Kitty & Virgil

by Paul Bailey

  ‘Icon’ had come to him at the very time portraits of the Conducãtor began to appear everywhere. It became impossible not to notice the benign leader. There was no escaping his kindly gaze – unless you walked with your eyes closed, or spent your working day in the lavatory, or stayed at home and starved. The nation’s benefactor was most often depicted in uniform, with medals honouring feats achieved in unfought battles pinned to his chest. Then there was that other picture, the one that still adorns hotel lobbies, the foyers of theatres, shops, schools, railway and bus stations, airports, universities and the Hall of the Palace of the Socialist Republic; the picture that heretics, long accustomed to disbelief, can hardly believe: the picture that shows the Conducãtor, his consort at his side, wearing the ancient Order of the Garter, the gift of Elizabeth, Her Britannic Majesty.

  He was alone in the tiny apartment he shared with Radu Sava on the morning the young intellectual paid him an unexpected visit.

  ‘Virgil Florescu?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The poet Virgil Florescu?’

  ‘I write poetry.’

  ‘It is poetry I wish to discuss with you. In a friendly fashion.’

  ‘I have to leave in a few minutes. I have a class at nine.’

  ‘Your first class has been cancelled. Your pupils have been instructed to do revision exercises. We have a good hour, at least, in which to chat. You will be inviting me inside?’

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘Compact,’ the young man observed.

  ‘Small,’ Virgil Florescu responded. ‘Confined.’

  ‘What is confinement to a talented man? Many great works have been conceived in – shall we say? – spaces no bigger than cells. I have written a paper on Emily Dickinson.’

  ‘Have you?’ he said, keeping curiosity and interest out of his voice. ‘I thought she lived in a family mansion at Amherst.’

  ‘She did, indeed. I have been there, to savour the atmosphere. It did not tax my imagination to see how much, with what severity, she confined herself. You have not visited the States, Virgil?’

  ‘No, I have not visited the States, or anywhere else. I have not travelled outside Romania.’

  ‘That is a tragedy, considering the many languages in which you are fluent. You ought to be free to practise them with the natives. That kettle in the corner reminds me I am thirsty. Shall we drink some herbal tea?’

  ‘Let us.’

  The young man removed his expensive overcoat, which he folded neatly and placed on the floor beside the chair he now occupied.

  ‘This is a remarkable carpet, Virgil.’

  ‘It is from Oltenia.’

  ‘Then it is historic. It is an antique.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘I am ignorant, I confess, on the subject of antiques. Poetry is my domain. Please enlighten me, Virgil – was there a period when the manufacture of Oltenian carpets flourished? A period when anybody who was anybody had to own one?’

  ‘Poetry is my domain as well. There was, I think, a period when they flourished, at the end of the eighteenth century. That is as precise as I can be.’

  ‘I am Corneliu, Virgil. We need not bother with my family name. This exquisite carpet – that wonderful red; that wonderful blue; those flowers that seem to have been thrown into the pattern rather than formally designed –’

  ‘It belonged to my mother. It is my inheritance.’

  ‘A valuable inheritance. A useful inheritance, Virgil, should you find yourself in real hardship.’

  ‘Here is your tea.’

  ‘I shall leave it to cool for a second. I do not have an asbestos tongue.’

  Virgil Florescu was determined not to break the ensuing silence.

  ‘Robert Frost is another American poet I have studied. “I have walked out in rain – and back in rain/I have outwalked the furthest city light” – these are appealing lines.’

  ‘You spoke them with an American accent.’

  ‘It came with my studies, Virgil. I find Frost a problematical case. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘You will have to explain what you mean by problematical.’

  ‘With pleasure. In many of his poems, Frost is anxious to be recognised as a good citizen, a responsible member of the community. Civic decency is a major concern of his. And yet – and this is where the subject of Frost takes on the nature of the problematical – and yet the biographical evidence indicates that he was anything but decent. He was cruel to his wife – or was it wives? – and children, and he drank to excess. Speaking for myself, it is a problem that the poetic Frost is so markedly different from the Frost of lax morals and perverted habits. I recall the white-haired old gentleman, full of the wisdom of years, whom John F. Kennedy invited to the White House and I shudder.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Are you a drinker, Virgil?’

