Page 11 of Exquisite Things

“It’s Persian,” he explains. “It was the name of the poet Rumi’s spiritual instructor, who some believe was also his lover.”

“Rumi? Never heard of the guy,” Jack cracks.

“Most ordinary chaps haven’t,” Shams coolly responds. He, unlike the rest of the world, seems unflustered by Jack.

“I’m far from ordinary, chap ,” Jack huffs haughtily. “But I’ll forgive you because I love a full-lipped man, and yours look positively bee-stung. There

really is an epidemic of thin lips going around Boston. People with thin lips and flat backsides should be barred from procreating,

I say.”

A few boys laugh. Shams and I don’t. “You’re not at Harvard, are you?” Cyril asks Shams. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“Are you visiting Boston?” Brendan asks.

“Your accent is hard to place,” Jack says. “Have you come from the United Kingdom? Are you attending university here?”

“He’s just seventeen.” I stand up. “And you can stop questioning him now. How would you like it if you were battered with

questions like you were being interviewed for some newspaper?”

“Curiosity is a necessary quality in life,” Jack counters. “Especially when you’re faced with somebody named Shams. A sham

is a lie. A thing that is not what it purports to be.”

“The name is Shams, not Sham,” Shams responds icily. “The a is flat, like your unfortunate behind.” Jack claps, impressed. “And it’s plural, because if I am a sham, then I’m more than

one sham. I contain multitudes.”

“Uncle Walt!” Jack exclaims proudly. He always calls him Uncle Walt because they share a last name, though he bears no relation to the great poet. “Now there’s a poet I have heard of.”

“And your name... Jack,” Shams quietly whispers. “Perhaps it is a clue to your fate. You’ll be cursed to a life of loneliness.

Jacking off for eternity.”

“On beautiful faces,” Jack snaps, to applause.

“My goodness, enough now!” Brendan announces. “You two will kill me with these verbal daggers.”

“He’s right,” Shams says. “You see, Jack. Curiosity might be necessary, but it also killed the cat.” When he says this, his

eyes glow orange in a way that startles us all.

“All right then, round one is over,” Jack agrees. “Now I’d like to propose a toast.”

I raise my glass up high. “I’ll make the toast,” I announce.

“You?” Jack asks. “You don’t even drink. What kind of toast can you make?”

“Why don’t you shut up so we can find out?” Shams asks, in a tone at once damning and ribald. I’ve never met anyone more expert

at cutting Jack down to size. He’s wonderful.

“All righty then.” Jack backs down, impressed. Perhaps what Jack really wants, and needs, is someone strong enough to put

him in his place.

My glass raised, I take a breath. “To all the romantics, who are far from hopeless. In fact, we’re nothing but hope. And also,

to Plato. To Plato for understanding us. Isn’t life fantastic?”

“Something’s come over your cousin,” Cyril says to Brendan.

“I’m just happy, that’s all,” I say. “It feels a bit like a fog is lifting. Maybe it’s just that I’ve finally come to terms with the grief of my father’s passing.

Or maybe it’s meeting you lot. The...

the camaraderie of being with you. I don’t know.

But it feels, for the first time, like I may not be all future.

” I look at Cyril as I say this, remembering what he told me about the lesson of his birthday.

“It feels, finally, that I might be living in the present.” I turn my gaze to Shams. There’s understanding in his eyes.

Without him saying a word, I know he empathizes with everything I’m saying.

Perhaps he’s a stranger to me, but our few moments together moved us, changed us, started something that I hope keeps going.

On our way back into the main hall, we see a beautiful woman swaying to the music alone. Jack gives her a wink and tells her,

“You’re absolutely stunning, doll. Did you pencil in those eyebrows yourself?”

“You think I’d let anyone else paint this face?” It’s not until the woman speaks these words that I realize she’s a man.

The boys must see the shock on my face because they all laugh and Jack says, “You’re so delightfully innocent, Oliver.”

“I—I thought you were—” I stammer. I don’t want to say anything stupid. I want to be accepted here. I want to know all the

unspoken rules. “Are those lilies in your hair?”

“Why don’t you smell and find out?” the painted man asks slyly.

I feel my cheeks blush at the attention. “Well, they’re beautiful. And you’re beautiful. Like a film star, to be honest. I’m

Oliver, by the way. And these are my friends—”

“Honey, I’ll forget your names before I finish drinking this Hanky Panky. Come see me at the masquerade ball, children. I

won’t have lilies in my hair on the wrestling mat.”

As she walks away toward the bar, I turn to the boys. “What masquerade ball?”

Jack pulls out an invitation from his jacket pocket. “Straight from the printing press in the back room. It’s in two weeks.”

I read the invitation, which promises a night of astonishing melodrama with a costume competition and a damsel wrestling match. “So these men, dressed as women, wrestle each other?” I ask, trying to make sense of it all.

“A wholesome evening of entertainment,” Jack explains.

“I’m a wrestler,” I whisper. “Are they really going to wrestle or is it just for show?”

“Why don’t you enter the competition and find out?” Jack suggests. “I would pay good money to see you wrestle in a gown and

heels.”

With a raised eyebrow, I ask, “How much good money?”

“Enough to make it worth your while. And I’ll even get you the costume.”

As we shake on it, Edna finds us and approaches me. “Eastman said he’d love you to play some piano, if you’re interested.”

“Me?” I ask. “All the pieces I know are melancholy and old. I’m not sure this crowd wants—”

“Old, melancholy things are my favorite,” Shams says. “I’d love to hear you play.”

“So would I,” Brendan says.

“Me too,” Cyril adds.

“Me three,” Jack declares. “Speaking of threes... has anyone ever tried a—”

“All right.” I nod decisively, a small movement to help work through my fear. I let Edna guide me to the piano. She motions

to an older man holding court on the other end of the room. Soon, the music stops, and Edna announces a special performance

by a new member of our community. I like the way she says that. She sees me as something to be appreciated and welcomed, not

used and disposed of.

I choose Schubert. Because he’s my favorite.

But also, because something in the melody feels deeply romantic to me, and I want Shams to feel I’m playing it for him.

Perhaps we are strangers, I tell myself as I place my fingers on the keys, but don’t all children of the sun and earth and moon start out as strangers before they eventually meet their other halves?

I can’t be sure he’s my other half, but I want to find out.

And seeing how he responds to “Fantasie in F Minor” might help me know.

Because if his eyes don’t moisten as the melody swells, I don’t know if he can ever understand me fully.

These aren’t keys I’m playing. Not notes.

This is my heart and soul, coming through my fingers, traveling into the world as music, as spirit.

He doesn’t take his eyes off me as I play.

I don’t take my eyes off him.

And then, as the piece crescendos and I let my fingers bang wildly, I see him flinch. Perhaps he thought it would stay soft

the whole time. Thought I didn’t have this kind of passion in me. I watch him take it all in. The gentleness with which I

play can lead to a hardened passion before the melody takes over and I’m all softness again. I see a tear fall from his eye.

And I know, if not that I have feelings for him, that I could have feelings for him. And that’s certainly enough for today.