Silence snuck in. It lasted for a few heartbeats; then he shattered it with “This is crazy. We’ve been talking for I don’t know how long now, and I don’t even know your name. Mine’s Ran.”
“Ram?” I asked.
“No,” he said, laughing. “Ran. As in past tense of run.”
“Like ‘Ran out’?”
“More like ‘Ran over,’ ” he said, his laughter mingling with mine. “And you are?”
“Ken,” I said, “with a Z.”
“Ken with a Z?” he said. “That’s so cool. A name with a preposition.”
“No,” I said, embarrassed. “It’s just Ken Z.”
“What’s the Z stand for?”
I paused. Now I had to hunt my mental dictionary for a Z-word, because my mother had given me none. The Z didn’t stand for anything. I blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Zafar.”
He furrowed his brows. “Zafar?”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound convincing.
“That’s far out,” he said. “Ken Zafar.”
I kept quiet, prayed he wouldn’t pursue the Z issue. He didn’t. Thank God. Instead, he drew a paperback from the inside pocket of his jacket. It was covered in brown paper. He tore off the cover and held the book up for me to see.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. On the cover was the silhouette of a prisoner standing behind the iron bars of a prison cell marked C33. The book was De Profundis, by none other than our literary hero.
“Holy mackerelativity!” I exclaimed.
“Right?” he said. “I mean, how often does this happen? It’s so Close Encounters of the Wonderment Kind.” He laughed.
I did too.
“Oscar must be in stitches right now,” he said. “This is so wild.”
I laughed at the pun.
“What’s so punny?” he said, laughing.
But Ran was right. How often does that happen? Two strangers meet at an uppity mall. Both end up in the same organic restaurant, ordering the same value meal. Both are carrying books by the same writer.
He placed his book beside mine. The Importance of Being Earnest next to De Profundis. One’s a comedy, the other a tragedy. Two words that best describe the life of Oscar Wilde. The master of wit and humor in Victorian society, before they threw him into prison.
I asked about the meaning of De Profundis.
“It’s Latin for ‘from the depths’ ” was Ran’s reply. “Oscar wrote it while he was in prison. It’s actually a long letter to Bosie.” He was referring to Oscar’s lover.
I remember CaZZ and Mr. Oku talking about it briefly at our last book club meeting. I forgot the details, except that it had something to do with Oscar suing Bosie’s father.
“Why did Oscar go to prison?” I asked.
“For being himself,” Ran replied. And left it at that.
“The entire book is a letter?” I asked, amazed that anyone could write a single letter the length of a book. Then I remembered, of course it was possible. Because anything and everything was possible when the subject was Oscar Wilde.
“What else can a writer do in prison?” Ran asked. “Prisoners weren’t allowed to talk to one another during Oscar’s time.”
“How barbaric!” I said. In my mind, I imagined Oscar killing time in his prison cell. Inside the four walls of loneliness, I imagined him talking to himself when he wasn’t screaming in silence, or praying on a blank sheet of paper that, as days turned into months, blossomed into a book.
Ran picked up the paperback, turned it to the opening page, then passed it to me.
Suffering is one very long moment.
We cannot divide it by seasons.
We can only record its moods and chronicle their return.
I closed the book and handed it back to him.
“Heavy, huh?”
“Ten-ton truck times ten,” I said.
“That’s only the beginning,” Ran said. “It’s depressing, but I want to read it. I want to read everything Oscar Wilde ever wrote. You know, Ken Z, whenever I get the chance, I go someplace quiet and just read. Read and think.”
I nodded. I could relate. I do it all the time. I’m actually at my happiest when I’m by myself, in my room or at the library, reading books, writing haikus, making lists, listening to jazz music coming from my mom’s bedroom at night, and dreaming of Antarctica.
“Earth calling Ken Z,” Ran said.
“Sorry.” I blushed.
“Thought I lost you there for a moment.”
“Nah,” I said. “I was just thinking.”
“About?”
“Suggesting De Profundis for my next book club meeting.”
“You in a book club?”
“Oscar Wilde book club,” I said, emphasis on “Oscar” and “Wilde.”
His eyes got even wider. He couldn’t believe my words. It was as if I had just delivered to him the greatest news of the century. “What? Really? No way.”
I yupped and gave him my biggest smile thus far.
“Except we’re still nameless,” I said.
“Nameless?” He paused for a moment, then laughed. “You’re in an Oscar Wilde book club that dares not speak its name.”
“That’s a good one,” I said, remembering it was one of Oscar’s famous sayings (and he had gazillions!). “Can I steal it from you?”
“It’s yours,” he said. “So do you go to St. John’s?” Ran was referring to the exclusive school nearby. His question implied several things. He mistook me for someone who lived on the east side, someone who came from a well-to-do family. Whatever it was that made him think that, it meant I had passed the bunburying test, that I could blend in as one of the uppity folks who hung out at Mirage.
I shook my head.
“You’re not from around here?” He sounded more surprised than disappointed.
“Nope,” I answered.
