by Paul Bailey
‘I have cast a spell on you,’ he said one morning, when I was too besotted to contradict him. ‘I have entrapped you with my magic powers.’
‘Yes, you have.’
‘You are silly if you believe that.’
‘Then I am silliness personified.’
The days till September were running away from us. There was no time left for arguments, even pretend ones of the kind he was proposing. I made it clear to him with my body that I was in need of love.
‘You are a greedy young man, Dinicu.’
‘I can’t deny it.’
Our mutual hunger once assuaged, I lay in his arms and begged him to go on with his story.
‘Where was I with it?’
‘You are still in Corcova, with your tutor, speaking French.’
‘Ah, yes. But not for long. That autumn I was removed – I think that is the appropriate word – to Paris. Alin accompanied me to this address.’
He paused. He sighed.
‘And then Alin returned to Timiºoara and I was honoured with a smart new tutor – an assistant professor at the Sorbonne. And the prince sent me to a tailor who specialized in English – or should I say Scottish? – tweeds. Within a matter of weeks, my dearest Dinicu, I was a young man about town. I was dapper from head to toe. I would dine with the prince in the back rooms of discreet expensive restaurants and sometimes, but not often, in his apartment in the family’s grand house in Île de la Cité.’
I held my breath before I asked if I could be sure that the prince and he had not made love.
‘I have been anticipating a repetition of that question for days. You must understand, my insanely jealous sweet one, that the prince loved me. He loved most of all the idea of a peasant boy who could speak perfect French and move and act with grace. I was, I suppose, his creation. We never explored one another, Dinu Grigorescu, if that is what you wish to hear.’
I lacked the courage to say it was. My silence caused him to smile.
‘I have made my happy one happier, I can tell. And yes, I was in awe of my prince for taking me away from the fields of Corcova and allowing me to live a charmed and civilized life. Yes, yes, yes. Yes, and again yes. That is enough of my revelations for today.’
It was on the third Saturday in August that I next met up with my cousin Eduard. He was even more welcoming than usual, embracing me fulsomely when I arrived at the table in Café Larivière. He ordered vintage champagne – ‘Cezar is paying for everything today’ – and announced that there would be greater treats in store for me.
‘Why?’
‘No questions, if you please. Let this be an afternoon of pleasant surprises.’
‘But why?’
‘Let us just say that your generous Tatã is exceeding himself in generosity.’
I wanted to ask why a third time because I was mystified by my cousin’s decidedly theatrical behaviour. He seemed almost too happy in, and with, the role he was playing.
‘We are booked in at four o’clock.’
‘Booked in? Where? At a theatre?’
‘A theatre of sorts.’
‘The circus?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘The opera? The ballet?’
‘Oh, Dinu, this entertainment is superior to all of those. I insist you believe me. Have faith in your Cousin Eduard.’
The champagne disposed of, we took our first sips of a glorious Château Palmer. Oysters were followed by brill, the brill by grouse – ‘The first of the season’ – and the grouse by a selection of black, blue and red autumnal fruits.
‘That was truly a feast, Eduard.’
‘As it should be, on such an important day. Cognac, I think. We shall have one each and nothing more. We have to perform as best we can, and drink may diminish the quality of our performances.’ He winked at me. ‘There must be no diminution this afternoon.’
‘Eduard, you are drunk.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes, you are. You drank most of the champagne and almost all of the claret and I suspect you weren’t sober at the start of the meal.’
‘Coffee will solve the problem. The temporary problem.’
‘I shall go back to my attic and try to work. I have to return to Bucharest with a few written pages, at least.’
‘No, no, Dinu. The pages are of no consequence. What matters to Cezar is that you accept his gift, his precious gift, this very afternoon. We must honour our engagement in twenty minutes.’
‘Must we?’
He consumed more coffee, paid the exorbitant bill, and asked the head waiter to hail a cab for us. He named an address off the Bois de Boulogne.
‘They know me as M. Gérard, so please do not look surprised,’ he said when we arrived at our destination.
