Page 81 of Exquisite Things
“That sounds like an accusation,” the hostess says coolly.
“It’s not,” Bram responds. “You don’t make the rules. You simply follow them. I stayed in a suite here with my father once. If he were still alive, he’d be just like those men inside. Sneering at the filthy faggots invading their pristine little world.”
“I-I’m sorry,” the hostess says.
“Because my father is dead, or because I’m a filthy faggot?”
“I don’t know... Both.” She puts a hand on Bram’s shoulder. “I’ll put you at a corner table where you won’t be bothered by the... clientele.”
The afternoon tea doesn’t disappoint in its grandeur. Seasonal fruits. A special blend of tea unique to the hotel. Once the other patrons have tired of gawking at us, we’re free to gawk at them. We make up a story about each of them.
The lady sitting alone readingMadame Bovaryhas recently had her heart broken by the young man she’s been sleeping with behind her husband’s back.
The young, blandly beautiful couple feeding each other finger sandwiches like babies are royalty from some Scandinavian country.
The angry-looking man barking at his waiter because his eggs were undercooked has three children, none of whom speak to him.
When we’ve finished eating, my eyes travel to the grand piano in the center of the room. “Do I dare?” I ask Bram, my eyes on the instrument.
“You absolutely do dare.”
I stand up and walk toward it as if possessed. I don’t ask for permission to play. I simply sit on the bench like it belongs to me. Put my fingers on the keys and take a deep breath.
I can feel Mother by my side. I warm up with a Phrygian scale just for her. The diminished, eastern sound that always transported her into a world of fantasy. I smile, imagining she’s playing the scale an octave higher next to me. I feel such gratitude to her for gifting me her love of music. As long as I have music, she’s still close, isn’t she?
I debate playing Bowie. Donna. Queen. Something rebellious and incongruous with this luxurious room. But I choose Schubert’s “Fantasie in F Minor” instead. I played it for Bram once before, when he was Shams, when we were strangers to each other.
I look up. The stuck-up guests are learning to love me now. They’re reconsidering the wild child they thought they could dismiss. Forced to remember what they once knew when they were young, that we are all capable of creating beauty.
My eyes land on Bram as I play the devastatingly romantic melody that feels as vibrant today as it must have when it was written in 1828. Great music has no age. The joy in Bram’s eyes stirs me. Makes me feel as vibrant as I once was, long ago.
The first time I played this piece for him, I wondered if he might be my other half.
Now I know he is, and that knowledge allows me to play the piece with a new depth of understanding. I didn’t know what love is then. I do now. We’re children of the sun who found each other.
I close my eyes as I reach the end of the piece. The piece is meant for four hands, but I play a two-hand version that works.
The notes I can’t play ring in my head, Mother’s hands playing them next to me.
The melody brings her back.
Music is time travel.
I’m in charge of the destination.
For the first time in my life, I feel powerful. My destiny is of my own making. It feels wonderful.
Bram. London. December. 1980.
It is the last day of the last month of the first year of a new decade.
Oliver is gone when Changeling wakes me up by crawling atop my face. She meows until I acknowledge her. She misses Oliver when he’s gone. I do too. She prefers Oliver to me. I do too.
“I know, sweetie, I’m not him. But he has a session today. He’ll be back.”
On his side of the bed is the journal I got him for his birthday. Now filled with our thoughts and fears. We keep it carefully hidden under a loose floorboard, for our words would give our secret away.
I flip the pages until I see his new note:I didn’t think it possible, but I think this was the best year of my life. Thank you.
