If I believed in fate, I’d say the universe was conspiring against me.
The courtyard café of the Petit Palais has always been my reliable refuge. I plan on photographing every inch of its meandering path, fragrant plants, blue-and-gold tiled fountains, and, of course, the perfectly pillowy macarons I’ll be inhaling at a small wrought-iron table amongst the blossoms. Luckily, the place is made for Instagram, which is good because I need new content to replace all the dusty old books and archival material I posted in my “ill-conceived” attempt to impress the ultimate we are not amused, judgiest of judges Celenia Mondego.
Maybe meticulously cataloguing my trip will help me forget my “catastrophic inability” to do anything right.
And maybe, perhaps, Zaid will see my posts and remember I exist.
First, though, I need to scrape the remaining dog crap from my red All-Stars.
I skulk into the shadows of the sculptures of naked women flanking the alabaster staircase that leads to the doors of the Petit Palais. As soon as I bend down to inspect my left sole, I hear someone behind me attempting to stifle a laugh.
Do not look, Khayyam. Keep your head down.
“Welcome to Paris!” a honeyed French accent declares in English.
I roll my eyes. I almost decide to bite back in French, but this arrogant jerk already chose my preferred language for sparring. “How do you know I’m not from Paris?” I ask with my back still turned to him.
“I’m s-sorry,” the Frenchman stammers.
I stand and whirl around, ready to go for the jugular, but see that this particular jugular leads to an extremely cute face.
He’s my age. Or a little older? Brown wavy hair with hints of red. Lightly tanned skin. And when he pushes his tortoiseshell sunglasses to the top of his head, he reveals eyes that could be the inspiration for the Crayola crayon I preferred above all others for my childhood masterpieces: Raw Sienna.
“Well, then you know the adage: it’s the left foot; it’s happiness!” he says.
I burst out laughing. And when I try to curb it, I end up snorting. It’s another childhood flashback; every time I hear the word happiness spoken with an even remotely French accent, it kills me.
The cute boy gives me a quizzical look.
“A-penis,” I explain. “With a French accent, ‘happiness’ sounds like ‘a penis.’ I’m sorry; I know what you’re saying: ‘C’est du pied gauche, c’est du bonheur!’” I shrug, feeling my natural defensiveness creep up. “I guess you can chalk it up to my American immaturity?”
He grins like a true Frenchman, showing no teeth. “I think no such thing about Americans or about you,” he says. Those raw sienna eyes dance. “I have heard you Americans are sometimes presumptuous, though.”
“Ha, ha. Touché,” I say, smiling back like an American, displaying all my gleaming, orthodontically perfected teeth.
His smile widens in return, challenging my assumptions about his aloof Frenchiness. Damn. His teeth are perfect, too.
“Tu parles français?” he asks.
“Je suis française,” I answer immediately.
“Et américaine?”
I sigh. Apparently being brown means you have to be something other than European. I get the but where are you really from from version of this back home in America, too. “What, my accent sucks too much?” I grumble.
“No, no, not at all. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . I only meant because of the merde on your shoe. Living in Paris . . . Parisians have a kind of dog crap radar.”
I bite my lip and look down at my All-Stars. They’re mostly poop free now. My emotional pendulum has swung from rage to mortification. I think I prefer the rage. It’s much less embarrassing.
“I step in actual crap, then I step in figurative crap as well,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
He laughs again. “Not at all. In fact, it’s my fault. It was hardly chivalrous of me to question your citizenship based on your inability to avoid crap.”
I laugh again, too. I can’t help it. Laughing with a hot, anonymous French boy is a more satisfying diversion than either Instagram or macarons. Plus, he actually used the word chivalrous without irony. Zaid knows what it means, but it’s not exactly in his vocabulary.
The boy clears his throat. “Perhaps I can ask for a modification?”
I knit my eyebrows together. He’s pronouncing “modification” the French way, which throws me. “Modification?” I repeat. “Oh, um, you mean, a do-over?”
“Oui. Oui. Yes. A do-over.” He offers a soft grin, then places a hand on his chest and straightens his shoulders. I realize he’s tall, taller than me, and I’m five-foot-seven or, as we say in France, 1m70. I’m not just bilingual; I speak metric, too. “Please, let me begin again. I’m Alexandre Dumas.”
I burst out laughing. The universe is trolling me. “Alexandre Dumas? Let me guess; your best friends are three brothers named Athos, Porthos, and Aramis?”
His smile falters a little.
I can feel my face getting hot. Sometimes I speak before I think. Now I actually hear my dumb dad joke made at his expense. Somehow I managed to be both childish and pretentious, because duh, doesn’t everyone know the names of the Three Musketeers?
“Dumas is my sixth-great-grandfather,” he says.
My mouth drops open. Is he kidding me? I know there’s no such thing as fate. Fate is coincidence. Coincidence is math. But damn, the odds of this . . . I should’ve bought a lottery ticket.
“Alexandre Dumas is your grand-père? No freaking way.” I clear my throat and collect myself, reaching out my hand. “My name is Khayyam Maquet. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Enchanté,” he says.
He’s reluctant to extend a hand back. Our eyes meet. Shaking hands is not the customary French greeting between friends. But we’re only strangers who engaged in witty banter, and I’m not about to kiss this dude on the cheeks. Still, I don’t think he’ll leave me hanging.
“This might sound weird,” I say when he finally does shake, “but follow me. There’s something I want to show you.”
Leila
Haseki.
The favored.
That is what they are compelled to call me. All of them. Eyes cast downward in reverence. Do not aspire to this, I want to warn the young ones. The ones whose rosy lips and cheeks have yet to be introduced to Pasha. But I do not say this. I say little, choosing my words wisely.
This is how you survive.