“I’m sorry.” His hand falls away. “You deserve much better.”
He plucks the fuchsia rose from his vest and gently brushes the petals against my lips. They say the scent can drive men mad.
I close my eyes and lean back against the smoothed trunk in the hollowed heart of our tree. He leans his body into mine and kisses me just above the jugular notch between my neck and collarbone. The stubble of his beard grazes my skin and makes it burn with want. He unwound his sarik before I arrived, so I run my fingers through the soft dark brown waves of his hair, scented with sandalwood oil, a precious gift from an Indian merchant.
As he unbuttons my midnight-blue ferace, he kisses me along the neckline. I look up through the hollow and see the moon has come out of hiding as her beams enter the cavity of the tree, illuminating us in silver light that pools at our feet. I draw his hand down the ornately embroidered edge of my ferace to where it parts, giving way to my sleep chemise. He sucks in his breath. His hand traces circles up my thigh—his fingernails pecks of moonlight against my skin. I pull at the sash at his waist, drawing him closer, and arc my body into his.
The boughs of our twinned-trees curve down from the sky, screening the entrance to our hallowed space. Stardust shines as it cascades around us, giving rise to tiny sparks that bounce off our bodies.
“Run with me,” I whisper.
“Anywhere,” he says, sealing his lips over mine in a promise.
Khayyam
In America we bulldoze our past, build the future on the rubble, and pretend that ghosts can’t haunt us. I wonder if sometimes we ignore their voices because we’re scared of hearing ourselves in their echoes. Maybe that’s why I love Place des Vosges. It’s the oldest planned square in a very old city, and you can almost feel whispers of the past commingling with the present here. Turn away from the people scrolling on their phones and taking selfies, and you’ll find the olde
st graffiti in Paris on one of the stone pillars around the perimeter of the park: 1764 Nicola. A guy who wrote a book about his observations in Paris and simply wanted the world to know that, once, he was here, too. That, once, he made his mark.
Another reason why my love for this place endures? Place des Vosges has grass you can sit on. Garden after garden in Paris forbids sitting or walking on the grass. It’s like grass is this untouchable objet d’art and not a tangible childhood memory of freshly mowed lawns that spark with fireflies during games of Ghosts in the Graveyard. But at Place des Vosges, I can sink my Midwestern-raised toes into the lawn. It’s a reminder that, like Nicola, I found a place here, too.
Alexandre and I didn’t choose a specific meeting point. I don’t see him by the seesaws, so I walk around the park. It’s filled with tourists and some poor, unfortunate Parisians who apparently have to keep the city running for all the out-of-towners. I tap my phone with an itchy trigger finger—I don’t want to text him and reek of eau de desperation. He’s only ten minutes late. Fifteen minutes is an acceptable level of tardiness in France. Being on time is actually a bit rude, especially if you’re going to someone’s house. But that’s nothing compared to Indian Standard Time. I don’t think I’ve been to a single desi wedding that started less than an hour late.
This cultural one-two punch of lateness compels the contrarian in me to be punctual. Besides, I hate being late, because I always feel like I’m on the verge of missing out on something important.
“Khayyam, bonjour!”
I turn at the sound of my name. Alexandre smiles at me as he sidesteps a gaggle of tourists. He’s even cuter than my memory gives him credit for: wavy reddish-brown curls and a fitted white T-shirt highlighting his tanned skin. He kisses me on both cheeks. In France, la bise—the two-cheek kiss—is perfunctory, an easy, informal greeting between friends and family. But the feather-touch of Alexandre’s lips makes me catch my breath. His cheek barely brushes mine. Yet it’s a whisper on my skin that feels like a promise.
Can’t read into this. Shouldn’t.
But the last time I felt this sensation—this effervescence—was that moment under the Southport Street ‘L’ stop when Zaid’s lips hovered just above mine. And closing that distance with a kiss felt like capturing eternity.
Okay, well, maybe Alexandre’s peck on my cheek didn’t feel quite like my first actual kiss with Zaid. Besides I’m guessing that for Alexandre, la bise is just la bise.
“That dress looks beautiful on you,” he says.
I look down at one of my summer staples: a magenta voile shift with pink embroidery around the neck. Accepting a compliment gracefully is another particularly French female characteristic that eludes me. I mumble a thank-you, then turn my eyes away, happy my skin is brown enough to hide a blush.
Before I can turn back, Alexandre places a white cardboard box in my hands and lofts a small striped cotton blanket into the air and settles it on the grass. He drops onto it with a smile and reaches a hand out for me to join him. My heart thumps as I slide my free hand into his, taking care to tuck my legs to the side as I take a seat. My knees graze his thigh. He gestures for me to open the box, and when I do, whiffs of butter and sugar and choux float out like clouds.
“L’Eclair de Génie?” I ask.
He nods. My favorite éclair shop in Paris.
“Pistachio raspberry?”
He nods again.
I’m delighted; a perfect éclair awaits. Although I was kind of hoping the surprise was going to be secret Dumas family documents. I need to be patient, or at least act like I am. Being excessively eager is not a good look in France, or anywhere for that matter.
I tap his éclair with mine and say, “Santé.” To your health.
He laughs. “You didn’t look me in the eyes when you toasted. How do I know you didn’t poison my pastry when I looked away?”