  ‘Of alcohol?’

  ‘Of course of alcohol. I am not alluding to the drinkers of tea, coffee and water. The human race, in short. Are you a drinker of alcohol, Virgil?’

  ‘Yes. When it is available. I sometimes drink a beer or a glass of wine.’

  ‘Not uicã? You would not be a true Romanian if you did not like the taste of uicã.’

  ‘Yes, uicã, too.’

  ‘I have a sudden urge to smoke. May I offer you an American cigarette? A Kent, no less.’

  ‘No, thank you. It is perhaps un-Romanian of me, but I do not smoke. I will fetch you an ashtray.’

  ‘A moderate drinker, a non-smoker – you do not appear to fit the picture most of us have of the prototypal poet, Virgil. Are you immoderate in other ways?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you, then, the model citizen Robert Frost aspired to be?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘You are not so perfect, I hope, that you will not welcome a little praise. I am a sincere admirer of your poetry. I find it resonant and subtle. The smell of my cigarette is not displeasing to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In America I made a joke. I neglected to eat their cereal, their fried eggs and ham and their hash browns – such a mélange of food was all too heavy on my stomach at the start of the day. Instead, I drank coffee – the real thing, Virgil, not our acorn substitute – and smoked my first cigarette of the morning. I called the combination my cooked breakfast. My American friends were most amused.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes. As I say, Virgil, your poetry impresses me. There is, however, one poem, and one alone I must emphasise, that I do not care for. Can you guess which one I am referring to?’

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘I’m sure you can. If I were asked to write about it I should describe it as a squib. You are not an indulgent artist, but this poem is an indulgence. In this exceptional poem you give full rein to your crudest feelings. You eschew subtlety. You employ an obvious conceit to obvious purposes.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Oh yes, Virgil, oh yes. You are your own harshest critic normally, which is why I respect you. But with this poem, this solitary poem, you were not harshly critical. That is the reason I enquired about your drinking. Were you drunk when you wrote it?’

  'Was I drunk when I wrote what?’

  '“Icon”.’

  ‘You have read it?’

  ‘Closely. Scrupulously. Did you think that by allowing a callow youth to publish “Icon” in a student magazine in Tirgu Mure your host of admirers would somehow overlook it? We Florescu fans are eager for our hero’s every word. Do not underestimate us. “Icon” was brought to my immediate, and disappointed, attention. How many copies did the poor child publish?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘No more than two hundred, I have been reliably informed. He is not planning a second edition of that issue. Your discerning readers, who have been denied access to “Icon”, may consider themselves fortunate. Or “blessed”, Virgil, if I may borrow the word you put to such feeble and repetitive effect in the poem. And those of us, myself incl
uded, who are not “blessed”, what must we do? I will supply the answer, Virgil. We must overlook your aberration. We will cast “Icon” from our minds, in the course of time. The poet himself may, or possibly will, do likewise. You are aware, aren’t you, that there is no official censorship in our country?’

  ‘I am aware.’

  ‘Were you a Hungarian, say, or a Czech, you would not have the same freedom to censor your own writings, to be self-critical, to show restraint. A freedom, I suggest, you have temporarily abused. Honour that freedom, Virgil. While I was in America, researching Emily, I was saddened by the fact that no one outside the university seemed to read the great American poets. Here it is different. Here the poet is respected. Here he has a public role to play and, should he be so inclined, a public duty to fulfil.’

  The young man rose, picked out a wrinkled apple from a bowl on the table, and remarked ‘“Ye shall know them by their fruits”. This one was not picked from the forbidden tree.’ He bit into it. ‘No, Eve would not have been tempted. You will eat the remainder?’

  ‘Leave it in the ashtray, with the stub of your Kent cigarette.’

  ‘You have a class at ten thirty, I believe. Your pupils are expecting you. I will accompany you down to the street. Ah, my overcoat. I nearly forgot it. I bought it, along with the Fair Isle pullover you have been staring at throughout our discussion, at Orly airport, in the duty-free shop. The perks, as I heard them say in America, of travelling in style.’

