“It’s Orientalism, right? The idea that any culture that’s not Western is somehow savage and inferior and needs to be conquered and saved.” I glance at Alexandre, who seems both fascinated and bewildered. “In both the Byron poem and the Delacroix paintings, the Giaour, he’s written as Christian—an infidel in a Muslim country, and he’s the noble hero, the savior—and the Pasha is the cartoonishly evil villain. I mean, sure, he could’ve been a villain, but there’s never any nuance. Leila, the harem girl, is the one who needs to be saved. She’s the currency between two men. She’s voiceless and objectified—it’s sexism and racism in one fell swoop.” My body hums with anger. I take a deep breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to go off. It’s the curse of being a child of two professors—I found a rumor, a little thread connecting that Delacroix painting to Dumas, and I had to unravel it.”
While I’m trying to calm myself down, trying to figure out why this rage came on suddenly, I remember that I gave Zaid nearly this exact same lecture when I first took him to see the Delacroix at the Art Institute. I wasn’t as angry, not like this, but, then again, I was only starting to peel back all the layers to this painting, to the poem, to the history it came out of. And I hadn’t crashed and burned yet.
And Zaid, in that moment when I was going off on the Orientalism of the painting, about how it was rooted in a centuries-old Islamophobia . . . Zaid held my hand, looked into my eyes, and said, “I know.” He understood. He got it. He lives under the shadow of America’s casual prejudice every day. Just like me.
Alexandre begins absentmindedly picking the white clover flowers that dot the grass of Place des Vosges. “Remember those family rumors I mentioned about a possible gift from Delacroix? There might be more to them than legend—”
Before he can finish his sentence, I blurt, “Has your family ever tried to find that Delacroix? Wait—do you think the Nazis stole it? Some scholars think a few Delacroix paintings might have gone missing during World War II.”
Alexandre sighs but doesn’t look up from his flower gathering. “The Nazis did steal a lot of art, so it’s possible. But we do know that Delacroix gave Dumas at least one sketch.” He hesitates for a second before continuing, “Also, my uncle and I recently came across some old letters that hinted at the possibility of lost things, and we couldn’t figure it out. Honestly, he didn’t even quite believe it. Would you like to see them?”
My heart pounds in my ears. Am I hearing this right? I can’t get ahead of myself. Can’t get too excited. But what if those old letters prove that maybe my thesis wasn’t totally wrong? What if there is a missing Delacroix? What if Alexandre’s family documents help me solve the mystery or even give me another clue? If there is something, any new information, I could rewrite my paper for the Art Institute. I could prove I’m not a failure. I could show everyone—especially Celenia Mondego—that I’m a badass art historian. This could change everything for me.
Calm down, Khayyam. Stop fangirling over this dude’s tragic family history. I take a deep breath. “That would be amazing,” I say in as even-toned a voice as I can muster.
Alexandre gives me a wan smile. “We’ve lost so much of Dumas’s work—a lot of his archives aren’t in our possession or even in France anymore. It’s a family tragedy. There are lots of rumors, family lore, about my illustrious ancestor and his various escapades. Maybe you can help us find the truth.” His voice falters. He seems worried. Maybe he’s nervous about what truth he’ll find. Maybe he’s wondering if the past should stay in the past.
I’ve thought about that a lot. Wondered whether I should move on, bury all my failures—with the Art Institute essay and with Zaid—and try to forget about it all. A clean slate. But I’m figuring out that neither life nor history work that way.
“You were right,” I say softly. “He does sound like a character in one of his own books.”
Alexandre pauses his flower gathering and looks at me. “Yes. Exactly. Fact and fiction blur together in his life. What is the truth? Who was this man?”
“Who are any of us, really?”
“That is awfully Sartre of you,” Alexandre says and begins knotting the flowers together, stem to bud. His fingers move deftly around the delicate, petite blooms.
“That’s the second time I’ve been called existential today. It must be like how my French gets more colloquial every summer in Paris . . .”
“Ah, geography is destiny.”
“I don’t know if I believe in destiny.”
“What about us meeting?” he asks, still weaving his daisy chain.
A tiny flutter rises in my chest. “I’ll admit it feels odd. You know, like a fluke.”
“If only the French had a word for coïncidence.” Alexandre pronounces it the French way and chuckles at his own joke.
“Coincidences feel like magic, but they’re just math.” Even as I’m saying the words, there’s still a tiny part of me that wants to believe that magic could be real, like our meeting was written in the stars.
Alexandre inches closer to me, holding up his creation. “May I?” he asks.
I nod and dip my head so he can place the white clover flower crown on my hair. His thumb grazes my cheek as he pulls his hands away. “You are the queen of your own fate.”
I smile. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m going to find a way to erase all this pain and confusion swirling around me. Maybe the Alexandre Dumas of the past is the one who got me into this mess, but the present-day Alexandre Dumas—this handsome, charming boy—is the one meant to help me find my way out of it. And there may even be kissing.
He leans back and says with a smile, “C’est parfait.”
I beam back at him. Yes, my sentiments exactly.
Leila
I enter the solitary Room of Ablution. I have barely slept, but I am awake, alert. The blue-tiled mosaic on the floor and walls is soothing, mesmerizing as I take care to wash away my Giaour’s touch. Pasha’s senses are sharp, like his vengeance. But, like all men, he has weaknesses—his unfettered devotion and unusual trust in me that I have earned, painstakingly and at a cost.
I take the cloth and scrub off the sandalwood and musk of my Giaour. I massage rose oils onto every inch of my skin and run my scented fingers through the loosened black tresses that fall down my back, which Pasha loves to twist and coil around his fingers.
“You must be careful. Even my protection has limits.” Si’la appears before me, impeccably dressed and dry despite the wet floor. Nothing can touch her. Not even me.
The otherworldly beauty of the jiniri might be too much for most human beings to bear, but she has been with me since I first remember gazing out of my cradle, since the accident that left me orphaned and destined for this palace prison. They say I arrived clutching the opal that now hangs from my neck. Some of the other girls say it is cursed. Even Pasha doesn’t dare touch it, too afraid that the rumors of my jiniri are true. I hold the opal between my fingers, watch its fire blazing within. The same fire burns in Si’la’s eyes.