The driver, to whom my tipsy cousin gave a lavish tip, told us we were lucky devils. He wished he was a man of leisure with money to burn.
‘What did he mean, Eduard?’
‘You will soon be enlightened.’
The door was opened by a maidservant, who curtseyed as we entered.
‘Madame Laurette is expecting you, M. Gérard.’
We followed her into a salon. My eyes took in a heavily bolstered sofa, covered in plum-coloured velvet, a large gilt-framed mirror and a potted palm.
‘Ah, my dear M. Gérard, it has been too, too long since you last honoured us with your presence.’
A tiny woman, with dyed orange hair, appeared from behind a silk screen.
‘Yes, Mme Laurette, it has been far, far too long. I am a very busy man. My business leaves me little time for the unique pleasures you offer.’
‘That is sad to hear. You will allow Denise to offer you her special brand of consolation?’
‘Never doubt it, my dear Madame.’
‘This pretty youth is the cousin you spoke of?’
‘He is, indeed. Permit me to introduce you to Alexandru.’
‘Good afternoon, Alexandru. You have the name of a warrior.’ Her laugh was surprisingly deep for such a frail, even skeletal, woman. ‘Perhaps you are a warrior, too.’
‘Perhaps,’ I responded, thinking suddenly of Rãzvan, my own Alexander or Xerxes. ‘Perhaps.’
‘You are a fortunate young man, Alexandru. The utterly exquisite Sonia is all prepared for you.’
Sonia? All prepared for me?
‘I shall take you to her, Alexandru. My dear Gérard, you do not need me to remind you where to find Denise. Come with me, you handsome beast.’
Why did I go with her? Why didn’t I apologize to Mme Laurette and to my cousin and leave the scented house immediately? The ‘utterly exquisite Sonia’ was for other men, not Dinu Grigorescu.
Mme Laurette mistook my embarrassment for nervousness. She patted my hand and told me to summon up my courage. It was natural that I should be agitated. Sonia would soothe and charm the anxious warrior.
‘Sonia?’
‘Yes, Madame?’
‘The Romanian gentleman is with me. He has the looks of Rudolph Valentino.’
‘Bring him in this minute.’
Sonia was wearing a pearl-coloured dress that stopped above her knees. I saw her clothes before I registered her elfin beauty.
‘I will leave you to your loving ways,’ said Mme Laurette. ‘Be brave, Alexandru.’
Sonia wondered if I cared for a cigarette. I replied that I didn’t.
She sat on the bed and invited me to join her. I answered that I was happy enough standing where I was.
‘Were you in Paris when Mr Charles Lindbergh landed his aeroplane in January? What a remarkable achievement, don’t you think, to fly all alone across the Atlantic?’
‘Very remarkable, to be sure.’
‘I am yours, Alexandru, if you want me.’
‘I don’t want you, Sonia. I can’t want you.’
‘You are not the first shy boy to say that. Would you like to see my breasts?’
‘No, I would not.’
She rose from the bed and moved toward
s me.
‘Is there another shy boy in there?’ she asked as she attempted to undo my trouser buttons.
It was then, to her astonishment and mine, that I began to weep. I had glimpsed, if only for a second, the eyes of Elena Grigorescu in Sonia’s face – those eyes that had always looked on me benignly were a trapped animal’s now, signalling terror.
‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
‘Yes, there is. Yes, there is,’ I all but screamed. ‘I have to leave this place. I have to go.’
‘You are booked for an hour,’ she stated, matter-of-factly. ‘That was the arrangement.’
‘My father’s arrangement, not mine. Cezar Grigorescu will pay your bill, if he hasn’t done so already.’
‘I hate to see you upset,’ she whispered. ‘You poor soul.’
‘Yes, that is exactly what I am. Let me kiss your hand at least.’
‘Please do.’
‘I shall leave you quietly.’
’You are still crying.’
‘I know I am. I shall stop soon. I can’t bear to stay here a moment longer. I feel imprisoned.’
‘Goodbye.’
