Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know

by Samira Ahmed

  Her laugh echoes down the hall.

  I slip gold bangles over my wrists. She means for her words to bury me, but she doesn’t know they planted a seed.

  Khayyam

  I walk up Avenue Franklin Delano Roosevelt. In Paris there are a surprising number of streets named after Americans. A lot of times I get this question about why the French hate Americans. They don’t. They only hate Americans who are xenophobic, isolationist assholes, but who doesn’t?

  Alexandre stands casually at the foot of the steps of the Palais de la Découverte—not far from the Petit Palais where we first met—a black messenger bag with a baguette peeking out strapped across his body. He doesn’t look bored; he’s not anxiously tapping his foot. He’s standing there, comfortable with himself. I envy that. He catches my eye and smiles, hops off the step, and walks up to meet me. Two kisses on the cheeks. This time, I make sure to kiss his cheeks back in case I was sending mixed signals the other day at his apartment, when things ended a little weirdly.

  “The science museum? Going to try and carbon-date the letters?” I sound chipper and American. It’s an easy go-to for me to ease my lingering anxiety. Fake it till you make it.

  “No, but I am curious about this idea of a ‘date,’ as you Americans call it.” He grins.

  I smile back. No need to fake it. “So . . .”

  He tilts his head in the direction of the Seine, beckoning me to follow. A few short steps, and he cuts left, stepping over a short single-railed wooden fence into a grassy corner.

  “You’re stepping on the grass. That’s interdit, you scofflaw,” I joke.

  “There are no rules, only suggestions.” He reaches out with his hand. I slip mine into his and join him on the forbidden lawn.

  We’re standing in front of an expansive white marble sculpture that I’ve walked right by multiple times, including moments ago, but have somehow never noticed. Alexandre draws me nearer to it. There’s a small pool of water surrounded by small shrubs and flowering plants. Different scenes are carved into the marble, some fading away, like the stone is trying to recapture them.

  “It’s called The Poet’s Dream,” Alexandre explains. I told him about being named after a poet, and voilà. Well played, Alexandre.

  It’s not exactly beautiful, this massive stone block. The cream-colored marble is grayed with soot and worn. There are probably hundreds of more interesting public sculptures in Paris. But there is one scene, a man kneeling at the feet of a woman who is bending over to embrace him, hidden in plain sight amidst the other figures. It reminds me a little of the Fountain of Time sculpture in my Hyde Park neighborhood in Chicago—once finely chiseled faces and bodies weathered by storms and receding back into the stone, fading in time. My heart cracks a little. You’d think dreams etched in stone would be permanent, but an object remains unchanged unless acted upon by an outside force. I don’t know; maybe the laws of physics are more powerful than art. Maybe they’re two forces in conversation and balance.

  “This way.” Alexandre tugs on my hand, and we leave the enclosed grassy corner. I’m trying not to notice that he’s still holding my hand. I’m also trying to will myself not to sweat. It’s gross to feel a clammy palm against yours. And I don’t want that to be the indelible image of me in Alexandre’s mind: the girl with sweaty hands who can’t avoid shit.

  A few short strides and we come to a set of winding, uneven stone stairs. They are almost completely hidden by trees and shrubs. My heart pounds as we take our first step, then another, hand in hand. Alexandre smiles and inches a little closer to me as we descend through a crooked stone arch that looks like it’s straight out of Middle Earth. Large stones are piled high on top of one another, but the old stone is almost completely covered by ivy, and I’m certain it’s a portal to a fantasy realm.

  We walk into a secret garden. A pocket park hidden in the center of Paris. A cement path leads us into a postage stamp–sized garden valley. There’s literally a babbling brook with koi and lily pads. A little farther down the path, and a spectacular colossus of a weeping beech tree shelters a little waterfall that drowns out the traffic noise. I’m not sure how the planners carved this lush dreamscape into such a small space—you could speed through the entire garden in a minute or two—but that is Paris: unexpected, beautiful spaces tucked away from a bustling city. No one else is in the garden.

