The Importance of Being Wilde at Heart

by R. Zamora Linmark

“Let him go, Estelle,” CaZZ said. “That’s right, Ken Z, walk away. You seem to be doing a lot of that lately. But no matter how fast you go, you’re not going anywhere. You live on an island, stupid. You’ll only go in circles.”

  She was right. But I didn’t care. All I wanted was to get away from them as fast and as far as possible. But no matter how fast I was, it wasn’t enough. Because the sinking feeling returned to weigh me down. And with every step I took, it got heavier and heavier.

  From Here to Hell

  Saturday, 6 April

  Today I did the unthinkable unforgivable. I went back to Mirage hoping praying looking for Ran. Two hours wasted at the bus stop. Not a very good sign. When I got there, I was nearly turned away because of my collarless shirt. Luckily, One of the mall security personnel recognized me. He probably saw me with Ran. That’s me: Ken Z, memorable only by association. I went straight to Buddha’s Joint. It was empty. I hung around there for an hour. Just in case he Then I looked everywhere for him, my eyes working triple time, making sure I did not miss a single face. I promised myself that if I bumped into him please just one final more time, I would not make a scene. He wouldn’t have to utter a single word. I would’ve been okay with that. A simple hello I’d be okay with that would’ve been more than enough. I scoured the mall twice before I went back to Buddha’s Joint. I stayed there for I don’t know how long, two, three hours, my concentration seesawing between The Trials of Oscar Wilde and every customer that walked into the restaurant. What was I doing? Going crazy, that’s what. Being stupid, that’s what. It was around four p.m. when I finally mustered had the strength guts to leave. I didn’t want to. I could’ve hung around Mirage for another day, month, year, waiting, building my tower of disappointments. Thank God I still had some brain cells left to tell me, “Get real, Ken Z. He’s never going to show up. Stamp it on that thick skull of yours. You don’t belong here, anyway. Go now before you miss the bus from hell! Go home and wallow in your pathetic journal and lists and haikus.” I was dejected upset so angry at myself. How did I go from happiness to hell? Oscar once said, “If the gods wish to punish us, they will answer our prayers.” If that is so, then why are they ignoring mine? Or are these the side effects of an answered prayer? Damaged days? Countless hours of banging my head against memories? They’re unbeatable matchless useless now. I don’t want them. They only remind me of sorrow pain my stupidity. Today’s mad ride to hell is the last straw. I will not be tempted again. I don’t care what Oscar says about temptation. He shouldn’t talk be giving advice to anybody. Temptation—bah! Look where temptation got him. Look what temptation’s given me. I’m so stupid pathetic. I’m just like Oscar, repeating my madness with the same guy. Except my story is worse. At least with Oscar, his Bosie stuck around until the very end. He remained the jerk that Oscar had fallen in love obsessed over went crazy over. But at least he didn’t pull a Houdini on Oscar, unlike Ran. Ran, who is now a memory ghosty waiting for me to erase void forget him.

  The I’m-So-Pathetic List

  Checking my phone four trillion times a day to see if he’s Zapped me.

  Playing our “De-Lovely” song-and-dance number over and over in my mind.

  Taking the number eight bus to Mirage to look for him.

  Thinking of applying for a travel visa to North Kristol, knowing I’ll be denied.

  Devoting an entire list to him.

  Swinging back and forth between hope and hopelessness.

  My heart jumping at the sight of every shaven-head guy.

  Unable to read anything without seeing him between the lines.

  Lying to close friends.

  Memorizing his last text, date and time included. Monday, 18 March. 2:23 a.m.

  Holding my breath until he resurfaces from ghosting.

  The Mask of the Heart

  We are never who we are. This is what Oscar Wilde’s plays and stories have taught me. The Picture of Dorian Gray. The Importance of Being Earnest.

  * * *

  • • •

  We are never who we are. Just a bunch of bunburyists inventing identities to get the most fun out of life. Perpetual adventurers who carry with them several shadows.

  * * *

  • • •

  But how many “I’s” do I need to start feeling good about myself again? How many masks must I wear to cover up the pain? And how do I get over this waiting and wanting for the heart to stop remembering?

