Page 1 of Exquisite Things

I walk through the lobby of Claridge’s. Curious eyes take in my look. Baggy cotton pants. A denim blazer with graffiti on

the back. Security cameras track me from ceiling corners. Perhaps I’ll be found despite the veil I use to hide my face. I’ve

led a life of risk. Will this be my final gamble? Coming back to London. Sleeping in the very suite where my father set my

life on its unique course. Preparing to walk the same streets where I once knew happiness. Some risks must be taken. No matter

how dangerous.

I step out of the hotel. Nobody snatches me from behind. No strong men throw me into the back of an unmarked vehicle. I exhale.

London’s architecture—like my physical appearance—appears unchanged. Same clutter of styles. Edwardian. Victorian. Art deco.

Same rain and wind despite the rapidly changing climate. So strong that they almost take my colossal hotel umbrella with them.

You have to look closely to see the transformations in the city. As you do with me. I look exactly as I did a century ago.

Skin unwrinkled. Hair thick and black. Forever seventeen.

And yet—like London—I’ve been here an extraordinarily long time.

As indestructible as this city, which I twice called home.

First: as Shahriar. The name I was born with.

It means “the king.” The second time: as Bram.

The name Lily gave me. It wasn’t inspired by the man who wrote Dracula .

That’s mere coincidence. I may be immortal but I’m no vampire.

I have no fangs. No lust for blood. Only for love. No occult

powers other than the blessing or curse of eternal youth. Lily had named me after a weed. Herself after a flower. We are nature,

after all. My father didn’t care about my nature. He only wanted me to be a king.

And now I’m all queen in my sparkling veil. I know the danger of returning to the city I once called home. A city with cameras

on every street. Lily’s memorial is one of two reasons I would walk these pathways again. These junctions where my worst and

best memories live.

The other reason is Oliver. I hope he’s walking the streets of London right now. On his way to celebrate our mother. I have

a brief fantasy of the wind carrying me up like Mary Poppins so I can search the city for the chestnut brown of Oliver’s hair. The golden glow of his skin. The thick musculature of his

body. The long graceful shape of his neck. Like a violin. I loved Mary Poppins when it came out in 1964. When I was either eighty-six years old or still a teenager. Depending on how you define age. Lily

was like Mary Poppins. The magical muse who liberated the children she took care of. The woman who made life feel like flight.

I walk the thirty minutes from Mayfair to Covent Garden. That vibrant neighborhood where we once danced. Laughed. Felt seen

in the darkness of the dance floor.

I walk past shops. Theaters. Pub awnings packed with beer drinkers avoiding the deluge. The rain goes from downpour to drizzle.

The pub crawlers move out into sidewalks. Take over the streets with their boisterous cheers over the football game on every

screen.

I know I’m getting close to the first stop of Lily’s memorial when I see them.

Beautiful Azalea, Poppy, and Blossom. They walk reverently ahead of me toward what was once the Blitz Club.

Their steps more careful than they used to be.

Even the most vibrant of souls get old. Find themselves unable to sparkle as they once did.

They’ve lost youthful energy and gained exquisite vulnerability.

I walk a few steps behind them. Find myself deeply moved by what they’re wearing. Every stitch sewed by Lily. Sequins and

crushed velvet and bright silk. The fabrics seem to glow as they turn onto the aptly named Great Queen Street. To our journey’s

starting point.

The street is flooded with two dozen fabulously dressed people who greet each other with long hugs. Tearful kisses. They’ve

all gathered to celebrate Lily. The oldest ones are familiar to me. They were there in those glory days when I lived with

Lily. Brixton. I can still travel back to it if I close my eyes. The only true home I’ve had in my eternal life.

I see Maud. My sister. My friend. She must be in her fifties now. No. Sixties. Time is hard for me to track. She looks so

much younger. Holds the hand of a gorgeous woman who must be her wife. Simple gold rings on their deep brown skin. Beautiful.

The youngest ones are strangers to me. They must be Lily’s children too. She was mother to so many. But mine first. I want

them to know that. I can be quite petty. Selfish. Greedy.

Archie now looks as ancient and wise as an antique book. He stands atop the steps to what was once the Blitz. Announces to

the group that the journey will begin in a few moments. With stops at all of Lily’s old haunts on the way. Just as Lily mapped

out long ago. When I was her son. Her firstborn. When she gave me a life.

Archie wears the ascot suit Lily made for him.

It swims on his dwindling frame. His once muscular body has shrunk.

Skeletal. Fat lost in places. Gained in others.

