Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know

by Samira Ahmed

  Khayyam

  “You’re quiet,” my dad says as we walk down the street toward our apartment.

  “Hmm.” I nod. “Pondering that caramel au beurre salé I had on that crêpe—I think it’s the best I’ve ever tasted.”

  Truth is, there is more on my mind than caramel tonight. Still, the crêpes are absolutely worthy of sustained contemplation. Every summer my parents and I hit up Le Sarrassin et le Froment—a crêperie that is always busy with tourists, but also always delicious and, conveniently, a stone’s throw from the apartment. Their savory buckwheat galettes have perfect crispy thinner-than-paper browned edges that I love. And the buttery dessert crêpes—topped with crème Chantilly or caramel or chocolate sauce and caramelized bananas or strawberries—are a moment of life’s perfection.

  “Are you saying the caramel crêpes are even better than your papa’s? Because those are fighting words.” My mom looks from me to my father and grins.

  “Absolutely. Sorry, Papa. You’ve been replaced.”

  “The words every father dreads hearing,” my dad responds with a smile. “I knew this moment would come, but I thought it would be your wedding day.”

  I roll my eyes. “Presumptuous much, Papa?”

  My father smiles and strokes my hair, then takes my mom’s hand as he kisses her. I swear, his eyes glisten with tears.

  Lately, I’ve noticed my parents are growing more sentimental around me. I asked my mom about this earlier in the summer, and she said it was because I’d be out of the house soon. And I guess this summer is a little taste of that. This is the first time in seventeen family Augusts in Paris that I haven’t been around all the time because I’ve been away exploring the city with a boy. As I’ve said before, my parents love me, but I’ve always believed that their love for me came after their love for each other. And they’ve always given me my freedom, so her answer kind of surprised me. But I suppose it makes sense, too. When I go to college, it will be the two of them again, as it was for all the years before me, but there will be a Khayyam-shaped empty space, too.

  It must be a strange feeling to love a child and all the while be raising them to leave you. My mom told me that was always their parental mission—to give me the skills I need to be successful without them. That’s why they give me so much freedom and trust me implicitly. It was different for my mom when she was growing up—she had stricter Indian immigrant parents, but that experience influenced everything she is and does. My grandparents had to be hard-asses, though. Everyone always talks about America as this immigrants’ dream: Lady Liberty beckoning the huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Pretty words. Hollow words. My nani and nana didn’t always find it welcoming—not for brown Muslims, anyway. It’s not lost on me that my dad—an immigrant, too, but a white European guy—gets a completely different reception than desis with accents when passing through airport security.

  My mom says Nani and Nana parented out of fear because of the world they lived in then. Sadly, that’s still the world we live in now.

  Growing up in France, my dad’s childhood was practically the opposite of my mom’s. French parenting is strict when kids are little but morphs into something more laissez-faire. Like, my dad was not allowed to be a picky eater. He had to be seen and not heard a lot. But then he was backpacking throughout Europe with his friends starting at sixteen. There are so many things that are completely different about my parents, and yet here they are, decades later, devoted and inseparable. Maybe it’s not such a rare thing, but it feels that way to me.

  “Seeing Alexandre again soon?” my mom nudges on our walk home.

  “Tonight,” I mumble. Best to leave out the part about breaking and entering.

  “Is it a date?” she asks. “Should we meet this young man?”

  “Ugh. No. We’re hanging out. Maybe getting ice cream. That’s all. He’s not coming to the house with a wrist corsage and shiny polished shoes to court me like it’s a 1950s movie.”

  Both my parents laugh. I catch them exchanging an inscrutable glance.

  “I don’t think that’s exactly how it went back in the day,” my mom says.

  “We’re solving a mystery, anyway,” I blurt.

  “A murder or a heist?” my dad jokes.

  “Neither.” I desperately need to get out of this conversation. My flirty texting might be improving, but my neutral parent banter needs serious work.

  “Tell us,” my mom says as we continue our leisurely walk.

