#father-son-relationships tend to be a bumpy road

[josefavomjaaga]

Eugène disobeys. Kinda.

As related before, in November 1813 Eugène had refused an offer made to him by his father-in-law to join the Allies, and he had sent a report of the event to Napoleon. Who had answered in his usual laconic way: 

Paris, November 28, 1813

My son, I receive your letter of the 22nd, 11 PM. I recognize Austria's politics very well in there; that's how she creates so many traitors.

(According to the secret envoy, Prince von Thurn und Taxis, the reaction of Eugène’s father-in-law on hearing that Eugène had refused was similarly brief: »Je les ai bien dit.« - »I had so told them that before.«)

So, that was that. In case Eugène had expected a pat on the head (which he clearly had), he got no such thing.

However, three months later Eugène would be in a position to be accused of treason (or at least disobedience) himself. On February 16, 1814, he received an order via Clarke:

Le Duc de Feltre (Clarke) à Eugène, Fevrier 9, 1814

Monseigneur,

l'Empereur me prescrit par sa lettre datée de Nogent-sur-Seine le 8 de ce mois de réitérer à Votre Altesse Impériale l'ordre que Sa Majesté lui a donné de se porter sur les Alpes aussitôt que le roi de Naples aurait déclaré la guerre à la France. D'après les intentions de Sa Majesté, Votre Altesse Impériale ne doit laisser aucune garnison dans les places d'Italie, si ce n'est des troupes d'Italie, et elle doit de sa personne venir avec tout ce qui est français sur Turin et Lyon, soit par Fenestrelle, soit par le mont Cenis. L'Empereur me charge de mander à Votre Altesse qu'aussitôt qu'elle sera en Savoie elle sera rejointe par tout ce que nous avons à Lyon.

***

Monseigneur,

the Emperor instructs me by his letter dated Nogent-sur-Seine on the 8th of this month to reiterate to Your Imperial Highness the order which His Majesty gave him to proceed to the Alps as soon as the King of Naples had declared war on France. According to the intentions of His Majesty, Your Imperial Highness must not leave any garrison in the places of Italy, except for the troops of Italy, and he himself is to come with all that is French to Turin and Lyon, either by Fenestrelle, or by Mont Cenis.

The Emperor charges me to mandate to Your Highness that as soon as he is in Savoy he will be joined by all that we have in Lyon.

This message was also supposed to be sent via telegraph, but it never seems to have reached Milan that way. Only on February 16, after receiving it via courier, Eugène writes back, asking Clarke for clarification. Leave? In the case that Murat attacks us? Or like – right now? Why? So far the Neapolitans still seem to be quite undecided; we can hold on a lot longer here.

Before Clarke can send another order, Eugène, on February 18, receives not one but two family letters:

Josephine à Eugène, (Février 9)

Ne perds pas un instant, mon cher Eugène, quels que soient les obstacles, redouble d'efforts pour remplir l'ordre que l'Empereur t'a donné. Il vient de m'écrire à ce sujet. Son intention est que tu te portes sur les Alpes, en laissant dans Mantoue et les places d'Italie seulement les troupes du royaume d'Italie; sa lettre finit par ces mots: « La France avant tout, la France a besoin de tous ses enfants! »

Viens donc, mon cher fils, accours ; jamais ton zèle n'aura mieux servi l'Empereur. Je puis t'assurer que chaque instant est précieux.

Je sais que ta femme se disposait à quitter Milan; dis-moi si je peux lui être utile? Adieu, mon cher Eugène, je n'ai que le temps de t'embrasser et de te répéter d'arriver bien vite.

***

Do not lose a moment, my dear Eugene, whatever the obstacles, redouble your efforts to fulfil the order the Emperor has given you. He has just written to me on this subject. His intention is that you should go to the Alps, leaving in Mantua and the places of Italy only the troops of the kingdom of Italy; his letter ends with these words: "France above all, France needs all her children! "

Come then, my dear son, hurry; never has your zeal served the Emperor better. I can assure you that every moment is precious.