The side effects of the early HIV medications that saved his life.

Lily always wanted to be the first of her chosen family to go.

I’m glad she got her wish. And that Archie survived this long.

His aged face is more beautiful than ever.

It’s a face with a story to tell. Those have always been the faces I’ve been interested in.

Oliver’s face...

His eyes were my once-upon-a-time.

I can almost conjure his voice. Imagine the sound of his fingers on the keys of a grand piano. I wish I could travel back

in time to the Boston of 1920. The first spring of a new decade of possibility.

Meeting him. Knowing him. Loving him. It’s when I knew I had a chance at finally fulfilling my destiny. To love and be loved

in a time and place where that love isn’t a crime.

Archie lifts up his comically tall top hat as he addresses the crowd: “You know why Lily made me this hat? Because we would

always lose each other when we went out dancing. When she gifted me this hat, she said, Archie, you will never be lost again. At least to me. ”

I too felt found by Lily. Then I became lost again. The only way I can find myself is to get Oliver back. He holds my heart

hostage. I shift my veiled eyes across the crowd of mourners. I sent Oliver a message via the newspaper. As we’ve been doing

for over a century. He knows Lily is gone. Knows the memorial is today. Yet he’s not here. Which must mean his hatred of me

is greater than his love for Lily. The thought sends a chill through me.

Archie takes a deep breath. “And with this hat, you won’t be lost either. At least not today. Just follow the hat. Shall we?”

Archie leads the way. The rest walk alongside and behind him. They’ll be spreading Lily’s ashes into the Thames at the end of the day. It’s what she wanted. Grief is in the air as they shuffle down the road. So is peace. The serenity that comes from commemorating a life well-lived.

I don’t walk. Not yet. I know their route. I don’t know where Oliver is. Is he running late? Perhaps he was too afraid of

being seen by the others to show up on time. Though they’re not who we fear being caught by. The people we’re afraid of are

the people we should all be afraid of. The kings of the world. Those willing to destroy in their quest for more wealth and

power. My heart races as I scan the streets. I see no suspicious people or vehicles. Just the building that used to be our

safe space. It’s a strip club now.

A menacing-looking bouncer stands outside. He addresses me threateningly. “You coming or going?”

I reply coolly. “I’m waiting.”

“Well, don’t wait too long. You’re blocking the entrance.”

If only he knew how long I’ve waited. He wouldn’t believe me. I wish I could tell him the strip club he now protects was once

a space not for exploitation but for liberation. A home for trailblazers. The Blitz Club. Where Boy George was the coat check

boy. Where everyone from Sade to Vivienne Westwood sought inspiration. Where I danced in Oliver’s arms. Allowed myself to

believe love can last. Some parts of London have changed. Some hidden parts of me have too. Now my heart knows true grief.

Now this once-sacred spot is a seedy dump where women are exploited for the pleasure of men with enough money to do as they

please.

And men tend to destroy when they can do as they please. Myself included. I’ve destroyed more than I care to admit. How could

I not? With all these years behind me?

I’ve done it all. Traveled the seven seas. Seen the Seven Wonders. Taken the polar plunge. Swum with a whale. Been to the Nile on a felucca. The only thing left for me to seek is the one thing I always wanted in the first place.

“Let’s move it along now, kid.” The bouncer shifts his muscular body closer to me. His threatening eyes are no match for mine.

I lift my veil up. My eyes appear brown at first glance. But stare at them long enough and they glow orange. Like a comforting

sun. Or like a blazing fire. Depending on my mood. The bouncer recoils. “What was that ?”

“I’ll leave when I’m ready, thank you.” I smile. Lower the veil back over my face. Take one last look at the building. Inhale

the past.

A wealth of memories.

A series of lives.

I was born many times. Once when I took my first breath in 1878. Which of course I don’t remember. I don’t think it’s fair

that we don’t remember being born. Surely one of the most important days in anyone’s life.

Second birth: 1895. When my father lit the fire that would change my fate. In the hotel suite I woke up in this morning.

Third birth: 1920. When I fell in love. Truly. It took me a quarter of a century of adolescence to find something deeper than

the typical teen lust. Or maybe all it took was meeting the right person. Oliver.

One final birth: 1980. When Lily baptized me as her child. Made me feel the power of true unconditional love and acceptance.

I head toward the next destination when the bouncer threatens to call the police. I can’t risk arrest. I pray Oliver will

be waiting for me at the lily pond. The memorial will last all day. Well into the night. There’s time still.

And there’s always hope when there’s time left.