"Hello!~~~ To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Oh Jesus, no easy way to go about this. "I'm here to talk about your friend," he says. "William Way?"

Nigel immediately breaks into tears.

He is is very sincerely grieving and also very very stupid.

It's actually kind of a relief to meet someone showing actual human feeling for his friend. He's kinda embarrassed that he brought of intermittently morbid and risque illustrations to this particular meeting. Probably a faux pas, huh. "I'm sorry for your loss," Oscar says. "I understand if you don't want to talk about it. But-- if you do, you might have a chance to give us some insight that could help others."

"...you sell porn," he says, sniffly.

"So I've heard from the public morals people. They're a bit uptight about any type of art dealing with that side of human experience, realistically or imaginatively-- however deft the execution." England is a disgusting country.

"I don't see why someone who sells porn is trying to SOLVE a MURDER!" Nigel wails.

But he explained so patiently that It Isn't Porn, It's Art Actually.

"I like to think that devoting my life to controversial art puts me on the side of those brave enough to challenge society's norms," Oscar says. "Or even the boundaries of art! Like your friend-- obviously not someone whose work flattered bourgeois tastes. It's an incredible shame to lose an artist like that." 

He sniffs. "It is. We were going to collaborate..."

 "An incredible loss. May I ask about the project-- if it's not too soon, of course?"

"A series of paintings with companion music you were supposed to listen to while you looked at it in order to appreciate it... using all the senses." Sniff sniff sniff WAIL. "We were considering making INCENSE."

"Oh, were you going for a sort of synaesthetic effect?"

"Yes."

Yeah, they would. "Any particular subject?" Oscar asks. "Not to reduce it to that, of course, I'm just curious."

"Male beauty," Nigel says sniffily.

"I see. A subject the English public often isn't ready for," he says as equivocal, carefully generic praise.

Almost a relief to hear they're making art about something with such little King in Yellow resonance.

Sniff sniff. "Is it a subject you're interested in?"

"I mean it's a bit parochial to restrict yourself to one kind of subject matter," Oscar says vaguely. "The work should stand on its own formal merits, right?" In some ways this is a predictable conversational move from a certain kind of customer (and a predictable, generic response from him), and yet he still feels like he's being sized up. He finds it oddly embarrassing.

"I find that in times of grief nothing helps me more than submerging myself in art."

"Speaking of art! I brought you this-- wasn't sure if it was the right time, but if it helps..." He takes the book of illustrations from his bag.

He licks his finger and turns a page. "You have excellent taste."

Well, Oscar misread that one. "This is pretty hard to find," he says. "Hard to publish in England; I guess you know all about that. I did want to talk about another art-related thing, though it's more about your friend William. If you're up to it."

"Of course," he says. "What do you need?"

"Are you familiar with a book called Der Wanderer?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"