The boughs of our twinned-trees curve down from the sky, screening the entrance to our hallowed space. Stardust shines as it cascades around us, giving rise to tiny sparks that bounce off our bodies.
“Run with me,” I whisper.
“Anywhere,” he says, sealing his lips over mine in a promise.
Khayyam
In America we bulldoze our past, build the future on the rubble, and pretend that ghosts can’t haunt us. I wonder if sometimes we ignore their voices because we’re scared of hearing ourselves in their echoes. Maybe that’s why I love Place des Vosges. It’s the oldest planned square in a very old city, and you can almost feel whispers of the past commingling with the present here. Turn away from the people scrolling on their phones and taking selfies, and you’ll find the oldest graffiti in Paris on one of the stone pillars around the perimeter of the park: 1764 Nicola. A guy who wrote a book about his observations in Paris and simply wanted the world to know that, once, he was here, too. That, once, he made his mark.
Another reason why my love for this place endures? Place des Vosges has grass you can sit on. Garden after garden in Paris forbids sitting or walking on the grass. It’s like grass is this untouchable objet d’art and not a tangible childhood memory of freshly mowed lawns that spark with fireflies during games of Ghosts in the Graveyard. But at Place des Vosges, I can sink my Midwestern-raised toes into the lawn. It’s a reminder that, like Nicola, I found a place here, too.
Alexandre and I didn’t choose a specific meeting point. I don’t see him by the seesaws, so I walk around the park. It’s filled with tourists and some poor, unfortunate Parisians who apparently have to keep the city running for all the out-of-towners. I tap my phone with an itchy trigger finger—I don’t want to text him and reek of eau de desperation. He’s only ten minutes late. Fifteen minutes is an acceptable level of tardiness in France. Being on time is actually a bit rude, especially if you’re going to someone’s house. But that’s nothing compared to Indian Standard Time. I don’t think I’ve been to a single desi wedding that started less than an hour late.
This cultural one-two punch of lateness compels the contrarian in me to be punctual. Besides, I hate being late, because I always feel like I’m on the verge of missing out on something important.
“Khayyam, bonjour!”
I turn at the sound of my name. Alexandre smiles at me as he sidesteps a gaggle of tourists. He’s even cuter than my memory gives him credit for: wavy reddish-brown curls and a fitted white T-shirt highlighting his tanned skin. He kisses me on both cheeks. In France, la bise—the two-cheek kiss—is perfunctory, an easy, informal greeting between friends and family. But the feather-touch of Alexandre’s lips makes me catch my breath. His cheek barely brushes mine. Yet it’s a whisper on my skin that feels like a promise.
Can’t read into this. Shouldn’t.
But the last time I felt this sensation—this effervescence—was that moment under the Southport Street ‘L’ stop when Zaid’s lips hovered just above mine. And closing that distance with a kiss felt like capturing eternity.
Okay, well, maybe Alexandre’s peck on my cheek didn’t feel quite like my first actual kiss with Zaid. Besides I’m guessing that for Alexandre, la bise is just la bise.
“That dress looks beautiful on you,” he says.
I look down at one of my summer staples: a magenta voile shift with pink embroidery around the neck. Accepting a compliment gracefully is another particularly French female characteristic that eludes me. I mumble a thank-you, then turn my eyes away, happy my skin is brown enough to hide a blush.
Before I can turn back, Alexandre places a white cardboard box in my hands and lofts a small striped cotton blanket into the air and settles it on the grass. He drops onto it with a smile and reaches a hand out for me to join him. My heart thumps as I slide my free hand into his, taking care to tuck my legs to the side as I take a seat. My knees graze his thigh. He gestures for me to open the box, and when I do, whiffs of butter and sugar and choux float out like clouds.
“L’Eclair de Génie?” I ask.
He nods. My favorite éclair shop in Paris.
“Pistachio raspberry?”
He nods again.
I’m delighted; a perfect éclair awaits. Although I was kind of hoping the surprise was going to be secret Dumas family documents. I need to be patient, or at least act like I am. Being excessively eager is not a good look in France, or anywhere for that matter.
I tap his éclair with mine and say, “Santé.” To your health.
He laughs. “You didn’t look me in the eyes when you toasted. How do I know you didn’t poison my pastry when I looked away?”
I lean over and take a bite of his éclair, making slightly embarrassing, yet not-so-exaggerated mmmmmmm sounds. “See? Poison free.”
“Touché,” he replies.
Our eyes meet. His spark with a knowing smile, a familiarity. A moment. A first step from a me-and-him into an us. Or it could all be in my imagination.
“I wish Americans did pastries like the French,” I say, trying to bring my mind back to the now, away from the what-ifs.
Alexandre shrugs. “Well you might not excel at pastries, but no one does cheese in a can like Americans.”
I shake my head. Cheese in a can is blasphemy. “I’m sorry that Cheez Whiz entered your life. Should I even ask how?”
Alexandre looks away and clears his throat. “A-a . . . friend . . . bought it for me,” he stammers. “When we were on holiday in the States as a . . . joke gift.”
“A gag gift? It’s totally gag-worthy, so that makes sense.”
“Ha!” He smirks as he wipes his hands on his skinny jeans. Then he points to one of the buildings that line the perimeter of the park. “Did you know that Victor Hugo used to live there?”
I nod. I guess we’re done talking about the Cheez Whiz friend.
“He used to take hashish with Dumas.”
I pull a cartoon double take. “What! Dumas spent his days toking up with Victor Hugo?” I laugh. “I can see it now—France’s greatest artists waxing philosophic about killer bud and arguing about whose turn it is to change the bong water.”
Alexandre scrunches up his eyebrows like I’ve annoyed him. Then he sighs like he’s exasperated. Crap. Maybe I offended his family honor by mocking his ancestors or something?
“Obviously, a servant would’ve dumped the bong water,” he says with a grin.
I breathe a small sigh of relief and laugh.
“Anyway, it probably wasn’t an issue, because they didn’t smoke it. The hash was a paste they’d mix into their coffee to inspire hallucinogenic visions. They called themselves the Club des Hashischins.” The Hash Eaters Club.