I know that your wife was preparing to leave Milan; tell me if I can be of use to her? Farewell, my dear Eugene, I have only time to embrace you and to tell you again to arrive very soon.

And Hortense to Eugène (10 Février)

Je t'envoie la lettre de l'Empereur à l'Impératrice et la réponse de notre mère; je ne comprends rien à tout cela... Au reste, la paix se fait, car on en parle beaucoup; cela ne nous empêchera peut-être pas d'être pris à Paris, mais tout cela sera décidé dans peu de jours. Ce qui prouve bien que l'Empereur ne comptait pas sur toi pour venir en France, c'est que d'après sa lettre il dit ne t'avoir ordonné de quitter l'Italie que quand le roi de Naples lui déclarerait la guerre, et cette guerre à laquelle il devait bien s' attendre depuis longtemps, je parie qu'il s'est toujours fait illusion et ne l'a pas crue possible... Il est vrai qu'il est plus pénible de voir des torts à ceux qu'on a beaucoup aimés. Tes proclamations sont à merveille et tu ne dois jamais envier ton voisin victorieux et puissant. Tu vas t etrouver dans un grand embarras... Suis ta tête, elle te fera mieux juger ce qu'il faut faire étant de près, et je suis sûre que tu suivras toujours ton cœur en faisant ce qui sera le mieux pour servir l'Empereur, et que lui-même ne pourra jamais en douter. Comme c'est là la seule récompense que tu attends, il serait pénible de ne pas l'obtenir...  

***

I am sending you the Emperor's letter to the Empress and our mother's reply; I do not understand any of this... Besides, peace is on the way, because there is a lot of talk about it; this will perhaps not prevent us from being caught in Paris, but all that will be decided in a few days. What proves that the Emperor did not count on you to come to France, is that according to his letter he says that he ordered you to leave Italy only when the King of Naples declared war on him, and this war, that he must have expected for a long time, I bet that he was always under the illusion and did not believe it possible... It is true that it is more painful to see faults in those whom one has loved very much. Your proclamations are wonderful and you should never envy your victorious and powerful neighbour. You will find yourself in great trouble... Follow your head, it will make you better judge what to do being close, and I am sure that you will always follow your heart in doing what is best to serve the Emperor, and that he himself can never doubt it. As this is the only reward you expect, it would be painful not to obtain it...

Now Eugène, usually rather stoic and timid when dealing with Napoleon, and used to some level of verbal abuse from his step-father ever since he became viceroy of Italy, for once has had enough. What do his mother and sister have to do with any of this? He’s held out in Germany in 1813, after the Russian disaster, after Murat had left, and (as he seems to have told his Bavarian family) never even got a »thank you« for his efforts to keep the remnants of the Grande Armée together. Back in Italy he receives some lukewarm allusions about »Don’t forget to bring the silverware when you leave Italy!« - and now, instead of giving a clear order for once, Napoleon feels the need to make Eugène obey by getting involved the ex-empress? As if Eugène needed some extra incentive to follow Napoleon’s orders?

So Eugène does the logical thing: not follow Napoleon’s order. Instead, he indignantly points out how he has done nothing wrong and goes to great lengths to explain to Napoleon why he thinks this whole evacuation plan is crap anyway. (Which, admittedly, he is probably right about.)

Eugène to Napoleon, Volta, February 18, 1814

Sire, une lettre que je reçois de l'impératrice Joséphine m'apprend que Votre Majesté me reproche de n'avoir pas mis assez d'empressement à exécuter l'ordre qu'elle m'a donné par sa lettre en chiffres, et qu'elle m'a fait réitérer le 9 de ce mois par le duc de Feltre.

Votre Majesté a semblé croire aussi que j'ai besoin d'être excité à me rapprocher de la France dans les circonstances actuelles, par d'autres motifs que mon dévouement pour sa personne et mon amour pour ma patrie.

Que Votre Majesté me le pardonne, mais je dois lui dire que je n'ai mérité ni ses reproches ni le peu de confiance qu'elle montre dans des sentiments qui seront toujours les plus puissants mobiles de toutes mes actions.

