by Paul Bailey
Kitty waited for her sister to object, but Daisy was the first to rise, the first to peck Muriel’s cheek, the first to say an unexpected ‘Sweet dreams, Daddy’ to an astonished Felix.
‘You kissed them, Daisy,’ Kitty remarked after Beryl had tucked them into their beds. ‘Why did you?’
‘I was being polite.’
‘Why?’
‘Y is the last but one letter of the alphabet, Kitty. That’s why.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You know it is. It comes between X and Z.’
‘I don’t believe you were just being polite.’
‘Well, I was.’
Towards dawn, Kitty was awakened by her twin’s laughter. Daisy was seated on the floor, the new dresses scattered about her. ‘Snip, snip, snip,’ she was saying to herself. ‘Snip, snip, snip.’
‘Daisy, what are you doing?’
‘Having fun with his scissors. Snip, snip, snip.’
‘Daisy, you mustn’t. You can’t, Daisy.’
‘Oh yes I must. Snip, snip, snip. Look at them, Kitty. Look what I’ve done to them.’
Kitty switched on a bedside lamp and looked. She gasped at what she saw. ‘You’ve cut them in pieces. You’ve ruined them, Daisy. We shan’t ever be able to wear them now.’
(She had cut the dresses in pieces, it was true, but her snipping had been inventive. Daisy had scored and scarred the expensive material – shantung silk – of which the four ‘creations’ were composed. Because she had only a pair of nail scissors at her disposal she had laboured throughout the night at her enjoyable task. She was especially pleased with the way she had altered the hem of the Arctic-blue dress Magda the witch and the horrible Muriel had chosen for her. ‘I’ve scalloped the edge, Kitty,’ she crowed, using an expression she had learned from Nelly. ‘I’ve scalloped it good and proper.’)
‘I don’t want to wear them, Kitty. Ever again.’
‘Nor do I. But you shouldn’t have cut them. We could have taken them home and let them go mouldy.’
‘Snip, snip, snippety-snip.’ Daisy giggled. ‘She’s going to be so angry with me. She’s going to be so cross.’
‘Aren’t you frightened?’
‘No. Not me. Not of her.’ Daisy yawned. ‘I’m tired. I’m sleepy. Turn out the light.’
‘There’s no need to ask which of you two did this,’ said Beryl, gathering up the ruined dresses at eight that Monday morning. ‘She may be sleeping the sleep of the innocent, but I’d bet on my life this is little Miss Daisy’s handiwork.’
Kitty was silent.
‘I shall have to show these to Madam, Miss Kitty. Did you try to stop your sister? Did you tell her she was doing wrong?’
‘Yes,’ Kitty answered, then corrected herself. ‘No. I was too late to stop her.’
‘I haven’t seen Madam in a temper. I expect a few sparks will fly today, though, thanks to the sleeping beauty.’
Beryl left the room and Kitty waited for flying sparks. She waited for raised voices, for shrieks and shouts. Minutes passed. She heard nothing upsetting. Daisy slept on, her unworried features indicating to her anxious twin that she was in the middle of a happy dream.
Then Beryl returned with the news that Sir, Mr Crozier, was expecting Miss Kitty and Miss Daisy to join him for breakfast.
‘Let’s have you both washed and dressed.’ She yanked the sheet that was covering Daisy. ‘Come along, little devil. Rise and shine, naughty Lazybones.’
Daisy opened her eyes and smiled. ‘Hullo, Miss Beryl.’
‘Don’t you “Hullo, Miss Beryl” me. I know what you’ve done and so does Madam.’
‘Snip, snip, snip.’
‘You should be ashamed of yourself. Where’s your gratitude? Where’s your respect? How many other girls of your age, do you imagine, get to wear such beautiful clothes?’
‘Snippety-snip,’ said Daisy, miming the act of cutting with two fingers.
‘Snippety-snip, is it? I’ll give you clippety-clip with my hand if you don’t behave.’
‘Is she very angry with me?’
‘I presume it’s Madam you’re asking about and not the cat’s mother. What do you expect her to be, you minx? Tickled pink?’
