Kitty & Virgil

by Paul Bailey

  (Because you separate your syllables, Kitty was tempted to answer. Each one in turn, with emphasis.)

  ‘It’s unmistakable.’

  ‘You have quite an ear, I must say. We have only conversed the once, so I am flattered. By the way, I am Mrs Whiteside. I sacrificed my maidenhead in my operatic days, long ago. Mr Whiteside is no more.’

  ‘Is anything the matter, Mrs Whiteside?’

  ‘It is Mr Florescu. The poor lamb is stricken with influenza. He has a temperature.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Where he ought to be, Miss Crozier. In bed.’

  ‘He’s not in hospital?’

  ‘Heavens, no. I am tending him. I will restore him to health, never fear.’

  ‘Yes, but, Mrs Whiteside –’

  ‘The doctor has seen him. He prescribed some medicine, which I have already collected from the chemist. And I always keep lemons and whiskey within reach, for emergency. Your Virgil is in safe hands.’

  ‘You pronounced his name properly.’

  ‘Of course I did. That’s my training coming out. I have no trouble with the sounds of foreign languages.’

  ‘I’ll come over later.’

  ‘May I advise you not to? He needs complete rest for a few days. I had to march him back up to his room this morning. I was forced to play the martinet, Miss Crozier, with your obstinate lover. He was determined to go to work, would you believe, even though his face was in a cold sweat and his eyes were dull and his body was shaking. He met his pig-headed match in me, I am pleased to relate. He is sleeping as I speak.’

  ‘You are very kind.’

  ‘I am very fond of him. He has no vanity. This old woman almost envies you his love. No, no – what nonsense. I will keep you informed of his progress.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Listen, Relu,’ he whispered to his brother. ‘Mamã is crying.’

  ‘Mamã is crying because she is a woman. Mamã is like a fountain sometimes.’

  ‘No, Relu. These are real tears. Listen.’

  ‘Why listen? I can hear you.’

  ‘She is calling Tatã Titi. She is pleading with him. She is begging him not to put us in danger.’

  ‘Tatã wouldn’t do that. Tatã is strong. Tatã is clever. Go to sleep, Virgil.’

  That was a night when sleep wouldn’t come. Long after his mother’s sobbing had subsided he lay awake wondering about the danger ahead. He was fifteen, now, and an increasing disappointment to the respected lawyer who was training his sons in the art of survival. They were to be vigilant, young as they were; they were to follow his example and beware of day-dreaming. They should remember their Roman origins and take pride.

  ‘Are we in danger, Tatã?’ he asked at breakfast.

  ‘What silliness is this? Why do you imagine we should be in danger? Have we broken the rules?’

  ‘No, Tatã. No, I am sure not.’

  ‘Then what is this you are saying? Yes?’

  ‘It was an idea,’ he responded feebly, not wanting to admit that he had overheard – no, worse than that, had listened in to – his parents’ altercation.

  ‘It is no idea worth having, Virgil. Your brother – your younger brother – does not have it.’

  Aureliu, his mouth full of bread, nodded in agreement.

  ‘Be off to the cemetery, as your drunken versifier calls it, and learn some wisdom, if you will.’

  ‘Yes, Tatã.’

  ‘You have nothing to be afraid of, Virgil. Nothing in the world.’

  ‘He might believe you, Matilda. Tell him again.’

  ‘I believe you both, Mamã, Tatã,’ he said, rising from the table. ‘I should not have had my idea.’

  ‘I have made you a clear soup, Virgil. A consommè. Try and sit up, my dear.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who is wearing a grumpy face tonight? Answer: Domnul Florescu.’

  ‘What, please, is grumpy?’

  ‘Grumpy is bad-tempered. Some people enjoy being invalids, but I suspect you are not one of them. My late husband revelled in his illnesses. The longer they lasted, the happier he was – deep inside, that is. Patrick out-Violetta’d Violetta in Traviata when it came to the heart-wrenching cough. Bless him. He would be with me still but for his absent-mindedness. He had his head in the clouds as usual the day a number 39 bus struck him down in Westminster.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘No sorrier than I am, my dear. Such a waste of a decent life. He was an honest Ulsterman if ever there was one, though it was his airy-fairy streak that appealed to me. Could you manage to sit up a little bit higher? There’s an extra pillow to support you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You look too weak to hold the bowl. Let me feed you the soup a spoonful at a time. Open your mouth.’

  He did as she instructed, and drank the hot soup from the spoon. ‘No more,’ he said, after the second spoonful. ‘No more.’

  ‘It will give you strength, my dear.’

  ‘It tastes of meat.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘I have an aversion.’

  ‘Oh, you should have told me. I should have checked with you. I can rustle up a vegetable purée, if you’d prefer it.’

  ‘No, thank you. I have no hunger. Tomorrow, perhaps.’

  I am trapped, he thought as Freda Whiteside descended the stairs. I am her prisoner. I am cocooned in her kindliness.

  Later that evening she was at his bedside again. She had prepared for him her ‘magic concoction’ of lemon juice, honey and Irish whiskey, and he was to sip it slowly. ‘This will rejuvenate you, my dear,’ she promised. ‘It’s the one and only bona fide restorative.’

