Page 6 of Exquisite Things

With the bloom of spring’s flowers comes a surprise visit from my father. I know he didn’t travel all this way for a friendly

hello. Everything is a chess move to him. He arrives late and summons me to Claridge’s. He’s booked us a two-bedroom suite.

Two bathrooms as well. He doesn’t like sharing space with me. Why would he when he blames me for destroying his life simply

by being born?

“I’m exhausted” is all he says to me on our first night.

“I understand” is my response. What I understand is that I exhaust him. It must be tiresome trying and failing to transform

me into someone exceptional enough to warrant his love.

The suite is more luxurious than the boarding school dormitories I’ve grown accustomed to. There are sheets that feel like

clouds. Curtains so thick they have the power to stop the sun. And yet I toss and turn all night. My mind spins with anxiety.

Rage. Nervous to know why he’s here. Angry that everything he does is in service of this unnecessary luxury.

Morning breaks. I watch the sunrise through the windows of the suite’s living area.

I remember something the king’s cousin said to me and my father at some ridiculous party my father was over the moon we were invited to.

Everything looks better from above. I hear the words in my head as I look out the twenty-eighth-story windows of our hotel suite. I want to be in the streets.

In the gutters. One with people. Not above.

“Good morning.” My father joins me by the window. No hug. No warmth.

“Good morning, Baba.” I hope he’ll say something kind. Perhaps about how much I’ve grown since he last saw me. Or a compliment

on my latest accomplishments at school. But he offers no praise. Only silent judgment. I want to disappear. Hiding from each

other is easy in our house back home. Lots of space. Always other people present. Human buffers. His friends or servants.

The lovers he sneaks in. Their feminine scent and coy giggles. He thinks I don’t see them sneak in at night and out in the

morning. Or perhaps he wants me to notice. To learn. Emulate the way he disposes of women.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Fine.” I turn to face him. He looks older. Wearier in the body. Even less muddy gray hair on his balding head than last year.

His skin has a gloom to it. The sickly pallor of an empty life. I pray I won’t age like him. I tell myself that the secret

to eternal youth is loving and being loved. I must stop hating like he does. It’s my greatest fear. Turning into him.

“This is not a social visit.”

I say nothing. I know he prefers not to be interrupted. He’s whipped me for speaking to him without being asked a question

first.

“I have received a concerning correspondence from your headmaster.”

A strained silence. I’m anxious to know more. I make the mistake of speaking without being asked to. “I’m not sure what he might be concerned about. I’m top of my class—”

“I have been told that you are interested in being a... writer .” He says the word as if it were worse than being a bugger. The lowest of the low. “Even worse. A poet .”

I breathe a sigh of relief. I thought perhaps he somehow found out I kissed James. This feels small in comparison. “I did

express an interest in poetry to my classics professor. But I—I have made no decisions on my future.”

“Well, of course you haven’t.” He spits in my face as he speaks. Little liquid weapons. “Your future is not yours to decide.

Which is why decisions have been made for you.”

“What decisions?” I can’t hide the tremble of fear in my voice.

“I sent you to London so you would master the language of power. You have evidently done that. You speak English like an Englishman

and will be ready to do international business on behalf of your empire.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“London is no place for a boy like you. Not anymore. You think I don’t read international newspapers. All those stories about

men who... I won’t even speak the word; it’s beneath us. I can’t have you influenced by degeneracy. Not when you’re doing

so well. Top of your class.” This is when he acknowledges my accomplishments. As tactic, not praise. “I’m pulling you out of school. You’re coming home with

me.”

My pulse races. I always knew he would bring me home someday.

That day was meant to be years away. I was meant to stay through university before returning to Persia with my world-class education complete.

I had resigned myself to returning after university.

To making my father proud by marrying well and making piles of money.

But since seeing Wilde’s play... I’d let myself dream of a different future.

Studying writing. Finding love. Pursuing passion instead of fulfilling duty. I’m a fool.

Foolish enough to yell at him: “I’m staying here. This is my world.”

“Your world ?” His rage is a growing thing. A torrent. “I will decide what your world is. You have a duty to our family.” He’s my only

family. My duty is to him alone. Mother died when I was born. My original sin. “You’re a seventeen-year-old boy. When you’re

my age and your own son tells you what his world is, I hope you slap him across the face.”

