Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know

by Samira Ahmed

  “Perhaps you should ask him.”

  “You may be the favorite for now, but there is treachery in your velvet eyes, and one day he will discover it.” She glowers at me.

  “But that day is not today. Today I am called to serve Pasha, and I do so humbly. But I must first finish my ablutions and ready myself, as he prefers. I wouldn’t think you’d want to interfere in that.”

  She narrows her eyes at me and cackles. “Shameless barren girl. I suppose you think my son honors you with the ancient title of haseki, that like Süleyman the Magnificent, he would elevate you to wife. I’m afraid you may find your confidence is woefully misplaced. You’re merely an expendable object of desire. One that is easily replaced.”

  Khayyam

  Alexandre gave me his key.

  Well, his key code, anyway.

  In Paris, most apartment buildings have exterior doors that lead into a courtyard where you can access the main doors for the actual building. It’s common practice to give visitors your building code since a lot of the doors facing the street don’t have buzzers. But knowing this doesn’t prevent my heart from racing or my fingers from hesitating. To steel my nerves, I picture the imaginary high five Julie would give me for not chickening out. I enter the four digits with shaky fingers and wait for the mechanical click that tells me I can push the door open.

  I take a breath. I’m two flights of stairs away from meeting Alexandre’s parents. And I’ve only just met him. I’ve never faced a meet-the-parents-of-a-guy-I-like scenario. I already knew Zaid’s parents from before we hooked up. I don’t even know Alexandre’s parents’ names, and I guess they’ll expect la bise? Because a handshake would be weird. What is the protocol for meeting the parents of a cute French boy who you have not kissed—yet—and who could maybe help course-correct your entire life? That’s not in any guidebook or handbook for understanding French culture. I’d say my desire to puke is several orders of magnitude greater than any moment I had going to Zaid’s place. I should’ve limited myself to one pain au chocolat this morning.

  As I climb the winding stairs, I distract myself in the way of a true nerd—remembering a lecture my dad gave me about Paris city planning. I love random historical facts because facts don’t betray you. Alexandre’s building is classic Haussmannian—grand in scale with an ornate stone façade. Haussmann was an urban planner hired by Napoleon III to give Paris a serious makeover—redesigning the buildings for greater uniformity and creating the wide boulevards and leafy parks that transformed overcrowded, cholera-infested, dirty, nineteenth-century Paris into the City of Light we know today. All those facts are true. Also true? Thinking about Parisian city planning is absolutely not a distraction from the sparkling-eyed, wavy-haired boy who is waiting for me in his open doorway.

  “Ça va?” Alexandre asks and gently wraps his fingers around my upper arm as he bends down to kiss my cheeks. They warm instantly. I don’t think he understands the pulse-pounding power of his la bise.

  “I’m good.” I step into his foyer, waiting for the rest of his family to greet me. Alexandre shuts the door. It’s just the two of us. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. I clear my throat and whisper, “Um, how do I address your parents? Monsieur and Madame Dumas? Or—”

  “Oh. Sorry. Didn’t I mention my parents are with my younger brother near Arles? Papa is meeting with my uncle—some, um, family business needed their attention.” Alexandre looks down and rubs the back of his neck.

  I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Because here we are, alone. Not that it’s bad. It’s less pressure than trying to make a good impression on the parents, but also weird and anxiety inducing? I scratch an imaginary itch on my forehead. “Oh. You mean, your dad and uncle are mixing work with vacation? Doesn’t that violate French holiday regulations?”

  Alexandre meets my gaze. “I’ll join them in Biarritz in a few weeks. But I also had some, uh, matters to attend to in Paris.”

  “You’re working in August, too? Stuck in Paris with the strike, the sweltering heat, and the tourist onslaught? Bummer.” A proper holiday is sacred in France. We come to Paris in August every year because of my parents’ work schedules, but I am not a tourist. My dad would prefer visiting in June or September—his favorite months when the light is even more glorious and the actual Parisians haven’t escaped to the beaches of Brittany or Côte d’Azur or some charming countryside gîte.