‘Your holiday is over,’ Felix Crozier told his daughters once they were seated at the dining-table. ‘Muriel has no wish to see you again. She has no wish even to say goodbye to you. You have hurt her, Daisy, which means that you have hurt me as well. Jackson will drive you back just as soon as you’ve finished eating.’
‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’
‘You have no reason to be sorry, Kitty. I should like to hear the words on Daisy’s lips.’
Daisy shook her head.
‘I’m sorry you’re not sorry. I am very sorry indeed.’
In the hall, soon afterwards, Kitty and her father exchanged monkey’s bum kisses. When she began to cry softly he took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped away her tears. ‘There, there, my dearest. One more monkey’s bum, if you please.’
‘I love you, Daddy,’ she whispered in his ear.
‘Bless you, my darling.’
He carried her out to the Rolls-Royce and kissed her hair, before lowering her to the ground. He stared at Daisy, who returned his stare.
‘I want to say goodbye to Miss Beryl.’
‘Beryl’s busy. Beryl’s working.’
‘She could come outside for a minute.’
‘She could, but she won’t. Goodbye, Daisy. Perhaps you will be a nicer young woman the next time we meet.’
‘Snip, snip,’ said Daisy. ‘Snip, snip.’
‘Be off with you.’
Daisy sulked during the journey home. Kitty sensed her sister’s frustration and disappointment at being denied the sight and sound of their stepmother’s anger, but knew that she must not be comforted. What Daisy had done with the scissors was wicked. What Daisy had done with the scissors, Kitty had begun to realise, was mad.
And yet, when the ‘big silly car’ – which seemed bigger and sillier than ever to both of them as Mr Jackson attempted to steer it up, down and along narrow hedge-lined country lanes – yes, when it approached Alder Court, Kitty was suddenly pleased that Daisy’s snipping had brought their Easter holiday to an early end. Although she loved her father, she was relieved not to be in his company any longer. She thought she would prefer to pity him – for hers was now a pitying love – from a distance.
Nelly welcomed Mr Jackson into the kitchen, where she sat him down at the refectory table to drink Darjeeling tea and eat the bread she had recently finished baking. She offered him marmalade, too. ‘Kitty had a hand in making it. She has the patience a good cook needs.’
‘She is a credit to you, Mrs Crozier.’
The chauffeur brought out an envelope from his jacket and handed it to Nelly, who made a groaning noise.
‘This, I suppose, is the record of Daisy’s misdemeanours. It feels bulky enough.’
‘Mrs Crozier wrote it at white heat, Mrs Crozier.’
Daisy smirked at this remark and at Jackson’s evident embarrassment. Nelly, looking directly at her, said, ‘I’m sure she did. I shall read it with interest.’
She read Muriel Crozier’s letter, quickly, in front of her daughters as soon as the chauffeur had gone. Then she scrunched the three lavender-coloured sheets of notepaper into a ball and tossed it on to the fire. She waited until it had burnt before she said, ‘You will send her a few words of apology, Daisy.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can and you will.’
‘I can’t, Nelly. I honestly can’t.’
‘Nonsense. You are going to be dishonestly apologetic for the first and, I hope, last time in your life. You will write your father’s wife a very short note, Daisy. With very few words.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can, you can, you can. Fetch a piece of paper and a pen, Kitty.’
Nelly stood over Daisy and watched as she wrote: ‘Dear Stepmother, I am v
ery sorry indeed that I ruined the dresses you kindly bought for us. I am ashamed of myself. Please try and forgive me. Yours sincerely, Daisy.’
‘That’s it. That’s done. Now, perhaps, you will stop wailing.’
‘Shall I write to Daddy, Nelly? Saying thank you?’
‘Yes, Kitty. Put your message underneath Daisy’s. We don’t want to waste paper and it will save the cost of an extra stamp.’
‘Virgil Florescu?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Corneliu Ursachi speaking.’
‘Who?’
‘You surely have not forgotten me already. I am the clumsy individual who spilt tea – accidentally, or course – on your exquisite antique carpet.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘I have very good news for you, Virgil. The carpet cleaners have excelled themselves. Your treasure is as new. I wish to return it to its bereft owner without more delay. Would tomorrow morning be convenient?’
