Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know

by Samira Ahmed

  “I will travel in disguise as part of your caravan if my lord agrees to allow me—us—passage beyond Pasha’s lands.”

  “And if your treachery is discovered?”

  “A sack of stones as a shroud. Water my grave. But fear not for your own life. An English nobleman would not fall at the hand of Pasha. Indeed, perfidy is almost expected of Europeans.”

  “Perhaps as it should be.” The poet chuckles. “You are truly a singular woman. By my troth, I am at your service.”

  “Thank you, my lord. A thousand thanks.”

  He kisses my hand again. “What a tale I will have to tell. An elegy offered to me on a damask rose–scented night. The dream of a poet, come to life.”

  Khayyam

  When I got home yesterday afternoon, after researching at Alexandre’s house—and by research, I mean kissing, the kind of kissing that put a swoony, if temporary, halt on looking through archives—I posted more pictures on Instagram. Macarons and artfully angled Paris shots and me and Alexandre amidst piles of books in his library. He and his library are Insta-perfect. They also might be insta-solving a lot of my problems. And are prime Zaid clickbait—if only he would fall for it.

  I kind of feel like I should tell Alexandre about Zaid. I can hear my mom’s voice right now: Honesty is the best policy, beta. But it’s also absurdly complicated. I already told Alexandre about my art history prize essay fail; does he also need to know about my love life fail and about how he is, unwittingly, charmingly, maybe, helping me fix both? Sigh. I want something to be simple and easy, even if it means I have to deny reality—or push it to the sidelines for now.

  But messy and complex is how my life usually is. I reach for my phone, and on cue, I see a missed message. I may have deleted Zaid’s number, but I still recognize it. He texted at 3 a.m. Paris time: Miss you

  Of course he texted when I was asleep. He knows the time difference. But still. I check Instagram and see that he liked a selfie of me making a kissy face in front of the Stravinsky Fountain at Pompidou with the giant red lips sticking out of the water in the background. He didn’t like the pics I posted with Alexandre at the secret garden or in his library, but now he knows the truth: another boy exists. My heart leaps.

  Et voilà, I’m suddenly back in Zaid’s viewfinder. Competition in absentia. The distance. Paris. Alexandre’s undeniable, factual hotness. It all adds to the challenge. Zaid seems chill, but in class he’s super competitive. Like, he wouldn’t even share notes with other kids. He wasn’t valedictorian, but close, and I know it burned him when his B in English lit cost him the top spot.

  Zaid likes the chase. Right now, I’m the quarry that’s out of reach.

  I don’t know why I didn’t realize this sooner about Zaid. If I had . . . honestly . . . I don’t know what I would’ve done differently. I’m still attracted to him. And at the same time, I want to clobber myself for being a dunce. Ugh. I want him to want me and miss me.

  I was never good at playing hard to get. I hate stupid games. But maybe sometimes they’re necessary. Didn’t I say the art of French flirting is knowing what to conceal? Maybe being back in Paris actually is upping my dating game.

  The thing is, I want Alexandre to want me, too. There’s a fluttery feeling in my stomach, and I can’t figure out if it’s good or not. I pause. The flutters turn into queasiness. I run my fingers over my lips. I can still feel Alexandre’s kiss against them. I’m seeing him later this afternoon. And I want that, too. None of this makes sense, exactly, but I’m not sure how to ignore everything I desire.

  I turn my phone over. I need to text Zaid back. But if I want to keep up that façade of hard-to-get, aloof but alluring French girl, I can’t. But how do I make that me if it’s not? Fake it till I make it, American style? I think of what Julie would say to me if she saw me pining away: Get out of bed. Brush your teeth. Read. Do something. Anything. Don’t text. I put the phone back on the nightstand and get up to draw back the curtains. I can do this.

  I pull on the old metal bolt that holds the windows closed and push them out toward the street. I can smell the baguettes baking at the boulangerie on the corner. The air feels good. Not too hot. Not too humid. Fresh.

