by Samira Ahmed
I would like to be the girl in the Instagram picture, like Rekha, all big smiles and confidence and expectations that are always met. But I’m the self-sabotaging dork who falls for physics jokes and snorts sometimes. What’s the opposite of je ne sais quoi? Because that’s me. Despite my Frenchiness. Whenever I need it most, I have no chill.
An extremely pregnant pause passes between us. Apparently, I’m the human form of an electricity dampener. I open my mouth a couple times, searching for something to say. “So . . . you said there were no other references to the raven-haired woman, right?” At least I’m on topic.
Alexandre looks down and touches the file with his fingertips. His voice now is all business. “There’s nothing else in the Delacroix library, but I haven’t searched through all the Dumas archives. These are only some of the letters and documents we have from the 1840s. There’re probably more stuffed away in storage boxes.”
When they speak, the French end their sentences with a period. Americans seem to end all our sentences with exclamation marks. The French talk with a flat intonation—an almost totally unaccented language. And there are instants, even knowing the language, even being French, when the neutral accent sounds harsh to my ear. Like I’ve done something wrong, but have no idea what.
This is one of those moments.
I try to breathe through it. I know Alexandre felt that charge between us. He’s the one that took my hand. Was I wrong about that, too, about him leaning in? Maybe he’s being nonchalant, friendly, French. Or maybe I’m overreacting, and our entire interaction only feels totally awkward to me.
I’m still mentally grasping for something to say when Alexandre turns back to me. “Can I interest you in a little more detective work?” When he smiles, the color of his eyes shifts a little toward amber, like the eyes of this old stray cat in my neighborhood. Hyde Park has a weirdly large number of strays. And one, a fluffy cinnamon cat, used to hang out by the front porch a lot. There were times when she seemed to understand what I was saying—even if I wasn’t speaking to her. She was well fed, everyone on the block saw to that, but this cat took a particular pride in her appearance. I have no idea how she managed to have fur that never looked matted. And sometimes when she looked at me with those amber eyes, it would make me think of the old jinn stories my nani would tell me from when she was a girl in India. About how some jinn might protect you. About how you can sense it.
As far as I know, there are no corporeal French-speaking jinn, but I could be wrong, because Alexandre certainly has the enigmatic eyes for it.
Alexandre’s phone buzzes and snaps me out of my daydreaming. He glances at it, frowns, and then quickly puts it away. “What do you say?”
“Sorry. Sure. I mean, yes, definitely.” I reach for the file.
He places his fingers on mine, staying my hand. “Perhaps tomorrow or the day after? I have some things I have to attend to this evening.”
“Oh . . . I . . . Of course.” Am I getting the boot? That’s what it feels like. I stumble over my feet as I get up from the couch and head to the door, my head in a fog. He follows.
“I’ll text you in the morning,” he says and leans down to give me a kiss on each cheek. “Ciao.” This time, la bise is cursory. His lips don’t linger; they barely touch my cheek.
“À demain.” I walk out and watch him shut the door behind me.
What the hell just happened?
Apparently, I’ve stepped out of a time machine, because I’m right where I was a few days ago: wondering why a cute boy has closed a door on me. Agonizing over whether he’s opening another door for someone else, someone he has to attend to. I’m not a single step closer to fixing my academic failures. I thought I was resuscitating my life, but multiple organ failure strikes again.
Leila
Few see Pasha’s inner apartments. The bedroom, of course—all the girls called at night are privy to that chamber. But the Terrace Kiosk is reserved for those in his counsel. The large windows of the Kiosk look onto the tulip garden aflame in yellow-orange-red blooms. Silk rugs line the floor. Pasha leans back against a red brocade settee. I sit at his feet. He rests his hand on my head, stroking my hair and gathering my braid. I am the perfect pet.
To all who see him, Pasha cuts a fine figure. His dark almond eyes pierce as easily as they laugh, ready to respond according to the moment and his mood. His beard and mustache are always neatly trimmed, thanks to the expert groomers who live in fear that their straight blades will nick his skin. When he stands, his sinewy body and broad shoulders reveal his training in combat and in self-assurance.