  I sigh. Why do I do this to myself? I didn’t mean to tell them all of this, not yet, but now I can’t get out of it.

  “You know how Alexandre is a Dumas?” My parents both nod. “Okay, duh, I told you that already. Anyway, I showed him the Delacroix that inspired my essay for, um . . .”

  “The Art Institute Young Scholar Prize.” My mom interrupts matter-of-factly like I’ve simply forgotten. As if the biggest failure of my life could slip my mind. As if it’s not a gut punch every time I have to say the words.

  I take a breath. “Yeah, that. Seeing that he is a Dumas and all, I filled him in on my so-called theory and how I wished there was a way I could, you know, redeem myself. Do it over. Turn back time or something.” My parents both nod again, and from the corner of my eye, I see these wistful looks on their faces. I have to keep my eyes on the ground because there’s a lump welling in my throat, and I can’t stand it.

  I cough and continue. “The thing is, Delacroix did give Dumas a sketch that the family still has. And Alexandre showed me this letter from Dumas to his son where he wrote: Cherchez la femme, trouvez le trésor.”

  “Wait. Hold on.” My dad stops abruptly. His eyes widen, and he and my mother exchange looks. “That is truly incredible.”

  “For real. Then there’s this letter between Delacroix and Dumas referencing a mysterious raven-tressed woman. We’re trying to figure out if all these pieces are connected. Maybe there is an actual treasure, and maybe it’s a Delacroix painting. And somehow this mystery woman is the key to finding it. Then, well, maybe I could write a whole new essay that could win the prize . . .” And thus rewrite my entire future, I think. “But if this is all really real—this woman, these letters—how come no one else has found her? Made the connection? All these clues have been lying there waiting to be found.” I look to my mom.

  My mom shakes her head. “I think you probably already know the answer to that. It’s a story we’ve seen over and over. For too long women’s contributions have been disregarded. Forgotten. Barely footnotes in the stories and histories of men with power. And that’s something you could help rectify. It would be truly amazing if you could connect these bits and pieces and find this woman. And a missing painting!” I can tell how excited my mom is when she starts gesticulating as she speaks—right now she’s at peak academic giddiness. “If you figure this out, it could mean a lot more than an award. Art history and literary journals would eat it up.”

  I give my mom a little side hug and mouth a thank-you. I know it’s her job, but it still feels good to know she believes in me.

  “And I’m sorry for giving you a hard time about your intentions with Alexandre.”

  I step aside, confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean Papa and I were thinking that you were spending time with him because you felt a . . . connection. Not because of his connections.”

  My face flames with anger. “I’m not using him or anything. How could you say that?” I snap.

  Now it’s my parents who look confused. Excellent. I’ve stepped in figurative crap again and have another mess to clean up. Not sure why I feel defensive anyway. I mean, I do actually like Alexandre.

  “Mon chat, we don’t think that,” my dad says. “That’s not who you are. We were surprised that you two shared an academic interest, that’s all.”

  I shrug. “Alexandre goes to the École du Louvre. Maybe he will wan
t to write a paper, too, if we find something interesting, especially because Alexandre Dumas is his actual ancestor.” I start walking again with my shoulders drawn to my ears. My parents hurry after me.

  My mom touches my shoulder. “Khayyam, it’s critical that you not let him take credit for your work. It’s like I was saying—you have to make sure your voice, your contribution, isn’t silenced. It might be the twenty-first century, but as women of color, we still have to fight for our worth. All marginalized folks do. It’s more important than ever. If you’ve hit on something, the findings are part of your intellectual property, too.”

  “Mom, Alexandre wouldn’t do that,” I say, anger edging into my voice again.

  My dad jumps in. “All the same, perhaps you should bring him around so we can discuss it with him.”

  “Mom. Papa. You’re making a huge deal out of nothing. We’re having fun. Besides, girl saves herself from academic purgatory isn’t exactly Le Monde headline worthy.”

  My mom takes my hand in hers, her voice softening. “Beta, don’t sell yourself short. I know how much losing that contest stung you. But please don’t ever think you’re a failure. I wish you could see yourself as we do—bright, brilliant, hardworking.”

