“That was before.”
“Before what exactly?” I make no attempt to hide my annoyance. “Before you decided to go back to being a bore?”
He looks around to make sure no one is in proximity. “Haven’t you heard? Wilde is taking the Marquess of Queensberry to court for calling him a sodomite.”
“The deranged man with the vegetable bouquet!” I say this a little too loud.
“Keep your voice down. I don’t know why Wilde couldn’t just ignore the old man. Now the whole city’s talking about it.”
“Perhaps that’s a good thing.”
His eyes narrow. “A good thing?” He shakes his head. “There will be a trial. The whole world will be disgusted by him. By— By—”
I think he wants to say “by us.” But I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that it won’t just be Wilde on trial. It will be me too. My lust. My desire for love. My deviant thoughts. That will be what’s debated in the court. Splashed across newspapers around the world.
“Perhaps there’s something even more disgusting than being a sodomite.” I wait for his curious eyes to find mine. “Being a coward.” I stand up. Walk away from James.
He doesn’t dare speak to me again. Not as news of the trial sweeps across the city. Boys in dorms do fey impressions of Wilde. They throw the wordbuggeraround mercilessly. A dripping spittle of disgust on their lips each time they speak it. I hear James say it too. Mocking the very thing he is. Loathing himself as self-protection. Pathetic.
I go back to walking. Observing. Keeping my mouth closed. The streets are abuzz with talk of the looming trial. What was once gossiped about in private is now a public obsession. In the pages of the papers. I learn of the detectives Queensberry hired. Of Wilde’s visits to male brothels. Tales of blackmail. Corruption. Cross-dressers.
They say:Not since the Greeks.
They say:We must protect our children from the likes of him.
The man all of London cheered for on Valentine’s Day is despised by Easter.
Shahriar. London. May. 1895.
With the bloom of spring’s flowers comes a surprise visit from my father. I know he didn’t travel all this way for a friendly hello. Everything is a chess move to him. He arrives late and summons me to Claridge’s. He’s booked us a two-bedroom suite. Two bathrooms as well. He doesn’t like sharing space with me. Why would he when he blames me for destroying his life simply by being born?
“I’m exhausted” is all he says to me on our first night.
“I understand” is my response. What I understand is that I exhaust him. It must be tiresome trying and failing to transform me into someone exceptional enough to warrant his love.
The suite is more luxurious than the boarding school dormitories I’ve grown accustomed to. There are sheets that feel like clouds. Curtains so thick they have the power to stop the sun. And yet I toss and turn all night. My mind spins with anxiety. Rage. Nervous to know why he’s here. Angry that everything he does is in service of this unnecessary luxury.
Morning breaks. I watch the sunrise through the windows of the suite’s living area. I remember something the king’s cousin said to me and my father at some ridiculous party my father was overthe moon we were invited to.Everything looks better from above.I hear the words in my head as I look out the twenty-eighth-story windows of our hotel suite. I want to be in the streets. In the gutters. One with people. Not above.
“Good morning.” My father joins me by the window. No hug. No warmth.
“Good morning, Baba.” I hope he’ll say something kind. Perhaps about how much I’ve grown since he last saw me. Or a compliment on my latest accomplishments at school. But he offers no praise. Only silent judgment. I want to disappear. Hiding from each other is easy in our house back home. Lots of space. Always other people present. Human buffers. His friends or servants. The lovers he sneaks in. Their feminine scent and coy giggles. He thinks I don’t see them sneak in at night and out in the morning. Or perhaps he wants me to notice. To learn. Emulate the way he disposes of women.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Fine.” I turn to face him. He looks older. Wearier in the body. Even less muddy gray hair on his balding head than last year. His skin has a gloom to it. The sickly pallor of an empty life. I pray I won’t age like him. I tell myself that the secret to eternal youth is loving and being loved. I must stop hating like he does. It’s my greatest fear. Turning into him.
“This is not a social visit.”
I say nothing. I know he prefers not to be interrupted. He’s whipped me for speaking to him without being asked a question first.
“I have received a concerning correspondence from your headmaster.”
A strained silence. I’m anxious to know more. I make themistake of speaking without being asked to. “I’m not sure what he might be concerned about. I’m top of my class—”
“I have been told that you are interested in being a...writer.” He says the word as if it were worse than being a bugger. The lowest of the low. “Even worse. Apoet.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. I thought perhaps he somehow found out I kissed James. This feels small in comparison. “I did express an interest in poetry to my classics professor. But I—I have made no decisions on my future.”
