Page 37 of Exquisite Things

There’s still a line outside the club. Despite it being so late. Despite the rain destroying the outfits these poor people

spent a week creating. Feathers are flattened by the torrent. Wind blows even the most carefully matted hairstyles.

“OLIVER, STOP!”

He runs away. He has no pants on. His wrestler’s legs are faster than mine. A man in a sleeping bag on the street whistles

at him as he collects rainwater in a bowl for his mutt. “Nice gams, soldier.”

“OLIVER! PLEASE, DON’T RUN AWAY AGAIN!”

He doesn’t stop. He races past the Royal Opera House. Covered in scaffolding. It’s being refurbished. Expanded. There’s always

money for opera houses. Never for the people on the streets.

“OLIVER, HAVE PITY. I’M WEARING PLATFORM BOOTS!”

I think that might make him laugh. Remind him we can be light with each other. He sprints even faster. Past the Savoy Theatre.

Currently playing something called Not Now, Darling . A ridiculous title. A perfect one too. Not now, Oliver , I want to scream as he crosses the Strand. Rushes toward Waterloo Bridge.

Finally: He stops. Catches his breath.

It’s the dirty old river that stops him. Water means something to him. Land’s end. A new beginning.

I don’t get too close. Can’t risk scaring him off. I remind myself to speak gently. Ask open questions. Give him time. “Oliver.

Look at me. Please.” I try to use my helpline voice. It’s no use. I don’t sound gentle. My voice is too urgent. It bursts

with need.

He keeps his eyes on the Thames. On the lights of a city that suddenly feels so far away. We’re not in London anymore. It’s

Boston again. The past is present. Sixty years erased with one gust of wind.

“How long have you been in London?” I step a little closer to him.

“Long enough.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a pair of beige pants.

“How did you know where I’d be tonight? You must have planned it. The mask. The sunglasses so I wouldn’t see your eyes.”

He doesn’t speak. Takes his sopping shoes off. Pulls his pants up. Buttons them. Puts his shoes back on.

“Were you ever going to reveal yourself?” I take his hands in mine. “Please. Tell me. Were you going to run away without even

talking to me?”

“I don’t know.” He finally looks at me. Those eyes. I’ve missed their warmth. The way they always look like they’re melting.

Moist and alive. Years of accumulated sadness in their afterglow. The most beautiful things in the world always look like

they’re about to break. I speak a Wilde quote that comes to me aloud. “ Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic. ”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “Why are you quoting Wilde right now?”

“Because you’re exquisite and tragic.” I feel my heart tremble. “Tell me. What was your plan? Were you just going to spy on me and leave?”

“I really don’t know what I was going to do. I was just—unsure.”

“Of me?” I bite my lip.

“Of you, yes.” He nods. “Of us, too.”

“So you thought you’d play some kind of trick on me.”

“It wasn’t a trick. It was—” The downpour stops suddenly. I wish his doubts could disappear as fast as a London rainstorm.

“I needed to know you again. Who you are now. To see your life. To see this city. I couldn’t just pick up where we left off

without more information.”

“Funny, I have all the information I need. It’s here in my heart.” I place a hand on my chest. “The heart I had tattooed in

your honor. But you know that already.”

“Yes. And I know you’re happier than you’ve ever been. And that you have a home. A family of sorts.”

“Not of sorts.” I hear the annoyance in my voice. I soften my tone. “We are a family. Lily is my mother.” I realize I never

told him about Lily or our home in the club. “Wait. How do you know about them?”

He shrugs. “I followed you from the Young Lovers statue.” He reaches into his bag. Pulls out a crushed daffodil. Places it gently in my hair.

“You followed me?” I want to hold him. Want him to kiss me. I also want to rage at him. For lying to me. For making this harder than it

had to be. I ponder the lengths of his deception. Putting on fake accents to observe my new life. Making me suffer. But then...

I caused him more pain than he could ever cause me.

“I’m sorry.” He means the apology. I know that. He may be unsure of us. But he’s still Oliver. Still the same kind soul who wouldn’t want to hurt anyone. “You did spy on me once, so we’re even, I suppose.”

“When?”

He looks up at me sharply. “When I was reading Plato and crying.”

I suppose I did spy on him. For a few minutes. Not for days. But I don’t fight. Not when I need to win him back. “Do you know

why I chose the Young Lovers statue for our reunion?”

He shrugs. “They’re young lovers. We’re young—” He stops himself from saying the word. We’re not lovers anymore.

