Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know

by Samira Ahmed

  Alexandre and I look at each other and burst out laughing. We look ridiculous. Soon, we’re howling, my sides ache, and tears run down my dusty face. Alexandre reaches over and wipes my cheek with the cuffs of his once perfectly white hoodie. They come away streaked in even more dust, which makes me laugh harder. It’s absurd, but I needed this moment. We needed it. Most importantly, we haven’t broken any French antiques, but there is going to be some cleanup. Alexandre takes a tissue out of his pocket, wets it with his water bottle, and wipes the dust off my eyes, then my cheeks, then moves to my lips.

  He leans in ever so slightly. I suck in my breath and pull away from him. I can’t let myself get distracted again. Not now, when the truth feels so close. We look into each other’s eyes, but neither of us says anything.

  I brush off my clothes. “I should try and rinse off some of this dust.”

  Alexandre nods and leads me to a bathroom. Quiet the whole way.

  Alexandre washes up first, then leaves me alone to go search for cleaning supplies. I rinse my face and hands. There’s even soot inside my ears. I take off my clothes and do my best to shake out all the dust before putting them back on. I run my fingers through my hair and tie it up in a ponytail, then find a lip gloss at the bottom of my bag and swipe it across my lips. When I’m presentable again, I walk back to the salon, realizing that we’ve been utterly dumb. Alexandre has already replaced the panel and is cleaning up the dust with some hand towels and a small spray bottle. He looks up as I enter the room. He opens his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it.

  “It makes no sense that we did this, does it?”

  He shakes his head. “No. It’s like I didn’t even listen to myself when I was telling you the King of Morocco recently refurbished this room. That’s probably when they boarded up the fireplace.”

  “All this soot and excitement for nothing.” I sigh.

  Alexandre walks over to me, grinning, but he keeps a bit of distance between us. “Let’s finish cleaning up and eat something. I brought some food with me. There’s another place I’m dying for you to see. If my grand-père Dumas said he hid something, then I believe him, and I feel like he’s trusting me to find it.”

  Leila

  The rose-red thread of dawn appears on the horizon. Each wave carries me farther from my Giaour. This is to be our fate, then. One written for us without our consent. Our future, stolen.

  Destiny is cruel. That it should so long favor Pasha, yet allow my love and me merely a fragile hope of freedom, only to rip it from us so violently . . . how will I ever know peace in this lifetime? I can only think that this world was not meant for us. For our story on this earth has ended.

  Old lessons come to mind. And the painfully true words of the Persian poet: The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on.

  I may curse fate, but fate neither hears me nor cares.

  I whisper my final goodbye to my land and my heart: My love, may our separation be brief. May our paths join again at water’s edge. May God keep you always in His care.

  Khayyam

  After a quick picnic lunch of baguette, cheese, and fruit in a lovely sunken garden right below the Château, where we sat on the edge of a defunct fountain, Alexandre and I walk through the property. The air is fresh and clean, and with these beautiful old trees and gently rolling hills, it’s easy to see why Dumas chose this place as his escape.

  Alexandre seems surprisingly nonchalant for someone who is about to dig up old family secrets and bring them into the light. It reminds me that even though I’ve spent all this time with him the last couple weeks, there’s still a lot we don’t know about each other. His manipulative uncle pushed us together, but we do share a common interest and more than that, too. We also have an idea of what we hope to find, but we have no idea what we actually will find and what the implications could be. I’m anxious, and I’m not even related to Dumas—I can’t imagine how I would feel if the roles were reversed.

  But then again, if there ever were any family treasures—at least on my mom’s side in India—they were probably destroyed during Partition, when over a million people were killed and thousands of homes wrecked in the violent upheaval. Thanks to arbitrary borders devised by a cowardly British bureaucrat, entire family histories and personal identities went up in smoke. I can’t imagine what it must have been like. Overnight, you’re not Indian anymore; you’re Pakistani. You’re split apart from family and friends. Torn from your home, forced to leave a part of yourself behind with nothing to hold on to but fading memories.

  My mind wanders from my nani to Leila. Maybe what saves them is us—the people who are alive to hear the stories and pass them on. To give them weight and power in the retelling. In the not forgetting. That’s why we need to find Leila’s story and tell the world, so that she can live again. She was probably never going to have a happily ever after, but maybe there’s a way to give her a better ending than the one she got. Dumas was right to tell his son to find the treasure; we have to preserve our families’ stories, because history is all we are.

  “Just up the hill.” Alexandre’s voice pulls me out of my meditation. As we scamper up a small incline, my phone dings once, alerting me to a text. Then twice more. I yank the phone out of my pocket and see Zaid’s number flash across my screen. I draw the phone to my chest. Alexandre scrunches up his eyebrows at me in a question. I raise a finger. He steps away and turns his back to me, pretending to be inordinately interested in the foliage on a nearby shrub.

  I take a breath and turn to my phone.

  Zaid: I’m sorry.

  Zaid: You were right. We can’t bury the past.

  Zaid: I love you. I hope you find what you’re looking for.

