by a nameless woman who is asking me to find her. If I’m being honest, this added intrigue will make for a kickass essay, too.
And it’s not lost on me that this is the first evening that Alexandre seems to be available and not enigmatically busy. I’ve never had a first date that involved burglary before. Truth is, I’ve only had one other first date. Chances for an epic fail are high.
“Tomorrow night,” I say to Alexandre as I lie back down and face the sun.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Leila
Pasha summons me in the afternoon.
To fool him is no easy task. The kind eyes he reserves for me have daggers behind them, always at the ready to cut. And he is watching, always observing, even when he turns his gaze from you. He will notice the smallest shift in voice or posture. And he will slit a throat based on no evidence but his instinct.
Yet I am practiced at deception—meeting as I have been with the Giaour all this time, here under Pasha’s roof, in the courtyard of jinn, without detection. But now, as the taste of freedom hovers like a drop of honey above my lips, I can ill-afford a mistake or an ounce of Pasha’s suspicion.
“And what have you learned from the poet?” he asks as he stirs his tea with a studied indifference.
“He seems a fool. With little wit or knowledge politic. He spoke of poetry and his conquests in England and abroad. He speaks mainly of himself and is, of course, in awe of your grounds and court and your achievements in battle.”
I look at Pasha, hoping I have given the right answer.
He slowly sips from his cup, taking care to set it down before answering. He means for the pause to fill me with fear; he does not understand that fear has been my constant companion all my years.
He meets my gaze. “Valide tells me this poet is a man of specific desires. Perhaps the poet needs your further attention before he reveals his true purpose in our lands. Give him the comfort he needs. The connection he craves. I am certain deception lurks here. And as you know, I am never wrong.”
“Yes, Pasha.” I bow my head and walk away, bile in my throat, a cold dread whispering in my ear, but that drop of honey tantalizingly close to my lips.
Khayyam
“You’re quiet,” my dad says as we walk down the street toward our apartment.
“Hmm.” I nod. “Pondering that caramel au beurre salé I had on that crêpe—I think it’s the best I’ve ever tasted.”
Truth is, there is more on my mind than caramel tonight. Still, the crêpes are absolutely worthy of sustained contemplation. Every summer my parents and I hit up Le Sarrassin et le Froment—a crêperie that is always busy with tourists, but also always delicious and, conveniently, a stone’s throw from the apartment. Their savory buckwheat galettes have perfect crispy thinner-than-paper browned edges that I love. And the buttery dessert crêpes—topped with crème Chantilly or caramel or chocolate sauce and caramelized bananas or strawberries—are a moment of life’s perfection.
“Are you saying the caramel crêpes are even better than your papa’s? Because those are fighting words.” My mom looks from me to my father and grins.
“Absolutely. Sorry, Papa. You’ve been replaced.”
“The words every father dreads hearing,” my dad responds with a smile. “I knew this moment would come, but I thought it would be your wedding day.”
I roll my eyes. “Presumptuous much, Papa?”
My father smiles and strokes my hair, then takes my mom’s hand as he kisses her. I swear, his eyes glisten with tears.
Lately, I’ve noticed my parents are growing more sentimental around me. I asked my mom about this earlier in the summer, and she said it was because I’d be out of the house soon. And I guess this summer is a little taste of that. This is the first time in seventeen family Augusts in Paris that I haven’t been around all the time because I’ve been away exploring the city with a boy. As I’ve said before, my parents love me, but I’ve always believed that their love for me came