  GHOSTING: DAY 22

  Should I surrender?

  I’m running out of prayers

  to save this madness.

  Utterly

  In the dream, I am in Oscar’s suite at the Grand Hotel in Brighton, England. The year is 1893; the month, March. I am standing beside the window, watching the rain chase people off the street. Oscar is bedridden with the flu. He’s been waiting for Bosie to return from his ghosting. Bosie left two days ago, slamming the door as Oscar pleaded with him not to leave. Oscar’s condition has gotten worse since then. He wants to return to London, where his wife can nurse him, but he’s so weak he can’t even get up to fetch water or use the bathroom without my help.

  “If not for your kindness, Ken Z,” Oscar says, “my life would’ve ended in this drab room. I can only imagine the headlines. ‘Celebrated playwright killed in a duel with wallpaper.’ ”

  “Where’s Bosie?” I ask.

  “Out. Probably cruising for trouble.”

  “He should be here, taking care of you,” I say. “You’re only sick because you caught it from him.”

  Less than a week ago, Bosie was practically bedridden, coughing and delirious from high fever. Worried that Bosie wouldn’t recover, Oscar set aside family obligations and the play he was working on to attend to him. And now that Oscar needs him, he’s nowhere to be found, traipsing around London and dining in fancy restaurants with Oscar’s money.

  “I don’t understand how he can be so cruel to you,” I say.

  “Bosie, unfortunately, inherited his father’s mean temper,” Oscar replies.

  “Does he even like you, Oscar? Because he doesn’t act like he does.”

  “I want to think so. I remember when we first met, we were inseparable.”

  Tears well in his eyes as he reminisces about their first months together.

  “Nothing could come between us. We traveled everywhere, wined and dined in the most expensive restaurants. At my expense, of course. Bosie treated me as if I were his bank.”

  “And now?”

  “Now a day does not pass without us getting into fights.”

  “How miserable!”

  “We’d rather fight and ruin each other than be separated,” Oscar says. “But this is nothing unusual.”

  “Nothing unusual? It’s not normal, Oscar.”

  “We mean a lot to each other.” Oscar pauses to cough. I rush to his bedside, rub his back. He points to the glass pitcher. It’s empty.

  Just then, Bosie storms in.

  Oscar breathes a sigh of relief.

  “Bosie, where have you been?” I ask.

  He ignores me, walks straight up to Oscar. He tries to coax the sick playwright out of bed. He tells him friends are waiting for them in the lobby. “Get dressed, Oscar,” he says. “Now!”

  Oscar shakes his head, begs him to stop.

  “He’s sick!” I yell at Bosie. “He can barely stand!”

  None of my words register. It’s as if I’m a ghost in the room.

  “Please, Bosie,” Oscar says, gesturing for a glass of water.

  Bosie glares at him. He doesn’t budge. Eyes widening like a madman’s, he laughs right in his face.

  “Don’t mock me, dear lad,” Oscar pleads.

  But delight and cruelty are one and the same to Bosie. He starts berating Oscar, accuses him of social climbing, of being a penny-pin
cher. “What a complete bore you are!” he shouts.

  “Bosie, please do not make a scene with me,” Oscar says. “It kills me and I cannot listen to you saying hideous things.”

  Bosie continues to taunt him. “You’re repulsive!”

  My hand balls into a fist, ready to attack Bosie should he lay a hand on Oscar.

  “When you are not on your pedestal,” Bosie says, “you are utterly uninteresting.”

  “Stop,” Oscar begs. “You’re breaking my heart, Bosie. I’d sooner be rented all day than have you be bitter, unjust, and horrid.”

  “What about you?” I tell Bosie. “You’re nothing but a second-rate poet, an entitled bully cursed with your father’s temper.”

  Bosie turns to me. “Speak for yourself!” he says. “You’re just as pathetic as your hero. When are you two going to realize that you both have been played?”

  Bosie walks toward me, snarling like a rabid dog. I take a step back.

  In the background, I can hear Oscar begging him not to hurt me.