“That was part of it, of course. But the real reason is because the sculptor, Georg Ehrlich, had to escape Austria for Britain.

His wife joined him later. She brought much of his art with her. Saved it from the Nazis. They made a life here together,

in a country that wasn’t their own.”

He stares at me curiously. Confused. It’s like I’m speaking an alien tongue he can’t decipher. His hieroglyphic old love.

Speaking in incomprehensible fantasies. “Do you seriously think a Jewish couple fleeing persecution is romantic ? You’re more twisted than you ever were.”

“No, I—I never said it was—romantic. But it is—” I stumble over my words. I need to explain myself to him. “It’s a testament

to the power of two people to survive. Together. Because their love was their strength.”

“You don’t know that. Maybe their faith was their strength. Or his art. You always think you know things you couldn’t possibly

know.”

“Like what you wanted sixty years ago....”

“Yes.” He doesn’t say any more.

“Still, they made a beautiful life despite the greatest odds. We can too.”

“Can we?”

“I thought of you every day. Wanted to share every mundane detail of my life with you. And the big things. I always needed

to know where you were. What you thought. Vietnam. The moon landing. World War II.”

“I thought of signing up to serve.” Melancholy swirls around him. His eyes emit little fireflies of sorrow. “Figured I’d make

quite the Allied soldier. Nazis can’t kill me, can they? Then I thought of all the medical exams the military performs. The

questions they might ask when a submachine gun fails to kill me. I realized I can’t even serve my country. If it was even

my country then. By World War II, I had long deserted America.”

“Let me be your country.” I pull him into a hug. “A country with no rules. No laws. No border lines.”

“But you’re not a country. You’ll always be the person who made me this way.”

I take a deep breath. Exhale. “ Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives. ”

He scrunches his face in annoyance. “Stop quoting Wilde. Just because he said something doesn’t make it true.”

“So you know your Wilde as well as I do.”

He nods. “You think I haven’t scoured his writing for some sign of why this happened to us?”

I smile. “I’ve done the same.” Then: “Don’t you see that I’m the only person you can confess all this to? The only person

you can be yourself with?”

“I don’t know if I want to be myself is the problem.” He tucks his chin. His graceful neck slumps. “Don’t know if I even know who I am.”

“Then let me remind you. I know who you are. I’m sure of us, still.” My heartbeat skips. “Are you still unsure?” I want an

immediate answer. I don’t get one. “That’s a very long and concerning pause.”

“You ruined my life.” He doesn’t say it with anger. More with acceptance.

“I know that now.” I swallow hard. “I didn’t know then—I couldn’t know... How deeply you loved your mother. It wasn’t until

I met Lily that I knew how fiercely one could love their family. Now I understand. Your mother—”

“Please let’s talk about anything but Mother.” His voice chokes up. “All these years... all this time... and she’s still

my biggest regret.”

“You have nothing to regret. It’s all my fault.”

“But I do.” He sighs. “For years after leaving, I would write her letters with no return address. Just telling her I was fine

and that she ought not to worry. I debated creating an elaborate lie. Telling her I was studying music in Europe. That I had

married a woman. Had children of my own. But lies lead to more lies. Evasion is a stronger tactic.”

“I’ve learned the same lesson.”

He takes in a long breath. “The last letter I sent her was a decade before she died. I told her I loved her. I told her not

to waste another thought on me. But I begged her to keep me in her prayers.”

“I’m sure she did.”

His eyes look to me desperately. “How can you be so sure? What if she cursed me in the end? Hated me?”

“She didn’t. She couldn’t. You’re impossible to hate.”

He rolls his eyes.

“It’s true. Your mother knew it and I do too. And the way I see it, you have two options. The first is to run away from me,

which you’ve already tried. Has it made you happy?”

“No.” He shakes his head sadly.

“Then try the second option. Be with me. Let me make it up to you. Let me prove to you that we can be happy.”

He laughs. “Here? In this city with trash piling up on the streets, where queer bars are raided by the police, where punks

and vagrants call me a bugger and a screamer when I’m sleeping on the Tube. Where boys like us are beat up at the George.

This is where you want us to find happiness? In a country where the prime minister is at war with working people, immigrants,

and... people like us.”

“You’re right. There’s injustice here. Poverty. Greed. People still hate us. Maybe they always will. I don’t care about all

that right now. I care about you. What do you want, Oliver? In your heart.”

“I—I don’t know.”

“You do know, but you’re not brave enough to take it.” I shock myself with my own anger. I’ve craved his forgiveness for so