Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know - Samira Ahmed Page 0,52
don’t think he can help it.
“Oh my God.” I shake my head at him. “Anyway, since I cracked this valuable French antique, might as well see what’s inside it. Give me some light.”
I open the drawer a little more. Gently. Gently. No more cracking. There’s a long red silky scarf. When I pull it out of the drawer, a little spider jumps out and lands on Alexandre’s jeans. He yells and jumps back, swatting at his pants.
I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing, then grab the scarf and give it a good shake to make sure no other creatures are going to surprise us. I hand it to Alexandre, who gently folds it and places it on top of the buffet.
Beneath the scarf are two cards about twice the size of regular playing cards. I take them out and flip them over. Alexandre blows away some of the dust and shines a light on them.
The first is a crowned figure that looks like it’s sitting on a wheel. The colors are faded. Alexandre reads the words at the bottom, “La Roue de Fortune.” Wheel of fortune. Then he looks at the second card. It’s a crude drawing of a man with what looks like a skeleton head. There’s some kind of stick or handle in his hands. Maybe a shovel. Alexandre doesn’t need to read the words at the bottom, because they’re clear. La Mort. Death. I shudder. I’d prefer spiders to death cards.
“Tarot de Marseille,” Alexandre says.
“I get the tarot part, but why Marseille?”
He shrugs. “That’s the name. Tarot is played as a card game in France, not only for fortune-telling. My grand-mère used to play a lot with her friends.”
“I’m guessing if they were doing séances here while taking hash, the fortune part was what they were interested in.” I start to put the cards back in the drawer, but Alexandre stops my hand.
“We should keep those,” he says. “Maybe they’re clues?”
“Sure. We’ve already broken in. Why not steal stuff, too?”
“Borrow. And why not? We’re trying to unravel a cultural mystery, after all.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “We’re borrowing them for the good of the country. We’re such patriots . . . Justification is how a life of crime begins, isn’t it?”
“If you suggest stealing a diamond necklace from Cartier for the good of the proletariat, then we’ll know.”
I laugh. Then sneeze. And sneeze again. Then snort. God, I’m the subtlest thief in the world.
“Ssshhh.”
I’m about to unleash my annoyance on Alexandre, because I do not like being shushed. Then I hear it.
A siren.
It’s close. And getting closer.
Leila
The tips of the trees in the second courtyard glow as if on fire, but they do not burn. All around the jinn perch on branches, looking down at me. Si’la rises on a limb of the tree that is the heart of the courtyard. My Giaour steps out from its hollow, a smile on his face, the deepest pink rose in his hands.
I close the distance between us, removing the veil from my face. He clasps an arm around my waist and pulls me to him, folding me into a deep kiss. Is there a way for the world to end right now, in this moment of life’s perfection? Can the heavens fall, crushing us in this knotted embrace forever, until we are stardust? So that the light of our love spreads across the darkness, perfuming the firmament with sandalwood and rose petals?
He steps back and places his palm against my cheek. “The skiff waits for us at the port. My man will meet us there and row us to the vessel Salsette. But I must ask you again: You trust this poet, this British lord?”
“He will not betray us. Perhaps he is a rake and selfish, but he will do this for me—and the Romantic tales he may tell from it.”
“He will do this for you, as would anyone.”
“We will be free, my beloved,” I whisper.
“Inshallah,” he says, brushing my cheek with his thumb.