“A tourist?”
He took my silence for a no.
“If you’re not a tourist, then—”
“I’m from Central,” I said, and waited for an awkward silence to follow. None. He just nodded and smiled.
It was my turn to ask the questions.
“I’m from up north,” he responded.
“North?” I echoed.
He spelled it out. “North. Kristol.”
I went into mute mode. I didn’t want to believe it. My face went sour, as if I’d bitten into a lemon.
Ran is from the other side of the Pula Range, a series of mountains that sprouted from the earth like green knuckles. Splitting the island almost perfectly in half, they serve as geographical borders between the two Kristols—North and South. The countries, however, are not enemies. If anything, they’re allies, in the sense that the south depends on the north for assistance—economic and military—as North Kristol is one of the richest island nations and has one of the strongest armies in the Pacific.
“What’s the matter, Ken Z?” Ran looked dejected. My silence and sudden withdrawal had stung him.
“Oh, nothing,” I said.
He didn’t buy it, so I told him, “It’s just that I’ve never met anyone from the north before.”
“Is that a good or a bad thing?”
“Good,” I said, which sounded more like “I guess.” And although he managed to smile, I could read hurt on his face. I felt bad. Ran didn’t deserve my cold reaction just because he was from Planet Privilege. He was funny, sincere, and as much a fan of Oscar Wilde as I was.
“Can we be friends?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said right away. It was my one chance to redeem myself. “So what brings you to Mirage?”
“My mom works on the base,” he replied.
Just then, his hair, which had managed to stay in place the whole wh
ile, fell over his face. “One of these days”—he paused to rake back his bangs with his fingers—“I’m going to cut this all off.”
“No, don’t,” I said.
Surprised, he asked why not.
“Um…looks…Gray,” I said.
My words obviously did not register because he looked at me as if I’d just spoken to him in English as an Alien’s Language. He burst into laughter.
“Mind translating that for me?” he asked.
“You remind me of Dorian Gray,” I said really fast. “Sort of.”
“Really?” he said, blushing. “Thanks. But Dorian’s got blue eyes; mine are gray, weird gray because sometimes they’re light brown. Regardless, I’ll take the compliment, Ken Zafar. I just hope I’ll still look seventeen when I turn seventy.”
“Careful, Ran,” I said. “That’s how Dorian got into trouble in the first place, remember? Making a wish never to grow old.”
“True.” He laughed. “Then again, we don’t even know if the world will still be around.”
“Not if Antarctica continues to melt,” I said.
“And not with all these wars around us,” he added. “So depressing. Hurry. Change the subject before we depress ourselves further.”
“So, are you on spring break?” I asked.
“Starting today,” he replied. “You?”
“Same.”
“Let’s hang out,” he said. “That is, if you want to. Be nice to talk to someone, you know. About Oscar Wilde. It’ll be like having our own book club. Just the two of us. We can watch movies, go to a café—anything.”
“Um,” I said, which he interpreted as an affirmative.
“Great,” he said. “Do you drive?”
I threw him an are-you-serious? look.
“Well, I do,” he said. “I can pick you up wherever. Cool?”
I nodded my “I guess.”
“Wanna trade digits?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, then gave him my number.
“What apps do you use?”
“Talking Bubbles,” I said, which I use mainly for chatting.
“You use Zap?”
“Seldom,” I said. Zap texts were only good for a few hours and then they got zapped.
“How about email?”
“Email? I’m probably one of the few teenagers who still uses it,” I whispered, embarrassed to be sharing such a secret. But it’s the truth. Nowadays, it’s all about social media, with apps like Zap, Talking Bubbles, Howzit, and Chatterboxers.
“That makes two of us,” he said.
“I like writing letters,” I said.
“I like reading them.” He pointed to Oscar’s De Profundis as proof.
He looked at his watch. “Hey, I have to get going,” he said. He took a pen from his shirt pocket and scribbled his number on the cover page.
“Here,” he said, handing me the book.
I told him I couldn’t.
He insisted.
Again, I told him I couldn’t.
But he wouldn’t accept my no. “It’s my gift to you, Ken Z,” he said, putting an end to my resistance. Then he rose from the table and, before walking away, lightly squeezed my shoulder. “Send me a Zap, okay?”
I nodded.
He smiled, then walked out.
I lingered just long enough to finish reading the first act of Oscar’s play. I didn’t need the second, third, or fourth act anymore. I knew what was going to happen, how it was going to end—happily ever after, with the two bunburying friends discovering the biggest surprise of their lives.
I sent Ran a Zap. “As promised.”
Seconds later: “Thanks, Ken Zafar! See you tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir,” I Zapped back.
—Ran.
—Me.
MY BOOK
Many of my adventures
I borrowed from books.
Bunburying changed that.
Now I have my own thrill to tell.
A book written by Ken Z,
CEO Carpe Diem Inc.