  As he draws closer and closer, his face starts to morph into Ran’s. Until there’s no sign of Bosie left.

  I back off until I hit a wall. Ran grins. He’s taking delight in terrorizing me. He jabs his finger, hard, into my chest. He strokes my cheek with the same finger. He pushes his weight against me, whispering “You’re pathetic” in my ear. Oscar begs him to stop. Finally, he leaves, slamming the door behind him.

  In the mirror, I see Oscar’s reflection. It is that of a sad and troubled man. “What have I done, Ken Z?” he cries out. “I shouldn’t have left home. I shouldn’t have strayed from my wife and sons. I have neglected my duties as husband and father.”

  “You shouldn’t have fallen for him, Oscar,” I say. “You shouldn’t have listened to your heart.”

  I wake up, hearing myself repeating these words, again and again.

  You shouldn’t have fallen, Ken Z.

  You shouldn’t have listened to your heart.

  GENTLE RAIN

  Heart dripping with rain

  Be gentle with my sorrow

  Dear honey-haired boy.

  SCAR

  If only the memory of his kiss

  and embrace did not burn

  like a first-degree and left me

  with a scar with meanings

  as the time he held my hand

  and whispered softly

  my name in my ears

  while the moon glowed

  and eavesdropped.

  SUNDAY, 7 APRIL

  From dusk-draped window

  Brightness leaves me

  Light by light by light.

  MONDAY MORNING

  Scrubbing the kitchen

  Sink with memories, absence

  Makes the heart grow fonder mold.

  Backfire

  Monday, 8 April

  Wasn’t in the mood for school, so I cut class after second period. It was easy. All I had to do was walk out of campus looking sickly and holding a piece of paper in case the ogre passing as campus security asked for it. He didn’t. It was the same pass from last week when I went to the clinic suffering from a fake headache. I stayed in bed for the rest of the day and read The Trials of Oscar Wilde for the book club this Friday. The book’s pretty thick, but it moves fast, like watching a two-hour courtroom drama unravel before me. My blood boiled while reading it. I was angry—at Bosie, at Bosie’s father, at the Victorian society that turned its back on its celebrated playwright. Most of all, I was angry at Oscar, so much so that I couldn’t bring myself to talk to him about it. I was afraid I’d say something I’d end up regretting.

  I only wished Oscar had listened to his friends when they’d advised him not to take Bosie’s father to court. If he had, he would’ve avoided his own downfall. There would’ve been more masterpieces from him. But he was too stubborn. Too proud? Too vain? Whatever the reasons, he let Bosie talk him into pursuing the libel suit. Maybe they both thought he’d win the case easily. After all, he was Oscar Wilde, and all Oscar Wilde had to do was put on his charming and witty self to humor and win over the jurors. He’d forgotten that Victorian high society wore another mask: one that was vindictive, repressed, obsessed with morality, and against anything that deviated from the norm, especially sex between men.

  Oscar’s lawsuit backfired on him. At the trial, incriminating evidence was presented. Victorious, Bosie’s father urged the Crown to prosecute Oscar. They did. It ended in a hung jury, so they tried him again and would’ve kept on until they reached a verdict of guilty. They were that bloodthirsty—those nineteenth-century vampires in top hats and coattails. Hate does that, brings out the evil and violent side of a person, a government, a society, a nation, to punish their own heroes.

  I did not read beyond the second trial. I already knew what was going to happen. It would only make me more furious, force me to change my opinion of my hero, bring out unwanted feelings, thoughts, words.

  MONDAY AFTERNOON

  Scrubbing the kitchen

  Sink with memories, absence

  Makes the heart grow mold furious.

  The Prison of Hope

  TUESDAY, 9 APRIL. MIDDAY. MY BEDROOM.

  OSCAR: And what are you reading now, dear boy?

  ME: De Profundis.

  OSCAR: Dear Lord.

  ME: I know. You should’ve called it De-Pressing.

  OSCAR: Why are you punishing yourself with my gloom? I’ve written many others—and they’re more uplifting than that sad chapter in my life.

