The Prince's Boy

by Paul Bailey

  But now, in the autumn of 1935, Cuvântul had forsaken whatever liberal convictions it had once possessed. Its most distinguished reviewer, the essayist, playwright and novelist Mihail Sebastian, whose real name was Iosif Hechter, suffered the humiliation of having his pieces rejected or censored to the point of travesty. He had been made aware that he was Jewish, when hitherto he had regarded himself – if he had ever regarded himself – as a member of the human race. The editor of Cuvântul no longer wanted his thoughts on books by Jewish writers, paintings by Jewish artists, music by Jewish composers.

  I had made friends with a brilliant professor at the university, whose passion for Shakespeare and the English poets of the sixteenth century is expressed in two books now regarded as classics: The Man Who Was Iago and Brightness Falling from the Air. He was a gentle, modest soul, unconcerned with his physical appearance, whose love for the masterpieces of the Elizabethan age was manifested in his unexpectedly sonorous voice, which struck everyone who heard it as too deep and powerful for his skinny frame. He was the first academic to be insulted by the men sporting green shirts, who had painted, in red ink, the two words Dirty Jew on the door of his office. Ion refused to be disheartened. He had, at the age of fifty-eight, a ‘ripeness is all’ philosophy. He knew from diligent study of the dramatist he revered above all others, that men and women are unfathomable victims and slaves to circumstance. Today’s hero is tomorrow’s tyrant. He was, he reasoned, a dirty Jew to those who were drawn to the idea of dirtiness being an essential element of Jewishness, and if that was their opinion, considered or not, then so be it.

  I owe my survival, such as it is, to Ion Rohrlich. It was he who suggested that we leave what he called the ‘devil’s own country’. He had connections, thanks to his incomparable scholarship, abroad. I travelled with him, by aeroplane, to Paris, where he had secured a lectureship at the Sorbonne. He was neither surprised nor disturbed by Rãzvan greeting me with an excess of affection at Orly airport.

  I introduced my lover to Professor Rohrlich.

  ‘You must take good care of my dear friend Dinu.’

  ‘I shall. Taking good care of him will be my vocation.’

  We parted at Gare du Nord, where Ion was met by his son Avram, a well-built young man whose fascination with sport and sport alone his father found incomprehensible.

  ‘His handshake is much stronger than Marcel Proust’s,’ Rãzvan observed when we had parted from them.

  We dined at Café Larivière that evening, that same restaurant where I had been entertained so often by Eduard Vasiliu. It was there he had taken me for luncheon on the day I disgraced Cezar Grigorescu with my unmanly behaviour at Mme Laurette’s world-famous establishment. I would have no cause to be spurning Sonia’s advances after dinner, I thought, and smiled.

  ‘Why are you smiling, Dinicu?’

  ‘I was remembering that I lunched here with Eduard before he escorted me to Mme Laurette’s. I hope to get home safely tonight.’

  ‘I found your cousin rude and arrogant. I have rarely felt the urge to hit someone as much as I did when he interrupted us on rue des Trois-Frères that day.’

  ‘He is worse than rude and arrogant now. He has become a beast.’

  I had called his apartment home, for that is what it was for me. We were contained within its walls. It was no longer a temporary paradise. We could live here contentedly at last.

  We had been in each other’s arms on the familiar bed for uncounted moments when he remarked that I had neglected to thank him for the surprise present he had given me.

  ‘What surprise? What present? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Sniff.’

  I did so.

  ‘What is that smell, Dinicu?’

  ‘It’s lavender.’

  ‘Of course it is. It is the smell that greeted me when I woke up in your garret for the first time eight years ago.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I asked the laundress to sprinkle lavender water on the sheets. Has she done her work to your satisfaction?’

  She had.

  Rãzvan had tried, and failed, to write the opening chapter of his memoir. The very thought of Prince E’s short life, which came to its tragic end in an obscure English hotel, still upset him deeply. The words that came reluctantly to his tongue vanished into nowhere whenever he lifted his pen. The story was too personal, too private, to be accounted for in a book to be read by strangers. Whatever he wrote would be inadequate. It was a ridiculous idea that had come to him after he had drunk far too much wine in Eforie. It was a folly, a nonsense.