L'ordre de Votre Majesté portait expressément que, dans le cas où le roi de Naples déclarerait la guerre à la France, je devais me retirer sur les Alpes. Cet ordre n'était que conditionnel; j'aurais été coupable si je l'eusse exécuté avant que la condition qui devait en motiver l'exécution eût été remplie. Mais, cependant, je me suis mis aussitôt, par mon mouvement rétrograde sur le Mincio et en m'échelonnant sur Plaisance, en mesure d'exécuter la retraite que Votre Majesté me prescrivait, aussitôt que le roi de Naples, sortant de son indécision, se serait enfin formellement déclaré contre nous. Jusqu'à présent ses troupes n'ont commis aucune hostilité contre celles de Votre Majesté; le roi s'est toujours refusé à coopérer activement au mouvement des Autrichiens, et, il y a deux jours encore, il m'a fait dire que son intention n'était point d'agir contre Votre Majesté, et il m'a donné en même temps à entendre qu'il ne faudrait qu'une circonstance heureuse pour qu'il se déclarât en faveur des drapeaux sous lesquels il a toujours combattu. Votre Majesté voit donc clairement qu'il ne m'a point été permis de croire que le moment d'exécuter son ordre conditionnel fût arrivé.

Mais si Votre Majesté veut supposer un instant que j'eusse interprété ses ordres de manière à me retirer aussitôt que je les aurais reçus, qu'en serait-il résulté?

J'ai une armée de 36,000 hommes, dont 24,000 Français et 12,000 Italiens. Mais de ces 24,000 Français, plus de la moitié sont nés dans les États de Rome et de Gênes, en Toscane et dans le Piémont, et aucun d'eux assurément n'aurait repassé les Alpes. Les hommes qui appartiennent aux départements du Léman et du mont Blanc, qui commencent déjà à déserter, auraient bientôt suivi cet exemple des Italiens, et je me serais trouvé dans les défilés du mont Cenis ou de Fenestrelle, comme je m'y trouverai aussitôt que Votre Majesté m'en aura donné l'ordre positif, avec 10,000 hommes à peine, et attirant à ma suite sur la France 70,000 Autrichiens, et l'armée napolitaine qui alors, privée de la présence de l'armée française qui lui sert encore plus d'appui que de frein, eût été forcée aussitôt d'agir offensivement contre nous. Il est d'ailleurs impossible de douter que l'évacuation entière de l'Italie aurait jeté dans les rangs des ennemis de Votre Majesté un grand nombre de soldats qui sont aujourd'hui ses sujets.

Je suis donc convaincu que le mouvement de retraite prescrit par Votre Majesté aurait élé très funeste à ses armes, et qu'il est fort heureux que, jusqu'à présent, je n'aie pas dû l'opérer.

Mais si l'intention de Votre Majesté était que je dusse le plus promptement possible rentrer en France avec ce que j'aurais pu conserver de son armée, que n'a-t-elle daigné me l'ordonner? Elle doit en être bien persuadée, ses moindres désirs seront toujours des lois suprêmes pour moi; mais Votre Majesté m'a appris que dans le métier des armes il n'est pas permis de deviner les intentions, et qu'on doit se borner à exécuter les ordres.

Quoi qu'il en soit, il est impossible que de pareils doutes soient nés dans le cœur de Votre Majesté. Un dévouement aussi parfait que le mien doit avoir excité la jalousie; puisse-t-elle ne point parvenir à altérer les bontés de Votre Majesté pour moi, elles seront toujours ma plus chère récompense. Le but de toute ma vie sera de la justifier, et je ne cesserai jamais de mettre mon bonheur à vous prouver mon attachement, et ma gloire à vous servir.

***

Sire, a letter I received from Empress Joséphine informs me that Your Majesty blames me of not putting enough eagerness into carrying out the order which you gave me by your letter in cipher, and which you had reiterated to me on the 9th of this month by the Duke of Feltre.

