I shake my head. “Thus begins the line of Alexandre Dumas. But what happened to Dumas’s grandmother? Do you even know her name?” I find myself getting agitated, too, not at Alexandre, exactly, but at the circumstances—at the entire world dehumanizing and erasing this woman who had a life, who mattered.
“Marie-Cessette Dumas. We think. Sometimes she’s referred to as Louise. Dumas might have just been a descriptor given to a slave. Du mas means—”
“‘Of the farm’? She didn’t even get her own name. That’s awful.”
He sighs. “It’s like you said, another lost story. Dumas’s grandfather sold her and two other children he had with her to another owner. And when Dumas’s grandfather came to France, he brought his son, who was still technically a slave.”
“What a monster. It’s so cruel and unfair.” I stop talking, feeling a little sick about this whole story. About the stories that are right in front of us, that we disregard and refuse to see. We see history through a tiny peephole and fool ourselves into believing it’s the big picture.
Alexandre is quiet.
I am, too.
I’ve never met this woman, but I feel like she deserves this moment of silence because I can’t give her anything else. God. I can’t imagine how inexplicably awful life must have been for her. Humans can be horrifically evil to one other. I blink away a few tears. It’s not at all the same, but I can’t help but think of my own family in India and the stories Mom and Nani told me; we lost touch with some of our family during Partition—the crappy British mandate that divided India in 1947. We think some of them were killed. I have distant cousins somewhere in Pakistan that I’ll probably never know. It’s infuriating how few people get to take center stage—mostly men in power, who hog the spotlight while billions more live life in the darkness of the wings. Maybe I can help change that.
Alexandre grazes the back of my hand with his thumb. “You want to hear something ridiculous? I let myself believe that taking the Dumas name instead of de la Pailleterie was a small, rebellious way Dumas and his father kept Marie-Cessette’s spirit alive. She was the legacy they chose. And the one they gave me.”
A lump wells in my throat. “It’s sad that she never knew the Dumas impact on French history and culture. Even American culture. I mean, hello, the Three Musketeers. And when I say that, I’m specifically referring to the candy bar.”
His face lights up with a smile. “I’m happy my family could make this important contribution to your life.”
I laugh. “Hey, it was my favorite Halloween score from second through sixth grade. My friend Julie used to help me hoard them when we trick-or-treated, and she even got me a bag of minis for the plane ride over here. My love endures.”
“Good to know you’re not fickle.” Alexandre tosses a few euros onto the table before standing up and reaching for my hand, an impish glint in his eye. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
It doesn’t escape me that those are the exact words I said to him that led us to this moment. I don’t think it escapes him, either. Show-and-tell is how every relationship starts. My mind drifts to Zaid and all the things hidden and revealed even though we’re not speaking at all. I guess that’s how Instagram works—you only choose to show certain parts of yourself, but sometimes you end up telling more than you realized or intended. And people say social media isn’t the real world.
We hurry up Rue Bonaparte and onto Rue de l’Abbaye. A quick left, and we find ourselves in an adorable, barely trafficked little square. I love these little hidden nooks you can discover in Paris. You can be smack-dab in the midst of a throng of people, and you take a turn and then another, and boom, you have a small corner of Paris all to yourself. Alexandre grabs my hand and pulls me across the street. He doesn’t let go. I’m pretending it’s no big deal while secretly pleading with my palms not to get clammy.
“Where are you dragging me to?” I ask.
“We’re here,” he says and stops in front of an unassuming set of brown wooden doors. He finally lets go of my hand and points to a plaque above the door: le musée national eugène delacroix.
I know of this museum—it was Delacroix’s home and studio once. I wanted to visit when I was working on my essay, but my parents weren’t about to let me make a special trip to Paris by myself at their expense, even for research. I tried to talk to the archivist on the phone, but it was like smashing my head against the brick wall of French bureaucracy: a lot of no, it’s not possible and sorry, the archive is not yet fully digitized, and why can’t you do your research here during our ridiculously limited hours? Please let there be some treasure trove.
At the entry kiosk, Alexandre flashes an ID, and the woman at the desk gives him a tight-lipped smile and nods us through.
“What’s that, your all-access Paris badge?” I ask.
“I wish,” he says. “It’s my school ID. I’ve been doing some archival research here.”
“What school do you go to?” It occurs to me now that I haven’t bothered to ask where he goes to school or even how old he is. I’m not sure if it’s my weak attempt at keeping my distance, if I’m desperately focused on how to salvage my potential post–high school academic life, or if my brain has been too wrapped up in the Zaid situation to gather intel about the guy who’s actually available and whom I’m feeling a little bit fluttery about. Probably all those things.
“I’m starting my second year at university in September. École du Louvre. I want to specialize in nineteenth-century French art.”
He’s older. That is a bit unexpected. I was thinking maybe last year at lycée, the French equivalent of high school. But he’s probably at least nineteen. Does he know I’m only seventeen—almost eighteen? He must know. I told him I was starting senior year. I guess he doesn’t mind hanging with someone younger, because it’s not like I’m forcing him to do banal high school things like . . . prom. French kids don’t even have prom. But I let myself imagine them dancing along the banks of the Seine as the magic light of summer descends on a Paris night, the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the background. I may be Franco-American, but the American part of me still indulges in the occasional romantic, filmic Franco-fantasies.
It is summer in Paris, after all.
The museum’s library is empty except for a pale-faced woman sitting at a desk, ash-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun. She’s wearing a turtleneck. In August. From the looks of her nearly translucent skin, I don’t think she’s seen daylight for some time. She raises her eyes from her book to take us in. She’s probably the one who couldn’t be bothered to help me and chided me for making too many demands on her time. The Archival Knight, sworn to protect dusty piles of paper and old books from the unworthy, sacrificing her social life and access to vitamin D.