by Samira Ahmed
Standing here, frozen, I’m totally aware of how opposite she and I are. Physically, obviously—I mean she’s pale enough to get sunburn on a cloudy day in winter. But it’s much more than that. I’m the girl in a Notorious RBG T-shirt, dark skinny jeans, and All-Stars the color of a robin’s egg. She’s wearing a gray linen sheath that drapes over her body perfectly. On me it would look like a potato sack; on her it’s Parisian chic. I’m too American with a slightly off French accent. She’s fluent. I’m a visitor. She’s the native. The one with home-court advantage.
A guy bumps into me; the world screeches back to full speed. He also steps on the back of my shoe, giving me a flat tire. He was walking backward, trying to get a shot of the bookstore.
His phone clatters to the cobblestones.
I lurch forward to help and end up dropping my book. All of a sudden, I’m trying not to fall, but too late, because now we’re a tangle of legs and bags and apologies in Dutch, then French, then English. The Dutch speak so many languages. Why are Americans so bad at learning other languages?
Crap. Get up, Khayyam. Stop bemoaning our piss-poor linguistic skills. I jump up and grab my book and bag, hoping Alexandre doesn’t notice.
Could it get any worse?
The danger about asking yourself that question, about even letting it flit through your brain, is that the answer is always yes.
Of course he sees me.
Everyone at the café is staring at the embarrassing tourist jumble. My face is aflame. My entire body burns in humiliation. I head in the opposite direction and leave the Dutch tourist with a quick wave of the hand, only then noticing the little scratches and cement burn on my palm and the inside of my left wrist, which has started to throb—
“Khayyam?”
Alexandre’s voice.
It can get worse. So. Much. Worse. I’m already walking away, ignoring him. Please don’t, I beg him telepathically. But I hear the scrape of a chair against the pavement. Then footsteps. Dammit. I rush down the sidewalk and hop down onto the narrow street, run past two restaurants, and take a right to dash across the snarl of traffic on Quai de la Tournelle. A throng of scooters passes, and when I see two slow lumbering buses, I know it’s my only chance. He’s still calling my name as I sprint into traffic and make it across in a flurry of honking horns and two ambling bicyclists who have to swerve not to hit me.
“Désolée!” I call out to them.
Only then, the traffic safely between us, do I turn.
Across the street, Alexandre puts a hand up and motions for me to wait. I shake my head. My body trembles. I’m near sobbing. He steps out as a taxi crosses inches in front of him, the driver honking and swearing out of his window. I take the moment to turn away. Alexandre yells out my name again, then some other words I can’t make out because I’m already crossing the bridge to Île de la Cité, lost in the mass of people heading toward Notre-Dame.
The great thing about being surrounded by hundreds of eager tourists and pilgrims heading to one of the world’s great holy sites to pay homage, even if from a distance, to her resilience?
No one notices a girl with tears streaming down her face.
Leila
There is no time to protest or even scream. My hands and feet are bound and my mouth gagged. The janissary aga carries me over his shoulder and drops me to the ground at the Gate of Salutation.
I raise my head to see Pasha standing before me, dressed in full battle uniform, his kilij unsheathed in his hand. He pulls me to standing. “You have allowed yourself to be sullied. Thanks to the sharp eye of the Valide, you and your Giaour shall both meet the fate you deserve.”
I try to scream, but I choke on the cloth in my mouth. Pasha steps in front of me; I feel his breath on my face and see the daggers in his eyes. He lowers my gag and kisses me hard on the lips. When he steps back, I spit on the stones at his feet.
He laughs. “Spirited until the end. Midnight eyes and raven hair and luscious lips. I showed you favor and mercy despite the rumors of your devotion to the courtyard jinn. I was willing to overlook some of your peculiarities, but now you have shamed me. And now you will know my wrath.”
“If any has sullied me, it is you.” I spew my words like a curse. “May you never leave an heir. May history forget your name. May your suffering follow you from this world into the next.”
He slaps me across the face. Then he pulls the gag back over my mouth and motions to his janissaries, who step forward with a large burlap bag. I scream into the gag, swallowing my own blood, and flail against the aga, who lifts me up and places me into my burial sack.
