by Samira Ahmed
I stare with my mouth agape as Alexandre steps onto the ledge of the lowest window. He stands on one of the horizontal iron bars and reaches up to the next window.
“Don’t tell me we’re going to parkour our way in,” I whisper.
“Not you, just me. You get to come through the front door,” Alexandre says as he grabs the windowsill. He’s tall, so it’s not much of a stretch, and he deftly pulls himself up onto the stone ledge. There, he crouches down and begins to pry open the windowpanes. In Paris, especially in the older buildings, a lot of the windows open out like shutters. Alexandre takes out a pocketknife and slides it between the two tall glass panes. Little chips of paint fall to the ground at my feet. He grunts and manages to get his fingers between the windows and gives a yank. For a terrifying moment, he teeters on the ledge. I cover my mouth so I don’t gasp out loud.
“Yes.” He laughs. “Like I was hoping. No lock.”
And apparently no alarm system, either. Which is not that unusual in Paris.
Alexandre slides one leg through the window, then the other, and hops into the room. He peeks out before closing the window and stage-whispers, “I’ll be right down,” then vanishes into the darkness.
Run, a part of me screams at myself. Like, really run.
But I’m not going to desert Alexandre. Or the raven-haired lady. This may be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, but I have to find her. To save her, even. And if there is any trace of her or Dumas or Delacroix here, I’m going to uncover it. This is really unlike me, and I’m terrified, but I’m also buzzing with the possibilities of tonight. I’m with Alexandre. On an adventure. In Paris. And this would make an excellent intro to my future prize-winning essay.
I reposition the strap of my shoulder bag across my body. I check the inner pocket to make sure my phone is in there and silenced. I close the flap. Then check again.
Seconds tick by. A minute.
Is that too long? It feels long. A few cars pass, and a couple walks along the sidewalk across the street. But no one notices me. Here I am, heart pounding, stomach in knots, about to break into an old stone building on a dark street in Paris. For once, I’m happy I’m invisible.
I startle as the door to the courtyard creaks open. Alexandre appears, a huge smile on his face. “Please enter, mademoiselle.” He holds the door open, and I slip by him into the first small arched entry. He quietly shuts it behind us.
“You’re awfully good at breaking in,” I whisper. “Should I be suspicious?” I take a couple steps toward Alexandre until our bodies are almost touching.
“Let’s keep the mystery in the relationship a little longer, shall we?” He raises his eyebrows. “C’mon. You have to see this place.”
We walk into a large central courtyard. There is a high stone wall in front of us, and to our left, the adjacent apartment building—the only light in the courtyard coming from a few lit rooms. Alexandre puts his finger to his lips and shows me the side door of the hôtel.
Once we’re inside, Alexandre turns on his phone’s flashlight, and a bright beam makes a narrow path down the hallway and falls upon a central staircase. We tiptoe toward it, ushering past the various closed doors on our left and right. Clearly, too much to explore in one evening.
“Let’s start with the salons on the next floor?” Alexandre whispers.
I put my hand on his arm and nod. I don’t know why we’re whispering, but this lonely place demands our reverence, and we give it.
The floor is laid out in black-and-white marble tiles angled to look like a pattern of diamonds. Some tiles are chipped and cracked. The white marble stair winds its way up to the top. The banisters are cool against my palm, and the fine layer of dust that coats everything clogs my pores almost immediately. I shine my phone’s light up and down the walls. Every spot the light touches is carved and painted, mirrored and gilded, but also fractured. Murals and paintings set into the walls are in desperate need of cleaning and restoration. Clearly the people who built this place put their hearts and talents into it. It’s a magnificent baroque-lover’s dream, and it makes me sad that something this beautiful could simply sit abandoned and forgotten in the middle of this city brimming with life.
I take pictures as we climb the stairs. It’s dark, but the flash helps.
“You’re not going to post those on Instagram, are you?” Alexandre asks, catching me a bit by surprise.