  “This is unreal,” I whisper. Alexandre simply squeezes my hand. Quietly, we find a bench set back into a pond-facing nook surrounded by bamboo, ferns, and lilacs and grab a seat. Alexandre unbuckles his bag, hands me the baguette and pulls out a scarf, spreading it on the bench between us. Then he produces a hunk of Comté cheese, a small glass jar of duck rillettes, a green pint-sized basket of perfectly plump raspberries, and two small glass bottles of Orangina. Finally, he takes out a plastic grocery bag from which he draws napkins and a small knife. He’s thought of everything.

  “Wow. This is quite the spread.”

  “What was the line you quoted to me? ‘A jug of wine, a loaf of bread . . . and wilderness is paradise . . . enough?’ I assumed you don’t drink?” I nod. Alexandre gestures toward the garden. “Here’s your city paradise. Would your namesake approve?”

  I don’t know how to respond besides blurting out, It’s perfect! Searching for my French coolness, I look into his eyes. “Not sure, but I certainly do.”

  Alexandre’s face lights up as he gives me his eye-smile. There’s no hint of the awkwardness from the other day at his apartment. Maybe it was just me. He seems pleased with himself. As he should be. He slices some cheese, and I tear off a couple chunks of bread for each of us. He hands me the knife so I can spread some of the duck rillettes, a pâté brined with spices and absolutely delicious on a crusty baguette. We devour our picnic, barely talking, just enjoying the midday sun and calm of this place.

  When we finish eating, Alexandre clears the remains into the plastic bag. I take another swig of my Orangina and set it on the ground next to me. Now that there’s no picnic separating us, he inches closer and puts his arm on the back of the bench.

  I lean into him until my leg brushes against his. I breathe deeply, trying to tamp down the flutters in my stomach. “How exactly has this place been hidden away from the tourist throngs?”

  “Paris is full of surprises, no?”

  I tilt my head to look at him, the uneven patches of stubble on his jawline golden against the light. “Definitely. So . . .”

  “So . . .”

  “Um . . .” I giggle a little. Oh God, I giggled. “Did—did you find anything more about our mysterious raven-haired lady?” Research is a place where I’m comfortable. It’s where my head should be, but dammit, do I have to be my own buzzkill?

  “Actually, I did find something.” He reaches back into his bag. “Remember when I told you I hadn’t looked through some boxes that were stored away? Well, I found one with a bunch of old stuff from my papa’s family—some of Dumas’s loan papers, a debt collector notice, and this note.”

  “Don’t tell me you stuffed some original document from the 1800s in your bag.”

  “Of course not. It’s a copy. The ghost of Dumas would probably haunt me if I got duck fat on his old letters.” He hands me a slip of paper. It’s another letter from Dumas to our mystery lady.

  I read out loud: “Chère Madame.” I look up from the note. “He’s abbreviating the greeting now. No more my dear lady of the raven hair. Maybe she didn’t like it? Still not on a first-name basis, though?” I raise my eyebrows at Alexandre and start again.

  October 12, 1845

  Chère Madame,

  In you I have found a kindred spirit. At once part of society, yet separate. Ever an Other. Never an Us.

  The tale you have related to our salon pierces my soul. That such a tender spirit could have known, nay, does know such pain— I long to provide succor to your gentle heart. Will you not allo
w it? Can such an offer, true and pure, be an imposition? If it be so, then let me beg your forgiveness. For I confess, the intricacies of a woman’s heart are as like a tangled skein of silk to me.

  As ever, I am in your service.

  I cast my eyes up. “Desperation is not a good look.”

  “At all,” Alexandre says. “This letter is dated a year after he wrote the other one. That is a long time to woo a woman.”

  “It feels creepy. He’s telling her what she needs. Mansplaining, nineteenth-century style. Hello, learn consent, dude.” That defensiveness for our mystery woman swells in me again. Reading these letters feels sort of intrusive in a way, but also like this is what I’m supposed to be doing—helping someone who is lost, maybe because I’m a little lost and trying to find my way, too.

