One morning, two months after he had begun his tour of the Middle East and Africa, Dorian Gray was examining a gloriously dark Moreau – the rich mahogany panels behind contrasted so elegantly with the golden frame, Dorian had to admire the diplomat he was currently visiting, prior to any direct introduction. A letter he had received the previous week from Basil had suggested he visit the 'old chap', for it was rumoured in the painter's circles that Charles Rutherford had the most expansive collection of oil paintings in Morocco and that it might interest him. Certainly, the prospect of visiting such an art collector much like the figure in the yellow book that he had spent hours, days, poring over, gave him a queer sense of pleasure, as if the ink on the pages was seeping into his veins and entangling his life – the prospect that his lifestyle could create such beautiful symmetry with Des Esseintes' seemed a perpetual thirst that he could now begin to satisfy.
"The Prometheus has always fascinated me. So do those who criticise it."
Dorian turned promptly to see the faces of two men; the gravelly voice seemed to belong to a wiry man, no younger than sixty-five on the left; this did not interest him and he swiftly cast his eyes over the Charon-looking man on the right. Man? No, boy seemed far more appropriate for this Ganymede-like youth. No more than nineteen years of age, Dorian examined the neatly coiffed blonde hair and scarlet lips; he could almost hear Henry's murmur of approval of the boy's appearance.
The lad's bowed head had hidden his eyes under his fringe for the duration of Dorian's study, but a sense that he was being watched caused him to look up, making Dorian start. Looking abruptly away, he began to ponder if this was how Basil had felt when he had painted him for the first time.
Refocusing his attention, Dorian smiled politely at Rutherford. "I pity those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things. They are undeniably ugly without being charming."
"You sound just like Wooton, Dorian." Rutherford laughed. "It is a work of art, no doubt, but surely you cannot deny a man's right to an opinion?"
"Opinions are foul things, Charles. They corrupt the simple charm of youth so as to fill the pockets of politicians. Wouldn't you agree mister..." The two pairs of blue eyes met.
"Singleton. Adrian. Adrian Singleton" the lad stammered out, turning a shade of deep red. He reminded Dorian of Basil.
"Pleasure." Dorian nodded, continuing, "How thoughtless of me! You are far too youthful to think of such dreadful things. We must let the older, wiser men deal with such trivialities, whilst we enjoy the experience youth can bring." A smile tugged at the corner of Dorian's lips, as the boy began to nod slowly, gradually comprehending the man's meaning.
"Of course." A look as if all the world's secrets had been enclosed to him in an ornate picture book, swept across his face.
Rutherford huffed. "Take care what you say around this one. My nephew is quite easily swayed by all your meaningless talk of self-gratification. It is the foolish who believe instant indulgences last more than their efforts to obtain them."
"What wickedly moral thoughts occupy your uncle, Adrian!" Dorian laughed.
"Wickedly moral..." Rutherford repeated, before shaking his head and chuckling. "It's as if Henry was in the room with us." Dorian smiled, presuming the statement a compliment. The old man checked his watch. "Speaking of Henry, I have an appointment with his brother quite soon – Evans will show you out."
"Of course. In fact, I have a few appointments of my own – perhaps Adrian would like to accompany me?" Dorian turned to Adrian once more.
"Certainly" the lad rushed. He began to laugh, "Goodness knows I can't stand to look at these pictures any longer."
Dorian winced slightly at the boy's evident artistic ignorance. "I assure you," he smiled, "the appointments will be of the utmost interest."
"Aren't these wonderful?" Adrian turned the crimson roses over and over in his hands, inhaling deeply at regular intervals.
Dorian had suggested they peruse the Moroccan bazaars and markets before his appointments – having heard the glorification of the East as a Mecca for the senses, he was disappointed.
He remembered when places like this used to impress him; myriads of salacious fruits beckoning him on every corner, rich rubies and emeralds, the complete saturation of colour and sensation that had appeared to him like fireworks across the dull darkness of his ignorance; Henry had opened his eyes to a world of beauty that went far beyond physical sight. No, the markets of Morocco had a beauty that permeated one's skin and infected the soul with an unquenchable desire to feel. Nowadays, he felt nothing.
Dorian could see it in Adrian - he watched as the boy put down the rose, hurriedly making his way over to another stall, his eyes widening with childlike fascination at every new sight, smell, taste that he encountered. Dorian could also see what would happen next; just like Henry saw with Dorian, Adrian would not return to the rose stall. Not for lack of appreciation but from its lack of novelty - a sight cannot be seen with new eyes twice; the need for more was a feeling that Dorian both scorned and succumbed to.
They continued in this way for several hours until Adrian had exhausted every stall he could find. "Mr Grey, I can't thank you enough for allowing me to accompany you - never have I tasted such fruit, or smelled such fragrant roses !"
"Call me Dorian," he replied, looking down, "please." He tapped the face of his watch thoughtfully.
With his appointment in less than a quarter of an hour, he pondered whether he should allow the lad to come along. The eager-faced youth looked at him expectantly. There was such an exquisiteness to the boy's curiosity it seemed a shame not to satisfy it. Dorian smiled - Adrian reciprocated immediately, assuming that his journey of sensory experience wasn't about to end.
"Adrian, would you like to accompany me to my appointment? I'm certain it'll interest you.'
"Mr Gre- Dorian, I can't imagine you can offer anything that could fascinate me more than today already has," Adrian gushed.
Dorian chuckled. "You have young eyes and an eager mind - a combination ripe for reward. In a matter of hours, those roses will seem like mere weeds when you breathe in the secret to ultimate sensory fulfilment. Come along, Adrian; we'll be late."