“No. Obviously I’m not going to advertise my crimes. These are for me. Anyway, how do you even know I have an Instagram account?”
“Oh, I, um . . . assumed?” Alexandre usually doesn’t stumble over his words—he’s probably as nervous as I am. I’m actually a little relieved.
We get off at the first landing, and Alexandre pulls me through a door into what must have been a ballroom. The four walls have golden columns that reach toward the domed ceiling. It’s entirely covered in a huge mural. I can make out angel wings, some celestial scene, clouds and strings of flowers. To the left, opposite the windows, are two balconies. Inside balconies.
“It’s stunning,” I whisper.
“Imagine the parties they must have had here,” Alexandre whispers back.
I close my eyes and let the room come to life. Brightly lit by hundreds of candles. Women swishing around in huge skirts, their corsets crushing their ribs but pushing their breasts up perfectly. Some sort of orchestra playing in the corner. And wigs, lots of powdery white wigs.
“I suppose it was a ‘let them eat cake’ kind of crowd that partied here,” I say.
“Definitely. Until the revolution and the guillotine.”
I shudder. “Vive la France.”
“Without the French Revolution, our friends like Baudelaire would never have been able to take apartments here and—”
“No raven-haired lady. At least, not in this place. But no more talk of the guillotine, okay? This place is beautiful but also creepy.”
He takes my hand. “Scared of ghosts?”
“Not until tonight, when we broke into an old mansion with cracked mirrors and cobwebs. This place is asleep, and I don’t know what we’re going to stir up.”
Alexandre bends his head closer to mine, then closer until his lips graze my neck.
He peppers my neck with little kisses. I reach up and cradle his head, then turn into him. He puts an arm around my waist and pulls me closer until I feel the joint of his hipbone press against me. We kiss as he runs his fingers along the nape of my neck. Tiny flames ignite everywhere in my body. When we kiss, I can taste the grime from this place on our lips, and it occurs to me that a lot of our kisses are sprinkled with the dust of centuries past. I step back, nuzzling my head against his chest. He wraps his arms around me.
“Are we going to try and find this woman with raven tresses or just make out amongst the ghosts?” I ask.
“She’s been lost for a long time. A little longer won’t bother her,” he says and lifts my chin to kiss me again.
I sneeze. Stupid dust. Luckily, I avoid sneezing directly into his face. “Crap. I’m sorry.” I turn my face away, horrified, but Alexandre laughs. I let out a small chuckle and a louder one until our laughs echo in the empty space.
“Clearly that’s a sign we should get out of this room.” I produce my phone again and skim through the Gautier article—the closest thing we have to Dantès’s treasure map. I read out loud, “I arrived at the designated floor. A worn and shiny velvet tapestry . . . whose yellow borders and bruised threads bespoke long service, showed me the door.”
“That’s not here. Next floor?” Alexandre suggests, gesturing toward the door.
We wind our way up the stairs to an even grungier hall than the one below. It’s smaller and less ornate. I catch my breath and point to a hanging on the wall. Is it possible?
We step closer. Alexandre focuses his light on the border of the cloth. I squint. It’s dull,
but yellow enough.
“No way.” I elbow him. “This is it. It has to be. Holy crap.”
Alexandre opens the door beside the tapestry. We step inside; he shines his light across the room. The beam passes over a large oval dining table and then lands on a buffet table against the wall. I read more of Gautier’s account out loud: “I found myself in a huge room lit at the end by several lamps. To enter here was to step backward into a shadowy past. Indeed, time seems to pass strangely in this house, as if it exists outside of time entirely. Delacroix, his eyes ever intent on the minutiae, stood by the side of a buffet examining a platter filled with small Japanese saucers.”
“A buffet,” Alexandre repeats slowly.
“This is it!” I say, trying not to yell. I’m nerding out over a hundred-and-fifty-year-old article about hash-eating artists. “My heart is racing. I had no idea breaking and entering was going to be this fun.” I give him a peck on the cheek and walk toward the buffet. Dust is everywhere. And spiderwebs. Presumably spiders, too. Luckily, spiders have never freaked me out.
