Page 33 of Exquisite Things

I didn’t know that. But how wonderful that a Black bookshop exists. A gay newspaper. A Black bookshop. All unimaginable when

Shams and I met. Perhaps someday I’ll be accepted too, as this strange immortal creature I am now.

I stupidly recite a poem aloud to her. “ I know you’ve heard the boogie-woogie rumble of a dream deferred .”

She laughs with the warmth of someone who is letting down their guard. Whereas the squatter emitted desperation, she glows

with contentment. “All right then, the white boy from America knows his Langston Hughes. But do you know Phillis Wheatley,

Gwendolyn Brooks, Claude McKay?”

“Yes, yes, no,” I say as I follow her to the poetry section.

She recites a poem as she pulls a book out for me. “ If we must die, O let us nobly die. So that our precious blood may not be shed in vain. Then even the monsters we defy shall

be constrained to honor us. ” She lets the powerful words linger a moment. “He wrote it in response to the Red Summer.” Seeing the blankness on my face,

she explains, “Whites in America attacked Blacks in riots all over the country. In dozens of cities. Killed hundreds.”

“When was this?” I ask.

“1919.” She catches the alarm in my eyes. “Long time ago, yeah?”

“Yeah.” It was the year before I met Shams. It was the year Liam left us for Yale.

There were people being attacked all over America because of their skin color and I had no idea.

I read the papers, didn’t I? Were these atrocities unreported?

Or did I skip over it because it didn’t immediately concern me?

I think of Edna, of her fight for people’s rights.

I’ve fought for nothing. Not even for love. I feel suddenly sick.

She seems to notice the ache inside me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m Maud,” she says.

“I’m... Oliver?” I say it hesitantly. It’s been so long since I’ve used my real name. But now, with Mother gone, Liam gone,

Brendan gone, Edna gone, who’s left to suspect it’s really me?

“You sound unsure about that.” She laughs.

“No, no, I’m sure. I’m Oliver. I’ve tried to be other people, but that’s who I am.” I feel my chest rise with pride.

She nods. “We all try to be someone else before we learn to be ourselves. Well, at least all us queers.”

“I’ll take the book.” She walks me to the counter and rings me up. I hand her the pounds I got at the airport currency exchange

when I landed with a fake passport. I’ve gotten very good at obtaining false documents. “How long’s this shop been here? It’s

so cool.”

She puts the book in a bag and hands it to me. “A few years, I think. I just started here a few months ago. There was another

bookshop here before. Unity. First Black bookshop in Brixton.”

“It closed?”

She lowers her gaze. “Blew up because of a racist firebomb in the letterbox.”

“Oh.” I don’t want to leave without saying something more. “It wasn’t the firebomb that was racist, was it? It was the asshole

who put it there.”

She nods. “Indeed.” She offers me a smile as she looks up at me again. She flinches in shock. “Your eyes,” she exclaims with a gasp.

“I know, sorry. It’s a genetic thing. My mother was convinced our family is part feline.” This is the lie I’ve told people

who ask for decades. A family trait. Part feline. I’ve repeated those words so many times that they’ve lost all meaning.

“I think I might be living with someone you’re related to, then,” she declares.

“Sorry?”

“My brother Bram has the exact same thing. His eyes glow when you look at them too long.”

“Your brother?” I echo. And then, in a hush, “Bram?”

She nods. “We live just down the street on Chaucer. I’ve only been there two weeks, but it’s home. When you know, you know.

You know?” She sees another customer come in. “See you around.”

She approaches the new customer, who says, “Hello, Sister, could I leave some flyers in the shop for an upcoming rally?”

Maud takes the flyers. “Of course, Brother. These sus laws have got to go.”

I wander down Chaucer Street, searching for the house he lives in. Bram. Leave it to him to choose a name that stands out.

That makes him sound like the almost-vampire he is. He always was dramatic. I peek into every window until finally I find

him. On the second floor of a run-down house. He’s crying. No, bawling. He holds his head in his hands. I did this to him.

He weeps until a woman enters. Holds him.

I imagine she’s asking him what’s wrong.

He buries his head in her bosom. Cries into her sweater.

She consoles him. Runs a gentle hand through his strange new hair.

I wonder if she knows why he’s so upset.

He couldn’t possibly have told her about me, could he?

Unless, perhaps, he made her immortal too. With his last page from the manuscript.

When the tears have dried, the woman rushes out and comes back with a bag of old clothes and fabrics. She and Bram—it’ll take

some getting used to calling him by this name—throw on new clothes. Wrap fabrics around each other. Bram puts on a baggy suit.

