Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know

by Samira Ahmed

  August 25, 1819

  My dearest Teresa,

  . . . [Y]ou will recognize the handwriting of him who passionately loves you, and you will divine that, over a book which was yours, he could only think of love. In that word, beautiful in all languages, but most so in yours—Amor mio—is comprised my existence here and hereafter. I feel I exist here, and I fear that I shall exist hereafter, —as to what purpose you will decide; my destiny rests with you, and you are a woman, seventeen years of age, and two out of a convent. I wish that you had stayed there, with all my heart, —or, at least, that I had never met you in your married state.

  But all this is too late. I love you, and you love me, —at least, you say so, and act as if you did so, which last is a great consolation in all events. But I more than love you, and cannot cease to love you.

  Think of me, sometimes, when the Alps and the ocean divide us, —but they never will, unless you wish it.

  I gulp. I’m not sure a love letter was the right choice at this moment.

  Alexandre chuckles. “He was quite the romantic, wasn’t he?”

  “He’s writing this to a married woman,” I say. “He’s a total narcissistic jerk who had no control over his passions or his ego. That’s why one of his lovers called him mad, bad, and dangerous to know—his entire life was about himself and his excesses and his incredible ability to seduce women and men.”

  “He obviously couldn’t help himself when surrounded by temptation,” Alexandre says.

  I roll my eyes and elbow him. He starts laughing.

  “Let’s pack it in,” I say. I don’t think I can handle any more flirting in the stacks.

  Alexandre and I stand up to place the book in a “to be reshelved” cart. “I’m sorry we didn’t find anything about our lady with the raven tresses,” he says.

  I stop short. “Oh my God,” I nearly yell. “That’s it. It’s so obvious.”

  “What? What did I say?” Alexandre asks.

  I don’t reply. I’m too nervous. Please let me be right. I cradle the book in one hand and flip back through the index, quickly running my eye down the columns. All the letter recipients are listed alphabetically by last name. But what if Byron didn’t use a name but an endearment? My hands get clammy as I search for her. Maybe it’s luck. Maybe it’s destiny. But it doesn’t matter, because there she is: Lady, Raven Tresses, of the . . . page 312. Alexandre squeezes my elbow.

  “Holy crap,” I whisper.

  January 12, 1815

  My Dearest Lady of the Raven Tresses,

  Though fate, and, in truth, your own will, have distanced us since our return, know my love is a fix’d mark. Neither time nor place can alter its course. I am ready, upon your word, to arrive with all haste to Paris. Indeed, if you bid me fly to the moon, I would give up all pleasures of this earthly realm and build a ladder to the heavens to live with you amongst the stars. I can think of no more rightful place, for your beauty is celestial; more so, your heart.

  You have made your own feelings clear. And of mine, you can be in no doubt. God knows I wish you only happiness and a peace, which I hope comes through time, dripping slowly through the days and hours. I know your heart longs for another. Mourns for he who was cut down so cruelly in front of your tender eyes. Would that I could return him to you, had I but that power.

  I write in no true hope to sway your course. Merely to declare, once more, that I am, as ever, in your service. This is no time for mere words. Yet I offer you these verses enclosed here. Though I have kept your identity hidden, I write these words that you and the world may ever know that I was and am yours, freely.

  Ever Yrs,

  I close the book and look at Alexandre. I want to throw my arms around his neck and squeeze, but I muster all my self-restraint and suppress my feelings. But then a smile sweeps across my face as I library-whisper, “Boom.”

  Alexandre invited me to his place to look at a couple other old books that could yield clues. But I said no—not wanting to tempt fate or be tempted. And part of me wonders if it wasn’t an excuse to spend time with me in his library where we shared our first kiss.

  I walk home, my mind whirring with things lost and found. It’s overcast, and there’s a slight breeze—a welcome break from the heat that’s been pretty unrelenting all month. Tourists pass by, oblivious to me and the cautionary tale that is my life, in a rush to get to a monument or museum that’s been waiting for them for centuries, to pose for a photo that probably will never exist on paper. Is a JPG even a memory? Or as the French say, a souvenir? I have literally thousands of pictures on my phone, but I barely look at them and definitely don’t remember them all. Byron wrote thousands of letters during his life, and he died when he was thirty-six. And here I am, hundreds of years later, reading them. That is a souvenir.

