The Importance of Being Wilde at Heart

by R. Zamora Linmark

  DE PROFUNDIS

  A Manual for

  Idiots, by the author

  of Downsized Haikus.

  THE MASK OF SORROW

  Behind this sorrow

  Resides another sorrow

  And then another….

  The Hour of Sadness

  Wednesday, 10 April. It is almost two p.m.

  This is Oscar’s haunted hour. Two p.m. The exact time of his disgrace. The date was 13 November 1895. The place—Clapham Junction station. Oscar is being transferred to another prison. Dressed in a convict’s jumpsuit, he stands shakily on the platform. He wishes the ground beneath him to open up so it can swallow him. He doesn’t care if it’s a gutter with—or without—stars. At this point, the deeper hell is, the better. Anything is better than the glare of commuters.

  * * *

  • • •

  They all stop to steal glances at him. They are wondering who he could be. They point to the handcuffs that he tries to hide beneath his sleeves. He starts to waver. He’s afraid he’s going to faint again, like he did in the prison chapel. He hit the side of his head on the floor and practically busted his eardrum. It got infected, and he ended up in the infirmary for two months. He shuts his eyes, takes deep breaths to steady his nerves.

  * * *

  • • •

  He prays for the November rain to fall harder on the roof, to drown out the voices mocking him. He raises his head momentarily to the station clock. It is quarter past two. The train to Reading Gaol, where he’s being transferred to, will not be arriving for another fifteen minutes. To shut off the slow ticking of the clock in his head, he busies himself with a mental list—an inventory of his possessions that had been auctioned off to pay his debts and his lawyers’ fees. These included his books, manuscripts, copyrights to his plays and published articles; his art collection, writing desks, four-poster beds, picture frames, down to the door scraper and the carpet that covered the staircase. Everything he’d ever owned had been sold to the highest bidder.

  * * *

  • • •

  A broken smile flashes briefly across his sullen face. His two sons, Cyril and Vyvyan, enter his thoughts. For a moment, he finds refuge in remembering them and almost forgets the eyes hounding him. Just then, someone on the platform recognizes him. Word spreads fast, like a killer virus. The crowd thickens, buzzes like flies around a wounded animal. They jostle each other to get a good look at him. They sneer at him, douse him with names; their spit, like gasoline, waiting to be ignited.

  * * *

  • • •

  He was once the wit of the West End with two sold-out plays running simultaneously. Now he is showered with insults and curses, with hatred so pure and perfect.

  Six months ago, he was the toast of London high society.

  He was invincible.

  Or so he thought.

  * * *

  • • •

  Oscar shuts his eyes tight, his teeth biting hard into his lower lip. He tastes blood. Like rust. The jeers continue to swell inside his head. He will die alone and—unlike the heroes in his fairy tales—unloved. He will never be able to reclaim his glorious past. He will never see his two sons again. He has thrown his life away, tossed whatever happiness and meaning it had.

  * * *

  • • •

  His life—reduced to a confetti of ashes.

  * * *

  • • •

  Weeks later, inside his cell, he will sit down to revisit the horror of that November afternoon in De Profundis and write: After that was done to me, I wept every day at the same hour and for the same space of time.

  * * *

  • • •

  This incident took place over a century ago. And yet I can hear it reverberate loud and clear in my head, as if it’s happening now. I think of CaZZ and Estelle and myself and the others who have been—and continue to be—bullied, because we dare to be ourselves. Because we look different or worship a different god or speak the same language but with an accent. I think of those who, to stop the hurting, give up on life, place a noose around their sorrows, and hang like bruised fruit on trees, or leap off buildings or bridges. Anything to end the hurting.

  * * *

  • • •

  I think of hatred so powerful it ties you to a fence or hooks you up to a life support machine. It is almost three p.m. The mocking laughter continues exploding in my head. The bloodthirsty mob has invaded my room and formed a ring around me like a circle of sharks. I am at the heart of their loathing. They scoff at me, spit names at me. They take turns pushing and punching me. They hold me down, duct-tape my mouth, my eyes. They want to silence my every word. They want to extinguish what light is left in me. They want to choke my language, slice my every vein of determination to keep on fighting, rebelling, and resisting just to be me.

  The It’s-Not-Hard-to-Imagine List

  It’s not hard to imagine getting bullied for being you.

  Be yourself and minds will narrow.

  Speak your mind and death threats will follow.

  This is how The Book of Hate begins.

  It’s not hard to imagine CaZZ as Bullied Holiday in Tranny Sings the Blues.

  It’s not hard to imagine another CaZZ gasping for tomorrow.

  Waking up neither safe nor sound.

  Not feeling dynamite enough to blow up the hurt.

  It’s not hard to imagine some of the teachers at our school saying CaZZ deserved it because she was too comfortable in her own skin.

  It’s not hard to imagine another Estelle picked on because she’s uncategorizable, a queerious who makes up her own words and does not care if the world understands her or not.