  “I think he believes he’s asking for consent. And actually, it’s still probably better than some men today.” Alexandre shrugs. I’m not sure if maybe he feels defensive, too, for his ancestor.

  “Don’t well, actually this. Anyway, that’s a depressingly low bar. What do you think happened in the year between these letters?”

  Alexandre shakes his head.

  “In the earlier note,” I say, “he was trying to get an audience with her, and now they obviously have some type of relationship. Gah. I’m dying to figure out who this lady is.” What I don’t add—what I’m maybe only just realizing—is that I’m counting on the raven-haired lady to rescue me. To redeem me. But it feels too pathetic to say it out loud. “The Hash Eaters Club is where Delacroix told Dumas he would meet her. Maybe we should dig into them a little more? See what secrets they might reveal.”

  “Come to my house after breakfast tomorrow. We can go through whatever Dumas files I haven’t looked at. Maybe the past will expose itself.”

  I tap my toe on the ground in front of the bench. I don’t even know this lady’s name, but I’m reaching back into the past to ask a stranger to help me. A stranger who’s nothing but dust between the pages of history books. I feel a pang of melancholy for this lost lady who has been waiting patiently all these years for me to find her. But there’s also something undeniably romantic about all of this—following the breadcrumbs of a literary mystery in Paris with a beautiful French boy who somehow knows the right things to say to me, while the boy I still at least partly love is an ocean away and silent.

  Alexandre stands up, momentarily blocking my sun, the light blazing in a halo around him. He reaches for my hand and pulls me up, close to him, then closer. Time slows around me. I can hear the splashes of the waterfall as it hits the pool, the distant and muffled drone of the traffic beyond this hobbit-sized park. The leaves on the lilac bush behind us flutter ever so gently. Above it all, my heart pounds in my ears. Alexandre brushes my cheek with the back of his index finger. I tilt my head up toward his—

  “Can you please take our picture?” a loud, nasally American voice asks from behind me.

  I snap my head back and pivot to see a middle-aged white couple in coordinated khaki shorts and polos. Of course. There should be some kind of unwritten rule that tourists—or really anyone for that matter—cannot interrupt an almost kiss.

  “Pas de problème,” I hear myself say. No problem.

  I half smile and take her phone while she explains to me using exaggerated gestures how to take a photo. I can see Alexandre smirking in my peripheral vision. I’m so irritated at these interlopers that I almost take a bad picture on purpose, but they’re only trying to enjoy their vacation. I hand the camera back to the woman, who thanks me with a huge smile. Her husband nods and says, “Merci.” His accent is like nails on a chalkboard, but at least he’s trying.

  When they walk out of earshot, Alexandre asks, “Why didn’t you speak in English so they would’ve realized you’re American, too?”

  “Because I didn’t want to end up talking to them for half an hour about how we are all American and where do you live and oh, you live in Chicago, we went to Chicago once and loved it. What’s the shiny sculpture called, the one in the park? The Bean. The Bean. That’s it. Everybody there is so nice. Way nicer than the people in Paris. Sometimes they’re awfully rude here. They don’t even have English menus in all the restaurants. Why, last night . . .” I trail off and roll my eyes.

  “Quand même. They weren’t that bad.”

  I shrug.

  We start walking back down the path, the air between us rippling with another lost moment. As we pass under a faux jungle-esque bridge, covered with vines, bits of fake tree trunks showing through, I slow down and take a look around at this utterly Instagram-worthy spot—a beautiful garden in the company of a beautiful boy. I grab my phone, reaching my cheek up close to Alexandre’s for a selfie—and put on a huge American smile, showing all my teeth. I take a dozen quick snaps, then draw back to flip through the photos. The first is perfect: I’m beaming; he’s gazing at me with his signature grin.

