Page 9 of Exquisite Things
“No, no, I spend summers at home. Unfortunately.” I look up at his face. He seems interested. I keep going. “I’m not a person to my father. I’m just... a project. He wants me to go to the best schools and study harder than anyone else so I can someday make him proud. Bring our family the glory he craves. All he cares about is money and power.”
“He must have money and power if he sent you to school here.”
I shake my head. “He wants more than he has. Heworksfor the royal family. He wants me tomarryinto the royal family. To transform us into kings.”
“And your mother?”
“She died when I was born.” I step into a puddle. Kick off the mud. I know the true motivation behind my father’s grand ambitions for me. He wants to transform me into a son who is worthy of his love. But that will never happen. Because I’ll always be the son he blames for killing the one person he did love. “It’s just me and my father. He thinks I’m going to move back home when I’m out of university. Work with him. Use what I’ve learned in England to help him ascend to even higher status.”
“And what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know yet, but...”
“But?”
“I’d love to write.” It’s the first time I’ve uttered these words.Perhaps the first time I’ve had the thought. The improbable suddenly feels possible on this crisp February night. Admissible, at the very least.
“What would you want to write?”
“Poems, maybe.” I allow for a short intermission in my words. “Menacing ones, of course.”
He cackles. “You know what I’m fascinated by?” He skips over a crack. Almost falls. I hold him up. His long body in my arms. We remain frozen like that for a moment. We’re in an alley now. A shortcut I know from my wanderings. No one else is in sight. “Book binding.” His face below mine. My hands under his shoulders.
“Book binding?” That’s not what I was expecting.
“I observed the physical creation of a book once and it was enthralling.” He cranes his neck to make sure we’re still alone. “Like you.”
“Me?”
“Let’s be buggers tonight.” He waits. I say nothing. “What do you say?”
I grimace. “I don’t like that word. Can’t we be lovers instead?” I don’t know why I say that. I don’t love him. I desire him. He doesn’t inspire that feeling the poems illuminate. When love’s arrow strikes. One of Wilde’s own poems comes to me:We shall be notes in that great Symphony.
James doesn’t love me either. That is clear when he proclaims: “Men can’t love men. But we can bugger each other.” Before I can protest: “Would you let Oscar Wilde bugger you?”
“What? He’s old enough to be my father.” Wilde’s poetry keeps coming to me:One with our heart, the stealthy creeping years have lost their terror now. We shall not die. The Universe itself shall be our immortality!
“My father, believe it or not, has some very handsome friends.” James enjoys the sound of this shocking thought escaping his lips. “Does yours?”
“I suppose I would prefer to be with someone closer to my own age.” I’m coming to these conclusions on the spot. Realizing what I want only when faced with what I don’t. “What I want is... someone who might understand me. Truly and completely. And still, despite it all, love me.”
“You’ll need a woman for that. Men aren’t meant to love. They’re meant to do this.” He puts a hand on my crotch. Rubs me until I’m stiff. The way he does it makes me think he’s been taught how by someone else. Perhaps by one of the boys at school. “And... this.” He presses his lips to mine. Shoves his tongue violently into my mouth.
Of course I crave him. But also more than him. Someone who makes butterflies fly inside me. A boy who makes me feel like a note in a great symphony. I push him gently away. “Let’s not rush things.”
“Who’s exceedingly dull now?” He cackles.
“I’m sorry.” I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for.
He quickly forgives me. He creates an elaborate fantasy of what our futures could be as I lead him back to school. “You’ll write poems. Even better ones than Wilde. And I’ll bind them. No, I’ll publish them. I’ll start a publishing house. We’ll marry, of course.”
For a moment, I think he’s suggesting we would marryeach other.
Then: “Our wives will be dear friends, and our children will be too. And when we need the company of a man, we’ll visit each other surreptitiously. Doesn’t that sound glorious?”
It doesn’t. Not to me. All my father cares about are appearances,even if those appearances are lies. I don’t want to pretend and deceive. But I can’t confess this to James. There have been enough secrets for one day. It’s clear to me that he’s a bugger. I am not. I want something bigger than buggery. A love of the heart. A life of truth.
Whatever connection James feels with me seems to disappear once we return to the routine of school and sport. He goes back to his usual friends. Their pale faces and mundane thoughts. I finally find him alone in the library after eight days have passed. I catch his gaze. He quickly looks away. I wait for him to say hello. He doesn’t. I sit next to him. “I thought we were going to be friends.”