  It’s not hard to imagine another Ken Z getting teased for being too geeky, too much into books, too into Oscar Wilde to be a macho man: skinny legs, skinnier arms.

  It’s not hard to imagine outsiders of the world uniting, not giving in or giving up or turning the other cheek.

  It’s not hard to imagine finding strength in the darkest spaces, during the saddest hours.

  WEDNESDAY-NIGHT INERTIA

  From insomnia

  To this troubled haiku:

  Let me count the ways.

  Alternative Torture

  Thursday, 11 April

  Woke up past ten this morning. My mother didn’t wake me up. She probably thinks I’m still sick—or not ready to face my friends. I was up all night reading De Profundis. Sad as it was, I forced myself to read it to the very end, hoping that when I finished it my own suffering, too, would be gone. But it only made me more depressed and angry and sad and hopeless, as if my situation were not tortuous enough.

  I got an email from Mr. Oku, asking me if I was all right. He was concerned because of my absences, and said that if I continue to miss any more of his classes, excused or not, he has no recourse but to drop my grade to a B. He closed his letter by wishing me well and hoped to see me in class tomorrow, which is also when our book club meets.

  Then I searched the Web for the one topic that I shouldn’t have, fearing I would never get up and leave my room. Sure enough, there were thirty-nine million results for “Oscar Wilde.” I narrowed it down to “Oscar Wilde book clubs around the world.” Better. Only 1.5 million results. I stopped at the top of the third page, my eyes hooked by the catchy title, “So you think you know Oscar Wilde?” It was from a Romanian blogger. In this entry, he compiled a list of facts and tidbits about our favorite writer:

  “Did you know Oscar Wilde had a younger sister named Isola who died when she was only ten years old and Oscar was twelve?”

  “Did you know that he was so affected by her death that when he died in a dingy hotel room in Paris, they found an envelope containing a lock of Isola’s hair under
his pillow?”

  “Did you know that Oscar’s first ‘boyfriend’ was not Bosie but a Canadian named Robbie Ross? Oscar was already married and the father of two when he had his first gay experience.”

  Then, an entry about Oscar that I did not want to believe. But there it was, highlighted in dark pink:

  “Did you know that Oscar and Bosie remained lovers, even after Oscar was released from prison and sought exile in Paris and Naples?”

  I wanted to throw my laptop across the room. After everything that Bosie put him through, he took him back? No! Please, Oscar, tell me this isn’t true. Tell me this is only an alternative fact, something that could’ve happened but didn’t, a work of a fan fictionist who was into self-torture.

  Betrayal for Beginners

  THURSDAY, 11 APRIL. AFTERNOON. MY BEDROOM.

  OSCAR: What’s the matter, Ken Z? You seem upset.

  ME: Oh, my God, please tell me it’s fake news!

  OSCAR: I have no idea what you’re talking about, dear boy.

  ME: You and Bosie. Did you take him back after you left prison?

  OSCAR BOWS HIS HEAD IN SHAME.

  ME: Oh, my God! So it’s true. Why, Oscar? After all the things he did to you?

  OSCAR: Bosie ruled my heart, Ken Z.

  ME: He ruined it. He ruined your family, too. You had everything—fame, fortune, friends—but you let this punk control you. Why?

  OSCAR: I don’t know, Ken Z. All I know is that I loved him.

  ME: You call that love? That’s obsession. You were so obsessed with Bosie that you traded a life of security, glory, and peace of mind for madness and instability.

  OSCAR: Why destruction has such a fascination for me—I will never know. Love never fails, my dear boy. When one is in love, one begins by deceiving oneself and ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls romance.

  ME: Romance? Listen to yourself, Oscar. That’s the voice of Insanity talking!

  OSCAR: Perhaps.

  ME: Perhaps? It is! After everything that’s happened, you still took him back?

  OSCAR: It was psychologically inevitable, Ken Z.

  ME: He didn’t torture you enough? It was because of him that you ended up in prison. Have you forgotten?

  OSCAR: I had nothing, Ken Z.

  ME: Nothing?

  OSCAR: Yes, nothing. When the gates of Reading Gaol finally let me out, I had nothing. No money. No family. My wife was gone; the law had already taken away my children. Had my wife allowed me to see my boys, my life would’ve been different.

  ME: Don’t blame your wife, Oscar. You did it to yourself!

  OSCAR: I never ventured to blame Constance for her action. I take full responsibility. I regret what I did to my wife. I regret that I was not able to see her before she died and beg for her forgiveness.

  ME: She was ready to take you back, Oscar, on the condition that you cut off your ties with Bosie. You promised her you’d never see him again, that you’d kill him if you ever ran into him. You wrote this in your letter to her. I read this in De Profundis. Yet…

  OSCAR: Please, Ken Z, don’t torture my ghosts. They’re already at peace.

  ME: Peace?

  OSCAR: Please, Ken Z, try to understand my disposition. My wife died just months after I was released from prison. So, as you can see, I had no one. But Bosie offered me love. In my loneliness and disgrace, he offered me love, Ken Z…and I…I turned naturally to him.