“Be happy,” another woman in the serai told me when I had come of age three years ago, almost still a child. Childhood here is painfully short. As a child you learn, too soon, that time is a luxury you are not afforded. “Our Pasha is handsome and still youthful. There are many less appealing masters to whom you could succumb.” Though my body has borne his weight, my mind and my heart will never yield to my captor.
A servant arrives to bring us our tea and pours it in steaming arcs into our filigreed-glass cups of green and crimson. Mint and cardamom scent the air between us. Pasha draws me up to sit next to him.
“You know I have accorded you a place few others, men or women, have occupied.” He sips his tea in dainty drams, lest his tongue burn.
“Yes, Pasha,” I say and cast my face downward, feigning humility and gratitude.
“I have given you the finest clothes and jewels and my time. I have employed tutors to teach you as if you were a man, because your acumen called for it. Because like Süleyman’s haseki, I thought you worthy of elevation, of one day ruling by my side. Thus, you have lived a life of leisure that most orphans could only dream of. And now the time has come for you to repay my favor.”
I tense but keep smiling, always wearing the mask. “Yes, Pasha. Your kindness toward me has been immeasurable.”
He smiles, too. “Very good. The tutor tells me your English has advanced, more than anyone’s in the court. And now you must use it to my advantage in places where I myself cannot.”
“Pasha?”
“We are to have visitors tomorrow. A lord from England. A poet-traveler who they say is entranced with our customs, adopting traditional dress in his travels. But I am interested in the real reason for his visit. It is said he is a confidant of his King George who has taken an increased fascination in our part of the world. I must know to what end.”
A spy. He wants me to be a spy.
There are many things the Pasha could ask me to do. Indeed, I could not refuse even the vilest without forfeiting my life. But I could not have imagined this.
“You will serve as his translator and show him the grounds. Determine his mission here. Use your wiles and arts as needed.”
And now I see his true course. The haseki is not shared. To be shared—to be given to another man—is to be cast out, to lose favor. Before I can stop it, a tear springs to my eye. Pasha wipes it away as it drips down my cheek.
“Don’t be scared. I have no doubt you will succeed.”
“But Pasha, am I no longer to . . . to be beckoned to your chamber?” I try to ask with as much pain and humility I can muster.
“You possess a beauty beyond beauty. Raven hair and ruby lips like no other woman I’ve known. But Valide reminds me that you have borne me no heirs. That your womb is barren. It has been two years since my poor wife passed in childbirth, taking my son with her. I must marry another. And as beautiful and wise as you are, my dear Leila, I cannot wed a woman who is both an unfruitful concubine and an orphan. Like Süleyman, I might have married my haseki. It was my intention. But now, no noble woman will marry even a pasha with a favorite such as you. You, whose beauty and charm and wit makes poets weep.”
“Pasha, I—”
“My mind is made up. But you will not be cast out from the serai. Valide has promised to take you
under her wing and counsel. There are still many ways in which you might prove yourself useful to me.”
“Yes, Pasha.” A vise grips my heart. Life under the thumb of Valide will be unbearable without my protected status as favorite.
Pasha leans over me, pushing me down on the settee. He kisses me hard on the mouth. The Valide enters. He turns to her, unbothered.
“Son, your chamber is ready.”
So he already seeks my replacement.
“I will be there momentarily. Thank you, Valide.” He dismisses his mother. Before she leaves, she sneers at me over her shoulder.
Pasha rises. “Leila, you have served me well. I will not forget you. Take rest now. Prepare yourself for tomorrow. I know you will not fail me.”
I watch him exit the room.
I am out of time.
Khayyam
I keep looking at the one text Zaid sent me after I left for Paris: I’ll see you when I see you. p.s. I got Ice Capades, as if there must be more to it. Twelve tiny words that hold an infinity of smiles and kisses and a longing for a home that doesn’t exist in the same way anymore. Twelve words that really mean one word: goodbye.