“I’ll dispose of her myself,” Pasha says.
Hands lift me up and place me sideways over the saddle of Pasha’s horse. He mounts, and we ride toward the sea.
Khayyam
“Khayyam, I’m so sorry. I guess you’re ignoring my texts. Not that I’m blaming you. I should’ve told you the truth about Haydée from the beginning. It’s over with her. Absolutely over. Finalement. I just . . . it wasn’t a clean break. I wish . . . I’m sorry. Oh, this is Alexandre. In case . . . well”—long sigh—“obviously you know it’s me. Sorry.”
That is the voice mail I woke up to. Voice mail. After finally turning my phone off last night, after an entire afternoon of Alexandre’s texting me apologies and explanations. After I poured my heart and spleen into an email to Julie, even though she’s not going to get that email anytime soon. After all that, he actually called me and left a scratchy-voiced, sad message. That is desperation. A stitch of guilt sneaks up on me because I understand the pain of relationships that end without really coming to a close. Maybe Alexandre is desperate, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be sincere, too.
A knock on the door pulls me out of my guilty-angry brooding funk. “You need to come out and eat something.” My mom knocks again. “It’s almost eleven. Papa went to Pain de Sucre and brought that fraise crème gâteau you love.”
“Fine, Mom. Give me a minute,” I say with virtually zero enthusiasm, but the prospect of cake for breakfast . . . er . . . brunch propels me to the door. I twist my hair into a bun at the back of my head and run a pencil through it to keep it in place. The dirtier it is, the easier it is to keep knotted up. I take a quick glance in the full-length mirror propped up on the wall opposite the bed. I’m currently rocking the death-warmed-over look: blue-and-green plaid cotton boxer shorts and the same RBG tee I’ve been wearing for the last twenty-four hours.
My parents wait for me behind the bar in the small kitchen at one end of the large common space of our apartment.
I trudge over to a stool and slide on to it and face them. An espresso and the promised cake are waiting for me. “Merci, Papa,” I say with a sheepish smile.
“De rien, chérie. You know it’s not winter, no need to hibernate.” My dad winks at me.
I raise the small pale-green espresso cup to him like I’m making a toast, then take a little swig, licking the crema off my upper lip. It’s strong and smells chocolaty, but all I taste is the bitter. There’s this verse by Omar Khayyam:
Whether the cup with sweet or bitter run
The wine of life keeps oozing drop by drop
The leaves of life keep falling one by one.
Basically, c’est la vie. Sometimes life sucks. Get over it, because one day you’ll be dead. How cheery! It’s like I have my own personal scribe chastising me from the beyond.
If I have to have the bitter, might as well take the sweet, too. I pick up the fork and devour the fresh strawberry slices, cream, and vanilla biscuit-y thing on the bottom of this pastry. Pain de Sucre is a matchbox of a pastry shop, but obviously ancient sorcerers run the kitchen. There is no other explanation for the alchemy occurring in my mouth right now. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the pastry chef laced this cake with some kind of love potion, because it’s so good I want to marry it. And with my luck, that
is exactly how a love potion would work for me. At least it wouldn’t cheat on me. Khayyam + Pastries: a love story in four bites.
I glance away from my pastry to notice my parents trading worried looks. “Hello. I see you. I’m literally in front of you. I’m fine. Just tired.”
“What do you think about getting out of town for a bit?” my mom asks. “Do you remember that Papa and I are going to Brittany this afternoon for a couple days?” She points to their overnight bags by the front of the door. “A little trip to the sea would do you good. My ummi would always say the salt air cures whatever ails you. And sometimes turmeric. What do you say, beta?”
I scrunch up my nose and gently shake my head. It’s basically a romantic getaway—for them. Brittany is code for my parents’ favorite thalassotherapy hotel and spa where they emerge rejuvenated and feeling twenty years younger. But that would put me solidly into the pre-embryo stage, so I’m gonna pass on this rollicking, old-timey French fun and sulk with pastries in Paris and avoid Alexandre’s entire arrondissement, which fortunately leaves me nineteen others to mope around in.