  A grin spreads across Alexandre’s face. “I was dreading my tasks, but August in Paris is turning out to be beautiful.”

  I try to curb my smile without success. “Ahh, that’s why you invited me to your apartment, your empty, lacking parental supervision apartment?”

  “I-I . . .” he stumbles. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t intending . . .”

  I start laughing. It’s kind of fun to see someone else a little disarmed for once. Alexandre’s face relaxes into a smile.

  He clears his throat and continues, “Perhaps my great-grandfather would’ve invited you up to see his estampes japonaises. But I assure you my intentions are far more honorable.”

  Now I’m the one who’s confused. What would Dumas owning Japanese prints have to do with any—“Wait, wait, is that like the ancient French version of ‘Netflix and chill’?” I place my hand on my chest in mock surprise.

  “Like I said, Alexandre Dumas, père, never lacked for, um, company,” Alexandre says as his open smile shifts to something more serious. “But I’m not him.” I only nod in response because I’m not sure why the sudden turn. “Anyway, let me fetch those papers I wanted to show you. Make yourself at home,” he says, waving me toward the living room before disappearing down a long hall.

  Make myself at home? If only that were ever easy for me.

  I step toward the main room. It’s light and airy; gauzy white curtains frame the windows and billow with the warm breeze. The wide gray couch is strewn with embroidered and mirrored pillows. The shabby chic sofa—emphasis on the shabby—is inviting, but I’m too nervous and fidgety to sit.

  I turn back toward the foyer and start to take off my shoes. We are a strictly shoeless household, in Chicago and in Paris, but there is no pile of discarded shoes in the entryway, and Alexandre had sneakers on. As I’m having my ridiculous internal debate about wearing shoes (I mean, I stepped in dog crap with these shoes!), my eye is drawn to a small sketch. I move closer. It’s a woman, the inky folds of her dress falling off her shoulders to reveal her breasts. She’s holding a flag in one hand, a bayonet in the other. She’s looking over her right shoulder at the flag she’s holding aloft as it flutters behind her. The woman is alone, but she’s clearly waiting for the scene to be filled in around her. It suddenly strikes me that I know exactly who she is.

  It’s a Delacroix. They have a Delacroix sketch in their damn entryway.

  “It’s a study for Liberty Leading the People,” Alexandre’s honeyed voice whispers by my ear. “I’m guessing you know that?” I was lost in the drawing and didn’t notice he had come up behind me until his breath tickled my skin.

  I nod. “See? You did want to show me one of your etchings, and it just happens to be a sketch of the most famous Delacroix ever? Well played.” I elbow Alexandre, and he clutches his stomach with one hand, pretending to be wounded. He’s holding a large manila folder in the other.

  He laughs and steps past me. “Remember when I said you were right about Delacroix giving art to Dumas? This is the one gift we are certain he gave him. It’s been in the family since the 1830s or 1840s—we’re not sure if it was given before or after he finished the actual painting.”

  That actual painting is displayed against a dark red wall along a huge hall in the Louvre. Alexandre has a Delacroix character study of a painting that’s in the Louvre. No big French deal, right?

  I restrain myself from an in your face, Celenia fist pump, because it would be weird, even if the pettiness would make m
e feel good for a second. But this proves that my thesis for the Art Institute essay was plausible, if not quite probable yet. I was only wrong about which Delacroix Dumas owned. Okay, understatement. I was spectacularly wrong, and since my supernova-sized crash and burn, I pretty much doubt myself all the time. But my art historian Spidey sense is tingling—and not only because I can feel Alexandre’s arm brushing against mine.

  “My father almost sold it, but I begged him not to.” Alexandre’s shoulders slump as he tells me this.

  “What! Why would he even consider it?” It’s impossible for me to imagine owning a Delacroix drawing, so it’s unthinkable anyone would consider selling one gifted to their family by the artist himself.

  “I . . . oh . . . well . . . my father . . . We don’t always see eye-to-eye on our heritage. He’s much more practical, and I’m—”

  “Sentimental?”