‘God bless you,’ I said and closed the door behind me. I ran down the stairs, out of the house and along the busy Bois de Boulogne, playing a carefree game in which I managed to flit past the late afternoon shoppers without touching or bumping into them. My well of tears had dried up. I was rushing towards Rãzvan, the first deep love of my life.
‘You are sweating, Dinuleþ, and you are out of breath and you look as if you have seen a colony of ghosts. What is the matter with you?’
‘Shall I tell you? Everything?’
‘Not in gasps, my sweet. Calm yourself. I can already guess what you will say to me will be amusing.’
‘My cousin took me to a brothel near the Bois de Boulogne.’
‘Ah, yes. It’s world-famous, Dinu. That old crone Laurette caters for ambassadors and visiting royalty as well as politicians and businessmen. How much did you pay her?’
‘You tease me. I paid her nothing. My father settled the bill. It was his gift to me.’
‘What a kind man he is.’
‘Do you know Mme Laurette?’
‘She is a fixture of Paris. She isn’t such a snob as our friend M. Albert because money is more important to her than rank. She is not a personal acquaintance, Dinu.’
‘She looks like a witch.’
‘Did she frighten you?’
‘Yes.’
I accounted for the eternity I spent with Sonia. I described her dress, her jewellery, her hair and the bangs on either side of her head. I recalled that she had mentioned Charles Lindbergh and that she had tried, and failed, to unbutton my trousers.
‘It’s amusing, as I predicted.’
‘I broke down, Rãzvan,’ I protested. ‘I wept. I screamed at her.’
‘I hope you apologized for your childish behaviour.’
‘Have you no sympathy for me?’
‘Did you apologize to her?’
‘I kissed her hand.’
‘Then I have sympathy for you, my dearest. I sympathize with you completely. Let us pray that your father, the beneficent Cezar, will be as sympathetic as I am.’
‘I have wasted his money.’
‘He may be angry with you for doing that.’
‘He will be,’ I predicted, accurately.
He reminded me, then, that he had something to offer me that it wasn’t in Sonia’s power to give. I was to come to him and accept it, this very minute.
I was happy, as ever, to do as I was bidden.
I heard nothing from my cousin for almost two weeks and there were no messages or postcards from my father. Rãzvan guessed rightly when he observed that my failure with Sonia was indicative of a greater failure. I had disgraced, or dishonoured, the manhood of the Grigorescus. I had shamed the family with my perverse behaviour.
I finished reading Proust and then I started reading him again. The accusatory blank sheet of paper on the writing table had lost its power to accuse me of idleness or lack of discipline. I had discovered my literary hero and I intended to devote my contemplative life to him and whoever I might find to be his fellow spirit if not equal. That was my ambition now.
‘Do you remember the fallen angel?’ Albert Le Cuziat asked me as I stepped out of the bank one morning.
‘Of course I do,’ I answered. ‘Monsieur Jupien.’
‘You recognized me in Marcel’s portrayal?’
‘I did, indeed. To the life.’
‘That is not a particularly flattering thing to say, my dear Domnule Silviu. But it is fame of a kind, I suppose, to be immortalized under another name. Have you withdrawn enough money to invite me for coffee at the Ritz?’
‘I think I have. Shall we get there by cab?’
‘You are a beauteous, courteous, handsome Romanian.’
I was enjoying this chance encounter so far, even though I was vaguely aware that Albert had some cunning scheme in mind. There was a game about to be played and I was anticipating it with a relish that both startled and exhilarated me. There was entertainment of a curious kind ahead, I suspected.
All was decorous to begin with, as befitted our opulent surroundings. The waiters brought us Italian coffee and dainty glasses of iced water and a selection of exquisite little savouries and pastries.
‘I do so appreciate gracious living, Silviu.’
‘It is my pleasure to provide it.’
I waited for my guest to mention Rãzvan. He had said nothing about him as yet.
‘When do you return to Bucharest?’
‘All too soon, I fear. At the end of September.’
‘Are you feeling homesick?’
‘No, not in the least. I think I have come to regard Paris as my spiritual home.’