The marble top of the buffet must have a half-inch of dust on it. It’s cool to the touch, like the banister on the stairs. Like a tomb. I wipe my fingers on my jeans. I wish I had a roll of paper towels and spray cleaner, but cleaning supplies didn’t seem like burglar necessities. Next time, I’ll remember.
Alexandre and I shine our phone lights on the buffet table.
It’s not large—maybe six feet across and about hip-high. The light reveals two narrow drawers below the marble. There are flowery carvings in the wood and something, maybe lion heads, with brass rings running through the noses. Beneath the drawers is a long cabinet. Intricate scenes I can’t quite distinguish cover the cupboard doors. The sides of the buffet are rounded like columns. Carved into each column is a woman with her breasts exposed. I try to get as many close-up shots as possible. The flash overexposes some of the photos, but I can try and fix that later. Right now, I want to make sure to document every moment.
“These guys were pervs,” I mutter.
“In France there are no perverts, only prudes.”
I laugh. “Whatever makes you feel better about your countrymen, dude.” I tug at the brass pull on one of the drawers. It sticks. I tug a little harder. It gives with a loud creak.
“Oh no. No. No. I think I cracked a French heirloom.”
Alexandre shines his light on the side of the drawer. Sure enough, there is a three-inch-long fissure running parallel to the top. I raise a hand to my mouth, forgetting how dusty it is. I cough, then grimace at Alexandre, who wears his classic mischievous grin.
“Why are you smiling?” I ask him. “I damaged an antique.”
“Okay, but it’s not exactly the Mona Lisa. And I believe you could convince a judge it was a crime of passion.”
“In America, crimes of passion are murders.”
“Of course they are. In France, crimes of passion are about being overcome by desire.”
I roll my eyes. “Do you ever listen to yourself?”
“Sometimes I think it’s better not to.” He smirks at me. I don’t think he can help it.
“Oh my God.” I shake my head at him. “Anyway, since I cracked this valuable French antique, might as well see what’s inside it. Give me some light.”
I open the drawer a little more. Gently. Gently. No more cracking. There’s a long red silky scarf. When I pull it out of the drawer, a little spider jumps out and lands on Alexandre’s jeans. He yells and jumps back, swatting at his pants.
I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing, then grab the scarf and give it a good shake to make sure no other creatures are going to surprise us. I hand it to Alexandre, who gently folds it and places it on top of the buffet.
Beneath the scarf are two cards about twice the size of regular playing cards. I take them out and flip them over. Alexandre blows away some of the dust and shines a light on them.
The first is a crowned figure that looks like it’s sitting on a wheel. The colors are faded. Alexandre reads the words at the bottom, “La Roue de Fortune.” Wheel of fortune. Then he looks at the second card. It’s a crude drawing of a man with what looks like a skeleton head. There’s some kind of stick or handle in his hands. Maybe a shovel. Alexandre doesn’t need to read the words at the bottom, because they’re clear. La Mort. Death. I shudder. I’d prefer spiders to death cards.
“Tarot de Marseille,” Alexandre says.
“I get the tarot part, but why Marseille?”
He shrugs. “That’s the name. Tarot is played as a card game in France, not only for fortune-telling. My grand-mère used to play a lot with her friends.”
“I’m guessing if they were doing séances here while taking hash, the fortune part was what they were interested in.” I start to put the cards back in the drawer, but Alexandre stops my hand.
“We should keep those,” he says. “Maybe they’re clues?”
“Sure. We’ve already broken in. Why not steal stuff, too?”
“Borrow. And why not? We’re trying to unravel a cultural mystery, after all.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “We’re borrowing them for the good of the country. We’re such patriots . . . Justification is how a life of crime begins, isn’t it?”
“If you suggest stealing a diamond necklace from Cartier for the good of the proletariat, then we’ll know.”
I laugh. Then sneeze. And sneeze again. Then snort. God, I’m the subtlest thief in the world.
