Fifty Shades of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde Page B

empty benches. The curtain went down on a titter and some groans.
    â€œHa!” laughed Helen, amused. “What a farce!”
    â€œYes, I guess she actually is terrible, in fact,” said Dorian. He was feeling tired and removed from his surroundings. He longed to be at home. His wish to hang up the painting, to honor Rosemary’s fine work, had persisted.
    â€œI suppose I should like to go home now,” he said to Helen, knowing she would be displeased. “I’ve some things I’d like to take care of.”
    Helen scoffed. “And miss the best part of the play?”
    â€œPardon?” said Dorian.
    â€œDorian,” said Helen, reaching her arm around him with authority. “The best part of the play is when the play is over. Now don’t be daft. Let’s go get some Sybil Vane.” Dorian laughed. The theater swirled around him. He was more affected by the opium than he’d thought. Helen’s eyes seemed very large, and very black. All the various greens and browns and golds of her irises had fallen into her expansive pupils.
    â€œAre you serious?” asked Dorian.
    â€œI hope to never be serious, Dorian,” she said, then laughed. “What does it matter if she plays Juliet like a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little about life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience for us. There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating: people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing.”
    Dorian shrugged. He wasn’t wholly convinced, but perhaps Helen had a point. They were already out, after all, and they’d just sat through two hours of worthless performances.
    â€œIn our play, she won’t be so dreadful, I assure you,” said Helen.
    Dorian chuckled. It was all just a play, wasn’t it? He looked around the empty theater. The audience had merely left one play for another, that of their own lives.
    â€œWell?” said Helen, losing patience. “Do you not believe a most entertaining play can be arranged?”
    â€œI have total faith in your boldness, Helen,” said Dorian, shaking his head and smiling. The barking of his conscience had finally ceased.
    â€œTerrific,” said Helen. “Now, let’s eat! Oh, I know, I know, you think we had a full meal before we came here. Ha!” She slapped his hand. “That was only a starter course!”

CHAPTER VIII
    B ackstage, the air was thick with smoke and rumbling with loud, divergent chatter. Everyone seemed to be talking at once and to no one in particular. It was randomness and chaos and every now and again a perfect harmony was born of it. Dorian was excited to be a member of such a late-night choir of dissonance, in which sex and sordidness felt both the origin and the destination. Helen was an expert in navigating the crowd. She hooked arms with Dorian, and together they slithered through the crowd like eels.
    â€œWhat a place to find one’s divinity!” cried Helen, winking as she broke away from him and sunk into the sea of smoke and men. She remained out of sight for a long while.
    Dorian soon found himself in fragmented talk with some of the actors from the play. Aside from an untucked shirt here or a loosened suspender there, the men were essentially still in costume. To be up close and talking to them as men rather than as characters was disillusioning. They were like impostors; their smiling, natural faces were devilishly unreal, and Romeo was just an average ruffian who talked speedily about a “pre-arranged” and “upcoming” trip to America that was obviously neither. A black, hairy mole took liberty on the tip his nose. It summarized him in a sad way.
    Dorian sought sympathy in a bottle of gin that was being passed around. A couple of the actors were talking about going to a men’s club, and Dorian had halfway agreed to join them when he felt a tug on