by Samira Ahmed
Alexandre jiggles his left arm, trying to shake off some of the sticky filaments of broken webs, and inadvertently elbows me in the boob.
“Ow!”
“Ssshhhh.”
“If you want me to be quiet, how about watching your elbows?” I hiss.
“I’m sorry. It was an accident. Shall I kiss it and make it better?”
“Shut up,” I whisper. I can’t help but snicker.
In the filmic scenario of this situation, this is the moment we’d begin making out madly. And as much as part of me is enjoying being smashed up against Alexandre, and as much as I notice how the heat of his hands on my hips sears through my jeans, I am straining against the feeling of the walls closing in on me. My parents might be pretty low-key about discipline, but getting arrested in Paris is not something they will chalk up to teenage indiscretion.
And I don’t know what would come after. Trial? Prison? Probation? Do they have probation in France? Oh my God. I’m going to miss senior year. This will probably go on my permanent record. Is that even a real thing?
I don’t think I can feel my limbs anymore. I didn’t think this through. Suddenly, breaking the law in hopes of winning an art history essay contest sounds extraordinarily stupid. I absolutely do not want to suffer for my art. Or anyone else’s.
Alexandre presses his ear to the door. He gives his head a little shake. No sounds. I nod. He opens the door, and we step out. Then I realize that we’re on the third floor behind solid stone walls in a room with a thick wooden door, so we might not hear anyone enter from the courtyard on the ground level.
I sneak over to one of the tall windows, crouching down as low as I can. I peek over the sill. The police car is still there. Dammit. I motion for Alexandre to duck. He crouches on his tiptoes, not able to do the desi squat, and works his way over to me.
“The cop is still out there,” I whisper. Every muscle in my body goes taut. My rib cage tightens around my chest; I can’t breathe.
“Better than in here,” he whispers back. We watch the policeman walk the length of the building. He taps his baton against the iron bars on the lower windows. He pauses by the first set of building windows—the ones closest to the entry. The window we’re looking out of is the second set over, so I can catch an angled glimpse of his movements. He bends down and looks intently at the sidewalk.
“What’s he doing?” Alexandre asks.
I watch the cop pick up something off the ground and then tilt his head up. I draw back from the window. I’m hoping it’s too dark for him to see inside, especially from his angle.
“The paint,” I say, sucking in my breath. It’s suspicious. I don’t know what I’ll say or do if he comes in here. It’s France, though, so I probably don’t have to worry about getting shot.
“Huh?”
“When you used your knife to jimmy open the window, paint chips or, maybe, bits of plaster fell to the ground,” I whisper.
“Merde,” Alexandre mutters.
“You shut the window completely, though, right? Tell me it’s not cracked open.”
“No. No. I closed it. Definitely.”
We glance back out. The cop is at the door to the courtyard. It looks like he’s trying to open it, but no luck. He pushes against it with both palms. It’s secure. Right then, the door opens, and a woman steps out. She’s startled by the presence of the policeman. He apologizes, but I can’t make out the rest of the conversation. It looks like he’s asking her some questions. She shakes her head. He smiles and says something to make her laugh. After a brief conversation, he hands her his card. She takes it and says, “Bonne soirée” with a giggle. He watches her walk away and shakes his head. He pauses for a moment and shuts the hefty wooden door to the courtyard with a loud thud.
We watch as he climbs back into his car and speeds away.
I think we were saved by the art of French flirting.
I let out a breath. Alexandre takes my hand and we stand up. I’m dizzy. We look at each other. My face is probably pale from fear, and my fingers are cold as ice, but I burst out laughing. So does he.
“I wonder who called him?” I whisper as I get my nervous laugh under control.
“Probably someone with nothing better to do. Come on, I think we should get out of here in case he returns to do a more thorough job.”
“Hang on.” Before Alexandre or common sense can stop me, I stumble back to the buffet table. We only searched one drawer. I want to check the other one. This is probably totally stupid, but you know how the safest time to fly is right after a plane crash? That’s the logic I’m going with right now. We need to get out of here, but I also need to know if there’s anything else.
This drawer opens easier than its mate. There’s another silk scarf. I place it on the top. I shine my light into the drawer and see something wedged in the back. It’s paper.
“Hold this light for me,” I say. Alexandre walks over and takes my phone, angling its beam of light into the drawer.
“It’s an envelope.” I tug at it, but lightly; I don’t want to rip it. I jiggle the drawer with one hand, hoping to loosen it. It works; I pull out the envelope with trembling fingers. It’s a letter. It’s in faded, curly script, but the name on the envelope is clear. It’s addressed to Monsieur Alexandre Dumas.
Leila
I shed no tears as I step back through the doorway. There is no time for sorrow or goodbyes or regrets.
There is barely time to move forward.
“Haseki. I have brought you a eunuch’s uniform as you have asked.” A young man shuffles forward with a small satchel.
“Kemal. Thank you for your kindness,” I say. “And your discretion.”
“I am at your service, haseki.”
