Page 66 of Exquisite Things
“Really?” I ask. “As long as you’re alive?”
I must put too much emphasis on the question because he gazes at me curiously. “Yes,” he says. “I should go. I’m Bram, by the way. You never told me your name, did you?”
“Didn’t I?” I reply. Then, “Bram is a beautiful name.”
He smiles bashfully. “I was named by a beautiful person. Everyone here is beautiful. Living boldly and freely... that’s true beauty.”
“Yes,” I say.
“If you were coming on to me, I’m sorry, but the bank is closed,” he says, using an expression that reminds me of Boston.Bank’s closedis what Brendan would say when The Jackal would hit on him. “Mending a bruised heart, as you know.” He pulls his shirt down, revealing a tattooedOon his chest.
“O?” I ask.
“For the boy I’ll love forever. Oliver.” He rubs his heart gently. “He’s always on my heart.”
I feel sick inside. I want to walk away from him, but I just can’t. He’s had the first letter of my name tattooed on his body. He’s done everything I haven’t been able to do in all this time. Found his place in the world. Accepted himself. Remained resolute in his feelings for me, in his belief in us. All I’ve done with my time is isolate and mope. Leaving him was a mistake. I know that now. The truth is, I need him to be happy.
I feel like the DJ’s drum machine is in my body now. My heartbeat is percussive. It races around my body. Bram. His name is Bram, not Shams. He’s a different person. A happier one. More himself. There’s a glow to him. Maybe it’s the red lights of the club. Or maybe it’s that he’s found his place in the world. I feel like I could love this version of him. Be happy with him. Figure things out. Be accepted for the immortals we are by this beautiful band of freaks.
“Isn’t that the mask from the shopwindow of R. Soles?” a young androgyne asks. “Can I try it on?” The dazzling creature reaches for my mask.
My sunglasses fall to the floor first.
Then the androgyne pulls my mask off.
Reveals my face.
I feel the fire in my anxious eyes.
The song changes. Bowie.In the event that this fantastic voyage should turn to erosion and we never get old.
I feel exposed and raw. The lights seem to land on me like a spotlight.
“Oliver?” Bram asks. His eyes are inscrutable. Happy and sad at the same time. “It’s you? I thought... Was it you on the phone? You called the helpline? I thought maybe... but then I thought... Oliver wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t have deception in him.”
Bowie knows. Never getting old is the real erosion. Even Bowie, symbol of youth, innovation, boldness, is aging. He’ll probably settle down someday like everyone else. Get himself a wife and a kid and make music that sounds like an echo of the music he used to make. When he was young.
“Oliver, say something!”
I feel exposed and humiliated. I feel like the liar I am. Guilt floods my body. Sends me rushing out the door. Into a downpour.
New York TimesClassified Ads
January 18, 1962
Hello Homer,
I find myself in Berlin, on the west side of a wall that divides a city and a people. Everything here feels cold and sharp. More a gray blade than a city. It suits me. I feel divided from myself too. At home among a people devastated by war and guilt. Don’t come find me. The wall that divides us is there for a reason. East and west, perhaps, were never meant to meet.
Ludwig van Beethoven
Bram. London. April. 1980.
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.”