  I sigh. I always grow into Paris when we’re here. Despite the chaos in my life this summer, as I watch windswept tourists pulling along little kids with ice cream melting down their arms, I feel content in my own French skin. Like I belong here. Like it’s okay to have more than one home. That home is a place I can carry with me.

  I notice a missed call and a text from my parents, who apparently are having such fun taking the waters in Brittany, they’re staying on a couple more days. I haven’t told them a thing about Zaid, except to say that his big surprise was garbage cookies like I suspected, which is, in part, true. I didn’t tell my mom about the ugly scene in our apartment. I didn’t tell her about how I wished I could’ve given Zaid and me a better ending. Looking back, maybe we were always a bit of a mess together, but sometimes it was a beautiful mess.

  Anyway, if I told my mom everything, my parents would be on the next train back. I know she’s been worried about me, more than usual, but there’s nothing she can do about Zaid or Alexandre or my confusion. I wished them a happy second honeymoon and told them I was fine. And honestly, I am okay. There is so much unrequited love and straight-up tragedy in these notes and letters we’ve found that it makes my troubles seem small.

  Leila watched while the love of her life was killed. In a way, a part of her died that day, too. Dumas was doing his best to woo her, and even after they were apparently sleeping together, he didn’t have her heart. And Byron, damn, was he pining away—though he probably deserved it. Talk about an ugly, tangled heap of emotions. Decades of heartbreak and death make Instagram scandals seem small. Byron sent that letter from England to Paris by ship. I was going bonkers when Zaid didn’t text me for four days. I cannot imagine the nail-biting anxiety of having to wait months or to never even know if the letter of your heart ever reached the intended. I’m suddenly overwhelmed by gratitude that fate landed me in this era. I mean, when my parents reminisce about the 1980s and ’90s and mix tapes and talking on a landline and watching TV with commercials, it feels like the Dark Ages. It’s snail mail. It’s a poem being hand carried over land and sea.

  My phone dings. I stop on the street in front of my building. A text from Alexandre. A photo of another Gautier essay he found in the Revue he wanted us to look at. Okay, maybe inviting me over wasn’t an excuse to relive our romantic moments. Seems this Gautier article may never have been published, though, because Alexandre says he found it in an appendix. I unlock the door and read as I walk up the steps to my apartment.

  September 1849

  . . . Ceremonially dressed in Arab costume, as my compatriots, I notice a somber mood has befallen our usual jolly gathering. Few partake tonight in what Baudelaire has termed his “playground of the seraphim.” Dumas broods in the corner, and his dark humor fills the room. I dare not ask what troubles him. Even Delacroix, his confidant, cannot convince him to indulge in the green sweetmeat that may open the door to celestial voices. “I do not seek a muse,” he utters under his breath. “There is no solace for me here. Only pain.” It is only when the concealed panel opens and Leila—for we have come to know the tarot reader
by this name—emerges from her hidden chamber that his mood lightens and an expression reminiscent of a smile dares appear on his face. But it is merely a ghost of what once was, I fear. The tarot reader finds her seat at the small wooden table in the corner. She takes care to cover it with a crimson scarf, placing her deck in the center, then folds her hands in her lap, waiting for the evening’s first customer. She observes the room from her advantageous positioning, smiling at each of us in our turn. When her face falls upon Dumas, her eyes warm to him, and she gives him a discreet nod that only I, attuned to minute observation, comprehend.