Obviously Zaid hasn’t exactly fallen off the face of the earth, because he keeps popping up for star turns on Instagram. At least I know he’s not dead. I’m serious, because before I saw him on my feed, I had this stray thought that maybe he got hit by a driver while he was riding his bike. He doesn’t wear a helmet. Who doesn’t wear a helmet while bicycling in Chicago? The same guy whose infectious carpe diem-ing is showing up not only on Rekha’s feed now, but also on Claire’s and Alia’s. It’s not like he’s kissing them. In the shot. But if my anxiety can imagine his brains splattered across 57th Street, then obviously my stomach is tied up in knots with invented scenes of what’s happening outside of the frame.
“You’ve barely touched your couscous,” Papa says.
“I thought you loved the merguez here. Are you feeling okay?” Mom adds as she and my dad exchange worried glances.
The lamb sausage at the restaurant of the Grand Mosque in Paris is one of my favorite things, and I look forward to it each summer. Since I was little, one of my beloved family traditions has been coming to the Grand Mosque for Friday prayers with my mom and then meeting my dad in this adjoining restaurant after. Because as my dad says, and I heartily second, outside of Morocco or Algeria or Tunisia, Paris has the best couscous, because, well, colonialism.
“It’s nothing,” I say as I add a little harissa paste to my couscous and scoop up a mouthful. “A little distracted, is all.”
“Have you heard from Zaid?” My mom takes a sip of her sparkling water, trying to act casual.
“Way to be subtle, Mom.”
My dad laughs. “Chérie, adults lose all ability to be subtle once they become parents.” My mom grazes my father’s forearm with her palm and smiles at him.
I shake my head. “It’s not like I was expecting it. He’s leaving for Reed soon, and I’m here in Paris with you, my beloved parentals.” I give them a cheesy grin that’s been in my arsenal since sarcasm entered my bloodstream in middle school.
“Maybe you weren’t expecting but hoping?” my mom gently muses.
My dad nods and pats the back of my hand. This is usually the time one of them busts out with a line from an old movie or some book that only four people on earth have ever read. This is the fate you resign yourself to when you’re the child of professors. I settle back into the crimson brocade banquette. The best way to get my parents off old news is by revealing the new news I’ve been keeping to myself.
“So this is kind of funny . . . I met the great-great-great- or some number of greats- grandson of Alexandre Dumas.”
My dad puts his fork down. “Pardon? You met a Dumas? From the Dumas family? How? Where?”
“I, um, literally bumped into him at the Petit Palais. He’s named Alexandre Dumas. Apparently the great literary families of France are terrible at coming up with unique names.” Both my parents laugh. They are such easy marks.
“And to think you were initially skeptical about the theory of six degrees of separation. Will we get to meet this young man who has now connected us all to Dumas?” my mom asks a little pointedly.
“Absolutely not,” I sputter, trying not to choke on my couscous. “Because you guys will try to embarrass me.”
My father wrinkles his brow, then laughs, trying to decipher if I’m actually mad or just joking. I’m still trying to figure that out, too. “I might have a few questions,” he admits. “That family is a French cultural institution. The father of Alexandre Dumas, père, was one of our greatest generals. He served Napoleon. And Dumas’s son, Alexandre Dumas, fils, was a playwright. He wrote plays for Sarah Bernhardt. And—”
“Okay,” I say, interrupting my dad’s academic fanboying. “Maybe I’ll bring him around.”
And when I say “maybe” to my parents, I mean “no.”
My parents were always nice to Zaid—almost too nice, and as a result he never felt uncomfortable around them. He’d come in, plop right down on the couch, and make himself at home. I would’ve been happier if Zaid felt a little less familiar with my family. I’d have preferred a little distance.
I guess I have that now. A whole ocean’s worth, and then some.