I lean over and take a bite of his éclair, making slightly embarrassing, yet not-so-exaggerated mmmmmmm sounds. “See? Poison free.”
“Touché,” he replies.
Our eyes meet. His spark with a knowing smile, a familiarity. A moment. A first step from a me-and-him into an us. Or it could all be in my imagination.
“I wish Americans did pastries like the French,” I say, trying to bring my mind back to the now, away from the what-ifs.
Alexandre shrugs. “Well you might not excel at pastries, but no one does cheese in a can like Americans.”
I shake my head. Cheese in a can is blasphemy. “I’m sorry that Cheez Whiz entered your life. Should I even ask how?”
Alexandre looks away and clears his throat. “A-a . . . friend . . . bought it for me,” he stammers. “When we were on holiday in the States as a . . . joke gift.”
“A gag gift? It’s totally gag-worthy, so that makes sense.”
“Ha!” He smirks as he wipes his hands on his skinny jeans. Then he points to one of the buildings that line the perimeter of the park. “Did you know that Victor Hugo used to live there?”
I nod. I guess we’re done talking about the Cheez Whiz friend.
“He used to take hashish with Dumas.”
I pull a cartoon double take. “What! Dumas spent his days toking up with Victor Hugo?” I laugh. “I can see it now—France’s greatest artists waxing philosophic about killer bud and arguing about whose turn it is to change the bong water.”
Alexandre scrunches up his eyebrows like I’ve annoyed him. Then he sighs like he’s exasperated. Crap. Maybe I offended his family honor by mocking his ancestors or something?
“Obviously, a servant would’ve dumped the bong water,” he says with a grin.
I breathe a small sigh of relief and laugh.
“Anyway, it probably wasn’t an issue, because they didn’t smoke it. The hash was a paste they’d mix into their coffee to inspire hallucinogenic visions. They called themselves the Club des Hashischins.” The Hash Eaters Club.
“I love the name! If they were around today, they’d probably have custom logo T-shirts and a huge Twitter following with their own . . . Hash-tag.” I pause, giving him the chance to appreciate how I crack myself up. “Get it?”
“Is this more American humor?” Alexandre deadpans.
I elbow him. “What? That was a quality quip.”
He laughs lightly, reaching out to tuck a stray wisp of my hair behind my ear. I shiver. He appears unfazed. “They had a real clubhouse. On Île Saint-Louis.”
“That’s where our apartment is,” I answer quickly. “Maybe I’m staying in the Hash Eaters Club headquarters right now. With the ghosts of Dumas and Hugo cringing over my inability to avoid crap and a world where cheese in a can exists.” I draw my hand to my heart and open my mouth in mock horror. “Sacré bleu!”
Alexandre smirks. “Congratulations. You are the first person to utter that phrase on French soil in over two hundred years.”
“I aim to please. Did Dumas do anything else, um, illicit?”
Alexandre gives me a little grin, but I catch something wistful in his eye.
“I do wonder what it must’ve been like back then. All those swashbuckling bon vivant adventurers Dumas wrote about? Some people say he could’ve been one of his own characters.”
“Your family history is definitely a lot more colorful than mine. Famous authors and their affairs, surprise children, missing paintings, a Hash Eaters Club . . .”
Maybe I’m being unfair. It’s true that my family is a little boring comparatively, but then again, I’m a child and grandchild of immigrants—and uprooting yourself and seeking out a new home in a foreign land is pretty damn brave, if you think about it.
“I’m sure there are many exciting secrets in your family’s history. Perhaps even in your life?” Alexandre gently nudges me.
I wish I could come up with a duly flirty response, but the only secret I have is concea
ling a broken heart over Zaid, and there’s nothing clever or coy about a fresh wound. I pivot the conversation back to Alexandre. “Is it awkward, people knowing things about your family that you haven’t told them? Or having a name that everybody knows?”
“And by people, do you mean you?” He flashes a rakish grin. “Everyone knows Dumas. Everyone studies him in school. The teasing and dumb questions I got in lycée—ridiculous. People actually ask me if The Count of Monte Cristo is based on a true story and if we have some hidden stash of gold on the old Dumas estate. No one believes me when I say I have no idea because the place isn’t even ours anymore. It’s a museum.”
“Really?” My eyes widen. “That sucks.”
I feel a pinch of guilt because when I say that, it’s not only because I feel bad for him. It’s because I wonder if it’s another missed academic opportunity for me, too.
“There’s no family treasure trove, sadly. At least none that we know of. But truthfully, I don’t know if my parents would even—” Alexandre stops short, like he’s said something he shouldn’t. Although it sounded like he was going to complain about his parents, which seems, I don’t know, normal? Then he shrugs. I can’t tell if the gesture is meant for me or for his hidden thoughts. “Besides, it could hardly be based on a true story. Dumas’s main character, Dantès, survived being thrown into the sea in a tied-up sack.”
“Another Giaour connection! I’m not sure how popular sack deaths were during the literature of the 1800s, but Leila, the woman in Byron’s poem that inspired Delacroix’s painting, was drowned in a tied-up sack.” I shudder. If two different authors were writing about that, it must have happened to real people, too.
“Except Dantès planned his as a means to escape a prison fortress and went on to find his fortune hidden in a cave. Dumas had this way of enchanting people, of making them believe in things—romance, passion, adventure—that couldn’t possibly be real. Have you read the book?”