  Dumas rises and places himself at the mercy of the cards. The lady with the raven tresses gestures to the deck with an open palm—bidding Dumas to separate it into three small piles. He whispers his question to her, then reaches out, but rather than the cards, takes her hand in his. Swiftly, she removes it to her lap, her smile faltering only briefly. But her eyes soften, and an unspoken understanding seems to pass between them. Dumas looks down. Since I first entered these doors, I cannot recall a moment where Dumas seemed so overcome by melancholia. He chooses three cards: past, present, future. L’Amoureux, La Roue de Fortune, La Mort. Even the tarot reader, insouciant though she often seems, gasps and pushes back from her chair. She utters her apologies and retreats to the hidden chamber that none but she is allowed to enter.

  Those are the tarot cards we found—well, two anyway—the Wheel of Fortune and Death. A lump wells in my throat as I unlock the door and step into my empty apartment that suddenly feels full of ghosts. I’m not sure why I feel sad for people who are ancient history. Their story just feels so real. So of this moment. I text Alexandre:

  Me: We need to go back to the Hôtel.

  Alexandre: The secret chamber?

  Me: Obviously. Tonight.

  Alexandre: Okay. Then pack your bags, because tomorrow we go to the Château de Monte-Cristo.

  Me: I’m not staying overnight there with you. My parents would freak.

  I don’t add that I am freaking out right now.

  Alexandre: Sorry. I was trying to use that American idiom. The Château is only 1 hour by train.

  Me:

  Alexandre: . . .

  Alexandre: . . .

  Great. My assumption was so ridiculous he can’t figure out how to respond.

  Alexandre: I will come by your place at 9 p.m. I will bring no bags.

  Leila

  The wind in my mouth, I fight back tears. If my Giaour is alive, I will go find him. If Pasha has already struck him down, then it will be Pasha’s last night on earth.

  At the dock, a skiff awaits us, ready to carry us the short distance to freedom. The poet takes my hand, but I resist.

  From the east, a charge of hooves. The poet pulls me down onto the sloping, sandy bank, his arm around my shoulders and his breath on my neck. My Giaour bursts through the night, his white horse a beacon in the darkness. Pasha rides on his heels, his black steed snarling fire. I scramble from the bank, screaming my Giaour’s name. He pulls back on the reins, and his horse’s neighs echo out across the water. He turns to me. I stand and remove my turban. Pasha blanches and slows his horse when he sees me.

  My Giaour raises his hand to his lips, brings it to his heart, and then gestures toward me. With his other hand, he unsheathes his kilij.

  He turns and charges at Pasha. Their blades clash and send sparks into the sky. I try to run toward them, but the poet holds me back. I kick against him, but he grips me tighter.

  Pasha and Giaour circle each other in an arabesque of death, an elegy of swirling white robes and blades and bodies. Their horses fight, loyal to their masters, baring teeth, their muscles tense beneath their hides. Pasha pushes his steed into the side of my Giaour’s mount and then skims the edge of his kilij just beyond the white steed’s saddle. The horse cries out and rears and bucks, my Giaour clinging to the reins, trying desperately not to be thrown.

  The Pasha arcs his kilij through the air—a single motion that slows time, makes the earth stand still—and brings it down against my beloved’s throat. For the briefest of moments our eyes connect, and then he falls, a river of crimson at his neck.

  Khayyam

  “You’re quiet this evening. Everything okay?” Alexandre asks as we round the corner of my block to Quai d’Anjou, steps away from the Hôtel de Lauzun.

  It’s true. I’m quieter than usual, but I don’t think I can explain to Alexandre that I’ve been at home alone, waiting for my phone to ring or hoping that maybe Zaid would show up at my door so we could resolve things better, find some semblance of closure. The story of us wasn’t all bad, and we deserved better than slammed doors and angry words. But I can’t control all my endings—or beginnings, apparently. And now I’m all exposed nerves and bruised ego. The sadness of, well, everything growing on me. Not growing, exactly, more like burrowing a hole where all my memories live.

  I stop walking about twenty feet from 17 Quai d’Anjou and look up at Alexandre. “Sometimes saying goodbye is difficult. Even if you think you’re ready. Even if it’s right,” I say. If I were talking to Julie instead of Alexandre, I might’ve added that part of me is wondering how I’ll say goodbye to him, to Alexandre. It’s not going to be today, but it’s coming, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  Alexandre simply nods, then tilts his head in the direction of the Hôtel.