  I wish I could imagine myself like that, but it doesn’t feel real. Since my catastrophic failure, I don’t hear their words. All I hear are the judge’s: a dilettante, not a future art historian. I don’t feel brilliant or bright at all. I feel like a light bulb that sparks and pops right before it fades out.

  I walk up the wide, winding staircase to our apartment alone.

  My parents went for a stroll along the Seine. I swear to God, as I watched them walk off hand in hand, the golden light of Parisian summer afternoons illuminated their path.

  My phone beeps as I reach our landing.

  It’s another text from Zaid:

  Miss you

  I slip the phone back into my purse and reach for my keys with shaky fingers. Part of me knows that Zaid is texting me again because he’s jealous, so I’m not sure why I’m both annoyed and nervous.

  Lately I think Zaid is at war with himself. The lovable, charming nerd versus the dude bordering on bro. And it’s been pretty clear which part is winning. Almost inexplicably, I still want to be in his life. Also, it’s hardly fair for me to call out other people for their internal contradictions.

  Here we are, playing games. I put out a little trap, and he took the bait. He still has feelings for me. I still have feelings for him, too, even if they aren’t the clearest or smartest feelings I’ve ever had. But Alexandre is creeping into my thoughts. And into my heart. And into an abandoned old building with me tonight.

  Alexandre is here, in Paris. Present.

  Zaid is thousands of miles away. And we’re not even together anymore.

  I need to be present, too. But the past still has its claws in me.

  Leila

  I step into the night, veils secured tightly around my hair and mouth. Pasha’s banal cruelty has provided me the opportunity for escape. But before I go to the poet, I go to my Giaour. Down the steps, winding, through the darkness, I clutch my opal while a prayer rises from my lips: “Thee alone I worship. Thee alone I seek for help. I fall upon your mercy to save me. To free me from this bondage.”

  Si’la glides along the final steps with me as I approach the courtyard of the hollow trees. “I will pray for you, too, but I fear for you on this journey. I fear you will not escape wholly as yourself. I saw to it your message was delivered. He awaits you.”

  “Si’la, your protection has kept me alive all these years, but there is no life for me here. I am cast out even as I remain in the serai.”

  “This I know. We all know. And the Valide Sultan will face my wrath. But understand I am beholden by borders in the promise I made to your father. For there are limits even I cannot breach. Never could he, nor I, have anticipated the passage you would undertake. I cannot accompany you.”

  “Your love for my father was boundless, wasn’t it?”

  “As was his love for your mother.”

  I smile, touched by the sadness in Si’la’s eyes. I place my hand on my heart. “As is your love for me. I will carry you with me, always, the only protector I have known.” My opal blazes from its setting in my necklace.

  “God has made you humans out of clay. Your form is too easily shaped and bent to the will of others. And you can break. Crumble back into the dust from which you came. There is little of perfection in humankind; indeed you are the one creation that destroys the very world created for you. But more than any other being, you are capable of a love perfect and pure, and in honor of that do I freely give you my troth to protect you in all the ways I am able. To watch over you. To bear witness to your courage. Peace be with you, child. Always.”

  I watch as Si’la fades from sight, my eyes blurring. What the future holds is not for mere mortals to discern, but what I do know, what I grasp with my entire being, is that in this palace prison, I can know no peace in a life that is not my own. I must endeavor to do what I can, to risk this life, so that I may live another.

  If we succeed, escaping into the night, into the dark seas with the poet, my beloved and I will be strangers in a foreign land, without home or nation. But of that prospect I am not afraid. I have been an orphan all my life. And I have survived.

  Khayyam

  “Are you nervous?” Alexandre whispers.

  His breath warms my skin as he leans in and kisses my temple. Even though it’s hot and humid outside, I shiver. He pulls away, but I grab him and kiss him on the lips. Tonight, he tastes like pistachio ice cream.

  A scooter honks as it passes by. I immediately step back like I’m busted.

