Page 37 of Exquisite Things
“Stop,” I whisper. “I’m the sorry one. I’m just so sorry this happened to you.” I don’t know what else to say, so I say no more.
At church on Sunday, I cry when the choir sings “Abide with Me” as Mother harmonizes, her voice more radiant than any of theirs. If she had the time, she could be the choir leader. She could guide these voices into something approaching transcendence. “Come, friend of sinners,” she sings. “Abide with me.” I close my eyes and pray that I can abide with her. I’ve never felt closer to God. Never further either. I wonder how that can be.
When we return from church, I go to my room and see something. Shams has managed to slip a note into the crack of my window:I know what’s happened at Harvard. If you’re ignoring me to protect me, please don’t. I want to support you. Please walk with me.He leaves a time and place to meet. I don’t go. He calls every night. I know it’s him because when Mother answers, he hangs up. He’s waiting for me to pick up, but I never do. She thinks it’s a prank and bemoans ever getting a telephone.
Finally, one night, he speaks to her. She puts her hand over the receiver and addresses me as I read a history book for school. “Oliver, you won’t believe who it is. The young man we met at the inn. The tutor!” Into the receiver, she asks, “How did you get our number?” After a moment, she says, “Well, that was nice ofthe innkeeper to give it to you.” Moments later, “Of course you can pay us a visit. Let me give you the address. How’s dinner tomorrow night? We rarely have company. I’ll cook something special.” When she hangs up, her eyes look dreamy. I know she’s thinking back to our magical time by the ocean. I wish I could tell her those days are behind us. Our land’s end days have ended.
Shams. Boston. June. 1920.
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 likeyou,” 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 ofThe 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 Oliverand 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?
