Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know

by Samira Ahmed

  I shake my head. “Dude. It’s, like, a thousand pages. I know the basic story, though.”

  “My parents made me read it when I was twelve.”

  “Ouch. As a kid of two professors, I feel your pain.”

  “It’s obligatoire in our family to know about our most famous ancestor. My dad goes on and on about how it’s our duty to honor the family name. Preserve the cultural legacy of France . . .” His voice hardens. “But it’s all talk. Flowery pronouncements about honor don’t save anything, you know? We’ve already lost so much.”

  I blink. “That’s hard-core.”

  He relaxes his shoulders. “I love these American idioms. Isn’t that word supposed to be used for pornography?”

  My mouth drops open, my cheeks suddenly on fire. The French are direct about sex and nudity. But some cultural norms don’t transfer. They aren’t imprinted on DNA. “I . . . uh . . . I meant that it seems like an intense family burden,” I sputter.

  “Ahhh. It’s not that bad. It’s how I learned about the Hash Eaters. From my uncle. He’s the reservoir of family knowledge—the only one trying to salvage what we have left of Dumas. He would probably love to read your essay.”

  I ignore his comment because it was devastating enough when Celenia Mondego ripped my essay to shreds, and if an actual Dumas read it . . . Well, I might be the first person to die of impostor syndrome. Still, I can’t deny that it would be amazing to interview his uncle if I manage to come up with a new thesis for my essay—hello, expert source. But I’m not there yet. So I ask, “Who else was in this cannabis club besides your many-greats-grandpa and Victor Hugo?”

  “Many renowned artists and writers of the time, including our friend Delacroix. They got the hash from Morocco and apparently wore some kind of vaguely Arabian dress when they met for their hash-inspired hallucinations.”

  “Of course they did. It’s a classic colonizer tale: steal or appropriate the interesting stuff; oppress or kill the people who created it.”

  Alexandre nods, his face serious. “My sixth-great-grandfather should’ve known better. Dumas’s grandmother was an enslaved woman. He might have been partly, begrudgingly accepted into French society because of noble birth, but he was still subject to ferocious racism. There are incredible stories about Dumas tearing people apart when they insulted his African ancestry. He even wrote a novel called Georges about racism and colonialism. I guess he didn’t think that applied to him and his friends.”

  Studying Delacroix’s Giaour series, I came across a lot of writing about the role of Orientalism in his paintings—the prejudiced outsider lens through which the West sees and depicts the East. And especially because of Mom’s academic specialty, we’ve had lots of long dinner conversations and debates about how that worldview still colors how the West sees Islam and the East in general. My mom can draw a road map from Napoleon’s attempt to conquer Egypt to the recent crop of authoritarians who use the rhetoric of Islamophobia and racism to bolster their campaigns. But even though Papa is French, I haven’t thought of my own ancestors in that light; it must feel weird for Alexandre to investigate his family that way. Maybe we all should because the past is complicated, and what is history but the everyday lives of our families?

  “It’s Orientalism, right? The idea that any culture that’s not Western is somehow savage and inferior and needs to be conquered and saved.” I glance at Alexandre, who seems both fascinated and bewildered. “In both the Byron poem and the Delacroix paintings, the Giaour, he’s written as Christian—an infidel in a Muslim country, and he’s the noble hero, the savior—and the Pasha is the cartoonishly evil villain. I mean, sure, he could’ve been a villain, but there’s never any nuance. Leila, the harem girl, is the one who needs to be saved. She’s the currency between two men. She’s voiceless and objectified—it’s sexism and racism in one fell swoop.” My body hums with anger. I take a deep breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to go off. It’s the curse of being a child of two professors—I found a rumor, a little thread connecting that Delacroix painting to Dumas, and I had to unravel it.”

  While I’m trying to calm myself down, trying to figure out why this rage came on suddenly, I remember that I gave Zaid nearly this exact same lecture when I first took him to see the Delacroix at the Art Institute. I wasn’t as angry, not like this, but, then again, I was only starting to peel back all the layers to this painting, to the poem, to the history it came out of. And I hadn’t crashed and burned yet.