  Although he had enough money to live on, he continued to work at Les Deux Cygnes. I would meet him there most evenings, after a day spent writing reviews for two prestigious French newspapers. My mentor Ion Rohrlich had recommended me to the literary editors and they seemed to be pleased with what I wrote for them. The French have always lauded Romanian writers, so I became an expert on Petrescu and Istrati and whoever was being translated.

  My father and I had disowned one another, which meant that the only domestic news – the gossip, in truth – I received from Carmen Sylva 4 came in the long and rambling letters Amalia sent to the wicked boy who was enamoured of an even more wicked man. The light-hearted, the frivolous indeed, often see and hear more than the serious people among us, who take their seriousness seriously. Amalia could not help being observant. Her eyes and ears were attuned to all the cadences and the very few nuances of blind hatred. She was appalled and amused. She contrived, in her correspondence, to make the unfunny funny.

  I had left the clothes she had chosen and bought for me behind in Bucharest. Now that I lived with Rãzvan, I had no reason to flaunt myself. Besides, I was no longer a member of a high society of the kind Amalia cared to move in. I was content to be a self-effacing scholar, devoting my intellectual energy to the writings of men and women I revered. I knew my literary place and it was only loosely a creative one.

  I began to take English lessons, on Ion’s advice, from an elderly couple, husband and wife, who had spent most of their working lives in London as correspondents for Reuters, the international news syndicate. Olivier and Catherine chain-smoked, frequently sharing the same foul-smelling cigarettes, as they explicated what on first uneasy acquaintance seemed inexplicable. I could not understand why the combination of the letters o,u,g and h should represent myriad different sounds. They had faced the same problem when they were young, they assured me.

  Mine was, I told myself, even in those moments of utter darkness when it is said one experiences a dark night of the soul, a charmed life. I was sharing an apartment with my beloved. I was already an esteemed critic, and yet I could not shake off the bouts of despair that were visited upon me. Were they my mother’s legacy to me? Was her son betraying her with Rãzvan? These were silly, improbable questions, I reasoned, yet I found myself attempting to answer them many more times than I wished. I mentioned none of these misgivings to my prince’s boy, the prince’s unmistakeably middle-aged man, as we lay together in our lavender-scented happiness.

  We were as good as married. We welcomed each other’s homecomings with kisses and hugs. Although I was still young, a mere 27, I felt that I had settled into an enduring liaison. We would stay inseparable, with only death dividing us. So I decided when we celebrated Christmas in 1935.

  It is easier to describe the bewitchment I felt on meeting Honoré in Albert Le Cuziat’s Palace of Iniquity than it is to set down the day-to-day dealings of our coexistence on rue de Dunkerque. Our passion was muted now, was accepted as a fact, a pleasurable and ordinary fact, rather than the dangerous and exciting adventure we had embarked upon in the summer of 1927. There were entire nights when exploration was almost too tiresome to contemplate. Our bodies belonged to the two of us. We had become mutual, and still loving, friends. We slept, often enough, contentedly.

  One day in April, after a two-hour class with Olivier and Catherine, I decided to eat in a small, but much admired, restauran
t. I had been seated at a corner table for only a matter of minutes when I looked up from the menu and saw Albert Le Cuziat smiling down on me.

  ‘This is a delightful surprise, Domnule Grigorescu.’

  ‘It is a surprise for me, too. I thought you only took luncheon at the Ritz.’

  ‘Not today. I am not in aristocratic company. I wouldn’t be seen dead at the Ritz in the company of my fellow diner. I believe you are acquainted with Mme Laurette?’

  ‘I had a brief conversation with her once.’

  ‘She is very, very wealthy. I am sure I can persuade her to pay for your meal if you join us – Silviu, is it?’

  ‘Dinu.’

  ‘Would you care to join us, Dinu?’

  ‘Yes. But you do not have to inveigle Mme Laurette into paying for me.’