‘Only spiritual?’
‘Shall we say partly spiritual?’
‘My first inamorato was a priest. He was a Breton, like me. He understood all too well the battle that rages between the flesh and the spirit. My golden loveliness, if I may indulge myself in a moment’s immodesty, captivated and tortured him. I put the poor prelate on the rack, I must confess to you.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Only at your insistence.’
‘I insist.’
‘He had a past, my father confessor. Do you understand what I mean by a past? You are, perhaps, too young to have had one.’
‘I hope I am wise for my years, M. Albert. I believe you are referring to matters of a physical, as distinct from a spiritual, kind.’
‘You are a clever, peach-bottomed boy. Oh, by the bye, one of my regular gentlemen is completely smitten with Jean-Pierre, the nom de guerre you assumed on the day you plucked up all your reserves of slightly inebriated courage to set foot in my Temple of Iniquity. He saw you hesitating outside and was totally enchanted by your black eyes and pale complexion. The sentiment is his; the description is mine. He has a title and is richer than most of the European aristocrats whose tarnished lives are my speciality. He would delight in crossing your palm with as many pieces of silver as you desire.’
‘I am flattered.’
‘He is obsessed with his Jean-Pierre. I have scoured Paris for pretty minxes to satisfy him, but none of them has afforded him the delicious pleasure he hopes and prays you will give him.’
‘Are you soliciting on his behalf, M. Albert? I cannot believe you are. My heart, as you must surely know, belongs to another. Isn’t that the appropriate, romantic cliché?’
‘I am sorely afraid it is. Love is such a hindrance to business. Lust and obsessiveness are infinitely more conducive to financial stability. I have ceased being a practising Catholic, Alexandru – oh, wicked me, did I really say Alexandru? – but I find myself making the sign of the cross on Wednesday afternoons as soon as Safarov arrives to satisfy the over-eager tycoon. Safarov is my devilish saviour. His brutishness enables me to keep the police at bay and my bank manager contented. I than
k God there is no danger of his falling in love.’
‘You called me Alexandru.’
‘Did I? Yes, yes, I did. My partner in sexual crime, Mme Laurette, informed me that a certain Romanian gentleman matching your description visited her renowned premises in the company of an older man. She said you gave your name as Alexandru, Silviu.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘You were, perhaps, in a conquering mood?’
‘I wasn’t, Albert. I was terrified. The episode convinced me, though I did not need convincing, that I belong to Rãzvan, or Honoré, as he was when I first caught sight of him. We are lovers. We adore one another.’
‘So I feared. Love is such a time-wasting condition, Silviu. I bade it adieu as soon as my hair fell out. It exhausts your talents. I am talking, I trust you appreciate, about romantic infatuation, the malignant disease that blights the lives of the perpetually young. You will recover from your enchanted episode with Honoré – oh, do forgive me, Rãzvan – when you are safely back in Romania. These are my wise words for you. Heed them, pretty one. I should be pleased to accept your invitation to luncheon, if such a kind thought has occurred to you.’
‘Would you care to join me for luncheon, M. Albert?’
‘What a delightful surprise. I should be honoured. In case you had not noticed, today is Wednesday. The dreaded Safarov is not expected until five o’clock. Shall we eat and drink at a leisurely pace?’
‘That is an admirable suggestion.’
My guest was known, in some cases well-known, to the waiters in the restaurant at the Ritz. They greeted him effusively and welcomed me, too, with quite unusual friendliness.
‘They are assuming, my dear Domnule Silviu, that you are of noble birth. I only dine here with dukes, counts, princes and their like. I would never be seen here, dead or alive, with the wealthy industrialist. My reputation as a man of taste and discernment would be in tatters otherwise. He dresses well enough, at all-too-obvious expense, but his essential vulgarity cannot be concealed by silk and cashmere. Let us toast him, nevertheless, Silviu.’
‘Must I?’
‘Oh, yes. It is thanks to him that you were able to enter my Bains d’Alsace and meet your beloved. I am dependent, I regret to admit, on his largesse.’