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April 1, 2025
Beautiful Schubert,
Though it is spring again, the flowers no longer bloom. The lily has finally succumbed to the cold freeze of time. We will celebrate the flower exactly three weeks before May Day. You know the route. You may still despise me, but I know you still love our mother. She would want you to send her off. She would want us to be together.
Forever yours,
Wordsworth
Bram. London. April. 2025.
I walk through the lobby of Claridge’s. Curious eyes take in my look. Baggy cotton pants. A denim blazer with graffiti on the back. Security cameras track me from ceiling corners. Perhaps I’ll be found despite the veil I use to hide my face. I’ve led a life of risk. Will this be my final gamble? Coming back to London. Sleeping in the very suite where my father set my life on its unique course. Preparing to walk the same streets where I once knew happiness. Some risks must be taken. No matter how dangerous.
I step out of the hotel. Nobody snatches me from behind. No strong men throw me into the back of an unmarked vehicle. I exhale. London’s architecture—like my physical appearance—appears unchanged. Same clutter of styles. Edwardian. Victorian. Art deco. Same rain and wind despite the rapidly changing climate. So strong that they almost take my colossal hotel umbrella with them. You have to look closely to see the transformations in the city. As you do with me. I look exactly as I did a century ago. Skin unwrinkled. Hair thick and black. Forever seventeen.
And yet—like London—I’ve been here an extraordinarily long time. As indestructible as this city, which I twice called home. First: as Shahriar. The name I was born with. It means “the king.” Thesecond time: as Bram. The name Lily gave me. It wasn’t inspired by the man who wroteDracula. That’s mere coincidence. I may be immortal but I’m no vampire. I have no fangs. No lust for blood. Only for love. No occult powers other than the blessing or curse of eternal youth. Lily had named me after a weed. Herself after a flower. We are nature, after all. My father didn’t care about my nature. He only wanted me to be a king.
And now I’m all queen in my sparkling veil. I know the danger of returning to the city I once called home. A city with cameras on every street. Lily’s memorial is one of two reasons I would walk these pathways again. These junctions where my worst and best memories live.
The other reason is Oliver. I hope he’s walking the streets of London right now. On his way to celebrate our mother. I have a brief fantasy of the wind carrying me up likeMary Poppinsso I can search the city for the chestnut brown of Oliver’s hair. The golden glow of his skin. The thick musculature of his body. The long graceful shape of his neck. Like a violin. I lovedMary Poppinswhen it came out in 1964. When I was either eighty-six years old or still a teenager. Depending on how you define age. Lily was like Mary Poppins. The magical muse who liberated the children she took care of. The woman who made life feel like flight.
I walk the thirty minutes from Mayfair to Covent Garden. That vibrant neighborhood where we once danced. Laughed. Felt seen in the darkness of the dance floor.
I walk past shops. Theaters. Pub awnings packed with beer drinkers avoiding the deluge. The rain goes from downpour to drizzle. The pub crawlers move out into sidewalks. Take over the streets with their boisterous cheers over the football game on every screen.
I know I’m getting close to the first stop of Lily’s memorial whenI see them. Beautiful Azalea, Poppy, and Blossom. They walk reverently ahead of me toward what was once the Blitz Club. Their steps more careful than they used to be. Even the most vibrant of souls get old. Find themselves unable to sparkle as they once did. They’ve lost youthful energy and gained exquisite vulnerability.
I walk a few steps behind them. Find myself deeply moved by what they’re wearing. Every stitch sewed by Lily. Sequins and crushed velvet and bright silk. The fabrics seem to glow as they turn onto the aptly named Great Queen Street. To our journey’s starting point.
The street is flooded with two dozen fabulously dressed people who greet each other with long hugs. Tearful kisses. They’ve all gathered to celebrate Lily. The oldest ones are familiar to me. They were there in those glory days when I lived with Lily. Brixton. I can still travel back to it if I close my eyes. The only true home I’ve had in my eternal life.
I see Maud. My sister. My friend. She must be in her fifties now. No. Sixties. Time is hard for me to track. She looks so much younger. Holds the hand of a gorgeous woman who must be her wife. Simple gold rings on their deep brown skin. Beautiful.
The youngest ones are strangers to me. They must be Lily’s children too. She was mother to so many. But mine first. I want them to know that. I can be quite petty. Selfish. Greedy.
Archie now looks as ancient and wise as an antique book. He stands atop the steps to what was once the Blitz. Announces to the group that the journey will begin in a few moments. With stops at all of Lily’s old haunts on the way. Just as Lily mapped out long ago. When I was her son. Her firstborn. When she gave me a life.
Archie wears the ascot suit Lily made for him. It swims on his dwindling frame. His once muscular body has shrunk. Skeletal.Fat lost in places. Gained in others. The side effects of the early HIV medications that saved his life. Lily always wanted to be the first of her chosen family to go. I’m glad she got her wish. And that Archie survived this long. His aged face is more beautiful than ever. It’s a face with a story to tell. Those have always been the faces I’ve been interested in.
Oliver’s face...
His eyes were my once-upon-a-time.
I can almost conjure his voice. Imagine the sound of his fingers on the keys of a grand piano. I wish I could travel back in time to the Boston of 1920. The first spring of a new decade of possibility.
Meeting him. Knowing him. Loving him. It’s when I knew I had a chance at finally fulfilling my destiny. To love and be loved in a time and place where that love isn’t a crime.
Archie lifts up his comically tall top hat as he addresses the crowd: “You know why Lily made me this hat? Because we would always lose each other when we went out dancing. When she gifted me this hat, she said,Archie, you will never be lost again. At least to me.”
I too felt found by Lily. Then I became lost again. The only way I can find myself is to get Oliver back. He holds my heart hostage. I shift my veiled eyes across the crowd of mourners. I sent Oliver a message via the newspaper. As we’ve been doing for over a century. He knows Lily is gone. Knows the memorial is today. Yet he’s not here. Which must mean his hatred of me is greater than his love for Lily. The thought sends a chill through me.
Archie takes a deep breath. “And with this hat, you won’t be lost either. At least not today. Just follow the hat. Shall we?”
Archie leads the way. The rest walk alongside and behind him.They’ll be spreading Lily’s ashes into the Thames at the end of the day. It’s what she wanted. Grief is in the air as they shuffle down the road. So is peace. The serenity that comes from commemorating a life well-lived.
I don’t walk. Not yet. I know their route. I don’t know where Oliver is. Is he running late? Perhaps he was too afraid of being seen by the others to show up on time. Though they’re not who we fear being caught by. The people we’re afraid of are the people we should all be afraid of. The kings of the world. Those willing to destroy in their quest for more wealth and power. My heart races as I scan the streets. I see no suspicious people or vehicles. Just the building that used to be our safe space. It’s a strip club now.