Your Majesty also has seemed to believe that I needed to be induced to approach France in the present circumstances, by other motives than my devotion to His person and my love for of my fatherland.

May your Majesty forgive this, but I have to tell Him I have not deserved either his reproaches or the little confidence He shows in sentiments which will always be the most powerful motives for all my actions.

Your Majesty's order explicitly stated that, in the event that the King of Naples should declare war on France, I was to withdraw to the Alps. This order was only conditional; I would have been guilty if I had executed it before the requirement for its execution had been fulfilled. But, nevertheless, I placed myself at once, by my retrograde movement on the Mincio and by spreading out towards Piacenza, in a position to execute the retreat which Your Majesty prescribed for me, as soon as the King of Naples, coming out of his indecision, had finally formally declared himself against us. Up to now his troops have not committed any hostility against those of Your Majesty; the King has always refused to cooperate actively in the movement of the Austrians, and, only two days ago, he informed me that his intention was not to act against Your Majesty, and at the same time he gave me to understand that it would only take a fortunate circumstance for him to declare himself in favour of the flags under which he has always fought. Your Majesty can therefore clearly see that I was not allowed to believe that the moment to execute his conditional order had arrived.

But if Your Majesty wishes to suppose for a moment that I had interpreted his orders in such a way as to withdraw as soon as I had received them, what would have been the result?

I have an army of 36,000 men, 24,000 of whom are French and 12,000 Italians. But of these 24,000 Frenchmen more than half were born in the states of Rome and Genoa, in Tuscany and Piedmont, and surely none of them would have re-crossed the Alps. The men from the departments of Lake Geneva and departments of Léman and Mont Blanc, who are already beginning to desert, would soon have followed the Italians' example, and I would have found myself in the defiles of Mont Cenis or Fenestrelle, as I will find myself there as soon as Your Majesty has given me a positive order, with barely 10,000 men, drawing after me 70,000 Austrians as well as the Neapolitan forces, which then, deprived of the presence of the French army which is still more of a booster than a brake, would have been forced at once to act offensively against us. Moreover, it is impossible to doubt that the entire evacuation of Italy would have thrown into the ranks of Your Majesty's enemies a great number of soldiers who are today His subjects.

I am therefore convinced that the movement of retreat prescribed by Your Majesty would have been very fatal to His arms, and that it is fortunate that, up to now, I have not had to carry it out.

But if Your Majesty's intention was that I should return to France as quickly as possible with what I could have kept of His army, why did He not deign to order me to do so? He must be well persuaded of this: His smallest desires will always be supreme laws for me; but Your Majesty has taught me that in the profession of arms it is not permitted to guess at intentions and that one must limit oneself to carrying out orders.

Be that as it may, it is impossible for such doubts to have arisen in the heart of Your Majesty. Such perfect devotion as mine must have excited jealousy; may it not succeed in altering Your Majesty's goodness to me, it will always be my dearest reward. The aim of my whole life will be to justify it, and I shall never cease to place my happiness in proving my attachment to you, and my glory in serving you.

In his letter to Josephine of the same date, he opens up even more, complaining loudly:

[…] I had not believed I had reached the point where I needed to give the Emperor proof of my fidelity and my devotion! I can, in all this, see only one thing: that I have enemies, and that they are jealous of the, I dare say honourable, way in which I have managed to get through the most difficult circumstances. To this, I will respond by the testimony of truth. Here it is in its entirety:

For over three months that I had remained without direction or instruction from the Emperor, I received from him, around the 1st of February, only a ciphered letter, which told me that, in the event that the King of Naples declared war on France, I was to withdraw to the Alps. This order was thus conditional, and seemed to say to me: " In such a case you will not be able to hold out in Italy; in this case you must cover the gates of France, etc."