  Dear Nicos Razelos: I fear I am having to make a getaway. The reason for my departure cannot be expressed in ordinary terms, in the language we speak to one another. I have not been unhappy at the Aphrodite. I have to move on. It really is as simple as that.

  Please say goodbye to Miss Eunice on my behalf and wish her happiness from me. I hope she will be cured of her phobia some day.

  An extra week’s rent is enclosed.

  With thanks to you and kind thoughts. Virgil Florescu.

  There was no one else on the premises – except for Miss Eunice, who was in her bathroom, singing – when Virgil Florescu closed the front door of the Hotel Aphrodite behind him for the final time.

  2

  Cerberus

  ‘I have jowls, Kitty,’ was the greeting Felix Crozier accorded the daughter he had not seen in eight years. ‘You’d be blind not to notice them. I am jowly, my darling.’

  ‘“Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.”’ The man who spoke – Kitty Crozier could not resist observing – had eyes that shone with a fierce brilliance. His large bald head would have fitted more comfortably on to a taller, broader body. ‘Shut up about your jowls, Crozier, and give the poor woman a kiss.’

  Felix Crozier did as he was commanded.

  ‘You promised me a monkey’s bum, Daddy. Lots of them, in fact. Let me have a monkey’s bum.’

  ‘A monkey’s bum, Crozier? What on earth is she demanding of you?’

  ‘It’s from when I was a child, Mr – I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.’

  ‘That’s because I haven’t told you and Crozier here isn’t exactly quick off the mark when introductions are necessary. I am Derek Harville, your jowly father’s companion, adviser, nurse, gardener, cook, bottle-washer, general factotum, and if there’s any other post of a menial nature I haven’t mentioned rest assured I fill it. I am pleased to make your acquaintance at last.’

  ‘And this is my friend Virgil Florescu. Virgil, meet my father – and Mr Harville.’

  ‘So you are the mysterious Romanian?’

  ‘I am Romanian, yes, Mr Crozier.’

  ‘He doesn’t look remotely mysterious. He looks perfectly normal and ordinary from where I’m standing. What is mysterious, Crozier, is this monkey’s bum business. I shan’t serve drinks until I’ve had a satisfactory explanation.’

  ‘It’s from when I was a child, Mr Harville. Daddy took my twin sister, Daisy –’

  ‘I’ve heard masses on that subject. Masses and masses. Do continue.’

  ‘Daddy took us to the zoo, and we watched the monkeys scampering up and down in their cages, and I started to laugh at the sight of their pink bums. Then Daddy said “I can shape my lips into a monkey’s bum” and he put his lips together and stuck them out, and I laughed even more. Then Daddy said “Do a monkey’s bum for me, Kitty” and I did, and then he said “Let’s share a monkey’s bum kiss” – and that’s the explanation.’

  ‘Shall we demonstrate for them, dearest darling?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They kissed in the manner Kitty had described and Derek Harville said, ‘Well, now that you’ve solved the monkey’s bum mystery, we’re all suddenly very much wiser. Was Daisy amused, Crozier? Did she join in the fun?’

  ‘I honestly can’t remember, Derek.’

  ‘Neither can I, Mr Harville, but she probably didn’t.’

  ‘Daisy’s my secret weapon, Kitty. I assume the use of the familiar Kitty is in order?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Yes, Kitty, your sister is my trump card, the trick I intend removing from my sleeve, as it were, when Crozier here becomes especially difficult and cantankerous. I shall threaten the old roué with one of Daisy’s alarming telephone calls and watch those jowls wobble with fright.’

  ‘She doesn’t know I’m living in England.’

  ‘From what you have told me, ad almost nauseam, Crozier, nothing deters the resourceful Daisy when she is in patricidal mood. She’d find you anywhere, under any stone. Did she not track you down in Aspen, Colorado, once?’

  ‘That wasn’t so clever of her. That was in my Carol days. Carol’s face was never out of the magazines and papers. Daisy read somewhere that Carol was taking a much needed vacation with the dashing new man in her life and, hey presto, there she was on the line shouting obscenities at me.’