  And Zaid, in that moment when I was going off on the Orientalism of the painting, about how it was rooted in a centuries-old Islamophobia . . . Zaid held my hand, looked into my eyes, and said, “I know.” He understood. He got it. He lives under the shadow of America’s casual prejudice every day. Just like me.

  Alexandre begins absentmindedly picking the white clover flowers that dot the grass of Place des Vosges. “Remember those family rumors I mentioned about a possible gift from Delacroix? There might be more to them than legend—”

  Before he can finish his sentence, I blurt, “Has your family ever tried to find that Delacroix? Wait—do you think the Nazis stole it? Some scholars think a few Delacroix paintings might have gone missing during World War II.”

  Alexandre sighs but doesn’t look up from his flower gathering. “The Nazis did steal a lot of art, so it’s possible. But we do know that Delacroix gave Dumas at least one sketch.” He hesitates for a second before continuing, “Also, my uncle and I recently came across some old letters that hinted at the possibility of lost things, and we couldn’t figure it out. Honestly, he didn’t even quite believe it. Would you like to see them?”

  My heart pounds in my ears. Am I hearing this right? I can’t get ahead of myself. Can’t get too excited. But what if those old letters prove that maybe my thesis wasn’t totally wrong? What if there is a missing Delacroix? What if Alexandre’s family documents help me solve the mystery or even give me another clue? If there is something, any new information, I could rewrite my paper for the Art Institute. I could prove I’m not a failure. I could show everyone—especially Celenia Mondego—that I’m a badass art historian. This could change everything for me.

  Calm down, Khayyam. Stop fangirling over this dude’s tragic family history. I take a deep breath. “That would be amazing,” I say in as even-toned a voice as I can muster.

  Alexandre gives me a wan smile. “We’ve lost so much of Dumas’s work—a lot of his archives aren’t in our possession or even in France anymore. It’s a family tragedy. There are lots of rumors, family lore, about my illustrious ancestor and his various escapades. Maybe you can help us find the truth.” His voice falters. He seems worried. Maybe he’s nervous about what truth he’ll find. Maybe he’s wondering if the past should stay in the past.

  I’ve thought about that a lot. Wondered whether I should move on, bury all my failures—with the Art Institute essay and with Zaid—and try to forget about it all. A clean slate. But I’m figuring out that neither life nor history work that way.

  “You were right,” I say softly. “He does sound like a character in one of his own books.”

  Alexandre pauses his flower gathering and looks at me. “Yes. Exactly. Fact and fiction blur together in his life. What is the truth? Who was this man?”

  “Who are any of us, really?”

  “That is awfully Sartre of you,” Alexandre says and begins knotting the flowers together, stem to bud. His fingers move deftly around the delicate, petite blooms.

  “That’s the second time I’ve been called existential today. It must be like how my French gets more colloquial every summer in Paris . . .”

  “Ah, geography is destiny.”

  “I don’t know if I believe in destiny.”

  “What about us meeting?” he asks, still weaving his daisy chain.

  A tiny flutter rises in my chest. “I’ll admit it feels odd. You know, like a fluke.”

&nb
sp; “If only the French had a word for coïncidence.” Alexandre pronounces it the French way and chuckles at his own joke.

  “Coincidences feel like magic, but they’re just math.” Even as I’m saying the words, there’s still a tiny part of me that wants to believe that magic could be real, like our meeting was written in the stars.

  Alexandre inches closer to me, holding up his creation. “May I?” he asks.

  I nod and dip my head so he can place the white clover flower crown on my hair. His thumb grazes my cheek as he pulls his hands away. “You are the queen of your own fate.”

  I smile. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m going to find a way to erase all this pain and confusion swirling around me. Maybe the Alexandre Dumas of the past is the one who got me into this mess, but the present-day Alexandre Dumas—this handsome, charming boy—is the one meant to help me find my way out of it. And there may even be kissing.

  He leans back and says with a smile, “C’est parfait.”

  I beam back at him. Yes, my sentiments exactly.

