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.”
Her laugh echoes down the hall.
I slip gold bangles over my wrists. She means for her words to bury me, but she doesn’t know they planted a seed.
Khayyam
I walk up Avenue Franklin Delano Roosevelt. In Paris there are a surprising number of streets named after Americans. A lot of times I get this question about why the French hate Americans. They don’t. They only hate Americans who are xenophobic, isolationist assholes, but who doesn’t?
Alexandre stands casually at