Page 21 of Exquisite Things

Oliver’s mother cooked for me. Meat loaf. Green beans. Sweet potatoes. I wonder if my mother would have cooked for me had

she lived. Would she have lovingly seasoned vegetables like these are? Would she have lit a fire to set the mood like Oliver’s

did? Would she have softened my father into a man who might have loved me?

“Mother must really like you,” Oliver comments as we finish. “She rarely lights a fire because we both hate cleaning the fireplace.”

“And I very much like you ,” I say to his mother. “You too,” I joke to Oliver. How I wish I could declare my love for him right here. Right now. In

front of the person who matters most to him. I stand and try to pick up the dirty plates.

“No, no, you’re a guest,” she insists. “You relax. I clean.”

“Mother, you’ve worked hard enough today,” Oliver says as he stacks our plates. “Sit and talk to Shams.”

“Just leave everything in the sink.” His mother shrugs. “What can I say? I enjoy scrubbing dishes.”

Oliver carries the plates and trays to the kitchen. I continue chatting with his mother. We didn’t discuss anything personal

at dinner. We focused on books and politics. Now we reminisce about that beautiful deck by the ocean.

“The ocean is a symphony,” his mother says.

Did my mother love the ocean?

Did she think of ocean waves as a symphony?

We’re still discussing music when Oliver comes back. I beg him to play something for us.

He throws me a sharp gaze. “I’m tired. It’s been a long night.”

His mother intervenes. “I’ll play with you. We can’t say no to our guest’s request for some live music.”

They look so beautiful. Mother and son. Side by side at the piano.

Oliver bites his lip. “I’m nervous.”

His mother glances my way. “We rarely have an audience. At least not an appreciative one.”

Oliver laughs. I love his laughter. “Father found classical music ponderous and Liam just ignored us most of the time.”

I can’t imagine anyone finding them ponderous as they play a Chopin nocturne. Oliver knows the piece so well that he keeps

his eyes closed as he plays. His mother keeps her own eyes on her son. She beams with pride as they create magic together.

I’ve been tutoring other people’s children for decades now. Never have I seen a parent and child this connected. It makes

me long to be a part of their family.

The nineteenth-century melodies they summon at that piano bring my own nineteenth-century memories flooding back to me. Surviving

without my father. Leaving school forever. Needing money on the streets of Victorian-era London. Stealing from the rich to

feed myself. They were easy dupes. Bespectacled men. Overly painted ladies. I spoke their language and knew their world. I

had no qualms about it. I would imagine they were my father when I robbed them. It gave me a frisson of revenge.

The Chopin piece reaches its melancholy conclusion. I burst into grateful applause. Oliver’s mother takes her son’s hand and guides him into taking a dramatic bow together. They’re a perfect pair. So connected.

I’ve been running for so many years. City to city. Country to country. Never have I found a pair like these two. And a tutor

sees families in their private moments. I’ve taught languages and literature to so many kids. Always tried to teach with more

love and compassion than I had ever been given. Told every child I had the privilege of working with that the goal of learning

is not achievement but knowledge. Grew attached to so many of them. Always had to leave them. I came to realize that three

to five years was the average time it would take people to notice I wasn’t changing the way they were. I left before the questions

came. I didn’t want to be studied. Didn’t want to be some freak. I would change my name with each departure. Start anew. I

perfected so many languages that I could successfully pretend to be Phillipe or Benicio. Mohammad or Luca or Günter. I once

called myself Dorian. Just for fun.

“Bravo!” I yell as they enjoy their well-earned ovation. “Bravo!” The word brings me back to the St. James. The premiere of The Importance of Being Earnest . Wilde. Why are these memories so present today? Why does the past suddenly feel so close?

His mother blushes. “Well now, it’s time for me to clean up.” She stands and straightens the creases in her dress. “Oliver,

why don’t you give him a tour while I do the dishes? It’s not a very big house, but perhaps Oliver can make it seem big with

memories.”

He leads me up. I wish we could never stop ascending. Take me to the heavens, Oliver. Take me to the sky. Let’s live on a

cloud.

The staircase walls are littered with framed photos of Oliver and his family through the years.

He always had those dreamy eyes. I ponder the photos as we pass them.

His generically handsome brother’s plastic smile.

His father’s harsh eyes. The way his mother holds on to Oliver in every photo.

She can’t let go of him. He’s her life raft.

In their family and in the world. Each family photo makes me try to visualize my own father again.

