to write to you yearly on the anniversary when we were parted. In this endeavor I have failed, yet in my vow to remain true—to live and live only for you—I have not wavered. More than three decades have passed since Pasha’s kilij struck you down and cleaved my heart in one fell swoop. Every day I have prayed for you, that God grant you a place in jannah.
Time has been kind to me, though I fear you would no longer recognize me should you, through some miracle, walk through this door. My hair is grayer, and wrinkles meet my eyes when I smile; my smiles are but a shadow of the joy I shared with you. Though it came at too high a price, your youth is eternal in my mind’s eye. The soft waves of your black hair bear no hint of age, and the flecks of gold in your eyes, those warm eyes, dance as they did thousands of nights ago in our courtyard of hollowed trees. Hallowed trees. I have promised myself not to mourn you all my days, yet to hold you fondly in remembrance, but my love, I must confess, it is difficult, and with each passing day, you grow more distant from me.
There is little luxury of the harem here. But I do not long for it. A cage, though gilded, is still a cage. And here I am free. The old woman who took me under her wing passed some years hence but left me a small living. And while I long ago sold the jewels that accompanied me on this voyage, living frugally has allowed me to reap, even still, some benefit from those gifts. How it pleases me to know that my easy disposal of those jewels would anger Pasha.
But I have built this life from almost nothing and without regret. I have scraped together a material living using my wiles, learning to navigate this world of men even as I did the world of men back home. It is a simple life, but it is mine.
The poet, too, died some time ago. Though we were little in touch, I felt his passing most deeply—the last unwitting connection to home. He was a petulant child and selfish and also beautiful and daring. And ever one who lived freely. As of late, I have fallen into favor with a group of French writers and artists. Using skills and arts I learned in the harem and in my travels, I read their fortunes, and, when on occasions they take hashish in their coffee and wish to commune with spirits and find their muses, I am at their service. I can only imagine how you and I could have laughed at their folly together. For this amusement, I am given a modest room in a once-opulent h?tel particulier that has seen better days. As have we all.
There is one in particular, a novelist, with whom I have been passing the time, and he quite pleases me. He has a round face and wild, unkempt hair and a mirthful mouth. And his stories amuse and fascinate me. Alexandre woos me with words and long letters professing his love. But he knows my heart. When I told him our tale, so different from the fiction the poet created in your name, Alexandre bade me—nay, challenged me—to put pen to paper and tell my own story, that the truth would be known. Perhaps I will, so that when my memory fails me, as it will almost certainly, I may gaze upon those words, and within them, you and I will live once more as we were. Star cross’d yet also young and beautiful and alive and in love. With an emotion so rapturous and pure, jinn and angel alike surely wept when we were parted.
It is late, my love, and the candle is nearly at its end. Tonight, I burn sandalwood incense in your memory. I pray its perfume wafts me to sleep that I may dream of you. And now as I do each evening, I whisper my goodbye to you: My love, may our separation be brief. May our paths join again at water’s edge. May God keep you always in his care.
Ever yours,
Alexandre and I read it over and over last night, but rereading it this morning, there’s still