  As we approach, a man with light-brown skin and salt-and-pepper hair steps out of the street door that leads to the courtyard of the Hôtel, talking loudly on his cell phone. Alexandre grabs my hand and pulls me closer. I feel the warmth of his body next to mine and the familiar scent of his home—old books and oranges—as he hurries us toward the entrance. All smiles, he says, “Monsieur, s’il vous plaît.” The man turns to look at us and then catches the door; he pulls the phone away from his mouth and says, “Bonne soireé!” Then he wiggles his eyebrows. Alexandre nods at him and grins as we slip through the door. I pull my hand away as soon as we are safely inside the courtyard and give him a look.

  He shrugs. “The men in Paris, we have an understanding—”

  “You mean a bro code?” I roll my eyes. “Let’s get on with the breaking and entering,” I say, perhaps a little too loudly.

  “Sssshhh.” Alexandre gently places a finger on my lips. I thought I’d already conveyed my deep irritation at being shushed the first couple times he did it, but apparently not sufficiently. Also, I might be imagining it, but I swear he lets his finger linger against my lips a second longer than necessary before I twist away and scowl at him.

  There’s no one in the inner courtyard. We can slip right in the door of the Hôtel—it’s not like someone fixed the lock in the last few days. It’s probably been busted for years. We head straight to the winding stairs to the landing with the worn velvet tapestry and yellow border that Gautier mentioned in the first article we found. I can’t get over that it’s still here. Though there are probably tapestries and paintings older than this one hanging all over apartments in Paris, like that Delacroix etching in Alexandre’s foyer. Age increases the value of some objects and diminishes others. It’s a bit of a crapshoot, assigning an object—or a person—worth, isn’t it? It’s luck, and it also kind of sucks because for most of history, the people who got to assign that value were men who didn’t look like me.

  But I suppose love assigns value, too. Like the portraits I do every year in school that line our staircase back home in Chicago. Those mean as much to my parents as that Delacroix does to Alexandre’s family—maybe more—but they’re not hoping to sell them and save the family estate because, well, my skills aren’t exactly Delacroix-etching level, and our house is not exactly an estate.

  “I don’t remember seeing another door last time,” Alexandre says as we enter the dusty old parlor that is exactly as we left it. As I step into the room again, my heart races. I keep glancing at the windows, hearing a siren
, but it’s only in my mind. I grimace, remembering the crack I made in the buffet table drawer. The red silk scarf we found last time rests where we tossed it before making our quick escape after seeing that cop outside.

  “Well, it was dark, and we had to hide and—”

  “You were distracted by all the kissing,” he says.

  “You wish,” I scoff, trying hard not to smile. “You were distracted by all the kissing.”

  “Without a doubt.”

  Don’t flirt, Khayyam. You’re sending mixed messages. To yourself.

  Why is it so hard to do the thing that’s best for you when you know it’s best for you? Sometimes I wonder how human beings have survived from the Paleolithic to now. We always seem to operate against our own better judgment. I’m guessing Byron might say that’s what makes life worth living—Dumas might say the same, too.

  But I push their voices out of my head. It’s Leila’s voice I’m here to find.

  Alexandre heads to the opposite wall and begins tapping it like Velma in Scooby-Doo trying to find a secret passage. If only there were a giant fireplace with a sconce that was actually a lever revealing a hidden room. Before I join him, I want to look in the cabinets in the buffet we didn’t get a chance to investigate the first time we were here. One is empty, but when I open the other one, I see several ripped pieces of paper scattered on the shelf inside. I gather them up to take a look—it’s bits of a torn-up tarot card. I piece the dusty fragments together. I beckon Alexandre over to show him.

  “It’s the last of the three cards Gautier mentioned. The Lovers.”

  “L’Amoureux, La Roue de Fortune, La Mort. Past, present, and future for Dumas.”

  “He must’ve been pretty upset, but ripping up a tarot card isn’t exactly logical.”