“I know you are, Kemal. And I am in gratitude.” I sweep my hand to my heart and bow my head. Kemal’s eyes grow wide. “I have trusted you with this secret and with my life. And now I offer you passage with me away from here. I cannot say it is without risk, perhaps even death. But if you choose to take the risk, I will gladly have you join me.”
Kemal bows before me. “This is my home, haseki. For all that it is. Perhaps one day I can rise to Chief Eunuch. This is the fate I have been given. There is nothing else in the world for me now, as you know.”
His smile breaks my heart. “Go with God, Kemal.”
“And you, haseki.”
I watch as he slips away into the darkness.
I hurry to my chamber. In the satchel, along with the eunuch’s clothes, I hide the jewels Pasha has given me—gold and diamonds and emeralds that may buy me a new life. I tuck my Giaour’s rose in with the embroidered scarf he brought me from the Indian merchant. I wrap a sash tightly around my waist and fasten the yataghan into it, concealing it under my midnight-blue entari with golden stars at its hem.
Khayyam
March 10, 1845
Cher Ami,
I hope this letter finds you well.
Because you are a man of letters, I will not insult your intelligence or my own with a verbosity of feigned feelings. I have enjoyed our time together these past months. But the devotion you seek from me I cannot give. Though your attentions are flattering and your compliments pleasing, I must beg you to turn your thoughts elsewhere, even more for your sake than for mine.
For a woman in my position, at my age, a decade your senior, alone though I may be, and necessarily so, for my fate commands it, some may counsel me to accept the warmth of your feelings. To pass my days and nights in the embrace of one whose ardor for me is true. But I dare not allow us to continue as we have, knowing your true heart, for such a game would endanger both of us. I think too highly of you to do such a thing.
And, to say it plainly, my heart belongs to another. Forever. Until I meet him again in jannah, where at last our star-crossed love may find peace, liberated from the shackles this earth
cast upon us. To him I am betrothed until my dying day. I can love no other. And to that oath I have been true these three decades. Indeed, when I saw him bleed upon the sands of my old home—so distant from me now in miles, but still so close—I knew that a part of me would remain there. That is the part of my soul that you seek. The part I cannot give.
Consider evenings spent with me as time lost. Time that might be best spent in pursuit of a real love—constant and true, not this shadow. Not what we have shared, a flameless passion—yet one that has still brought me a kind of happiness. A smile to my face that I thought had been erased by time.
Yours in friendship,
“We found her,” I whisper. I give Alexandre a half smile.
We’re nestled on the couch in my apartment. Alone. Thankfully. My parents left a note saying they’d gone out to meet some friends. While I’m relieved I didn’t need to come up with an excuse for why we’re breathless and dusty and dripping with cobwebs, it finally strikes me how terrifyingly close I was to getting busted by the police and my parents. My heart races, wild from nearly getting caught and our new discoveries. I move my fingers across the page delicately, like if I’m not gentle, I could bruise Leila.
“We did find her,” Alexandre whispers back. “But there are even more questions now.”
“I know. Who was she? And where did she come from and who died? And—”
“What’s jannah? It’s not a French word.”
I look at him, surprised, though I don’t know why I’m shocked. It’s not as if everyone would know that word. “It means heaven in Arabic. Even Muslims who aren’t Arab know that jannah is what paradise is called in the Quran. Leila was Muslim.”
“In Paris. In the 1840s. A Muslim woman. Wow. An immigrant or refugee, maybe? Maybe that’s why she says she was alone.”
“And her one true love died—” My voice catches in my throat.
Alexandre puts his hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” I say, my words catching in my throat. “This . . . this feels like eavesdropping on a private conversation. We’re trespassing on other people’s lives.”
“But I thought you wanted to find her.”
“I did. I do. Dumas became famous, and she’s not even a footnote in history. I want to find out more. There has to be more there.” I don’t add that I need more for my essay, too.
Alexandre shifts closer to me on the couch. “We can go back, but maybe not tonight?”
He wraps his arm around my shoulders. I gingerly fold up the letter and place it on the coffee table. It might be the only piece of Leila that still exists—it is precious. Then I collapse into Alexandre’s arms. He kisses the top of my head. Something squeezes my heart. I should be floating from this discovery, exhilarated and adrenaline crashing from our near miss with the cop. I am, but I also feel, I don’t know, conflicted? A pinch of melancholy, even. Maybe because the raven-haired lady is real now. Fantasy can be quixotic and swashbuckling. But the real Leila didn’t live in a starry-eyed romance; she was a woman, utterly alone, who fought to survive.
“You’re right,” Alexandre says. “This can’t be it. This is only one note from her. If there’s more, we have to be the ones to find it. Besides, this is one hell of a breakup letter. I’m dying to see what else she’s written. I can’t wait to tell Uncle Gérard about this. He won’t believe it.”
I look into his hopeful eyes. “Am I ever going to meet this uncle you keep talking about? I feel like he’s the virtual third musketeer on our quest.”
“Oh. I . . . well, he’s a bit antisocial . . . and boring,” Alexandre stammers.