  ME: I want to know what happened to you after the trial, Oscar. What prison life was like in England in those days. What you did to block out the pain. I don’t want to read about it on the Internet. Half the things on there are fake anyway. I want it to come straight from you—your own words.

  OSCAR: My Inferno. As narrated by me.

  ME: Yes.

  OSCAR: Let’s see….Well, in prison, there is only one season, Ken Z, and that is the season of sorrow. The very sun and moon seem taken from us. Outside, the day may be blue and gold, but the light that creeps down through the thickly muffled glass of the small iron-barred window is gray and meager. I spent most of the day in solitary confinement. My world in those two years, Ken Z, measured thirteen feet long and seven feet wide and nine feet high. My bed was a piece of plank. Beside it was a chamber pot. I became an insomniac as a result.

  ME: What did you do to pass the time?

  OSCAR: I tidied up my room. Every day, the warden inspected my cell. Everything in it had to be clean and organized.

  ME: Otherwise?

  OSCAR: Punishment. The food was horrible. It turned my stomach, often resulting in violent diarrhea. Every day, after breakfast, which consisted of cocoa and brown bread, I and other prisoners were brought out to the prison yard to reunite with the sun. We were not allowed to converse. For an hour, we walked in circles, in absolute silence.

  ME: How cruel.

  OSCAR: And that was only the beginning of the day. In my first three months in prison, I was ordered to step on the treadwheel. Like a laboratory mouse, I climbed that staircase from hell for six hours nonstop. Another form of physical and mental torture was picking oakums. My fingertips bled and grew dull with pain. It was a tedious, mind-numbing task with no goal other than to punish the prisoner and drive him closer to madness. Every day, until I left the prison, I picked those ropes apart for ten hours.

  ME: Did anyone visit you?

  OSCAR: At first, no. When I was finally permitted to receive visitors, I could only have one every three months, and only for twenty minutes.

  ME: Jesus. Did they at least give you books to read, or pen and paper?

  OSCAR FALLS SILENT. TEARS ARE W
ELLING IN HIS EYES. SHAKING HIS HEAD, HE CONTINUES WITH HIS STORY.

  OSCAR: They knew I was a writer, Ken Z. They knew the tools I could not live without were books, paper, and pen. So essential are they to the literary man, so vital are they for the preservation of mental balance. With these tools, I could combat the silence they had condemned me to. By denying me pen and paper, they’d perfected my miserable state. By denying me books, they’d cut me off from all knowledge of the external world and the movements of life. I was allowed only two books to read from the prison “library,” which contained hardly a score of books suitable for an educated man. I was deprived of everything that could’ve soothed, distracted, and healed my wounded and shaken mind. It wasn’t until there was a change of chairman on the prison commission that I, after nearly eighteen months, was finally granted writing materials and books more suitable for brainpower.

  ME: They really wanted you to suffer.

  OSCAR: The prison system under Queen Victoria was not meant to reform convicts, Ken Z, but to punish them, again and again, until they were stripped of everything—dignity, hope, the determination to rebuild their lives upon their release.

  ME: Who visited you?

  OSCAR: The two most important people in my life—my wife and my dear friend Robbie. It was my wife who broke the news to me that my mother had died.

  I START TO TEAR UP. I DIDN’T REALIZE HE’D GONE THROUGH SUCH HELL DURING THOSE TWO YEARS IN PRISON. BUT IT WASN’T JUST HARD LABOR THEY SENTENCED HIM WITH. THEY ALSO DULLED HIS SENSES, DEGRADED HIM, PRACTICALLY DROVE HIM TOWARD THE IRREVERSIBLE PATH TO MADNESS.

  ME: I would’ve killed myself, Oscar.

  OSCAR: They wanted me to.

  ME: But you survived the ordeal.

  OSCAR: And I owe it all to Major Nelson, who granted me pen, paper, and books. Oh, Ken Z, I felt alive. Because I was writing again, and reading books. Writing and reading—without those two I don’t think I would’ve survived my time in hell. Remember that, dear heart, especially during your darkest hours when nothing seems to bear a semblance of light.