I’m in bed by 10 p.m. I can hear my parents out on our little balcony, softly chatting, their voices carrying through my window. A notebook lies across my lap, open to a blank page. I’m trying to come up with a new thesis for my Art Institute essay redo, or, as Alexandre might call it, a modification to rewrite my entire life. No big deal. Something about that phrase—cherchez la femme, trouvez le trésor—and the dialogue between art and literature, the relationship between Dumas and Delacroix. But none of that seems right. My mind keeps spinning back to the mysterious lady with the raven tresses. Who was she? Why was she erased from history? How did she shape the stories of these men?
If I could figure this out, if I could find her, I wouldn’t just get a kickass, possibly prizewinning college essay. I could get published. Or at least get interviewed in Art News. More importantly, I could be petty as hell about that judge who called me a dilettante.
My phone buzzes. I lurch for it.
Alexandre: Ready for some detective work tomorrow?
Me: I’m not sure.
I don’t know why I’m saying this. It’s not like I have other plans. I feel a familiar pinch—maybe conscience creeping up on me for dragging him into my own agenda? First I felt bad because of Zaid, and now Alexandre? Ugh. This is supposed to be a vacation, but at every turn, it feels like a guilt trip.
Alexandre: Do you have other plans?
Me: Maybe.
Alexandre: Are you doing the American play-hard-to-get thing?
Me: I didn’t realize you were trying to get me in the first place.
A tiny white lie, but that is the art of French coquetry—concealing a little truth to build an irresistible mystery. Maybe I have some flirting skills after all—at least when I’m screen-to-screen with a boy, if not face-to-face.
Alexandre: Oui, naturellement.
Dammit. He’s way better at text flirting than me. Probably because he’s direct and honest and not shifty. Crap.
Me: . . .
Me: . . .
Alexandre: Khayyam? Still there? BTW, what does your name mean?
He’s throwing me a softball. I’m both irritated and thankful.
Me: My parents named me after Omar Khayyam—a Persian poet, philosopher & astronomer from about a thousand years ago.
Alexandre: That’s beautiful. Did he write anything famous?
Me: The Rubaiyat? Heard of it?
Alexandre: Sadly, no.
Me: “A jug of wine, a loaf of bread—and thou, beside me singing in the wilderness. And oh, wilderness is paradise enow.” Enow
is an old way of saying enough.
Alexandre: A perfect plan. Tomorrow?
Yeah, he’s good. How is it even a contest between him and Zaid? Is it a contest? Of course it is. I’ve made it one, which is asinine, because the only competition I should be thinking about is the one that leads to my redemption. I need to focus on this missing woman and my essay and my future. I should’ve learned my lesson about letting a boy distract me, but here I am again.
Me: There is no real wilderness in Paris.
Alexandre: Leave that to me.
Every text from Alexandre makes me want to spend more time with him. He’s swoony in print and in person. And I’m imagining the kissing. I could write a whole story about the kiss that has not yet happened. But even with the blow-my-mind kissing fantasy and the in-real-life swooniness, my life feels a little off-kilter—like I’ve stepped off a boat and am walking wobbly. I don’t do well with uncertainty. I prefer the familiar to the unknown. Maybe that’s why I’m clinging to the memory of Zaid. Why I can’t let go, even when what I’m trying to hold on to is a puff of smoke.
Leila
“Checkmate, dear.” The door to my chamber is open, and Valide stands under its arch. “You thought your wiles ensnared my son, but all the while, it was I running the board. You play checkers. I play chess.”
Growing up in the serai, I learned to steel myself, to make my skin armor, but Valide is a master at the game of disarming people.
But I have learned also.
I turn to her and smile. I finger my opal. “Has the ruya peri brought you sweet dreams? Remembering your youth, perhaps? When your skin was smooth and your body ripe?” I watch as Valide blanches. “You should take care. They say the peri partner with jinn.”
She snorts, trying to regain her composure. “Good luck with your British lord tonight. I’ve heard he has quite the reputation, that his hungers are insatiable. I’ve heard what the ladies call him. His nom de guerre, as it were. These British treat us as if we are savages beneath them. Who knows your fate if you do not satisfy his needs? I shouldn’t be surprised if perhaps you didn’t return from your evening’s sojourn. But rest assured I shall make certain you are not missed.”