  I followed the Pandarus who had altered my life so dramatically to another, larger table. I bowed to Mme Laurette, who raised her champagne glass to me. Her hair was more fiercely orange than I remembered it. Perhaps she had dyed it afresh for M. Albert’s delectation.

  ‘Give the boy some Clicquot, Albert,’ she commanded.

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  The two brothel keepers wished me good health. I wished them the same.

  ‘We are too old and too immoral to be healthy,’ said Mme Laurette.

  ‘That is true, my dear. That is far too true for comfort.’

  The pair of them cackled at this remark. I saw that Albert’s teeth had turned a darker shade of yellow.

  ‘You are residing in Paris at the moment?’

  ‘I am, Mme Laurette.’

  ‘Do you wish that I should address you as Alexandru?’

  ‘My name is Dinu. I was Alexandru for one afternoon only. You have an extraordinary memory.’

  ‘Not at all. It is my business to remember every success and every failure. You were one of the latter, bless you. You failed dismally.’

  ‘I know I did.’

  ‘And how is the insatiable M. Gérard?’

  ‘I am sorry, but I am unacquainted with the gentleman you mention.’

  ‘He was your chaperon, so to speak, on the day of the disaster.’

  I had forgotten that M. Gérard was the assumed name of my cousin Eduard.

  ‘Eduard Vasiliu is employed by the National Bank in Romania. I believe he has abandoned Paris and London for good.’

  ‘I always charged him extra for his tastes. My poor petite Louise had to recuperate for two or three days after he had had his fun with her.’

  ‘He is married now.’

  ‘I pity his wife.’

  ‘Do not waste your pity, Madame. She is as obnoxious as her husband.’

  ‘You sound as if you hate him.’

  ‘I despise him. I think “despise” is more apropos than “hate”. He speaks of nothing but the supposed infamy of the Jews.’

  ‘That is unwise of him,’ said M. Albert. ‘I would have closed down my Pagoda of Pleasure aeons ago were it not for my Jewish customers.’

  ‘I do so agree, Albert. Naming no names—’

  ‘As is our way, Laurette—’

  ‘Naming no names, but we are grateful to our circumcised clients for their generosity and exquisite manners. They treat my girls with respect. There was one – do you recall, Albert? – who visited both our establishments on the same day. What shall we call him? “M. Ruben” will serve, I think. Yes, he favoured variety, did he not?’

  ‘He most certainly did. He was one of my Safarovians, if you understand me.’

  They cackled again. They would have been peerless as the witches in Macbeth, I thought.

  I was alternately entranced and bemused by them. I cannot remember, as I write, what exactly we ate and drank. It was beef, probably, with a fine claret.

  ‘Is Safarov’s replacement proving satisfactory?’

  ‘Oh, you naughty Romanian beauty. My Louis with the sunken chest is proving himself to be an equal to the Russian bear in almost every department of cruelty. The industrialist has had a stroke but not, thanks be to God, on my premises. He has been superseded by a Jewish gentleman – shall we call him M. Jacobs? – who is positively awestruck by what the brute does to him. I hope and pray that romance is not in the offing, as it was with you and Honoré.’

  ‘Honoré, Albert? Are you referring to the prince’s boy?’

  ‘I am indeed, Laurette.’

  ‘And is he this palely beautiful creature’s lover?

  ‘He is, my dear.’

  ‘Then it is no wonder that he resisted Sonia. Is the prince’s boy as roguishly handsome as he was when I last saw him?’

  I said ‘He is’ and M. Albert said ‘He is not.’

  ‘You still resemble Rudolph Valentino, Dinu.’

  ‘If that is a compliment, Mme Laurette, I accept it.’

  ‘Oh, how coy you are. You look in the mirror when you are shaving, do you not?’

  ‘Every morning.’

  ‘Then you must see what I see and what I see pleases me.’

  ‘It pleases me too, Laurette. I have offered him employment, but he has resisted and rejected my kindness, the silly, love-stricken youth.’

  This observation provided the cue for more cackling. I wondered if I had strayed into a painting by Hieronymus Bosch, with these ancient demons on either side of me.

  ‘I am a serious man, M. Albert. I am a scholar.’