But I had put myself in direct contact with the king; I sent him every day, since his arrival in Bologna, an officer who made him think of peace as being near, who confided in him the indignation which the army felt, who told him that he would be lost forever in history if he dipped his hands in French blood; finally, that it was quite obvious that the enemy was playing with him. […]

And so on, and so on. He’s clearly feeling hurt by what he sees as Napoleon’s distrust. He – of course – also tells his (pregnant) wife Auguste about it, who is not too happy about Napoleon’s behaviour towards Eugène anyway and only too ready to share Eugène’s indignation.

And this in turn will set the stage for the final chapter of this tragicomedy: the big question of Auguste’s confinement.

[leagueofbane]

The Demon’s Legacy

A new Bane fic! I hope you like it. This follows FROM THE ASHES, but it can be read as a stand-alone, too. It’s also available at Ao3 and FanFiction.net.

Chapter 1

 “It doesn’t matter how many times you look at yourself in the mirror,” Barsad said with a teasing grin, “you’re still ugly, Bane. Surgery or no surgery.”

Bane’s dark gaze narrowed and shifted to Barsad for only a moment. “Always the droll one, brother, even after a long mission. We’ll see how your humor and stamina hold up once your child is born.”

Barsad chuckled and peered through the dusty windshield of the Land Rover while doing his best to avoid as many holes in the desert road as possible. Bumpy roads always irritated Bane’s damaged back and made him impatient to reach their destination. He was already impatient enough to get home; Barsad didn’t want to increase his commander’s agitation by blowing a tire on this God forsaken goat path.

“Perhaps,” Bane said, “I’m looking forward to the birth of your child more than you are. Henri will have something new to distract him, and in time he will have a playmate. That will be a relief to his poor mother.”

“Your kid does enjoy running the pants off Talia. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you. She’ll be able to get some rest now. We’ve been gone a month. That’s the longest you’ve been away from them since Henri was born.”

Bane studied his scarred face in the mirror a moment longer before flipping up the sun visor. He would never get used to seeing himself without the mask which had helped him breathe and had administered an inhalable analgesic cocktail for over twenty years. The surgeon had said that the scars from the series of plastic surgeries nearly two years ago would continue to fade. Before his physical relationship with Talia had blossomed and led to the birth of their son, he had had no cares about his appearance. Before the mask was necessary, his mother and Talia’s mother, Melisande—the only two women he had known while growing up in prison—had told him how handsome he was, but he had dismissed their compliments as a mother’s pride and a friend’s kindness. After his surgeries, Talia had showered similar flattery upon him, but hers, too, he discounted as mere charity. Perhaps after the scars had faded, his own appearance would be somewhat worthy of her flawless beauty.

His decision to undergo the many procedures, however, had nothing to do with vanity. Decades of drug use to dull the pain from his prison injuries had damaged his body, and to continue down that same path had been deemed unwise and dangerous. Talia had been the one to convince him of the need to discard the mask. In the past, Bane had cared little about the deterioration of his body; he had no desire for a long life. But Talia’s declaration of love and Henri’s birth had changed his mind. Now he had much more to live for than just fulfilling his role as Demon Head of the League of Shadows.

Ridding himself of the heinous mask had other benefits, too. There were few visages in the world as well-known as that of the Masked Man, Gotham’s Reckoning, Bane the mercenary. True, he had acquired immunity for himself and Talia for their siege of Gotham, a bargain struck in return for the League taking down the world’s most wanted Islamic terrorist three years ago. But there were other operations by the League before and since Gotham that many governments considered crimes and for which Bane was hunted. Being free of the mask helped conceal him, an ironic twist of fate. Besides his brothers in the League and a trusted handful of others considered surrogate family, like Talia’s grandmother, his surgeries were known to no one outside his circle except the plastic surgeon. His silence had been purchased and ensured by threats to the lives of his family and himself.

As an infant, Henri had no aversion to the mask, but as he grew, Bane feared his son might view him as fearsome if he continued to wear it. Bane had been happy to have his enemies recoil at the sight of him; he did not, however, desire that reaction from Henri. He wanted to be able to hold his son close, to kiss him, to speak to him without the wheeze of the mask or its muffled quality.

Bane glanced at Barsad’s tired, tanned face with its heavy stubble. “How many days, brother?”