The Difference Between North and South
Ran is from the north, which means he can come to the south whenever he pleases and not get harassed by the border patrol. It’s not the same for us in the south. We can’t just jump into a car and zip right through the tunnel. That’s too quick and simple. Too convenient. If I want to visit Ran, I’ll have to apply for a tourist visa at the North Kristol Embassy, where I’ll be asked questions like: how much money is in my savings, what are my reasons for going there, where am I staying and for how long, who do I know there and where do they live?
My best friend Estelle said it once took her and her family over three hours to get their visas. They were drilled with the same questions, as if they were criminals whose only crime was going on a family vacation. And they weren’t even going to North Kristol; they were headed to Hawaii. But because we don’t have an airport, they had to fly out of North Kristol’s. And it isn’t cheap. The airport tax Estelle and her family paid cost almost half the price of their tickets. That’s what happens when your own small island nation has to depend on its rich neighbor to get you off the island.
We had an airport once upon a time. It shut down a few years ago; the government simply couldn’t afford to continue operating it. One by one, airline companies stopped flying to South Kristol because the government kept increasing the rent, which went straight into the pockets of the officials. After the airport shut down, the shipping port followed. Since then, everything we order from the outside world—groceries, electronics, vehicles, medicine, appliances, books, toilet paper—must first go through North Kristol’s customs.
The north has access to the south, which is dependent on the north. For everything. That’s the main difference between a superpower island nation and an underdeveloped one that keeps getting poorer and poorer as its government gets richer and more corrupt.
And unless the God of Role Reversal intervenes, North Kristol shall remain our only gateway to the world and our only means of returning home.
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING A B
To be or not to
Be a bunburyist is
The bigger question.
WHAT I GET FOR LYING
Zafar: an anti-ship cruise missile
—QUICKIEPEDIATM
Lightness
Sunday evening, 3 March
Waiting for Ran is more nerve-racking than waiting for the number eight bus. We were supposed to meet at seven-thirty. That was over an hour ago. So why am I still here? It wasn’t my idea to hang out.
He Zapped me, so I Zapped him back and told him to meet me at Serendipi-Tea.
Maybe he’s changed his mind and just doesn’t have the guts to say so.
I hope he didn’t get into an accident. But what if? What if at half past six, he got into a head-on collision with an army truck because he was speeding to get to me on time? What if they’re still trying to pry him out of his car, which is smashed like an accordion?
I should just surrender to the Lord of No-Shows and drag myself home. What am I waiting for?
To stay or not to stay.
Finally, I make up my mind to leave.
Outside, I bump into a large man. “Oh dear,” he utters, then apologizes for nearly knocking me down, even though I’m the one who went charging out of the café like a bull let loose on the streets of Pamplona.
It’s Oscar Wilde. He’s tall and stout, like the selfish giant in his fairy tale. His features are striking. He has a long face. His wavy hair covers his broad forehead. His large blue eyes are deep-set with thick arched brows; his mouth is full. He isn’t handsome but doesn’t care. He is someone who knows that physique and looks can be compensated for. That what is important
is not how you look, but how well you know yourself, the suit of confidence you wear wherever you go, whomever you’re with.
Oscar once quipped that if you cannot be a work of Art, you might as well wear Art. He does both. Like in his portraits, he is wearing his signature outfit: all velvet—a black velvet cape over a green velvet suit. Pinned on the lapel is a green carnation. His hair is like that in many of his photographs—perfectly parted in the middle and flowing to the base of his neck.
“Oscar? What’re you doing here?”
“I came to answer your prayer,” he replies. “Or have you forgotten?”
I shake my head in disbelief.
“Why the rush?” he asks. “Where are you off to?”
“Home.”
“Home?”
I nod and go straight to the point. “I’ve been stood up, Oscar.”
“Mon Dieu, mon coeur!” he exclaims. “Who would dare desert such a charming boy?”
“I’m not surprised,” I say.
“Perhaps there’s a reason for the delay.”
“Doubt it,” I say. “More like ghosting.”
I’m about to excuse myself when he blocks my way. “Don’t go yet, dear heart.”
“It’s no use, Oscar,” I say.
“Wait for a few more minutes. You’ve already waited this long. A few more minutes won’t hurt, right?”
“Another minute, Oscar, and I might turn into fungus.”
“In that case, I’ll join you,” he says, laughing.
I make another attempt to leave. And again, Oscar persuades me to stay.
“Oh, Ken Z,” he says, “don’t go. Stay.”
“Stay?”
“With me,” he says. He points to the night sky. “The moon’s just risen. And she, I am told, will be all aglow tonight.”
Just then, a car honks its horn at me as it pulls right beside the curb.
“I believe your ghosty has just arrived,” Oscar says, more to himself than to me. Shaking his head, he adds, “I tell you, you young ones with your never-ending quest for adventures of the heart. Until the next rendezvous, Ken Z. Ta-ta.”
And before I know it, the Saint of Answered Prayers is gone, replaced by Ran summoning me to get into his car. “I’m so sorry, Ken Z,” Ran says. “Thank God you waited.”
The Importance of Being Wilde at Heart Page 2