  ‘I am more than aware that you are. I read your article on my dearest Marcel. It is thanks to him that I am in business.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And you are not disapproving?’

  It was then that I surprised myself.

  ‘I am not disapproving, M. Albert. How could I be?’

  Although I heard Elena chastising me, I continued: ‘Your dearest Marcel, my endlessly diverting Proust, is beyond accepted morality. He understands the complexities of human nature. That knowledge is his special gift. My father considers me a pervert, as does my cousin Eduard, alias M. Gérard. They are blinkered. I am who I am, and I have Proust to thank for that self-discovery.’

  ‘There speaks the essayist, would you not agree, Laurette?’

  ‘He has an elegant turn of phrase.’

  ‘He is a divine fool otherwise. His devotion to the prince’s boy, whilst laudable, makes me fear for his judgment.’

  ‘You are such a dreadful cynic, Albert. Were you never in love?’

  ‘I endured an infatuation during my reckless late adolescence. Once I had recovered from it, I gave my heart a severe telling-off. It learnt the lesson immediately. No further education was required.’

  ‘Oh, Dinu, just listen to the old deceiver. He and I have lived so long in our profitable world of make-believe that we tend to forget what kind of love-scarred wrecks we were before we ventured into business. Those early heartbreaks inspired us to replace unrequited affection with the comfort money brings.’

  ‘Did I hear you say the dread word “profitable”, Laurette? If it had not been for the industrialist and his Wednesday persecutions, I would have had to close down the Bains a decade ago. I am tempted to weep at the thought of the thousands upon thousands of francs I have counted out to the police when they have threatened to arrest me. You have not suffered that particular ignominy, I believe.’

  ‘I am pleased to tell you that I have not. Many of my regular visitors are upholders of the law. The considerate hostess who is Mme Laurette favours them with a special discount in recognition of their service to the community.’

  ‘Ah, the saintly Laurette. You charge the policemen less and keep your profits rising by asking the bankers and politicians to pay more.’

  ‘You are being fanciful, Albert.’

  ‘And you would have been burnt at the stake in the Middle Ages, alongside the Maid of Orléans.’

  Their cackling was louder and more raucous. They looked at each other benevolently as they laughed.

  Encouraged by the excessive amount of wine I had drunk, I invited Mme Laurette to
describe the nature of M. Gérard’s, or Cousin Eduard’s, peculiar tastes, which caused Louise to need two or three days of recuperation.

  She slapped the back of my hand. ‘Impertinent child, I have been indiscreet enough for one day. You cannot expect me to answer such a bold question. Your cousin’s tastes are not peculiar at all. I speak to you as an expert. M. Gérard is simply a little too energetic. In the interests of discretion, I cannot – and shall not – reveal more.’

  ‘I apologize, Madame, for my brashness.’

  ‘That is graceful of you.’

  It transpired that Mme Laurette always drank Veuve Clicquot at the beginning and end of her ‘excursions’, as she deemed her rare visits to expensive restaurants. We returned to champagne for our desserts. Albert Le Cuziat looked sober, but his friend confessed that she was seeing both of us double. There were two jaded Alberts and a pair of blissful young men.

  ‘Since our Havens of Happiness are closed today, we have every excuse to enjoy some freedom from duty.’

  ‘We are of one mind, Albert, even though I am looking at two of you. I am sure we will be playing to full houses, to use a theatrical expression, tomorrow.’

  ‘Shall I propose a toast, Laurette?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘To frustrated men.’

  ‘Let us clink and drink to that.’

  So the three of us raised and clinked our glasses to the frustrated men who visited the two houses of costly sin. I had been of their number once, I reminded myself.

  Mme Laurette paid the bill, as Albert had anticipated.

  ‘My friend is the meanest, most miserly, person in the entire world, Dinu. I think I should die if I ever saw him bring out his wallet and leave a few francs on the table. He loved his mother and she loved him and that is the best thing anyone could say regarding Albert Le Cuziat.’

  ‘You hurt me, Laurette. You wound me.’

  ‘Hurt you? Wound you, you old beast? You are beyond hurting and wounding.’