Because I told a friend I thought they'd get on well together.
Oscar adjusted his lily buttonhole fussily as he sat alone in front of the deserted second place set out at the opposite end of the table. His glass of absinthe was half empty.
"Mr. Vilde," a slightly breathless voice with a heavy accent made Oscar look up. "I am so sorry to have kept you vaiting, My knee has been giving me trouble."
Oscar stood up, planting a hand on the table to steady himself. "Not to worry, my good man. I understand completely. I surprise myself every time I manage to get up out of bed before midday. I believe the exertion is very unhealthy."
"I vas in physical therapy," the young Russian muttered. Oscar winced at his firm, frozen handshake. Evgeni had striking, flat features with crisply cut blonde hair and icy blue eyes. His body was long and lean, made all the more so by his monochromatic black outfit. Oscar, by comparison, looked large and sprawling even before he'd sat down.
"It's an honor to meet you," said Oscar, smiling openly at the young man.
Evgeni smiled back. His lips parted awkwardly to reveal as many snow white teeth as possible--it looked rather more like he was baring them. "Ze pleasure is mine."
Oscar sat back down. "Unfortunately the waiters here are very negligent," he said, tapping his half empty glass as Evgeni took his place. "No doubt they'll amble back eventually. I haven't been able to persuade them to be hospital; I find myself without much spare change today."
Evgeni shrugged and took a curt sip from the water glass in front of him. "I have already eat," he said carelessly.
Oscar smiled through his teeth. "Tell me about yourself," he said.
The young Russian wiped his finger along the condensation clinging to his glass. "I vin many medals," he said, "and I land the quad for gold in Olympics. I am married. I have two sons."
"Oh?" Oscar smiled, "As do I. Perhaps we aren't so different after all, Mr. Plushenko."
Evgeni grinned over his glass. "Hmm...no, Mr. Vilde? But you cannot land a quadruple spin, can you?"
"Well--"
"But no matter, no matter! Perhaps you are right. I am like normal people, not robot." He rubbed his lower back pensively. "I am not machine after all. Vhat vas it zat you do? You are vriter, you vrite book, yeah?"
Oscar pursed his fully lips together, drumming his neatly manicured nails on the white tablecloth. "Five."
"Oh, five book, very good, very good. You are good vriter?"
Oscar drew himself up. He was far taller than the Russian with an impressive girth he used to passively loom over the other man. "I am a poet and a playwright, and not the best in either field. I give the written world what I can as best I can, but my forte was always conversation."
Evgeni seemed to disregard all of this with a single blink. "But you do not skate?" he asked.
Oscar took a slow sip of absinthe before gracing the rather redundant question with an answer. "In my experience ice doesn't generally stay frozen past April or May, but as it were, I don't generally take any form of exercise. I've found it damaging to my artistic faculties."
"I am no surprised," muttered the lithe Russian figure skater. For a moment there was silence between the couple. Oscar took a draught of absinthe and rolled it around his mouth carefully, gazing up at a glorious crystal chandelier glimmering in all shades of green. Evgeni leaned forward onto his sharp elbows.
"You know, art is more zen just vords, Mr. Vilde," he said. "Art is music and movement, coordination and skill of ze body and ze mind. You can make art wiz you pen or you body."
"Your body, perhaps. I'm certain the public would be grateful if I abstained from such a philosophy--charming, though it is."
Evgeni scowled. "You do no understand--"
"No, I do! I do!" Oscar held up his hands innocently. "There's beauty in music and movement and dancing just as there is in painting or poetry. To each his own! It's a glorious world we live in!" He raised his glass genially.
Slowly, Evgeni accepted the toast and raised his own glass, though he still looked displeased. "I am not a dancer if you please, Mr. Vilde," he muttered as soon as he'd taken a curt sip.
Oscar finally found himself unable to gloss over this rudeness. "I do wish you'd stop saying my name like that," he said rather sharply. "It's Wilde, you make it sound like the word 'vile' which it most certainly is not. Names are what make men, Mr. Plushenko. It's our common duty to pronounce them correctly."
Evgeni frowned. "Mr...Whhh-ilde," he tried, making a hard 'H' sound. "Mr. Whilde."
Oscar laughed softly, good humor returned. He laid a large hand over Evgeni's. "It's Oscar if that's easier," he said kindly.
The Russian betrayed his awkward smile which didn't quite reach his icy eyes. "Sank you, it is. But zen, my name to you is Evgeni."
"Evgeni," pronounced Oscar slowly, fearing he may be forced to eat his words. "It fits you very well. Plushenko is a grand name for an ice king, but Evgeni suits you more in person."
"Oscar Whilde is very English," said Evgeni blandly.
Oscar shifted his weight. "Irish, actually," he said in a smaller voice, sounding somewhat deflated.
Evgeni set down his glass, catching a drop of condensation on his finger. "Oscar Whilde is a good name," he declared solemnly, "and it suits you. I vill remember it." He tapped his forehead. "I vill remember your name and I vill read your book. It vill help vis my English, yeah?"
Oscar laughed, "Perhaps it will," he said, easing himself up out of the chair and leaning across the table bravely to submit himself to another frozen handshake. "I'll remember Plushenko the ice king whenever Jack Frost paints his pictures across my window. Perhaps, also, I'll take your advice and explore the region of art which explores mind and body. Indeed, I'll liken a 'quadruple spin' to a Shakespearean sonnet, no doubt I will be inspired."
"You vill be inspired," said Evgeni, "and I vill be impressed too if you do find someone else who lands a quad."
Oscar laughed, though the young Russian was quite serious. "Evgeni Plushenko, your personality becomes you," he pronounced grandly. "I'm charmed to have met a man who's cultivated it so exquisitely. You are a marvel, a work of art in and of yourself. I'm honored to have met you. I worship your youth and your lightening countenance! You were born to command nations to bow on their knees before you, ice king."
Evgeni picked at a spot on his fingernails. "It vas nice to meet you too, Mr. Vilde."
No comments:
Post a Comment