“Ssshhh.”
I’m about to unleash my annoyance on Alexandre, because I do not like being shushed. Then I hear it.
A siren.
It’s close. And getting closer.
Leila
The tips of the trees in the second courtyard glow as if on fire, but they do not burn. All around the jinn perch on branches, looking down at me. Si’la rises on a limb of the tree that is the heart of the courtyard. My Giaour steps out from its hollow, a smile on his face, the deepest pink rose in his hands.
I close the distance between us, removing the veil from my face. He clasps an arm around my waist and pulls me to him, folding me into a deep kiss. Is there a way for the world to end right now, in this moment of life’s perfection? Can the heavens fall, crushing us in this knotted embrace forever, until we are stardust? So that the light of our love spreads across the darkness, perfuming the firmament with sandalwood and rose petals?
He steps back and places his palm against my cheek. “The skiff waits for us at the port. My man will meet us there and row us to the vessel Salsette. But I must ask you again: You trust this poet, this British lord?”
“He will not betray us. Perhaps he is a rake and selfish, but he will do this for me—and the Romantic tales he may tell from it.”
“He will do this for you, as would anyone.”
“We will be free, my beloved,” I whisper.
“Inshallah,” he says, brushing my cheek with his thumb.
I kiss him again. My heart catches in my throat. Perhaps I may not escape whole, but I need only escape with him in any manner for this tale to have a happy ending.
“Leila. If the fates and time conspire against us, remember I love you. Remember I would suffer a thousand deaths for even a fleeting taste of freedom with you. Know that you must continue the journey without me, if it comes to that. And take this.” He hands me a yataghan. It is smaller than most I have seen. The word gülüm is engraved in its ivory handle. My love. My rose. “I had it made especially for you. May it be a talisman for you against harm. May your courage find you, should you need to use it. May you never have to.”
I clasp the handle and pull the blade from its hard leather scabbard. The metal gleams in the night like the moon’s rays have anointed it.
I look into the eyes of the one man who has known me as I am, truth bared. Who has loved me fully and witho
ut judgment. I cup his cheek in my hand. “My love. May our separation be brief. May our paths join again at the water’s edge. May God keep you always in his care.”
Ameen.
We kiss.
I have no more words.
Khayyam
On our tiny Parisian island of Île Saint-Louis, it’s rare to hear a siren—any siren. Across the Seine, sure, but on the island this late in the evening?
I don’t breathe.
I don’t think Alexandre is breathing, either. We’re motionless, waiting for the siren to pass.
“The flashlight on your phone,” I whisper to Alexandre.
He fumbles with his screen, trying to kill the light. I can tell he’s nervous, because his palms are as clammy as mine when I wrap my fingers around his free hand.
The siren doesn’t pass. It stops right outside the building.
It’s completely dark in here save for the faint lamplight filtering in through the dirty windows. My mouth has gone as dry as sawdust. My pulse pounds. All those flashes, the beams from our phones lighting up the darkness in an abandoned old house. God. We’ve been stupidly careless.
What’s the punishment for breaking and entering in France for a first-time offender? I have no idea. But I definitely don’t want to find out. I tug on Alexandre’s hand and head for a door in the back corner of the room, past the dining table and next to a small settee. I feel my way forward in the low light until my hand can grab the knob.
The siren goes silent.
We hear a car door open and shut outside. My heart stops. Crap. Gently, I turn the knob and open the door. Like I hoped, it’s a closet. A narrow one. We slip in. All I can think about is how I don’t take the double-wide coffin-sized elevator at the apartment. Now here I am in a closet crypt. Possibly about to be arrested. Oh God. I try to take a calming breath while Alexandre and I shimmy ourselves into the cramped space. As I maneuver myself into the closet, I get a face full of spiderwebs. Spiders might not bother me, but I don’t want my hair to be a nest for them, and they’re a lot less unnerving when they’re in the full light of my bathroom than in a tiny closet in an eerie abandoned mansion.