  Alexandre’s eyes twinkle at me. “Yes, that’s one way to put it.”

  “So your dad is blasé about the whole being related to a famous writer and having art from his famous friends on your wall.”

  “He’s French; of course he’s blasé. It’s a requirement for nationality.” He gives me his easy, whole-rogue half-grin. But for the first time, it strikes me that his smile is disarming enough to easily hide the truth.

  I laugh. “Well, I’m French also, and you don’t see me being all blasé about the Delacroix in my house. Besides, being sentimental is pretty damn French, too.”

  “It’s possible to be both at the same time, I guess? About the same thing? Perhaps there is something or someone in your life like that, no?”

  I swear, Alexandre’s been reading my diary. If I had one. I wish I could be blasé about Zaid’s friendly cameos in various Instagram feeds. It’s a scandal, but only in my mind, because it’s not exactly shocking that a cute, single eighteen-year-old boy is snapping selfies with gorgeous girls the summer before he leaves for college. A bitter taste coats my tongue as I imagine the pictures, which I absolutely should not have been looking for. I’m a glutton for punishment. This would be the exact right moment for me to be as French and c’est la vie as possible. But the emotional side of me, the one I try to hide, won’t let me let go.

  Clearing my throat, I nod to the thick folder in his hand. “What did you want to show me?”

  Alexandre guides me over to the sofa and places the folder on the coffee table, then pops into the kitchen. I allow myself to relax into the pillows. A million thoughts race through my mind, but this stunning, perfect light streams across my body in wide slants. I let my eyes close for a second. I sink deeper into the couch. I feel like a cat stretching out, ready for a delicious nap.

  “You look like a painting.” Alexandre stands above me with two bottles of Orangina that he places on the table. No coasters. Water rings be damned. Maybe that’s why all the furniture feels worn. Alexandre’s dad is blasé about being a Dumas, and Alexandre is blasé about wrecking old furniture.

  I straighten, and our arms and thighs brush while he settles in next to me, the temperature on the couch rising as the heat pours off me in waves. Alexandre grazes my knee as he reaches over to grab the folder from the table. I suck in my breath. Focus, Khayyam. There’s a reason you’re here. And it’s research, not romance.

  Alexandre leans into me as he fingers the file. I feel a little flutter in my stomach, only it’s not the kind indicating several orders of magnitude of vomiting. It’s worse. It’s the kind that suggests I’m about to make things extremely complicated for myself. I let Zaid distract me to the point of failure when I was researching my paper for the Art Institute. I can’t make that same mistake again. No matter how much I may want to.

  Alexandre unsheathes a letter and reads to me: “Chère Madame aux cheveux raven.” He stops and looks at me.

  “I’m listening,” I assure him.

  “Have you noticed he uses the English word raven? Like Delacroix did.”

  “He should say, ‘cheveux noirs.’ Black hair. Right? Or ‘corbeau,’ if he wanted to use ravenlike as a more poetic descriptor.” It’s odd. Odd is good. Odd can mean a clue.

  “Absolutely. It could mean he heard that somewhere or—”

  “Or that the raven-haired lady could be English. Read the rest of it.” I’m intrigued, impatient. A teensy part of me wants to forget the letter so I can kiss this swoony boy right now. But I can’t let that distract me from what I need. Digging up old buried secrets might be the one way I can fix my life.

  But the way Alexandre keeps glancing up at me through the tousled brown hair that falls over his eyes isn’t helping me focus.

  He continues:

  October 3, 1844

  Chère Madame aux cheveux raven,

  I am in agony.

  Please relieve me from this despair and grace me with a private interview, that you may teach me a small part of what you know. I am eternally working, all hours of the day. But you need only raise your hand in summons, and I shall abandon pen and paper for a mere moment in your presence.

  All the wisdom I have known as a man is summed up in the words with which I leave you: I wait and hope.

  Ever yours,

  My fingers curl into my palms. I can’t tell if I’m breathing anymore. I am in agony. Same, Alexandre Dumas, père, same. I’m trying not to stare at my Alexandre’s perfectly pillowy bottom lip.