  I walk over to the red upholstered lounge-y chair in my room that mainly serves as a closet. I pull on my jeans and grab a faded gray Nevertheless, She Persisted T-shirt and shimmy it over my tank. I slide into a pair of electric-blue jutti flats with silver flowers embroidered across the top. I don’t hear my parents, so I figure I’ll go get breakfast.

  I look back at my phone and pause.

  And pause.

  Then I take three determined strides toward the door.

  I stop. I turn.

  I rush over to my phone and text Zaid:

  I hit send before I can stop myself. I slink to the bed, my bad decision immediately pressing on me. So much for my unparalleled display of willpower.

  My phone dings almost immediately. It’s 1:30 a.m. in Chicago.

  Zaid: There you are.

  Me: You expected someone else at my number?

  Zaid: Awww, I’ve missed your snark.

  Me: Plenty where that came from.

  Zaid: That’s what I love about you.

  I stare at the screen. Love. He never uses that word. We never use that word. Maybe all the pictures of him with other girls on Instagram were a ruse to get my attention.

  It worked.

  Dammit.

  Zaid: Still there? Did some French guy whisk you away?

  He has noticed.

  Me: . . .

  Hold on, Khayyam. Wait, one second longer.

  Me: Maybe.

  Zaid: Is that a baguette in your text, or are you just happy to see me?

  Me: Funny. I thought we were talking about the French guy.

  Zaid: So there is one.

  This is a lot easier than I thought. I need to learn to give myself more credit.

  Me: My dad’s knocking at my door—gotta go.

  Zaid: Maybe FaceTime later?

  Me:

  I turn my phone off and put it on my nightstand before I text anything that might wreck this tiny moment of triumph.

  Paris is landlocked, and yet here I am, standing on a faux beach on the banks of the Seine. Somewhere in there is a witty joke, but my brain is a jumble. And my stomach somersaults. Nerves. Also, I’m wearing a swimsuit. A ratty old maillot because I didn’t buy a new one for this trip. True, a gauzy, long-sleeved pink kurti with white embroidery at the neck is covering my skin from my neck to below my knee, but I’m still feeling totally self-conscious. Alexandre and I have already made out, so I shouldn’t be suddenly struck by the desi modesty complex, but I am. I wonder if there are cultural identity genes that express themselves only at the most awkward moment possible. Like Murphy’s Law, but for DNA.

  Alexandre’s snagged one of the highly sought-after blue umbrellas, and I slip out of my flip-flops onto the coarse, warm sand and walk over to him.

  “Bienvenue à Paris-Plages,” he says and stands to faire la bise. I wasn’t sure if it was going to be a two-cheek kiss or an on-the-lips kiss since we’ve already kiss-kissed. Two cheeks it is. I’m fine with it. Because there are, like, a million people on this tiny strip of fake beach next to the Seine, and even if no one in Paris casts a second glance at two people kissing, I feel too exposed.

  We take a seat on the large blanket he’s spread out on the sand under the cover of his front-row umbrella. “How’d you manage this coveted spot?”

  “I slept here overnight.”

  “Ha! And they say chivalry is dead.”

  “Chevalerie is French, you know. A way of life and love.”

  “Mildly sexist, yet poetic.”

  “See, you do recognize the poetry of life.”

  “I’m not a poet. Just named after one. I’m too practical to see
life that way.”

  “Don’t you see this as poetic?”

  “The Paris-Plages? It’s sand dumped on the road by the Seine and paid for by a corporate sponsor.”

  “No,” he says and then waves his hand between us. “Us. Meeting. Stumbling onto this romantic mystery?”

  I laugh. “We don’t know if the mystery is romantic or not. And I told you, people believe in the magic of coincidence because they’re lacking the necessary information to think of it as anything else.”

  A shadow passes over Alexandre’s face. But he quickly smiles, pretending to stab himself in the heart and then leans forward as I draw back onto the blanket. He inches closer until his lips hover above mine. I smile, immediately and unfortunately aware of the tiny beads of sweat on my forehead and upper lip. We’re surrounded by chattering sunbathers and kids yelling and cars honking on the streets above the river, but the sounds fade until I can only hear the beating of my heart in my ears. And all I feel is the thrum of Alexandre’s heartbeat against my chest.

