PURPLE MATTERS

It was a springtime evening in 1893, and Oscar Wilde has just finished to dine at Blanche Roosevelt' s home in London.
Not long ago, in the sunny afternoon, he was cruising along Soho bookshops and taking a peek at racy editions, literary curios and erotica. He only had to whisper inside:
"Purple matters",
kind of code word, and everybody twigged: he was in the hunt for boys as beautiful as Charmides of Plato.
But now he was the special guest of Blanche Roosevelt, american actress, writer and former lover of Guy de Maupassant.
He sipped a glass of brandy and seltzer, chain smoking gold-tipped cigarettes. He wore a white waistcoat with a bunch of tiny lilies in a buttonhole. A lilac shirt. Slumped in the ottoman, he smiled like a mighty god who creates and destroys everything at his whim.
Suddenly Cheiro, the world-famous astrologer and palmist, accosted him and begged for reading his hand.
Oscar shivered of unexpected cold, puffed on the golden fag with the sleepy strength of an opium eater,and spewed rings of bluish smoke against Cheiro' s face.
"All right, make haste of it. I crave for making merry over a flagon of purple wine"
The palmist chased the smoke away, took his hand and stroked mildly the palm, then cast a smoldering glance at it.Wilde could not stand the whiff of lavender perfume anymore.
"The left hand is the hand of a king, but the right is that of a king who will send himself into exile"
Oscar shivered of cold again and was longing for his furry coat. Hardly laughed. Hardly made any quip. Drank a swig of brandy and then, unruffled, asked:
"At what date"
"A few years from now on,between your 41'st and 42 year"
The white face of the mighty god became yellow like a fragile cowslip. He stubbed the cigarette on a silver ashtray and stood up on his feet. Hardly laughed. He made for his furry coat and saw himself off the party, without bidding farewell to the host.
Once outside, instead of the frozen wind that smacked his face, he felt an increasing hot, almost unbearable,soaking up his lilac shirt. Finally, he whistled for a hamson cab. A long whistle rather like the squeak of a seagull fading into the foggy horizon.