  “Khayyam? What do you think?” Alexandre’s voice pulls me back into the moment. Crap. Did he notice me staring at his lips? At least he can’t read my thoughts.

  I sigh and give my head a little shake. “That is some seriously eloquent begging.”

  Alexandre chuckles. “Yeah, from a man who could have any woman.”

  I tilt my head and raise an eyebrow. “That’s presumptuous, don’t you think? Even if he is your family.”

  “I’m sorry, but he was extremely popular with the ladies. Lucky man.”

  I’m sure my voice betrays a hint of annoyance. “You sound jealous of his, what, entourage? Harem?”

  “Jealous? Not at all.” Alexandre locks eyes with me. “I told you I’m not like him. I prefer to focus my attentions on only one woman.”

  I look away for a second, my cheeks burning. When I swivel my head back, he’s still smiling at me. “Um”—I clear my throat—“is that the only clue? A letter from 1844?”

  “And the notes from the Delacroix archives.”

  “Since we’re not Sherlock Holmes, we’re going to need more than a couple letters and some doodles to solve the great mystery of who the raven-haired lady is, if she even existed. For all we know, that letter could’ve been a draft for part of a novel.”

  “She’s definitely real. I feel it in my gut. Dumas was a man with strong desires who could get what he wanted.”

  “Maybe this woman didn’t want him or didn’t want to be another one of his conquests.” As the words come out of my mouth, I realize I’m being defensive on behalf of an unnamed, possibly fictional, woman from the nineteenth century. But someone has to defend her honor, and it might as well be me.

  “That would make this mystery even more intriguing. The woman who says no to the man who always heard yes.”

  Alexandre’s words cut through me. Whoever this raven-haired woman was, I kind of hope she was the woman who said no to Dumas but yes to herself. I feel a sudden urgency to know more about her right now. “There have to be more traces of her in the historical record. She couldn’t have just vanished.”

  “People are lost in history all the time.” Alexandre shrugs. “C’est la vie.”

  I imagine a life that completely falls through the cracks. A person no one remembers. Unloved. Forgotten. Expendable. Like Alexandre Dumas’s grandmother. Like my own grand-mère. Once I’m dead, no one will have a living memory of her. I think of this raven-haired woman who inspired Dumas’s passion. A woman who doesn’t eve
n get a name of her own. There are literally centuries of women who never got to tell their stories. An invisible hand squeezes my heart for the nameless women history brushed aside. I thought before that maybe Dumas was reaching through time to help me, but it’s not him. It’s this forgotten woman who’s holding her hand out, and I’m not going to let her stay lost. She was a real, live person who walked these streets, and she must’ve left her mark somewhere, even if it’s hidden. Maybe no one else cared enough about her to write her name into history books, but I do.

  I take a deep breath and look at Alexandre. “Cherchez la femme, trouvez le trésor. If we find her, we find the treasure. We’re going to raise the dead.”

  He smiles. “Les nécromanciens.”

  “Dude, I don’t mean black magic. Indians do not play with that.”

  This inspires a head-thrown-back laugh from Alexandre. That act is startlingly un-French. I raise my palm, twisting my fingers upward in my desi-fied WTF gesture.

  “You are such an unusual combination of American, French, and Indian. It’s fascinating,” he says.

  “Ugh. You sound like a nineteenth-century anthropologist discovering a ‘lost’ tribe.”

  He stops grinning and takes my hand.

  I’m annoyed, but I let him. And my skin feels like it’s cupped around a lit sparkler.

  “I’m sorry. That’s not what I was trying to convey. At all. What I meant to say, and failed at, was that I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re so . . . unexpected.” Alexandre looks at me with those hazel-y eyes and presses my hand. Bending his head lower, closer to mine, he whispers, “You are singular.”

  His face hovers inches from mine.

  “As opposed to plural?”

  Dammit. We were about to have a moment. And I come up with a dad joke? He’s right. There is no one like me. I explain the singular-plural play on words. He laughs politely and releases my hand.