  ‘With every good reason, I have no doubt, Crozier. Now, why don’t the three of you disport yourselves on the lawn while I nip inside and fetch us all something refreshing to drink?’

  ‘Champagne, Derek. The vintage Krug. Today’s a very special occasion. It isn’t often that dearest darling Kitty and her terrible father are reunited.’

  Derek Harville made a snorting noise and disappeared.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Felix Crozier leading Kitty and Virgil along the side of the cottage into the back garden. The huge lawn had been recently trimmed, and on its borders Kitty saw roses, marigolds, delphiniums, pinks, sweet-peas and an isolated patch of love-in-a-mist. ‘Serene, isn’t it? It’s Derek’s handiwork. He’s the chap nature’s favoured with green fingers. Let’s sit in the shade, under the willow by the pond.’

  ‘When you wrote in your letter – and what a surprise it was, Daddy, receiving a letter from you – when you wrote that there’s a person caring for you, I didn’t expect –’

  ‘Derek?’

  ‘Well, a man.’

  ‘I bet you didn’t. And I hope you’re not thinking what I think you may be thinking.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That I’ve started playing funny buggers in my dotage. Because I haven’t. I can say this while the coast is clear for a minute, but Derek’s not what he seems. I know he gives the impression that he’s as queer as a chorus boy’s backside, but he isn’t. He’s no oil painting either, but that hasn’t stopped the women chasing after him and fighting over him. Can your Romanian understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘I can, Mr Crozier. I understand, too, that you are confiding in Kitty. I am Virgil,’ he added, pronouncing his name the English way.

  ‘Ah, right. Virgil. I didn’t quite catch it when Kitty said it. Virgil, eh? Unusual.’

  ‘It’s pretty common in Romania.’

  ‘Is it? How fascinating. There aren’t many Felixes in Britain and America, not in my experience. In all my seventy-plus years I’ve never bumped into another Felix. Makes me feel a wee bit unique. Yes, well, that’s Felix for you. Call me Felix.’

  ‘Daddy, have you been very indiscreet about Daisy? How much have you t
old your companion?’

  ‘I’ll be honest with you, Kitty darling. I’ve been silence itself on the little matter of her – of her – disorder. It’s just her terrorist tactics I’ve remarked on. And the fact that she hates me.’

  ‘Hasn’t Derek asked why she hates you?’

  ‘I suppose he has.’

  ‘And you’ve replied?’

  ‘That I haven’t an idea. Disliking me would make sense, Kitty. What’s the phrase? Healthy dislike. Why doesn’t the wretched creature simply dislike me? I don’t deserve her hatred. I’m not worth hating.’

  (Some months earlier, when she was only days out of the hospital, she awoke from an afternoon nap and switched on the radio. She was alert within seconds, because the man who was giving the talk on Kurt Weill’s music was praising a song she had not anticipated ever hearing again. ‘That’s Him’, the expert revealed, was written for the character of Venus in the show One Touch of Venus and Mary Martin had sung it seated on a wooden chair she had drawn down to the footlights, the better to entrust the audience with her happy news. As Kitty Crozier listened to the same record she and Daisy had heard several times over during the course of that momentous Easter holiday, she hoped that her sister was tuned to a different station, or walking the dogs, or preparing in the quiet of her kitchen one of her plain and wholesome meals for Cecil and the children:

  You can shuffle him with millions,

  Soldiers and civilians,

  I’d pick him out.

  In the darkest caves and hallways,

  I would know him always

  Beyond a doubt.

  Venus was singing, and Kitty and Daisy were once more in the doorway, watching their handsome father as he clipped his moustache.)

  ‘And as for Baby Cordelia, that’s still entre nous. It’s too silly, too private.’

  ‘My ears are throb, throb, throbbing,’ said Derek Harville as he approached them, bearing a tray which he placed on an iron table. ‘Does that mean, perchance, that I am the topic of conversation?’

  ‘Yes and no, Derek. Perchance it does; perchance it doesn’t.’

  ‘May I assist you, Mr Harville?’