‘It isn’t, but no doubt it will have to do. You do not usually go to the trouble of fixing an appointment.’
‘But our relationship is different now. No more surprise visits. I shall arrive at nine precisely.’
‘My class, I assume, has been informed of my absence?’
‘Naturally. Revision, revision, Virgil. Your students will be gainfully occupied, have no fear. Until tomorrow.’
The young intellectual was accompanied by an unsmiling older man when he appeared, several minutes later than he had indicated, the next day.
‘Good morning to you, Virgil. Allow me to present my colleague Adrian. He will take no part in our conversation. Adrian is not a lover of poetry. Adrian prefers football.’
‘Is he here, then, to drink tea?’
‘He is indeed. We have been visiting certain people since dawn and we have both developed a thirst.’
‘Be seated.’
‘There are only two chairs, Virgil, neither of them sturdy. You see how solid Adrian is. Adrian will remain standing.’
‘As he chooses.’
‘Before you prepare the refreshing herbal tea, Virgil, let me suggest that you open this parcel. It contains your Oltenian carpet, restored to its former glory.’
He took the parcel, untied the string that secured it and pulled out a carpet he knew immediately was not his mother’s. The design was identical and so was the size, but this carpet was a modern copy, a synthetic reproduction of the original. Even though he was convinced he was holding a fake, he looked on the back for his mother’s maiden name, the letters sewn into the fabric in blue and gold thread by the skilled hand of her beloved nurse Gabriela. But ‘Matilda Popescu’ wasn’t there and Matilda Florescu wasn’t there either – no, not in any sense at all.
‘It is as new, yes, Virgil?’
‘Yes, it is as new. It definitely is as new.’
‘You seem dazzled by it. Aren’t you going to place it on the floor, where it belongs?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I promise you I shan’t spill tea on it. I have my clumsy days, Virgil, but this is not one of them.’
‘I am thinking that I may have other plans for this carpet.’
‘On one of the walls, perhaps?’
‘Who knows? I must prepare the tea. You say that you and your colleague are thirsty.’
‘That is true.’
‘Be patient with me.’
(He thought, as the water boiled, that his mother’s carpet – wherever it was; whatever fate had been decided for it – had become a precious memory now. The object itself was gone, yet everything it represented for him endured.)
‘Your expert cleaners,’ he said, ‘have put a sheen on my poor fading carpet. It almost glows.’
‘That is why they are experts, Virgil. They are dedicated workers. They do what they are required to do supremely well.’
‘Such dedication is wonderful. And rare.’
‘In other countries, perhaps, Virgil. But not here in Romania.’
‘How thoughtless of me. How very rash. There are – there must be – many dedicated workers here.’
‘You are beginning to sound excited, Virgil. Relax. Relax and call me Corneliu.’
‘The tea is ready. I am sorry for keeping you and your colleague waiting.’
‘We have not waited long. Do not apologise. Adrian will require sugar. Adrian needs plenty of sugar to sustain his energy.’
‘Would your colleague care to add the necessary sugar himself?’
‘Four cubes will suffice, Virgil.’
He plopped the cubes into the glass and passed it to the man who might or might not be Adrian.
‘The last time we had the pleasure of one another’s company we discussed, I recollect, the poetry of George Bacovia.’
‘You spoke of him. I listened. I did not – I do not – share your view of his art.’
‘But I have altered my view, Virgil. I have altered it radically, drastically, in the light of your impassioned contribution to our discussion. You have made me think again.’
‘Have I?’ Virgil Florescu responded incuriously.
‘You are really too modest. Yes, you have. What an insensitive reader I was, failing as I did to discern the irony – the irony you drew my attention to, Virgil – in Bacovia’s verses. He is very ironical, even tongue-in-cheek. He lived through black periods in our history, when it was incumbent on our artists to be ironical. That I have come to understand. Were he alive today, he might perhaps be more attuned to the spirit of the age. Yes? What is your opinion?’
‘My opinion is that were he alive today he would be the same Bacovia.’
‘But the circumstances have changed, Virgil. And for the better.’