  ME: You had your friends.

  OSCAR: Ken Z, have compassion for this wretched stupid man whose only mistake was to love without the intent to hurt anyone, especially his wife and his sons.

  ME: But you did.

  OSCAR: Please, Ken Z.

  ME: They, too, were tainted with shame—yours. They had to change their names to protect themselves from your disgrace.

  OSCAR: My dear boy, your words are bullets piercing my heart tonight.

  ME: How many times did Bosie have to torture you before you realized he didn’t love you?

  OSCAR: Bosie did love me, Ken Z.

  ME: He did not. He only sought you when he needed your wallet. You were his bank, not his beloved.

  OSCAR: Why are you condemning me? Bosie filled me with desire. And horror. And madness. And passion. He tempted me with a life I could never have imagined. He offered me the rare privilege of courting another kind of beauty, a different type of danger.

  ME: Talking to you is useless. How could I have ever looked up to you?

  OSCAR: My dear boy, I never asked you to put me on a pedestal. I understand your rage, Ken Z. Believe me, I do. You’re angry right now. You’re filled with hate.

  ME: Understatement of the night.

  OSCAR: But I beg of you, dear Ken Z: don’t let hate consume you as it did Bosie.

  ME: Speak for yourself, Oscar. You let someone consumed by hatred rule your heart.

  OSCAR: Bosie’s my tragedy, Ken Z.

  ME: You’re mad.

  OSCAR: My dear lad, no one wants their first kiss to blossom into an open wound. But because of what’s happened to you, between you and Ran…you’re now filled with remorse….

  ME: Remorse?

  OSCAR: For letting Ran wake up your sleeping heart.

  ME: Thanks to you.

  OSCAR: Moi?

  ME: You told me not to resist temptation. “Feast with the panther,” as you said.

  OSCAR: Because you sought my advice. My dear Ken Z, try to find expression for your sorrow. Turn your sadness into words.

  ME: I’m so stupid. I should’ve known better than to listen to you.

  OSCAR: Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest of motives.

  ME: All this is a big mistake.

  OSCAR: Call it experience, Ken Z. Everyone else does. I’m sorry such a grand adventure has misled you to the path of disappointment.

  ME: Disappointment? Try “tragedy.”

  OSCAR: There are two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.

  ME: Well, I must be lucky. I got both.

  OSCAR: I’m sorry.

  ME: Please, Oscar. Go away. Leave me alone.

  OSCAR: Ken Z.

  ME: Now!

  OSCAR: As you wish, dear heart, as you wish.

  AFTER A GREAT PAIN…

  I don’t want the chill

  I don’t want the stupor

  you can keep the letting go

  so come and take it

  there is no room for it

  in this room tonight

  this is not a poem

  this is nothing

  preparing for more

  nothing.

  From: KenZ

  To: Ran <5xy2qd17@northkristol.federation.org>

  Subject: Dear Ran

  Date: Thursday, 11 April

  Or whoever whatever wherever you are. It was there all along, wasn’t it? In De Profundis, the book you gave me when we first met. That was the clue, right? A book about a man who falls for another man so badly that his obsession destroys him. I should’ve paid more attention. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to fall so easily. So what if you were also wild about Oscar? Who cares about the mystery of serendipity and meant-to-bes? How stupid of me to believe in fate and destiny.

  Don’t worry. I’m not blaming you. I blame myself. Entirely, utterly. You were only doing your job, Ran. Ran. Is that even your real name? Or are you only Ran when you’re in South Kristol bunburying as Dorian Gray’s twin who surfaced from the underworld to deliver me my sentence? And when you handed the book to me, it came with a kiss.

  You stuck around to make sure I obeyed the script. Why else w
ould someone like you, debonair and privileged, exert so much time and effort to be with someone like me? So when you gave me the book and said, “Here, have it,” you were really saying: “Take it, Ken Z, and read it. It’s an old story that never gets tired. Oscar Wilde wrote it exclusively for us, about us. Read it carefully so you know what I’m about to do to you.”

  Today marks twenty-four twenty-twenty twenty-six days of our your absence.

  Ken Z

  Then I pressed hard on the backspace key until it erased every single letter of every single word that spelled out every sound of memory.

  LAST WISH

  If there is one thing I want most

  right now, it is to return everything good

  and beautiful back to the gods.

  Return the happiness and those hours wasted

  on laughing and longing.

  Return the sudden bursts of joy

  that shattered those awkward moments.

  Return, too, the hummingbird’s heartbeats

  with its light nest of surprises,

  and the memory of the moon,

  bright as tonight,

  lighting up this sleepless hour.

  In Carcere et Vinculis

  Friday, 12 April. Mr. Oku’s classroom. After school.

  “On the same day that Oscar was charged with immoral conduct, over five hundred men fled England,” Mr. Oku says. “What began as a libel lawsuit ended up being one of the most controversial trials in Britain’s history.”