As it stands, a lot of people probably side-eye my “good” Muslim desi girl qualifications because they find them . . . lacking. My French is fluent. My Urdu, not so much. I have my dad’s language and my mom’s religion. I’m a bunch of disparate parts that aren’t enough to make a whole. But I’m trying to stop caring about what everyone else thinks about me. I am enough.
Even when I waffle and question my own devotion, even if I miss Friday prayers, being Muslim is part of my identity, as much as French or American or Chicagoan. It’s in my bones and my blood. And no one can take that away from me.
Yeah, Mom knows about Zaid. But that doesn’t mean I want to share every single detail. I still keep some things tucked away in secret.
“Maybe it’s a technical glitch, beta,” Mom suggests, gesturing toward my phone.
“Un pépin technique? Where?” My dad chooses the perfect moment for his entrance. He walks out of the bedroom and gently places his hand on my mom’s shoulder. She looks up at him, and he smiles without showing teeth. He’s lived in America a long time, but not long enough that a toothy smile comes naturally.
I watch them lovingly gaze at each other. In many ways they’re opposites—my dad has pale blue eyes, and his fair skin burns every single summer, while my mom’s deep brown skin defies the sun. I’m somewhere in between. When I was a kid, I wished I wasn’t so in the middle. I wanted to look exactly like my mom because when she and I went out alone, someone would inevitably ask if she was my nanny. It made me mad, but she would wave it off, seemingly unbothered. “I know who I am,” she once explained. “I don’t have to prove it to anyone.” She’s always been enough for herself, too.
My mom takes my dad’s hand in hers. “Khayyam was hoping to hear from Zaid, but—”
I bolt from the couch and grab my purse from the table. Sure, my mom knows about me and Zaid. Papa does, too. But I’m not ready for their academic unpacking of my relationship. I’m not the subject of an undergrad seminar. Before they can protest, I grab my bag and am halfway to the door.
“I’m out of here. You guys can talk about me behind my back like regular parents. I’m going to get a goûter and then head to Place des Vosges.” One good thing about being stuck in Paris for the summer is the comfort of an afternoon pastry. Or three.
They laugh a little. My mom blows me a kiss. My dad tells me to text them when I get to Place des Vosges as he settles in next to my mom on the sofa. My parents exchange another loving glance. I swear, you’d think it’s their third date. I wonder what it takes to sustain that kind of adoration for over twenty years. Or even twenty weeks . . .
I push open the centuries-old wooden doors to our apartment and step into the dark hall. Maybe I should keep more secrets from my parents—less chance of getting trapped in an awkward conversation about my nonexistent love life. I sigh and sidestep the claustrophobia-inducing elevator—it’s the size of a double-wide coffin. We’re on the fifth floor, but I take the stairs up and down every time. Halfway down the wide, winding staircase, my phone buzzes.
Alexandre: Bonjour. I have spoken with the mayor of Paris, who has agreed to clear your path of merde—both real and figurative—for the rest of your stay.
Me: . . .
Me: . . .
Me: Who is this?
If Alexandre is the diversion the universe has presented, I might as well have fun.
Alexandre: Is that American humor?
Me: Ha! Touché.
Alexandre: I lay down my épée. Shall we meet?
Me: Place des Vosges? Thirty minutes?
Alexandre: Perfect. I will bring a surprise.
Me: A surprise?!
Alexandre: I will make it an American surprise so it comes with many exclamation marks!!!
Me: I see I’m not the first American to get a surprise from you?
Alexandre: You’re by far the most beautiful.
This guy seriously knows how to turn on the charm. Sadly, some of that charm is lost on me. I don’t feel completely enamored; I feel a little resigned. Because cute as it is, it’s not the text I was hoping for. My memory of Zaid is the anchor weighing me down. Zaid, whose easy smile and warm embrace felt like home no matter where we were. He was my home, but now he’s packed his bags and moved on. Why can’t I do the same?
Maybe the real question is, why are my own feelings a mystery to me?
Leila
“Haseki,” he whispers.
I cringe at the word. It is no title, but bondage.
“Giaour,” I whisper back. Infidel.
He pulls me into the heart-hollow of the twinned trees.
I place my hand on my chest, drop my eyes, pause. Then raise them to him in a flash. “I may be Pasha’s favorite, I may be confined here, but I still own my name.”
He lifts my chin toward him. “Leila,” he murmurs. “You think you are powerless, but I am under your command.”
“Thus the world is as it should be.” I smile and remove the diaphanous veil I’ve wrapped over my head; it wafts gently to the ground.
He smiles back. Flecks of gold dance in his hazel eyes. He traces an index finger over my lips. His touch is coarse, nothing like Pasha’s, whose hands are massaged with scented oils by girls of a lower rank before they slip on his silken sleep gloves. But Pasha is not soft; I harbor no such illusions. He could slash us both down with the curve of his kilij in two deft strikes.
“Did you forget to wear your riding gloves again?” I chide.
“I’m sorry.” His hand falls away. “You deserve much better.”
He plucks the fuchsia rose from his vest and gently brushes the petals against my lips. They say the scent can drive men mad.
I close my eyes and lean back against the smoothed trunk in the hollowed heart of our tree. He leans his body into mine and kisses me just above the jugular notch between my neck and collarbone. The stubble of his beard grazes my skin and makes it burn with want. He unwound his sarik before I arrived, so I run my fingers through the soft dark brown waves of his hair, scented with sandalwood oil, a precious gift from an Indian merchant.
As he unbuttons my midnight-blue ferace, he kisses me along the neckline. I look up through the hollow and see the moon has come out of hiding as her beams enter the cavity of the tree, illuminating us in silver light that pools at our feet. I draw his hand down the ornately embroidered edge of my ferace to where it parts, giving way to my sleep chemise. He sucks in his breath. His hand traces circles up my thigh—his fingernails pecks of moonlight against my skin. I pull at the sash at his waist, drawing him closer, and arc my body into his.