“Would you take a photo of us all together?” a tourist asks me as she holds out her iPhone.
I feel relief that I haven’t been found. Disappointment that it wasn’t Oliver. “Of course.”
I take the phone and position myself with my back to Lily’s memorial crew. I snap-snap-snap. Azalea speaks behind me. “Of course, no one remembers those gorgeous costumes Lily helped sew. No, what they remember is the moral panic the play caused because it dared to depict gay rape onstage. People threw things at the actors. Fireworks. Flour. Disgusting fools.”
“Jesus.” That’s Tobi again. I get the sense he’s learning Lily’s history today. I wonder how long he knew her.
“Yes, exactly.” Azalea laughs. “Jesus was indeed involved. A Christian activist sued the director for gross indecency. MaryWhitehouse. An absolutely loathsome woman who knew nothing of Jesus’s true teachings. Her hatred is the real gross indecency.”
Gross indecency.The words remind me of Wilde. His life. His work. Those trials.
“Can you take a vertical one?”
“And some in portrait mode, please?”
I oblige the family. They’re giving me a perfect way to be a part of the memorial without being a conspicuous observer.
Gross indecency.Wilde. The man who inspired me and destroyed me. And not just me. I’m not claiming his pages made others immortal. I do believe Oliver and I are the only ones. But Wilde slept with young men, then disposed of them. He insisted on suing for libel despite knowing the accusations against him were true. His trial created assumptions about gay men that last to this day. Sexual compulsion. Criminality. He doesn’t deserve to be a symbol for our community. But perhaps Wilde isn’t the problem. Never was. The problem is turning people into symbols in the first place. Defending their flaws because we think their mistakes belong to everyone in our community. Wilde wasn’t perfect. That much I know.
Then again, neither am I.
I want to be loved as Wilde still is. For my beauty and my flaws. My light and my darkness. That’s what I need from Oliver.
Oliver?
Is that him in the background of the photo I just took of the tourists?
I’m still in portrait mode. The background is out of focus. I go to the photo. Zoom in to the blurry chestnut-haired figure standing hesitantly by a lamppost. Half his face covered by the very newspaper I placed the ad in. It’shisstance. He has a way of leaning forward. Always craning that gloriously long neck to see more of the world.
I return the phone. I feel dizzy with excitement as I search the crowds for him. Tourists everywhere. Splashes of street art in primary colors. A cluster of onlookers watch adolescent skateboarders athletically leap across ramps. The hungry line up at a Mexican food truck. Theatergoers flood into the National.
Where is he?
“Shall we go to our next stop?” Azalea is still in charge of the procession. She turns to Archie. “Follow the bottom’s top hat!”
“I’m too old, too tired, and too talented to be bottom shamed.” Archie cackles. “And by a nurse, no less.”
“Same nurse who got you the meds you needed when the world turned its back on you.” Azalea puts an arm around Archie. “Think that earns me the right to mock you mercilessly.”
“I suppose so.” Archie leans a head on her shoulder.
They head toward the Queen’s Walk. I know the route. They’ll head south to Brixton after the Queen’s Walk. To our home. To Pearl’s. Then back to the Thames for sunset. I don’t follow them. I turn my head left. Then right. I search near and far.
I push through the crowds. Desperate to find him.
Memories flood my mind: London with Oliver.
And also: London before Oliver.
Those years before I met him. Those early days when I still wasn’t certain those flames changed me forever.
“Oliver!”
I see a figure on the bridge. Staring out at the river. He’s too far for me to be sure. I run. “OLIVER!”
The faster I run...
The closer I get...