“Thanks,” I say, trying to sound like I have even an iota of interest. “But I need to do some reading—trying to figure out if Dumas’s raven-haired lady is the same woman in the Byron poem you guys mentioned. If I can link it to the Delacroix, maybe I can piece something together for another attempt at the prize. You know, find the lost story of this woman that might have been hiding in plain sight all along, like you said, Mom.”
Seconds tick by, then more concerned looks pass between my parents. My mom rubs the back of her neck and, in an unusual move, presses me. “Beta, are you really okay?”
She thinks something is wrong. She always knows. When I was little, I used to call that sixth sense “mommy magic.” I found it comforting back then. If I’m willing to admit it to myself, maybe I need that comfort now, too. But that parental balm feels harder to accept—like if I accept it, if I need it, I’m conceding some kind of personal failure, another one. I desperately want a win, even if it’s insignificant.
“I would be more okay if you guys stopped grilling me. I’m fine. I promise. Besides you two can get some alone time, and without me, you’ll be the youngest people at the spa!”
“Yes, chérie,” my dad says. “The upside to child abandonment is a brief reclamation of our youth. Fantastique.”
“Take it where you can get it, Papa.” I chuckle and reach across the bar to squeeze his hand. “Anyway, I have to sulk around the city being contemplative, or it would be a total waste of a vacation in Paris.”
My parents both laugh. My dad shakes his head, steps around the bar, and kisses me on the cheek, then nods at my mom before stepping into their bedroom.
My mom waits until he closes the door, then says, “Beta, you know you can talk to me about anything. Is that kerfuffle with Zaid still upsetting you?” My mom is that person who can use “kerfuffle” without irony, yet sounds charming and not like an old biddy. I love that about her.
“It’s nothing,” I reply. “I dunno, teen angst or something?” I suck in a deep breath, look at her reassuring smile, and decide to tell her the truth—part of it, at least. “Or . . . maybe it’s Zaid . . . and . . . Alexandre. I like both of them, but they’re problematic faves. Both of them have done stupid stuff, and I’m trying to figure out if I should give one or both of them a second chance. How do I choose between them when neither is perfect?” I shrug, then open the lid of the pastry box to grab another gâteau. This is definitely a two-cake conversation.
My mom takes a deep breath. “First, depending on the severity of what they’ve done wrong and how you feel about it and if you’ve been hurt, neither necessarily deserves a second chance. You should never feel belittled or taken for granted, and you should never, ever feel like you might be in even the remotest danger or that you’re being forced to do something you don’t want to do. Not even a whiff.”
“Oh God. I know. It’s not like that. Neither of them has made me feel unsafe. At all. But they’ve both kind of had their jerk moments. Dishonest moments.”
I don’t detail any of my own skirting of the truth, how maybe I’m guilty of the same thing I’m mad at Zaid and Alexandre for. I know my mom would be disappointed in me. And man, does her disappointment cut to the bone.
“Well, then, it’s about how you feel,” Mom says. “And what you’re willing to forgive. None of us are perfect. We can hurt those closest to us. But love should make you feel good. Love should feel like home. A place built on trust and honesty. Not every moment is going to be perfect. But during the hardest times, you want that relationship to be your shelter from the storm.”
“I don’t know if either of them makes me feel that way. Or if they can. Or if anyone can or will.” I gaze into my mom’s kind eyes and blink back a tear. “It always seems easy and natural with you and Papa.”
“Oh, jaan, if that’s what you want, I hope you find it. But trust me; your papa and I, we work at it. Love requires work. But it’s good work. Rilke called it the work for which all other work is but preparation.”
I manage a wan smile. “Honestly, I’m not sure if either of them inspire that kind of work. And I’m definitely not sure if I’m in love with either of them. Like, yes. But love?”
My mom smiles with obvious relief. “Maybe you have your answer, then. Maybe you don’t have to worry too much about love or finding the right one. You’re young; enjoy the journey. Love yourself. Forge the path you want. You know, your namesake had two rules for living: better to starve than to eat whatever; better to be alone than to love whomever.”
“And that is why I avoid blue cheese.”
My mom laughs. “Avoid moldy rot is an excellent metaphor.”