  A brown curl droops down onto his forehead. I gently nudge it away. He grins, then kisses me. It’s as good as last night. Better. And less bookish tasting and more salty and a little like coconut sunblock. This kiss is like summer.

  He gently retreats back to his own space on the blanket. “Don’t tell me you don’t believe that moments of life are poetry.”

  I draw myself up and pull my legs to my chest. I rest my cheek on my knees and look at him. Like, ninety-five percent of the time, I talk excessively when I’m nervous or excited. But there are rare times like this when I allow the moment to exist, unadorned, because embellishment would ruin it.

  Alexandre runs his thumb down my cheek and lies back down, slipping his tortoiseshell sunglasses over his eyes. I stretch out next to him. He intertwines his fingers with mine, our arms forming a V between our bodies. As I stare up at the sun through the filter of the blue umbrella, an inkling of guilt runs through me.

  But I don’t think I have anything to feel guilty about. It’s not like Alexandre and I are exclusive. We haven’t even talked about it. I wonder how that conversation goes in French? Maybe it’s an unspoken agreement? Anyway, technically, it was only one kiss. Well, an afternoon of kissing. Plus, the one right now.

  And those texts with Zaid were only texts. He’s not even in the same country. Besides, he’s not technically my boyfriend—current or ex—because he never deigned to use that word.

  God. I can’t decide if I’m dumb or really clever.

  I nudge Alexandre and sit back up. “I think we should go to the Hôtel.” This is uncharacteristically bold of me. But I have a mission, and August isn’t going to last forever.

  Alexandre pulls down his glasses and sits up. “You want to go to a hotel with me? Now?” A large grin spreads across his face. He’s even showing teeth. He’s playing on the French and English word for hotel. In this case, the French use the term hôtel particulier for a grand townhouse—a mansion in the city—that is not, in fact, a hotel at all. I kinda love that he can make these little bilingual jokes and that I can understand them. It’s like we’re the only two members of a highly exclusive club. I probably could have this secret linguistic society with Zaid, too, if only my Urdu were better.

  “I mean the Hôtel. The Hash Eater–séance-creepy hôtel particulier.”

  Alexandre props himself up on his elbows. “Well, that is disappointing.”

  “Whatever.” I nudge his knees while I roll my eyes. “I read a little more about our friends the Hash Eaters online and found one line on our mysterious raven-tressed lady. Here, look.” I reach into my bag and pull out my phone.

  There’s a missed text. From Zaid. I want to see you before I leave. I let out a little gasp and try to cover it with a cough.

  “Are you okay?” Alexandre sits up and puts his hand on the small of my back.

  I put the phone down to hide the screen from him. “I’m fine. Something in my throat, is all.”

  “Hold on.” Alexandre leans over, and while he fishes through his backpack, I flip my phone back over and read Zaid’s message again. Not sure what he means, FaceTime? That’s not like him. But he’s leaving for Reed in a few weeks, so what else could it be?

  Alexandre hands me a bottle of water. “Here.”

  I take a few gulps and remind myself to breathe. My heart beats wildly. I’m certain Alexandre can hear it. He seems inordinately concerned about my little fake cough. Damn, this is uncomfortable. Does this count as lying to him? I am concealing the truth. But is a lie of omission as bad as a lie-lie?

  “What did you want me to look at?”

  “Huh? Oh, the Hash Eaters. Right.” I flip through windows on my phone until I get to a page I saved from a site on the occult in Europe. It has a small paragraph about the Hash Eaters. And a line about the woman: “The Club des Hashischins experimented with the drug to heighten their awareness, believing the high provided a portal to deeper artistic expression. It is said they employed a woman of possibly Turkish or Middle Eastern descent to lead séances that allowed them to communicate with spirits of great artists and writers of the past. The woman is rumored to have been a writer herself, though there is scant evidence of her existence.”

  “Ahh, the raven-haired lady might’ve been a writer, too, perhaps. Lovely,” Alexandre says.