“Is that what you’re going to do?” I dare him. “Wouldn’t you rather take your belt off and—”

He uses the back of his hand. The sting of it feels worse than a belt. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my pain.

“Imagine, me, a nobody from Semnan, working for the king. And now you can join my team. You can bring English accounting practices

to our country. You can be twice the man I am. Not some piece of filth in a city of vice!” His booming words sound like a

jagged drumbeat. Each utterance a new shock.

“They might hear us in the other rooms.” I’m embarrassed by him.

“Let them hear us! Let them know that if they don’t do something about the crimes of men like that writer , the great families of the world like ours will stop sending their sons to be educated here. We want our sons to be real

men, not, not—” Buggers. Sodomites. Those are the words he’s too afraid to speak.

I gaze out at Hyde Park. Young men in three-piece suits walk—briefcases in hand—toward grim office buildings. Women in plush winter coats push prams. Walk their perfectly groomed dogs on tight leashes. Yank them to their sides if they stray too far.

“ Real men. ” I speak the words like a sigh. “Aren’t we all real, whether we follow your rules or not?” It’s not until the question escapes

me that I realize it sounds more like a confession than a question. I await his response with fear.

“When I was your age, I would never have dreamed of talking back to my father.”

“But I’m not you.” Rage stirs within me too. Inherited anger. It bangs at my skin. Wants to be set free. Expressed. “I never want to be you.”

“Watch yourself.” A terrifyingly delivered warning.

I am watching myself. In the ornate mirror on the wall. I like what I see. He is not my only family. I am my own family. I feel a duty to myself. “You think my future belongs to you. That you can twist me into whatever shape

you want me to take.”

“You will respect me!”

“But I do respect you.” My own words surprise me. “You created your own destiny. First in your family to go to university.

A man who was born in dirt and ascended to the halls of power. All I ask is for you to understand that if your aim is for

me to be a better version of you, then you must grant me the same luxury.”

“I’ve granted you every luxury.” He paces around the hotel suite. Throws a cashmere blanket onto the plush carpet. Runs his

fingers on the gradient wallpaper. “Look at this place. I couldn’t imagine a room like this when I was your age.”

“I don’t care about any of this.” I gaze at the opulence with disgust. “I don’t care about being at the right parties or marrying

royalty or attending the very best schools.”

“If it weren’t for me sending you to the best schools, you wouldn’t love poetry, so you have me to thank for that.”

“I love it despite you, not because of you.” My lips curl into a sneer. “I don’t see poetry as a means to an end. I see it

as the end, the goal. I want my life to be poetry.”

“You won’t understand until you’re older.” He catches his own reflection in the gilded mirror. Next to mine. Freezes for a

moment. Perhaps he sees—for the first time—what I see. An embittered old man losing control of his only child. His turn at

life is almost over. Mine is just beginning. “You haven’t known the poverty I’ve known. I hope you never will.”

“I only want one luxury from you. The luxury to choose my own destiny.” I pause to make sure he hears the next part. “As you

did.”

I turn my gaze back to the window. The sun make its golden ascent over Hyde Park. Its rays illuminate the sharply dressed

people beginning their daily rituals of obligation. Two young men in the park catch my attention. Foppish hair blowing in

the winter wind like they just rolled out of bed. Wilted green carnations on their lapels. Shoulders held high as they swish

like ladies of the evening. Backsides swinging like pendulums. They might be the most alive people I’ve ever seen. The bravest too. Unlike Wilde, they don’t get to hide behind fame or wit. They’re nobodies daring

to be the kind of somebodies that scare the world into change. I’m overwhelmed by a surge of love for them. A swell of bravery

in myself.

“There is no debate. The decision is made. We will visit the headmaster this afternoon and give him the news. Then you’ll

pack your bags, and we’ll leave in the morning.”

“Tomorrow morning?” Disbelief in my voice.

The mysterious somebodies disappear into the bareness of the winter branches. Take all their energy with them. Leave me weak. Depleted.

“Go get dressed. And look sharp. I don’t care if this is the last you’ll see of this country for the time being. You’re still