Page 7 of Exquisite Things
James also lays his scarf on his lap when Jack says: “It is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly that all his life he has been speakingnothing but the truth.” I turn my gaze as James shifts in his seat. Our eyes communicate secrets.
The play ends. I leap to my feet. Roar in grateful applause. The ovation is furious. It doesn’t even die down when Wilde himself takes the stage. Cigarette in his white-gloved hand. Sly smile on his childlike face. He exhales rings of smoke. Green carnation in the buttonhole of his black velvet collar. Green ring on his finger. He glows. Grins. I inhale. My attempt to draw his life force into me. Whatever I can steal.
“Bravo!” I shout. I clap. I feel exhilaratingly alive. “Bravo!”
James joins me. “Bravo!” We guide our hands toward each other so they touch with every swing. I think Oscar sees us. From up on that stage with his tanned skin. His selfish giant of a body. I think he sees what we’re doing. Empowers us to go further.
“What if we walk back to school?” I suggest to James after the show. I don’t want the night to end. Walking will slow it down.
“Walk?” His mother is aghast. “It’s frigid.”
“It’s beautiful. The streets are blanketed in clouds.” What I mean is: everything looks beautiful after you’ve seen a work of art that changes you.
James looks at the road. Seeing it through new eyes. His gaze finds mine. We seem to be sharing a joint memory of our legs pressing against each other. Fingers grazing. Hardness hiding under bundled scarves. “Won’t we get lost?”
“I know the way.” My body swells with pride. “I know every inch of the city.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible or advisable.” His father’s eyes are on a group of young men laughing too loud. Too girlish. Tootoo. Under a streetlamp that illuminates the green carnations in their lapels.
“Let’s do it.” James’s eyes vibrate. “Let’s walk!”
“Take my gloves.” His mother peels off her leather gloves. But the father stops her. He won’t have his son wearing ladies’ gloves.
Neither of us speaks at first. We walk in silence as the sound of the crowds chattering outside the theater fades away. I lead James across Pall Mall. Past its gentleman’s clubs and shops. Finally: “Thank you for inviting me.”
James laughs. “You invited yourself.”
I laugh too. Awkwardly. I haven’t laughed often in my miserable life. I’m not sure I know how to do it right. “Then thank you for letting me invite myself.” It was easier to connect to him without words. In the darkness of the theater. Using only our bodies.
James skips a step. I study his movements. Notice he avoids the cracks in the wet road. Snow turns to glistening slush from the carts. Horses. Carriages.
“I thought the play was superb.” I move to avoid manure.
“Did you really? Or are you just saying it to be polite?”
“I despitepolitesse. Etiquette is a bore.” I try to sound like one of the actors onstage. Adopt their rakishness.
He gazes at me curiously. His lips curl into a smile. “I loved it too. It was even better thanLady Windermere’s Fan.”
“I haven’t seen or read it.”
“I envy you getting to experience it for the first time.” He jumps to avoid a large crack. “A Woman of No Importance?”
I shake my head no.
“You have readThe Picture of Dorian Gray, haven’t you?”
That’s another no.
“It’s the most exciting novel ever written. My father, of course, thinks it a menacing text. Those were his exact words. Amenacing text.”
“I’ve only read some of Wilde’s poems.” I feel a pang of shame for not being sufficiently in the know. I crave knowledge. I want to know everything. “I have catching up to do.”
“Poems? I think I’ve read everything but his poems.”
“I love poetry. It dispenses with everything but the necessary words.”
He ponders. “But isn’t it the unnecessary that makes life interesting?”