  “But thanks to misogyny, her writing is lost and her name is unknown. And she’s totally erased. How quaint,” I reply tersely.

  “You’re quite the feminist, aren’t you?”

  It’s an offhand remark, but my hands curl into fists. I try to respond calmly through gritted teeth. “You obviously don’t understand that word at all. It’s not a pejorative.”

  “It was merely an observation. I—”

  “Being a feminist means you believe that a woman’s life and her choices are her own. It means you believe in equality and that you’ll fight for it.”

  Alexandre nods. “Well, then I’m a feminist,” he says. “It’s simple, I guess. Anyone who doesn’t believe in that is an ignorant asshole.”

  I look into his eyes. He smiles at me. I smile back. He hears me. He listens. He course-corrects. I don’t think he should get cookies for realizing the obvious, but maybe there are some good guys, after all. “So you’ll help me get into the Hôtel de Lauzun in case there’s something sitting there, waiting to be found?”

  “You want to break in? Like a thief?” he asks with mock surprise.

  “Well, it’s not open to the public, and I have a feeling that—” I stop. I’m not sure what I’m saying. I’ve completely made this plan up on the fly, and it’s not like me at all. I’m pretty much always the model child, but my normal way to operate landed me in dog crap, and stepping out of my comfort zone seems to be paying off, at least a little. And honestly, I don’t see how this could make anything worse. I blame it on some kind of surge in my French genes. The French seem to have a more casual relationship with rules—especially ones that seem unnecessary. It’s not only the constant jaywalking and cutting in line; it’s the sense that the rules exist but don’t always apply to you. Now here I am, American compulsion to follow rules and desi tameez cast aside, the French girl emerging.

  Alexandre kisses me on the cheek. “I’m in.”

  “Really?” I can’t help but be incredulous at both of us.

  “Oui, bien sûr. Summer is the time for adventure. Why not make one of our own? Dumas would approve.”

  Excitement surges through me. Also terror. We could get in a lot of trouble if we get busted. Breaking and entering is an actual crime, and I’m not exactly an experienced trespasser. But a part of me is pulled to this. Drawn into it by a nameless woman who is asking me to find her. If I’m being honest, this added intrigue will make for a kickass essay, too.

  And it’s not lost on me that this is the first evening that Alexandre seems to be ava
ilable and not enigmatically busy. I’ve never had a first date that involved burglary before. Truth is, I’ve only had one other first date. Chances for an epic fail are high.

  “Tomorrow night,” I say to Alexandre as I lie back down and face the sun.

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  Leila

  Pasha summons me in the afternoon.

  To fool him is no easy task. The kind eyes he reserves for me have daggers behind them, always at the ready to cut. And he is watching, always observing, even when he turns his gaze from you. He will notice the smallest shift in voice or posture. And he will slit a throat based on no evidence but his instinct.

  Yet I am practiced at deception—meeting as I have been with the Giaour all this time, here under Pasha’s roof, in the courtyard of jinn, without detection. But now, as the taste of freedom hovers like a drop of honey above my lips, I can ill-afford a mistake or an ounce of Pasha’s suspicion.

  “And what have you learned from the poet?” he asks as he stirs his tea with a studied indifference.

  “He seems a fool. With little wit or knowledge politic. He spoke of poetry and his conquests in England and abroad. He speaks mainly of himself and is, of course, in awe of your grounds and court and your achievements in battle.”

  I look at Pasha, hoping I have given the right answer.

  He slowly sips from his cup, taking care to set it down before answering. He means for the pause to fill me with fear; he does not understand that fear has been my constant companion all my years.

  He meets my gaze. “Valide tells me this poet is a man of specific desires. Perhaps the poet needs your further attention before he reveals his true purpose in our lands. Give him the comfort he needs. The connection he craves. I am certain deception lurks here. And as you know, I am never wrong.”

  “Yes, Pasha.” I bow my head and walk away, bile in my throat, a cold dread whispering in my ear, but that drop of honey tantalizingly close to my lips.