  Leila

  I enter the solitary Room of Ablution. I have barely slept, but I am awake, alert. The blue-tiled mosaic on the floor and walls is soothing, mesmerizing as I take care to wash away my Giaour’s touch. Pasha’s senses are sharp, like his vengeance. But, like all men, he has weaknesses—his unfettered devotion and unusual trust in me that I have earned, painstakingly and at a cost.

  I take the cloth and scrub off the sandalwood and musk of my Giaour. I massage rose oils onto every inch of my skin and run my scented fingers through the loosened black tresses that fall down my back, which Pasha loves to twist and coil around his fingers.

  “You must be careful. Even my protection has limits.” Si’la appears before me, impeccably dressed and dry despite the wet floor. Nothing can touch her. Not even me.

  The otherworldly beauty of the jiniri might be too much for most human beings to bear, but she has been with me since I first remember gazing out of my cradle, since the accident that left me orphaned and destined for this palace prison. They say I arrived clutching the opal that now hangs from my neck. Some of the other girls say it is cursed. Even Pasha doesn’t dare touch it, too afraid that the rumors of my jiniri are true. I hold the opal between my fingers, watch its fire blazing within. The same fire burns in Si’la’s eyes.

  “I am ever watchful,” I say. “Vigilant. I am biding my time until I can escape this place.”

  “The time will come,” she agrees, “but I am afraid it will not be as you wish.”

  “Nothing in this world is as I wish.”

  “Nothing but your beloved.”

  “Nothing but my beloved.”

  “At your father’s dying breath,” she reminds me, “I swore on my love for him to shelter you, but this world offers few protections to abandoned baby girls. Even fewer to women cast out from the serai by their pashas. Fewer still to those who betray their masters. For them, there are only watery graves.”

  “Better a grave than this living death,” I counter. “I cannot grow old here. I can no longer wear the mask of love for another when love has shown me its true face.”

  Si’la smiles enigmatically. The flames in her eyes diminish, and she disappears.

  Khayyam

  I’m a creature of habit. Painful ones. Yesterday I spent what can only be described as a romantic afternoon with Alexandre, but even as I’m on the way to meet this charming French boy, I can’t stop myself from checking Instagram. Of course, I find more shots of Zaid getting friendly with Rekha.

  What did I expect? I swear, I’m going to unfriend him on everything. Tomorrow.

  I slip my phone into my bag as I turn the corner. I spot Alexandre sitting at the corner table of Café de Flore. He doesn’t see me yet, so I take a moment to study him. His sienna eyes are hidden behind the same tortoiseshell sunglasses he wore when we first met. He’s oozing a kind of French languor—he’s slouched back, legs in skinny khakis stretched out in front of him, crossed at the bare ankle as he drinks a cup of coffee and watches the world pass by. There’s a hint of stubble along his chin and jaw. He’s at ease. Content with himself. Zaid is the same way, always comfortable wherever he is because he carries that sense of self with him. I guess I have a type—the opposite of me.

  As I walk up, he grins demurely, then stands to kiss me on both cheeks.

  “Salut.”

  “I was surprised you picked here to meet,” I say.

  He gives me a quizzical look as we settle into our seats.

  “Café de Flore? It’s a little touristy and cliché, don’t you think?”

  “It’s August in Paris. Everything is touristy and cliché,” he says with a smirk.

  The waiter comes by, and I order an Orangina and grenadine.

  Alexandre bursts out laughing. “You’re drinking l’indien?”

  “What? I love the drink, but I refuse to say the name because it’s ridiculous and, like, racist.”

  “Orientalist, even?”

  “Oh, so you were paying attention to me yesterday?” I gently nudge him in the arm.

  “It was the best part of my afternoon.” He smiles that rakish smile I saw at the museum. He pauses. “Can I ask . . . Is it difficult being so aware of yourself all the time?”

  Maybe he only means to tease me. But I look at his face and realize he’s genuinely curious, which might actually annoy me more. I take a breath. “You don’t understand. It’s different here. Not that France doesn’t have prejudices. I mean, being Muslim here isn’t exactly a picnic, especially if you’re hijabi. Or Black and poor and living in the banlieue. But in the United States, you’re forced to be aware of the color of your skin and constantly reminded of your supposed otherness.”

