fiction we create. We build our worlds out of vestiges of history and the fairy tales adults tell us and scraps of poetry we hear: Beauty is truth, truth beauty.
A poem can be the truth. And a painting. And a novel. And this space right now, between Alexandre and me, in the fading light of early evening in a writer’s haven in the French countryside where words gave life to an epic. And in these words, black ink fading into the weave of cream-colored paper, rests Leila’s truth, revealed at last.
Alexandre and I stare at the wrinkled and creased sheaf of papers in front of us. The ceramic confiture pot is now back in the kitchen of Chateau d’If, where it must once have been long ago. Sealed away, it has done its duty, preserved the treasure of Leila’s story, protected her words from rain and predators and opportunists while waiting for us to find them. That’s what I want to believe.
We find a note folded on top of the story, and I read it out loud, my voice breaking but my heart full.
Cher Ami,
I find myself in your debt. For it is you who bade me write my story that I could discover agency in this world, that in placing pen to paper, I may at last rid myself of the specter of a life desperately wanted but unlived. You were not the first who urged me so; Byron encouraged me thus, but I was not yet ready. And finding me indifferent, the poet fashioned his own tale, a dark fantasy, though he had seen the truth with his own eyes. One our dear friend then immortalized on his canvases. Perhaps I should have written sooner, but I was younger, and I feared reliving those unspeakable final days when my beloved was lost to me forever. I did not know then, as I do now, that writing my story was the way for my Giaour to come back to me, a way for me to come back to myself.
I leave these words with you now, my dear Alexandre, as I bid you adieu. Take care of them. Guard them. They are my heart, exposed.
In recent years, I felt my inquisitiveness shrivel, as one does, I suppose, when age confronts you. I found that I had replaced Pasha’s gilded cage for one of my own making. But through our talks and debates on our philosophies, indeed, in your sheer joy for even the smallest things, I find my own curiosity for life renewed, and thus I set out on one final adventure. Softer, perhaps, than the grand voyage that brought me here, but a journey I wish to take, and take alone. Do not feel that I have rebuffed you in slipping quietly away. Though as a Muslim, we confess our sins and shortcomings only to God, I offer you this last confession in the hopes that it might ease your mind or your heart. Though you know my heart belongs to another, I have loved you in my own way, Alexandre. Perhaps not with the ardor you sought and conveyed, but in true admiration for your spirit and with a trust I have given no other since I fled my home.
My departure is bittersweet. Paris is the only home I have known beyond the harem, and yet neither of them was of my choosing.
I leave now, not as I once was, but something more and stronger. I leave now with my story, at long last my own.
Peace be with you, my friend, in this life and the next.
Ever yours,
I put the letter down as I repeat the words Leila quoted in her story: “The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on.” Words concealed in a jam pot all these years—a century and a half before I was born.
I shake my head, a lump welling in my throat. It’s not possible.
“It’s a beautiful line,” Alexandre says.
“It’s more than words,” I whisper. “It’s Omar Khayyam. That’s the Persian poet she was talking about.”
“Merde, alors.” Alexandre covers his mouth with his hand. “I know you’ve said a million times you don’t believe in destiny. But Leila’s story was a part of your story all along.”
I bury my face in my hands. I’m not sure what to believe anymore. I’m not even sure of the difference between fact and fiction. Maybe there is none. Maybe we’re always becoming what we imagine ourselves to be.
Alexandre shakes his head. “What a life. This story—her story. A courtyard of hollowed trees, the yataghan the Giaour gifted her, the sack-death attempt, her rescue by jinns, her protector Si’la. It’s too fantastical to be believed.” He rubs the small of my back.
“For Muslims, jinns aren’t simply fantastical, mythical creatures,” I say, straightening. “I mean, yes, they entered into legend, but they are God’s creations, beings made from smokeless fire. Shape-shifters. Not singing blue creatures that pop out of magic lamps. Anyway, it doesn’t matter what we believe, does it? It’s Leila’s story—it’s her voice, telling us her truth.”
“And now the world will know it. Know her,” Alexandre says softly.
I sigh. I’m still not certain this is the right thing to do. Would Leila have wanted this story to be told? She wrote it for an audience of two. There’s no way she could have imagined the audience that awaits her now. I see the academics and museum curators salivating already. And with Delacroix and Dumas and Byron intertwined in all of this, it’s going to go viral in a massive way. My little ambitions to write a killer essay—to win a contest—seem so small right now.
Leila, forgive me if this isn’t what you wanted in your time, but maybe your voice and your life have been erased long enough.
“You’re still not sure, are you?” Alexandre asks.
“No. But I do think it’s the only thing we can do, that we should do. Leila isn’t voiceless, but she was silenced. And honestly, if she inspired three different geniuses, maybe Leila’s own brilliance and bravery should be uncovered for the world to see and to know. Besides, I’m sick of the old behind every successful man is a great woman BS. Time for this woman’s story to be front and center—in the light of day and not in some man’s shadow.”
Alexandre nods. “Are you talking about you or Leila?”
I smile. “Both.”