“Who’s being metaphorical?”
My mom leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “Perhaps what you seek is seeking you.”
“Khayyam didn’t write that, did he?”
“It’s Rumi.”
Persian Sufi poets are getting a lot of play in this morning’s life talk.
My mom bites her lip, then continues, “Listen, I wasn’t going to say anything because Zaid asked me not to . . .”
I straighten up in my seat. What. The. Hell. “Zaid has been talking to you? Why? What did he say and why didn’t you tell me before?”
My mom puts her hand on my arm. “I’m sorry, beta. He said he wanted to send you a surprise. I thought it would be okay. It should be here tomorrow or the next day, I think.”
“So I need to be here anyway to get it.” My brain floods with questions. Zaid has never been the big romantic gesture type, but he actually took the time to reach out to my mom? To plan something? I’m keeping my expectations low, but it doesn’t stop me from smiling because maybe something actually has changed. “Do you know what it is?” I ask, almost breathless.
“No. But he didn’t indicate it was anything perishable like flowers.”
“Ha. Right. Flowers? Julie had to remind him to get me a corsage for prom, so, no, probably not flowers. Could be garbage cookies from Medici.”
That would be perfect. Like those T-shirts we exchanged? This would be our type of romantic gesture. He knows of my deep affection for garbage cookies, because they are filled with every good thing—chocolate chips, M&Ms, nuts, butter, sugar, oatmeal. Once, we found a week-old one in a paper bag in Zaid’s backpack. We split it—he even let me have the bigger half. And it was still delicious, because unlike blue cheese, garbage cookies never get moldy and start to stink. Their shelf life is eternity.
“Well, if garbage cookies put a smile on your face like that, I hope that’s what he’s sending,” my mom says softly. “Don’t tell Papa, though. I don’t think he’ll approve of having pastries sent to Paris from Chicago.”
“They’re not pastries. They’re cookies. They can coexist.”
My mom seems satisfied w
ith my smiles.
Garbage cookies are home and comfort and laughter. If that’s what he sends, Zaid won’t be off my shit list, not exactly, but he’ll definitely move down a notch. Though, I guess, Alexandre already took over the number one spot. With a bullet.
Still, I get what my mom says about love and work and forgiveness. I get that it’s not always perfect. And I understand what she means about me making my own choices for myself. That’s where my head needs to be right now.
If only my heart weren’t going rogue.
Leila
The wind roars in my ears as it rushes past us.
Pasha speaks as we gallop. We both know his are the last words I will ever hear. “In a way, I am sorry it had to end like this. You have brought me much satisfaction. But you should never have been disloyal. Valide always despised your strong-willed temperament, yet that never bothered me. It made you less of a bore than the others. But to give yourself, willingly, to the Giaour? You were never worthy of being haseki. It turns out you are a common concubine after all.”
The horse comes to an abrupt stop, nearly throwing me to the ground. I smell the salt air and hear the siren call of the ocean’s deepest waves. I know what awaits me. I squeeze my eyes shut and say a silent prayer: Lighten my journey, O God. Make this distance an easy one. In you, I seek refuge.
Pasha dismounts and throws me over his shoulder.
He speaks to a fisherman whose reverence makes clear he knows that it is Pasha who commands him and that he must obey. He rows us out in his little craft. Pasha keeps me on his shoulder, even as the fisherman draws us out into the inky black sea and small waves rock the boat. The fisherman stops. I hear Pasha mutter words under his breath, a prayer for mercy.
I do not know for whom he prays.
Khayyam
After bidding my parents bon voyage, I didn’t want to stay in the apartment alone. Instead, I’m spending the afternoon getting jostled by tourists in the courtyard of the Palais Royal, weaving around the Colonnes de Buren. It’s unlikely that I’ll run into Alexandre here. I kind of hope I do, though. Part of me wants to yell at him for the sucker-punch shock of seeing him with his ex, and part of me wants to come clean about Zaid because obviously I get it. Also, I still need to get all the information his family has about Leila. Maybe I can finally focus only on finding her. It shouldn’t be such a challenge to do the right thing for myself, but with my heart and mind in constant battle, there’s no clear winner.