With a displeased glance that caused Bane to chuckle, Barsad grumbled, “You know how many.”

“True.”

“But you like tormenting me by asking, don’t you?”

“Of course. I’m enjoying your anxiety.” Bane grinned at his lieutenant. “I remember how you enjoyed tormenting me in the same way when the birth of my child drew near. You never thought I could be a good father. Have I not proven you wrong?”

“Maybe. At least when you’re home at the palace. But you’re away too much, at least according to Talia, Henri, and Maysam. Even Sanjana is saying it now.”

“That is because Sanjana is about to have her first child, and she now fully understands Talia’s concerns when I am in the field. Sanjana will fret over your missions more than ever now. She has already approached me about limiting your duties, if not convincing you altogether to leave the League.”

Barsad scowled, but Bane could tell his friend was not angry with Sanjana. “I told her not to talk to you about that. It’s between her and I.”

“But she hasn’t convinced you; that is certain.”

“Of course not. I love my work. What the hell would I do otherwise?”

“Be a father.” Bane cocked one arched eyebrow at Barsad. “And a husband.”

“I’m not leaving the League just so I can get married, Bane. And I don’t see you doing that, so don’t lecture me.”

“Talia would never ask. Sanjana, on the other hand—”

“Uh-uh. Nothing doing. She and I have talked about this ad nauseam, as you know.”

“Your situation with Sanjana and my situation with Talia are completely different. With Sanjana, she has her culture applying pressure. A pregnant, unwed woman. I certainly don’t have to educate you on how the Hindu religion frowns upon such behavior, to say the least. She wants to be able to show her child to her family.” Bane allowed a small grin. “Though I cautioned her against it if the babe looks like its father. Wouldn’t want to horrify her poor mother.”

“Touché, brother.” Barsad swerved around a broad crater in the road. “But, remember, her mother wouldn’t want Sanjana to marry someone outside their religion and culture.”

“Well, she doesn’t want her daughter pregnant out of wedlock, but here you are. At least if you married her, you could tell your mother-in-law that Sanjana got pregnant after you were married months ago.”

“I’m not leaving the League, Bane.”

“For selfish reasons, I am glad, of course. But I hope your stubbornness does not alienate the mother of your child. She will be stressed enough as it is, once the baby is born.”

“Sanjana knew what she was getting into when this all started.”

“True enough, but there was no baby in the picture two years ago, brother.”

Barsad gave a small huff of annoyance and reached into a pocket for a piece of Nicorette gum. “I’ve given up smoking for them. I’d say that’s enough sacrifice for now.”

“I, for one, am pleased about your abstinence from that vile habit. You would never refrain for my sake, so if for nothing else, I can thank Sanjana for those inroads.”

“They’re making us soft, Bane.”

Bane chuckled. “And we would have it no other way. We can’t help that we love them, and they love us. They’ve taken two battle-hardened animals and molded us into human beings. We never would have thought it possible back on that mountain in Kashmir.”

Barsad chewed vigorously on the gum, remembering how Bane had saved his life during the Kargil War. “You won’t get any argument from me on that.” The SUV violently lurched when it hit another large hole, causing Bane to steady himself.

“Now,” Bane grumbled, “if only Sanjana can improve your driving…”

#

The woman sat in a rickety wooden fold-up chair with no padding, one elbow resting on her knee, tapered chin in her hand. Bored, she scanned the dusty bazaar with her dark, almond-shaped eyes. Villagers moved leisurely along the variety of stalls, doing more gossiping and haggling than buying. No one had stopped by her stall in some time. Apparently, no child needed a cornhusk doll, no adult needed new pottery or a beautifully hand-embroidered scarf. As advertisement, she wore one of those scarves, painstakingly crafted by her mother, a shimmery thing of saffron with gold trim and embroidered flowers of blue. She had draped it almost carelessly over her brunette hair, which she had pinned up this morning, to keep it off her neck in the day’s rising summer heat.