  I’m posting this on Instagram the second we part. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before. If Zaid wants to rub his summer escapades in my face, so be it. Two can play that game. And one of us is in Paris with a hot French guy—

  “Khayyam?”

  I look up. We’re already at street level. I turn back and realize I was so focused on upping my Instagram game to get Zaid’s attention that I didn’t notice the walk up another winding storybook staircase with the gorgeous boy who is actually with me right now.

  “Sorry. Zoned out.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Sure.” Distracted, I give Alexandre two quick pecks on his cheeks. “Tomorrow at your place. Like 10 a.m.?”

  He scrunches the corners of his eyes for the briefest second and nods. “Ciao,” he says and walks away.

  “The picnic was amazing!” I call after him, but my mind is elsewhere. I scurry across Pont Alexandre and take a few obligatory shots of the Eiffel Tower. Then I turn toward the Louvre and snap a picture of the Ferris wheel in the Tuileries as it peeks over the green treetops. The light is perfect right now. Paris is stunning, and I have a feeling the city approves of my little plan. Paris may be the capital of love, but it’s also the city of scorned lovers.

  Scorn isn’t the right word. That’s not what I feel for Zaid anyway, more like confusion and heartache, the echoes of love. But I’m not above being petty, and I think this little Paris collage will snare him. It might be a little mean girl of me to get Alexandre involved, but it’s not like I’m faking wanting to be around him. I like him. I want to kiss him. And I need to find the raven-haired lady and whatever secret treasure she holds the key to. Why not try to get everything I want in the process?

  I hurry and tag the photo #parisisforlovers before guilt or my better judgment makes me change my mind. I don’t care if anyone else likes it. For this post, I have an audience of one.

  Leila

  The poet is nothing like I expect. He is baby-faced with deep-set brown eyes, small hands, and hair that curls at his nape. The dark circles under his eyes age him, though I doubt he could be much older than one-and-twenty, only a few years older than me. Perhaps he is in the service of his king, but I doubt the service could be of any state consequence, as the poet seems to be only in service to himself.

  When Pasha at last grew tired of his British audience, he dismissed everyone from the room save the poet. He then beckoned me forth, offering me as a guide and a gift, like a basket of deep red pomegranates ready to be eaten.

  When Pasha exited the room, he could not look me in the eye. Good. If he feels a pang of guilt or regret, it is most likely the first time he has experienced such feelings. May he know true suffering in this life and the hereafter.

  I pass the afternoon with the poet, offering him tea and sugared sherbets, fruits, and sweets. I tell him tales of the serai and Pasha’s prowess in battle, but he is most interested in jinn stories, so I weave the tales for an Englishman’s ears
. He listens and watches me intently.

  “You are a storyteller,” he says.

  “Thank you, my lord. I am simply trained in the ways of the serai, like all the other girls. The sun is setting. Shall I take you to the second courtyard? The courtyard of hollowed trees and jinn?”

  He rises and offers me his hand; I take it.

  “In my travels, I have heard many stories of jinn, but yours are told with, dare I say, affection and awe. Do you not fear them?”

  I shake my head. “I have much more to fear from men than jinn, my lord.”

  Khayyam

  I’ve gotten a bunch of likes on my Instagram photo of Alexandre and me from yesterday afternoon.

  But if Zaid saw my feed and if it made him even a tiny bit jealous, he’s certainly not admitting it to me, because his silent treatment continues. At some point I’m going to have to deal with the possibility that maybe he doesn’t care. But right now, I have other plans.

  I’m standing in front of the peeling red wooden door to Alexandre’s apartment. I buzzed myself in again but texted from the street. The door is cracked open. I put my hand on the knob and hesitate. I know it’s normal to give friends the key code to your building in Paris, but it still feels, I don’t know, too new? Too full of possibilities? Too weird knowing we’ll be alone again?

  I’ve been alone with Zaid a million times—but being alone with him, even after our first kiss, never felt awkward or new the way this does with Alexandre. My romantic relationship with Zaid felt like a continuation. With Alexandre, it feels like a beginning.