I don’t have a single photograph of him.

Do I remember him as he was? Or have my tormented recollections morphed him into something else entirely?

“Mother loves to have our photo taken.” Oliver keeps his gaze on me as I keep mine on the photographs. “She says she’ll need

the photos to keep her company when we’re all gone.” He sighs. “Of course, only I’m left....”

I do know this about my father: He began losing his hair at the age of nineteen. What little he had left was a dark muddy

gray. Nothing of the sort happened to me. That was my first hint that I was both immortal and ageless. I wasn’t sure in those

first years after he burned the pages. I knew I felt different. Reborn. Powerful enough to make it on my own. To never see

my father again. Never ask for his help. I didn’t find out Father died because I stayed in touch with anyone from home. I

obtained the information when I robbed some Persian visitors. I didn’t reveal I was his child. Merely asked about him as if

he were a distant acquaintance. They told me my father was taken by some plague or another. I don’t wish that on anyone. Yet

it didn’t inspire any forgiveness for him. Perhaps one of the reasons I’m forgiving of the flaws of a person like Oscar Wilde

is that he did more good than bad. My father did more bad than good. And that’s that.

“Stop staring at my baby pictures!” Oliver tries to pull me up the final steps.

I look at a photo of him as a baby. Then at beautiful seventeen-year-old Oliver. I sigh. I lower my voice to a whisper. “You were always magic.”

“Shh.” He looks over his shoulder with worry. Hoping his beloved mother didn’t hear me.

He pulls me up the second story. I love that each floor of a home is called a story. As if every level is an opportunity to

spin a new tale. Perhaps a better one. Each story building atop the one below. Oh, Oliver. Take me high up above this. To

a place in time where no one would judge our love. To a land of fairy tales and enchantment. A land where a prince can find

his prince.

Oliver pulls me anxiously into his bedroom. Closes the door. I take it all in. The mattress his body lies on. The sheets that

have the privilege of touching his skin. The pillow his beautiful cheeks rest atop. His scent is all over the room. I never

want to leave. I could be happy spending the rest of my life here. In this one room. With him.

He turns to me. Speaks in an urgent whisper. “What are you doing? Calling us incessantly? Inviting yourself over for dinner?

Are you crazy?”

I try to change the mood with humor. “My sanity is certainly in question. Love will do that to a person.”

He doesn’t laugh. “Is this a joke to you?”

I take his hands in mine gently. “Not at all. I’m sorry, I—I just needed to see you.”

“I’ve been avoiding you to protect you.”

“I don’t want to be protected. I want to be—”

He pushes my hands away. “Don’t you dare say loved.”

“I have to dare.” I smile wistfully. “And you do too. If we don’t, they’ve won.”

“We’ll win someday. Maybe not in our lifetime, but—”

“Listen to yourself!” The harshness of my tone jolts me. “You’ve already written off your whole lifetime. Accepted loneliness as your destiny.”

“What choice do I have?” His eyes well up. The fog of his sadness isolates him from me. “Do you want me to end up dead like

Cyril? Or expelled like Brendan?”

“Those aren’t your only choices.”

“Yes they are!” He spits his words out bitterly. “You expect me to break Mother’s heart.” He looks down. As if he can see

his mother one level below. She’s in one story. We’re in another. Oliver knows the two stories can never be a part of the

same life. Not here and now.

I plead with him. “I expect you not to give up. To fight for yourself. For us.”

Oliver sighs sadly. “I always told you I was afraid. That it was the worst of my qualities. Now you understand.”

I try to soften my tone. I don’t want my passion to scare him away. “Let me be brave for you.”

“I don’t want that. Don’t you understand that the only reason I wasn’t dragged into this is that Brendan protected me? And by extension,

you .”

“I know all that. But I can’t stop loving you.” He turns away from me when he hears the word love again.

I put my arms around his torso from behind. Turn him toward me. I can’t resist one more kiss here. Where we’re safe. Our breath

feels heavy. I want to inhale him into my soul. So we can be one. Forever. A mockingbird chirps outside. Oblivious to how

fraught this moment is. I thank God for the birdsong. For the optimistic melodies that nature can’t help but play.

His mother yells from below. “Boys!”

He pushes me away. Yells down to her. “Yes, Mother?”

“I’m going out for some S.O.S. pads to clean the pots and pans with. I’ll be right back. Oliver, offer our friend some tea.”

“I will, Mother!”