This was her second day selling her mother’s wares. On the first day, a couple of the villagers had recognized her from the rare occasions when she had visited her mother over the years. An old man even remembered her from her days as a child, dutifully manning the booth with her mother. But the villagers had not lingered long to talk, just to ask about her mother’s convalescence. None of these people interested her. She felt no kinship or yearning for this village where she had been born thirty-four years ago. If not for her mother, she would never return. But her mother needed her now; she had no other family to care for her during her illness or tend to her booth. Over the years, she had sent her mother money every month, but her parent insisted on creating her dolls, pottery, and scarves to sell to the villagers.

“I’m not going to live off my daughter,” she always said, her tone mirroring her child’s own stubbornness. “What would you have me do? Sit in my house, decaying? I enjoy making my things and selling them.”

“You should find a man, Maji.”

Her mother bristled. “Why do I need a man? They are nothing but trouble. Didn’t your father teach you that?”

“Aren’t you lonely?”

“I wouldn’t be if my daughter visited more often.”

Sometimes she wondered if her mother had never remarried because she was still in love with the man who had fathered her, even though he had been dead nearly ten years now. How well she recalled that day when she had seen his picture on television and learned of his death, a picture that had made her gasp. That icy blue stare had reached deep inside her and stirred a memory. She had seen that face before, but how and where? It came to her a short while later—that was the same man in the picture Maji had hanging above her bed at home. Though he was many years older, age couldn’t hide the identity of the man whose picture she had stared at countless times while growing up. Her mother had no television back then, so she had called her to share the news story. Immediately her mother had gone to the house of a neighbor who had a TV. A short while later, her mother called back, and they spent hours talking about the unknown life her father had led after leaving their village.

A child’s high-pitched voice caught her attention and drew her back to the bazaar. A boy, perhaps two years old, stood chattering cheerily at the next booth while holding the hand of an older woman. His startlingly blue eyes—large and expressive—were bright with the happiness of innocence, roaming all about him as if he was interested in everything the world had to offer. He sucked absently on the fingers of his left hand, his lips full and soft, glistening with spittle. Hair the color of walnuts, wispy and wild, shifted in the small breeze like reeds upon a river. His gaze met that of the young woman, and he gave her a beguiling smile, removing his fingers from his mouth as if caught being disobedient.

“Jiddah!” he chirped, tugging on his guardian’s hand. “I want to see the dolls.”

At this, his guardian—dressed in black hijab and abaya, with only her face and hands exposed—turned her head, and the young woman saw her fully now, recognized her. But who was this child with her, and why had he called her grandmother?

“Be patient, ya habib alby.”

“Please,” he drew out the word, giving the older woman an irresistible look of supplication.

“Very well,” she continued in Arabic. “You may look, but don’t touch. And stand right there where I can see you.”

The young woman noticed the boy’s guardian wasn’t the only one keeping an eye on him. There were two bodyguards near at hand—silent, watchful, expressionless men with automatic rifles—and there would be a third who couldn’t be seen. Their presence didn’t surprise the young woman, for she knew the widow of Siddig El Fadil never went anywhere without bodyguards. Though her warlord husband had been dead for many years, her brothers-in-law had inherited the family business, so she still needed protection. And apparently so did the little boy.

With a small gasp of triumph, the child hopped over to the dolls displayed at the young woman’s booth. He stared at them without reaching for them, rolling his lower lip inward as if this would help him maintain control. He clasped his hands before him in a form of restraint, fingers twitching restlessly.

“Salaam,” the young woman said, leaning slightly forward over her mother’s wares, offering a gentle smile so her presence would not overwhelm him.

“Salaam,” he said almost shyly, taking his eyes from the dolls only a moment to acknowledge her. “Jiddah say don’t touch.”

“I could let you hold one, but we’d better wait for her to come over, yes?”

He frowned and nodded.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Henri. But Papa Baba calls me Jin.” He grinned proudly.

The name surprised her for multiple reasons. It wasn’t an Arabic name, and Maysam El Fadil was an Arab. Also, the boy used the French pronunciation of Henri. But most startling of all in its coincidence was that Henri was her own father’s name.