‘Circumstances do not change for poets like him. Their circumstances are unchanging. From the birth of their poetry to the death of their bodies, their circumstances remain constant.’
‘This is a Romantic speaking, Virgil.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Undeniably. You seem to be favouring the idea of the doomed and fated poet – the man whose gift is also his burden. Your multitude of admirers, Virgil, who include Corneliu Ursachi, are thankful that your own resonant and subtle poetry does not read like the work of such an unfortunate person.’
‘A thankful multitude? Virgil Florescu is not the sort to inspire multitudes. My admirers, gathered together, would be able to mingle comfortably in a small room. A room no bigger than this.’
‘You do yourself an injustice, Virgil. You are almost as famous – in our country – as –’
‘As?’
‘As the one talented poet incapable of writing anything so uncivil as “Icon”. There, I have broken my promise to you by mentioning it. Forgive me. When we meet again I shall not allude to your aberration. Now Adrian and I must say our farewell. Actually, Virgil, I shall say farewell on Adrian’s behalf. He is proficient in silence.’ The man who claimed to be Corneliu Ursachi laughed, and said – in an assumed voice that was meant to be Adrian’s – ‘Farewell, Virgil.’ He then reverted to his own way of speaking. ‘In my case, Virgil, it is au revoir. We shall see each other soon. In the meantime, Adrian and I have more visits to make. Surprise visits. Good day to you.’
He closed the door of the apartment behind the intellectual and his silent assistant. He leaned against it, his heart suddenly thumping, and listened to their footsteps on the stairs. He heard Corneliu curse the lift for being out of order – ‘The cunt of a weary old whore is in better condition’ – and did not move until he was sure they had left the block.
He walked across to the window and looked down to the street. The men were standing on either side of a dented and battered Dacia, arguing vociferously. Adrian was the more animated. He was gesticulating with both hands and at one alarming moment he inflicted further damage on the car by banging his fist repeatedly on its roof. Adrian’s taciturnity, Virgil Florescu was not astonished to discover, had been a temporary affectation. Adrian and Corneliu were, of necessity, actors, since
their peculiar profession demanded that they play the roles expected of them – the brooding, silent henchman; the loquacious academic, employing a script mapped out for him by some invisible official.
Virgil Florescu watched impatiently as the men continued their argument. Then, to his relief, Adrian got into the tiny car and hunched himself over the steering wheel. A petulant Corneliu joined him and the Dacia juddered down the street, leaving a trail of pitch-black exhaust in its wake.
There was a curfew that evening and by seven o’clock the city was in darkness. In the urinal behind the morgue of the hospital where Radu Sava was on duty, Virgil Florescu and his cherished friend pissed on the glowing, hated carpet.
‘We are naughty schoolboys again, Virgil.’
Arms linked, they walked back to their apartment. The lights were on in the Hotel Athenee, and as they were passing it Radu Sava stopped and said, ‘Our not-so-secret secret police are everywhere, even in pissoirs. The Securitate will find the sodden carpet. It is time you fled Romania.’
He arrived at her house, after their four-day separation, and they went instantly to bed.
They talked later, in the kitchen – she of the Easter of Easters; he of the glowing carpet that precipitated his exile.
He had written another poem to speak to her. It was about a man whose highest ambition was to live quietly and humbly, fishing for perch in the river where his father had fished. ‘I have stolen him, Kitty. I have stolen him from my mighty namesake and made him my own.’
4
Breaking the Glass
‘You are our first ever Romanian, Mr Florescu. He is, isn’t he, Cecil?’
‘Not quite. I had a Canadian Jewish Romanian financier pass through my office once. He told me a little bit of his family history after we concluded business. Pretty sad stuff, as I recall.’
‘Then Mr Florescu is our first complete Romanian. You’re not Canadian as well, are you? Or Jewish?’
‘No, Mrs Hopkins. I am neither. And as for being complete, I suspect I have Hungarian blood. My father, who is now an old man, insists that I am a Roman Romanian, rather than one of Dacian origin.’
‘Does he? Well, Roman or whatever it was you said, do sit down and make yourself comfortable.’