  My words linger in the air. It’s hard to explain to people who aren’t American sometimes how I’m always conscious of being othered but also want to make sure I’m aware of my own privilege. “Look, it’s not like almost all the white people get off the Métro before reaching a specific neighborhood in Paris, not like they do in Chicago.”

  He hasn’t taken his gaze off my face. It’s intense, but his eyes soften. “I see. But I guess I can never totally understand? I hope I’m trying, though. One of my ancestors was an African woman enslaved in Haiti. I can’t ignore my family’s past.”

  I nod.

  Alexandre continues. “She’s actually the one who gave us our family name.”

  “Wait. What?” This is totally new info to me. The waiter brings my drink. It looks like sunset in a glass. I take a long sip, letting what Alexandre said sink in. Even though my essay was about finding a Dumas-Delacroix connection, I didn’t exactly do a deep research dive into Dumas’s personal life. Here I am going off on racism and sexism, and I totally missed this part of Dumas’s identity. Maybe Celenia Mondego was right. I’m a crap historian. I look at Alexandre, unsure how to respond.

  “I’m a descendant of slaveholders,” he says, “with at least one rapist in the family who was also nobility, about seven generations back. That was Alexandre Dumas’s grandfather. Dumas’s father was biracial and was one of the highest-ranking Black men in any European army—ever. He served under Napoleon.”

  “Whoa. That’s, like, major.” God, I sound like an idiot, but I’m blown away. “Napoleon had a biracial general leading the entire French army. Wow.”

  “And he’s still one of the highest-ranking Black generals ever in Europe. Still.” A scowl crosses Alexandre’s face. “Trust me. We don’t exactly live in some perfect post-racial world here, either.”

  I take a breath and lean back.

  Alexandre puts his empty coffee cup down with a thud. “Dumas is one of France’s greatest writers, and he wasn’t even permitted burial in the Pantheon until 2002. Because he was Black. They reinterred his ashes there so he could be buried with the other great artists of France. He should’ve been the
re from the beginning.”

  I nod. “Totally. But there’s another lost story here, too, see? The highest-ranking Black general in France’s history and one of your greatest writers both bore the name of a woman who was enslaved. The same name you have.” I wonder if there’s some angle here I could use in my essay reboot, connecting Delacroix and Dumas and lost women. Then I catch myself. Maybe not everything has to be about my essay and me. “How did you end up with her name, anyway? How are you a Dumas?”

  “The story goes that when Dumas’s father wanted to enlist in the army, Dumas’s grandfather, who was French nobility, pushed his son to take a nom de guerre because he didn’t want to be embarrassed by his half-Black son, who was only a private. Even though he should’ve been an officer due to his ancestry. But French race laws made it impossible for him to claim his nobility because he was mixed race.” Alexandre’s jaw tenses. I can hear the anger rising in his voice. “Instead of Alexandre Antoine Davy de la Pailleterie, he joined the Dragoons as Alexandre Dumas.”

  I shake my head. “Thus begins the line of Alexandre Dumas. But what happened to Dumas’s grandmother? Do you even know her name?” I find myself getting agitated, too, not at Alexandre, exactly, but at the circumstances—at the entire world dehumanizing and erasing this woman who had a life, who mattered.

  “Marie-Cessette Dumas. We think. Sometimes she’s referred to as Louise. Dumas might have just been a descriptor given to a slave. Du mas means—”

  “‘Of the farm’? She didn’t even get her own name. That’s awful.”

  He sighs. “It’s like you said, another lost story. Dumas’s grandfather sold her and two other children he had with her to another owner. And when Dumas’s grandfather came to France, he brought his son, who was still technically a slave.”

  “What a monster. It’s so cruel and unfair.” I stop talking, feeling a little sick about this whole story. About the stories that are right in front of us, that we disregard and refuse to see. We see history through a tiny peephole and fool ourselves into believing it’s the big picture.