  I walk over to a small stone bench set into an alcove of small bushes. Tears sting my eyes. I try to focus on my breaths, making them slow and deliberate. I’ve been waiting forever to hear those words from Zaid. To believe that I meant more to him than the awfulness of the past few weeks. That I had a place in his heart. And these texts break me a little. I know it’s not him being jealous or his FOMO. It’s the end. It’s the goodbye. He’s leaving me with a piece of himself that he could never give me when we were together.

  I allow myself a moment. Consider whether I should text back. But I feel too raw to respond now. And truly, what else is there to say?

  I stand up, slipping the phone into my back pocket. I leave a piece of my heart on that bench and take a step forward.

  Alexandre meets me in the middle of the path. “You okay?”

  I nod my head yes. Then shake it no.

  Endings are hard. Even when you see them coming. Closed doors you sometimes have to seal forever with a small part of your heart inside. A part you can never give to anyone else. Love doesn’t come with a warning label. Not like anyone would listen, anyway.

  I guess human beings are mostly optimists, otherwise we’d always be alone.

  I wish Zaid and I could have had a proper goodbye. Something more than a text. Something more tangible. But one thing Leila has taught me is that we don’t always get the ending we want. Or deserve.

  Alexandre and I walk in silence until we reach the crest of a small hill. I stop and gasp when I see the building in front of me. It’s even more a jewel box confection than its mate.

  “Voilà, le Château d’If,” Alexandre announces.

  A tiny pink neo-Gothic castle—it’s like a child’s palace brought to life. It has its own moat and is set into tall trees surrounded by shrubs. We walk across the narrow stone bridge to get to the door of Dumas’s rose-pink stucco study. Facing the building, there’s a single turret to the left and a small stone balcony on the second floor. Floral and geometric stone carvings cover the façade, and the eaves are decorated with brown wood cut in curves like the edges of lace. I hurry toward the steps but stop short. Nestled into the side of the stairs is a little alcove for a dog and his ho
use. A sculpted dog keeps watch over the Château d’If. He’s gnawing on a bone. This might be the most utterly delightful detail of this whole place.

  “He’s the guard dog.” Alexandre chuckles, then points to the study. “Check out the façade. Dumas had the names of his novels and some of his favorite characters carved in stone.”

  I read out loud from the stone placards that surround the main door. “The Count of Monte Cristo, The Corsican Brothers, The Castle Eppstein, Jacques Ortis . . .” I start counting the titles. At eighty my gaze halts on a figure carved into the side. “Hold on. Is that—”

  Alexandre nods. “Yup. Dantès. The character that inspired this whole place.”

  “Enchantée, Comte,” I say, offering a tiny curtsy. I turn to face Alexandre. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I can see why that developer wants to make this estate into a resort—he’d make a killing.”

  Alexandre sighs. “For now, it’s for your eyes only,” he says, giving me a slight bow and then gesturing toward the door.

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “It’s not open to the public because it needs renovation, but—”

  “You have the Dumas all-access pass. But is it, like, structurally sound?”

  “We’ll find out if the roof caves in over our heads,” Alexandre smirks. When I open my eyes wide at him, he adds, “It’s fine, mostly superficial damage. I actually took an evening train yesterday and slept here last night.”

  Alexandre walks up to the door and opens it, ushering me in. I step through and am kind of . . . underwhelmed. Compared to the main Château, it’s spare and feels sort of crooked, like it’s leaning. Clearly all the expense was on the outside. Maybe it makes sense since this was his private study where he would retreat to write. It’s a solitary place.

  The main room is empty except for a nondescript wooden desk pushed up against the window. A dark brown, worn wooden chair with a curved back and arms sits askew to the desk, a hole in its wicker seat.

  “Is that his real desk?” I ask, trying not to sound disappointed.

  “No. They say it belonged to his son, Alexandre Dumas, fils. Dumas sold off a lot of his furniture when he went bankrupt.” I think Alexandre senses my disillusionment. “It’s kind of sad, I guess. But this place was his sanctuary from what I understand were the never-ending parties at the Château and his needy entourage. And isn’t the light in this little room amazing?”

  My cheeks flush with embarrassment. Like, who am I to judge the writing retreat of Alexandre Dumas? And when my Alexandre points to the soft light streaming into the room from the windows facing one another, I can picture the older, barrel-chested Dumas leaning over the desk scribbling, a ray of sun splashing across the page. If I were writing some of the French language’s greatest adventures, I guess this is how I’d like to write them, too. Surrounded by quiet, a fire roaring in the blue-tiled fireplace of my tiny castle, looking out into my garden and the woods beyond.

  “Most of the house is empty—it’s passed through so many hands, anything of value was stripped or shoved into storage and forgotten somewhere. When the property was a school, this building was faculty housing,” Alexandre explains.

  When Alexandre mentions teachers, my parents pop into my mind. I haven’t been thinking about them much because it was easier not to, but they return tomorrow. How am I going to explain all of this to them? Apparently, without thinking, I’ve adopted Julie’s life motto: Ask forgiveness, not permission. She’s going to be mad she missed the live play-by-play. Who knows, my parents are nerdy academics, and they might even be sorry they weren’t able to join me in these dusty old rooms. But they’ll probably also be angry that I didn’t tell them what I was doing. I know I’m going to have to tell the truth—share the secrets I’ve been hiding—at some point, but for now I nudge them out of my mind. No time to catastrophize about the future right now. I need to focus on where I am.