“Where Miss Panjabi?” he asked.

“My mother is sick. I’m taking her place for now.”

His lips pursed, his brow wrinkled. “Sick?”

“Yes, but she’s getting better.”

This seemed to cheer him, freeing his expression, and the young woman liked him for caring about her mother.

“What your name?” he asked, fully looking at her now.

“Habibi,” Maysam’s voice broke into their conversation as she stepped to his side. The young woman estimated Maysam’s age somewhere in her seventies by now. Yet even the harsh desert environment or her advancing age had failed to degrade the woman’s stately beauty.

“I not touch nothing, Jiddah.” He turned his innocent smile up at her.

“Anything,” Maysam stressed the correct word in her somewhat throaty, sultry voice.

“Anything,” Henri repeated. “I have doll now?”

“You have enough toys, habibi.”

The younger woman stood and handed him one of the dolls. “I promised him he could hold one when you came over.” Her Arabic was flawless, as were the several other languages she knew.

Maysam eyed her. “Where is Miss Panjabi?”

“She is ill. I’m her daughter.”

Maysam studied her with something close to suspicion. Was she remembering the little girl who used to sit here with her mother all those years ago?  “Please give her my well wishes for her swift recovery. I hope it is nothing serious.”

“Thank you. I’ll tell her.” The younger woman smiled at Henri, who was examining the doll. He seemed more interested in how the toy was constructed than in its potential as a plaything. Again, she wondered what the boy was to Maysam, but for the safety of her own mother, she would not inquire. “Are you sure you don’t want to purchase that for him? I’m sure we could agree upon a fair price for my mother’s skilled work.”

“We have bought them before, haven’t we, habibi?” Maysam lovingly stroked the boy’s hair back into place. “And every one of them he takes apart and strews the husks everywhere, then later tries to put it back together again, don’t you, ya habib alby?”

“I make better,” Henri proclaimed.

The younger woman laughed, but Maysam chided him, “Don’t insult Miss Punjabi. She makes lovely dolls. They are fine just the way they are. Now apologize to her daughter.”

Henri’s expression fell, and he looked dolefully up at the younger woman from beneath his long eyelashes. That kid is going to break a lot of girls’ hearts when he grows up, she thought.

“I sorry.”

“It’s all right,” she said with a reassuring nod.

“I think,” Maysam said, reaching into her purse, “we will purchase the doll after all.”

The younger woman knew she was doing this as a form of apology. Maysam El Fadil—a paradox of lethalness and honor, more honor than her husband had had. She wondered what Maysam would say if she knew who she was really talking to. Would there be sympathy or indifference?

They agreed upon a fair price for the doll, and Henri beamed in triumph as he hugged the toy close, making the dry cornhusks crunch. His blue eyes danced, and again the young woman wondered who the boy really was to Maysam. Her only child had supposedly died many years ago, and her only grandchild had died almost three years ago. Well, she would certainly have questions for her mother when she returned home tonight. Perhaps village gossip could fill in the blanks.

She considered trying to sell a scarf or two to Maysam, as her mother would want, but she lacked her parent’s drive as a saleswoman.

As Maysam took Henri’s hand again, she said, “Please remember to give my best to your mother.”

“I will.”

Maysam started to move to the next stall but hesitated before giving the younger woman one last look, a look that seemed to have an ambiguous warning behind it. “I remember seeing you here when you were a child, but I’m afraid I cannot recall your name.”

Of course Maysam would assume the younger woman would remember her name; everyone in the village knew who lived behind the walls of the neighboring palace. By omitting this part of the pleasantry yet asking for the younger woman’s name, she had subtly made it plain where each of them stood in the local hierarchy.

The younger woman gave her a knowing smile, one that she was confident Maysam would understand as a reminder that she didn’t live here in the shadow of the palace and thus lacked the same fears as her mother and the other villagers.

Then, her smile broadening, she answered, “My name is Nyssa.”