  Alexandre laughs. “Don’t worry. No one in Paris gets arrested for kissing on the street.”

  “But they do for breaking into government buildings,” I mutter.

  “It’s owned by the City of Paris, but it’s not technically a government building.”

  I roll my eyes. “Semantics. And whoever owns this building, it’s still trespassing. This is the most illegal thing I’ve ever done in my life—ever even thought about doing. I don’t even download stuff without paying.” I don’t add that my nerves are also due to the fact that we’re only a couple blocks from my apartment. My parents know I’m out sleuthing with Alexandre. But I told them it was over ice cream and musty old books, like Nancy Drew, the old-school version. Obviously, I left out the whole criminal activity part. It’s not like they’d be worried—it’s 9:30 p.m. and not even totally dark yet—and I doubt they could even imagine me doing what I’m about to.

  I gaze nervously down the street at the Pont Marie as the fading sun paints the underside of the bridge’s arches with a yellow-orange-dipped brush. I sigh. At this magic hour in the summer you can understand why this place inspired so many artists chasing the light.

  “Khayyam?”

  I swivel my head back toward Alexandre. “Sorry. Distracted by the late evening light of summer. I want to bottle it and keep it on my shelf and hold it in my hands during the dreary Chicago winters.”

  Alexandre smiles at me. “See. I was right. You don’t only have the name of a poet; you have the soul of one.”

  I look away to hide my embarrassment. Alexandre hooks a finger under my chin and turns me back toward him. “Why are you timide about compliments?”

  I manage an awkward chuckle. “I-I don’t know. I guess I’m not used to it. You give a lot of compliments.”

  “You say that as if it’s a bad thing. If I see beauty, I recognize it. Why hide that? Don’t tell me the boys at your school don’t compliment you.”

  My mind drifts to Zaid. I shrug. “It hasn’t exactly been my experience.”

  “That’s about to change.” He flashes an impish grin. “Are you ready for this Frenchman to draw you into a life of crime?”


  “Oui, bien sûr,” I answer before I can even form a thought. I can’t think about it too much; if I do, I’m afraid I’ll say no.

  When I hatched this ridiculous idea, it was because of a feeling. I had no clue how to pull it off. Breaking into a townhouse built in the mid-1600s isn’t exactly in my skill set. Alexandre claims that he has it figured out, but he still hasn’t shared the actual details with me except to say that we have “a thirty percent chance of success.” I wish Parisians exaggerated, because the odds aren’t exactly in our favor, and a little false confidence would go a long way right now, but the French aren’t the fake-it-till-you-make-it type.

  The heavy wooden doors of 17 Quai d’Anjou, the Hôtel de Lauzun, are adorned with carved rosettes and look utterly impenetrable. After the French Revolution, the upper floors were divided up into apartments; one was rented out to the poet Charles Baudelaire and another to the guy who wrote the article I found, Théophile Gautier. At some point one of them must’ve forgotten his keys and had to find a way to sneak in, right?

  But the place looks empty and deserted now; there isn’t a single light on upstairs. A lone third-floor balcony is decorated with chipped gold paint over black wrought-iron curlicue rails. It’s all fading into the darkness. There are no tours of this building, private or public, so I have no idea what we’ll find. We don’t even know how long it’s been since anyone has been inside, illegally or not.

  I rub my clammy palms against my jeans, hoping it will help me calm down. We’re doing this. Apparently, I’m becoming the girl who takes risks. I wish it came from bravery or even bravado, but it’s more likely desperation. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. This is actually happening.

  “Keep an eye out,” Alexandre says.

  I have no idea what he’s thinking because the windows closest to the ground are covered with iron bars; no way we’re getting through those. I glance up and down the street. We’re alone. That’s the thing with Île Saint-Louis. There aren’t that many apartments on it, and all the tourists who come here are usually straggling over from Île de la Cité after paying their respects and taking in the almost miraculous rebuilding of Notre-Dame after the fire that destroyed her roof and left giant holes in her.