A cowboy hat. A leather vest.

Someone else enters. A man in his thirties. He’s unbearably handsome. He wears a tight white T-shirt and short denim shorts.

They laugh now. Uproariously. Happily.

Soon, Maud comes in too. She jumps on the bed and offers them a thumbs-up or thumbs-down as they all change clothes. How I

wish I could hear what they’re saying. Maud referred to Bram as her brother. Are they some kind of family? Then again, she

also referred to the customer after me as Brother. Perhaps it’s just how she sees people. As part of her extended family.

When you really think about it, we are all family, aren’t we? All descendants of the same mysterious path to existence. I

despise how my loneliness has turned my thoughts toward philosophical spirals.

I want to stop spiraling. To stop somewhere. To have a life. One life. Not one hundred lives.

They all head downstairs from the bedroom to the kitchen, where Bram and Maud set an eight-person table in the living area.

More people arrive. Three women. One man. One of the women arrives cradling three large casseroles. They eat together. I scurry

toward the house. Hide just under the open window near them, next to a sign advertising some sort of queer helpline. I quickly

memorize the number. I’m close enough now to hear some of what they say, even if I don’t always know who’s saying it.

“The party is Tuesday night. It’s Sunday and you lot are already planning your outfits.” That’s Maud. I recognize her voice.

“Bite your tongue, child. I didn’t start planning our outfits today. I started on Wednesday morning.”

“Steve won’t let you in if you don’t look the part.” That’s Bram. His voice sounds... lighter. “Can’t wear the same thing

twice. Can’t look boring.”

“Sounds like exclusionary bullshit to me.” Maud again.

“It’s not.” Bram again. “It’s fun. Lily takes other people’s trash and transforms it into a look . That’s magic.”

Maud says, “She spends more time creating your looks than you do wearing them. Seems like a waste of time.”

“But creativity is God’s greatest gift to humanity. It’s never a waste of time.” This must be the woman named Lily.

Bram adds, “Besides, Steve keeps the people who don’t dress the part out to keep us safe. To create a space where freaks like

us can feel at home.”

“I feel at home right here,” Maud says.

“But one home isn’t enough, is it?” This is one of the women. I’m not sure which one. “When my family moved here, they were

so scared of racist violence that they wouldn’t let me leave our council flat. I went to school and came home. Which made

my home feel like a prison. I needed a home away from home, and a home away from my home away from home.”

“It’s true,” Bram says. His voice gets closer. He’s standing by the window. Looking out. Completely unaware that I’m crouched

and breathless underneath the windowsill. A spy in his house of love. “But some people don’t even have one home. They’re cursed

to wander the world alone.”

I roll my eyes up. I can see him leaning forward.

If he were to look down, he would see me.

Perhaps he’d be thrilled. Welcome me in.

Perhaps he would hate me for eavesdropping.

But he doesn’t look down. Instead, he closes the window.

Shuts me out. But that’s all right. I know exactly where to continue my exploration of his new life.

I’ll observe him until I’ve made a decision.

I play my synthesizer at run-down Tube stations with fancy names. Park Royal. Marylebone. Marble Arch. When the police chase

me out of the Queensway station, I run fast enough to evade them, the coins I’ve gathered jangling in my pocket.

On Monday evening, I enter a red telephone box. There’s trash inside. I kick it to the corner of the booth. I get the sense

someone slept here last night. Better than sleeping in the rain. I push a button marked A . Place some coins in.

I dial the queer helpline. His voice comes from the other side. The voice I’ve tried to escape for decades. The voice I’ve

longed to hear for decades.

“Hello, this is the queer helpline. My name is Bram. How may I help you?”

I freeze, realizing he may recognize my voice, even after all these years. I hide any trace of the Oliver he knew behind a

heavy Irish accent. I spent years in Belfast, thinking perhaps I’d feel at home there, in the land of my ancestors. “Hello”

is all I say at first.

“I’m gay and I’m here to help if you are too,” he announces calmly.

“Gay as in homosexual?” I ask, confident he can’t identify me with the accent. “Or as in happy?”

“A little of both,” he says. Then, “No, sorry, I’m a hundred percent homosexual. Perhaps fifty percent happy.”

“Better than most.”

“You’re probably right.” He sighs. “I should feel lucky. I do feel lucky.”

“It’s sad, isn’t it?” I ask. “That the vast majority of the world is so deeply unhappy.”