  Alexandre steps into the kitchen and starts riffling through his backpack, while I take a few minutes to walk back through the main floor of the study, hoping that there’s a hidden panel here, too. A vault, maybe. A loose floorboard. I tap along the walls and look behind some of the unremarkable paintings that decorate the entry. I step carefully on the wooden floors, listening for any telltale creaks, which is ridiculous, because every floorboard here groans under my weight.

  I carefully tread up the lopsided staircase. On the second floor, I’m greeted by a few plain, sunlit rooms. One has a made-up mattress on the floor. This must be where Alexandre slept last night. There’s a rectangular oil painting of a stone grotto on the wall. I recognize the spot from our walk on the property. It’s not particularly remarkable, but it piques my curiosity.

  “Who is this painting by?” I call down.

  Alexandre doesn’t answer, so I head back down, passing a few similar paintings—mostly scenes from the grounds.

  I step into the functional kitchen that looks like it was haphazardly slapped together in the 1950s and hasn’t been touched since. Alexandre is looking through some books and papers on the counter. “Who did all the paintings in the house?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Honestly, I’ve barely given the paintings in here any thought. They’re not exactly noteworthy.”

  “Guessing from the cheap wooden frames, maybe they were student work that got slapped up on the walls?” I suggest.

  “I suppose?” Alexandre answers, but is clearly distracted. “Listen, I had this book I wanted to show you that has a passage about the housewarming party. But I can’t find it. I think I might have left it at the main house. Do you mind if I run back to get it?”

  This trip has been kind of a bust. I’m not sure why Alexandre’s uncle sent us on this wild goose chase. I guess he’s not concerned about wasting my time. Of course he isn’t. I’m of no concern to him at all. This place is amazing, and I’m psyched I get the backstage tour, but it seems pretty picked over—if there ever was a missing Delacroix or anything of value, it’s long gone. And if a painting by a master could be lost, whatever Leila might have given Dumas is probably food for worms.

  While I wait for Alexandre, I turn on the tap to refill my water bottle, but the water comes out yellow, so I skip it, wanting to spare myself the lead poisoning. There’s a dull whir coming from a retro mustard-yellow fridge; I open it and find four individual-sized bottles of Pellegrino, Mini Babybels, a pack of Le Petit Écolier biscuits, two clementines, and grapes. It’s like Alexandre was expecting me. Like I said, people are eternal optimists. Maybe that’s not always a bad thing.

  I grab a bottle, shut the door, and lean against the fridge to take a swig. There’s a matching mustard-yellow stove across from me, next to a small cupboard that looks like it was shoved into the space because it doesn’t quite fit. And there’s a crack parallel to the ceiling above it.

  Wait. No. Not a crack. A seam.

  I put my water down on the counter to my left and move closer to the cabinet. It’s covering something up. The thin wooden door of the cabinet sticks, so I pull with a little more effort, forcing it open. A few chips of white paint fall to the floor. It’s totally empty, except for the decades-old dust that touches everything in this place and what are maybe mouse droppings. Gross. I shut the door.

  Since the cabinet doesn’t sit flush with either the wall behind it or the counter next to it, I slip my hand in the open space along the side. It’s narrow, but I can fit my arm through. I wrap my fingers around the back of the cabinet and try to inch it forward. It’s empty, so it’s not impossibly heavy, but it’s cumbersome. I try fitting my hands around it, hugging the front, but my arms aren’t long enough to reach the back of the cupboard.

  It’s probably another dead end, but no stones left unturned this time around. I’m in this till the end, and I’m here, so I might as well force the issue. Literally.

  I open the door again and grab hold of the she
lves to see if I can make any headway in moving the cabinet out of its space. I gain a few inches. There’s a big enough gap between the cupboard and the wall now that it’s clear there’s a door behind it. I grab my phone to shine a light in the back. There’s no doorknob, only a round hole where a knob should be. I lean over, stretching all the way from my toes, and can barely fit the tips of my fingers into the hole where the doorknob should go, but I can’t get a grip.

  I blow my hair out of my face and step back, trying to assess how to get sufficient leverage to pull this cupboard out. I twitch my nose partially from the dust, partially because I’m not sure what to do next. Then Zaid and his ridiculous physics jokes pop into my head. He would find this whole slapstick situation hilarious. He could probably make me laugh about this whole thing. And he would know what I need: force equals mass times acceleration.

  Force. I need more force. And I’m the force.

  I take a deep breath and grab the open cabinet door with one hand and the side of the cabinet with the other. I pull. Hard. The cabinet inches forward. I pull again; I feel a few drops of sweat beading above my lip. I can do this. A surprising buoyancy fills me. The cabinet gives some more and now is sort of twisted, the side of its open door angled toward the kitchen. This time, I grasp the door with both hands and pull hard with all my strength.

  My right hand slips, and I fall right on my ass.

  “Dammit,” I say as I stand up, rubbing my backside and rolling my head to stretch my neck.