up at Alexandre, whose eyes narrow in focus.
He taps his finger on his lips. And now I’m staring at his lips again. “Gautier was some kind of writer then, too, I think. Maybe a poet?”
I force my eyes off his lips and onto the page. “Anyway, look.” I point to a line and give him a little nod so he’ll read it. He obliges.
“I arrived in a remote quarter in the middle of Paris, a kind of solitary oasis which the river encircles in its arms on both sides as though to defend it against the encroachments of civilization. It was in an old house on the ?le Saint-Louis, the Pimodan hotel built by Lauzun . . .”
“Our apartment is, like, right around the corner from where they used to meet. Isn’t that weird?”
“Destiny, perhaps?” Alexandre grins. “But you don’t believe in that, do you?”
“Keep reading,” I urge and move his finger down a couple paragraphs on the page. He turns his hand around, pulls my fingers into his palm, and then flips it back over so his hand rests on mine as we follow the words on the page. I suck in my breath. It feels . . . intimate. Is that possible, when all we’re doing is reading?
“Delacroix spooned a morsel of the greenish paste from a small crystal bowl, and placed it next to the silver spoon on my saucer that I then added to my strong coffee with moderation. He’s describing how they got stoned. Here it says the paste was a mix of the hash plus cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, orange juice, butter—”
“Orange juice and butter? Disgusting. I wonder why they didn’t smoke it.”
“Hash wasn’t exactly the same as weed now. Definitely not like what you have in the States. Here it’s almost like a resin. Most of the time we crumble it and mix it with tobacco.” I raise an eyebrow at him. He grins. “It was research.”
I nudge him a little; he nudges back. He’s still holding my hand.
“Keep reading,” I say. “We haven’t gotten to the good part yet.”
“I disagree,” he says while grazing the back of my hand with his thumb.
I smile, then tip my head up to kiss his neck.
He keeps reading. “Slowly, our soirée was joined by the most extraordinary figures, a disarray of fantastical beastly and human shapes in rags and tatters. All seemed aware, moved by the phantoms, save Dumas. He had thoughts only for her, the dark-haired beauty with melancholy eyes, the high priestess of our séances. Dumas would retreat into the shadows, a corner, wholly unto himself, allowing quiet to reign over him. Besotted by she, who though with us, was always apart. La belle dame aux cheveux raven, he would call her, using, always, the English word.”
Besotted.
Alexandre slips a piece of paper between the pages and puts the book down. Then he leans his body into mine, bright eyes twinkling. “You found her.”
“She wasn’t even that hard to find. She’s literally right here. Who knows how many people read this and didn’t even give her a second thought? She’s just some random, unimportant woman—window dressing in the life of important men.”
Alexandre knits his fingers through mine. “Maybe it was your destiny to find her. La belle dame aux cheveux raven,” he says and takes a few strands of my hair between his fingers.
“I still think it’s weird how Dumas uses an English word in that phrase to describe her. ‘The beautiful woman with raven hair.’ It’s romantic, though.”
Alexandre grazes my cheek with his thumb. “This time I’m the Dumas using that endearment, and I’m talking about you.”
Leila
We step into the courtyard at the magic hour. The golden rays of sun descend onto the trees, setting the hollowed trunks aglow like they are lit with fire from within. The poet’s eyes fill with the wonder of this place. He walks between the trees, running his hands across the trunks and stepping into their carved spaces.
“A garden of hollow trees. It is poetry,” he says.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Please call me Byron,” he asks, nay, commands. It does not escape