I know I can be slightly paranoid at times, but it’s weird to me that every time I suggest maybe meeting his uncle, Alexandre veers away from the topic. I’m about to press him, but I freeze at the sounds of keys jangling and footsteps in the hall. I jump up and run into my room to hide the letter, then race back and take a seat at the opposite end of the sofa from Alexandre.
He chuckles. I give him a raised eyebrow in response. Yeah, I’m a prudish American. Deal with it. I don’t want to get busted by my parents while making out with a random French dude they’ve never met. Or any guy, for that matter. Zaid knew that instinctively. Kissing in front of parents would’ve been too disrespectful, too lacking in tameez.
My parents burst into the apartment laughing.
They stop abruptly when they see us.
This is it.
The moment my parents meet Alexandre and when the parts of my life I’d kept separate start to cross and tangle.
Yes, they know about Alexandre. They know about Dumas and my search for the raven-haired lady because I told them. Alexandre knows that I bombed on that Art Institute essay. But each knows things the other doesn’t. And I want to keep it that way. I’m one hundred percent not ready to tell Alexandre about Zaid. And there’s no way I’m telling my parents what Alexandre and I actually did tonight. I need time to stop. I need this meeting to happen when I’m ready. Which is not now. Too many variables and too many ways for this to blow up in my face. At least I’m the only one who knows the real reason I’m posting to Instagram. But that’s not even the worst of it. What if my parents say something about how lucky I was to meet Alexandre for the sake of my research? What if he thinks that’s the only reason I’m hanging out with him? What if my parents blurt out something about Zaid? I’ve been utterly careless. Twice in one night.
I jump up, thinking I can avert the disaster that is about to play out in my living room. Instead, I hit my shin against the table. I right myself before falling. But this is going to bruise. I shake my head. Typical. I try to prevent a painful situation, but instead, I induce it.
Alexandre pops up from the couch, and my parents step over, converging on me as I rub my shin.
“Are you okay, beta?” Mom asks. She nods at Alexandre with a smile. My dad grins. Ugh. Too many knowing looks.
“Uh, yeah. That table is a hazard,” I say with an uneasy chuckle. “But um, anyway: Mom, Papa, this is Alexandre.”
He steps forward to kiss my mom on both cheeks and shakes my dad’s hand. My parents have these wide, goofy grins on their faces, and it’s mortifying.
“Um, Alexandre was actually heading out,” I say, taking him by the elbow.
“Beta, where are your manners?” my mom scolds. “Alexandre, would you like to join us for some tea?”
“He can’t. He has to get home,” I say.
My mom raises an eyebrow at me. “I believe he also speaks.”
Alexandre chuckles. “That is kind of you, but Khayyam is right, I must be on my way.”
I’ll have to thank him later for following my lead. I could imagine Zaid in this same situation being utterly amused, and lingering. He loves lingering at the most embarrassing times. From the twinkle in his eye, I think Alexandre is finding this moment pretty funny, too.
But my parents don’t step aside and bid him adieu. Of course they don’t.
“Alexandre,” my dad begins in French, “Khayyam tells us you are a descendant of Alexandre Dumas. Fascinating.”
My mom jumps in, also switching to French. “And Khayyam tells us you are in pursuit of a raven-haired woman mentioned in a letter—”
“Yes. We are searching for a lady with raven tresses who Delacroix and Dumas mention in correspondence about the Club de Hashischins.”
“And perhaps more? It would certainly be an incredible find. I’m sure you’ll be sharing credit for any noteworthy discoveries with our daughter. Planning on authoring any papers?” Yup, my mom went there, because it’s never too early to warn your daughter’s date about intellectual property theft.
This can’t end soon enough.
Alexandre seems taken aback. “Absolutely. I hadn’t considered . . . Of course I will. We will. Khayyam is as much a part of this as I am.”
“Go
od,” my mom says with a smile. “I’m sure she’s told you we’re professors.”
God. This is the Hyde Park academic version of meeting a gentleman caller on the porch with a shotgun. I position myself behind Alexandre, shooting daggers with my eyes at my parents. “He knows,” I mutter, then yawn dramatically. “It’s getting late, and I’m tired. Like I said, Alexandre was about to leave.” I give him a little nudge.
“Yes, a pleasure to meet you. I hope we meet again. Au revoir.”
Alexandre and I step out into the hallway, and I sigh as I shut the door. “I’m sorry. My parents are, you know, overprotective. And also real nerds.”
“In other words, they are parents. I understand. And you know I meant what I said,” he adds. “You’re part of this.”
I nod. As Alexandre and I walk down the stairs, I feel a pinch of guilt. Finding this mystery woman and possibly even a missing painting—that is the objective. And spending time with Alexandre and making Zaid a bit jealous—that’s the icing on the cake, but it’s all leaving a bad taste in my mouth.
“Want to meet tomorrow? Try to discover more about Leila? Perhaps a little more sneaking around in dark places with dark corners?” I turn and step closer to him so our bodies touch.
He rubs his hands up and down my arms, distracted. “I have a couple things to do for my family tomorrow. My uncle is coming up again in the morning . . . Then I have plans in the evening.” He drags his words and glances away for a second. “But the next day? I’m all yours.”