  She wiped his brow with a handkerchief and wished him a restful night. Woe betide if he attempted to leave the house in the morning. Her ears picked up the sound of the faintest football, as an unfortunate rent-dodger had once discovered to his physical cost, and they would be on the alert for any Houdini-like plans he might be harbouring.

  ‘I won’t have you going out and catching your death.’

  He had to struggle to release himself from the damp sheets. He walked shakily across the room. He grabbed at the door handle and clutched it firmly in order to stay upright. He went out to the landing. Then, with the banister for support, he manoeuvred his aching, tired body towards the bathroom on the floor below.

  He was crawling back upstairs when Freda Whiteside surprised him. She set down the tray she was bearing and called out to someone to come to her assistance: this was an emergency, there wasn’t a moment to lose, Mr Florescu was in a state of collapse and would someone – a man, not a woman – get here without delay.

  ‘Is that you shouting, Mrs Whiteside?’

  ‘Who is that asking a stupid question? Help me, will you? Light as he is, Mr Florescu is much too heavy for this old woman to carry.’

  ‘Carry me? No one must carry me. I am nearly there.’

  ‘On your hands and knees? That is misplaced martyrdom, my dear. Pick Mr Florescu up, would you, Mr Turner.’

  ‘You want me to lift him?’

  ‘Yes, my dear, I do. Have you met Mr Florescu, Mr Turner?’

  ‘I can’t say I have.’

  ‘He keeps strange hours. In fact, he keeps the strangest hours of any tenant I have ever known. You can swap introductions when you have put him in his bed.’

  (He would recall that he had felt humiliated; beyond reason, humiliated. The young architect who had borne him aloft and lowered him gently on to the bed to alleviate his distress had performed the task without embarrassment, speedily. Perhaps it was the very ease with which Dudley Turner had transported him – as if he were no weightier than a feather – that inspired his shame. For it was shame he endured in those moments after what Freda Whiteside described as his ‘rescue’: a shame he would grow ashamed at having experienced and say nothing of to Kitty.)

  Dudley Turner, who revealed that he ran five miles every morning and played a fierce game of squash every af
ternoon to ward off the flabbiness a desk job brought on, wished Mr Florescu a quick recovery and said the office beckoned.

  ‘Goodbye, my dear. You have covered yourself in glory.’

  ‘You do come out with some funny expressions, if you don’t mind my saying so, Mrs Whiteside.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all. Now get along to your drawing-board, there’s a good resident Samaritan.’

  ‘To which tribe do you belong, Virgil?’

  ‘What are you asking me, Dinu?’

  ‘I am asking you, my friend of the miracles, the question all Romanians ask themselves when they stand here.’

  ‘Am I a Dacian or a Roman?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘I am happy to be either, or neither, or both. My father is of the belief – no, the conviction – that we Florescus have Roman blood in our veins. Not the blood of the ordinary Roman soldier, Dinu, but the blood of a senator or a general, perhaps. Or even the blood of the mighty emperor himself. Blood, blood. It is all blood to me.’

  ‘They have no problems with their ancestry,’ said Dinu, as a group of Japanese tourists came to a concerted stop in front of Trajan’s Column. ‘But I am ignorant of their culture and can only surmise.’

  Dinu had a story to tell him, if Virgil was in the right mood to hear it. Gregory the Great – the first of the sixteen popes named Gregory and by all accounts the best – was standing one day where they were standing now, admiring the reliefs of the Dacian wars. He was moved by the depiction of the goodness of Trajan and the mercy the emperor displayed towards the barbarians he had conquered. A Christian mercy, Gregory thought. Then it occurred to him that Trajan was a barbarian too and had ruled over a pagan empire. Gregory was saddened that the soul of such a noble man should be lost and prayed in earnest for the heathen emperor’s salvation.

  ‘Were his prayers answered, Dinu?’

  ‘There is doubt in your voice. Yes, they were. According to legend.’

  According to legend, Gregory was assured that the soul of Trajan was not beyond redemption. It could and should be saved, if Gregory was prepared to undergo one or two penances. He had a choice between a spell in purgatory – three days of uninterrupted pain and torment – or a life of constant ill-health. Agony en route to the next world, or suffering in this.

  ‘And which, according to legend, did he choose?’

  ‘The earthly one. He was unwell from that day forward. He is said to have endured every discomfort without complaint.’

  ‘Someone is approaching us, Dinu. He is waving at you.’

  ‘So he is. He works at the embassy. I dare not trust him. Can you pretend to be Italian?’

  ‘Already my name is Enrico Vitale.’

  ‘Enrico Vitale, Enrico Vitale – I have it.’

  For a few tense minutes he was Signor Vitale, speaking to Dinu Psatta and the suspicious Sorin Postelnicu in the language he spoke almost as well as his own. He feigned slight bafflement whenever they broke into Romanian and gave no indication of understanding the insulting comments Postelnicu made about his appearance. He was not, he explained, a friend of Signor Psatta, merely a passing acquaintance, a fellow collector of interesting ruins. ‘We were brought together by our admiration for this magnificent column. In Ferrara, my birthplace, there is nothing comparable.’

  ‘I see you have no need of a guidebook.’

  ‘That is true, Signor Post–Signor Post–’

  ‘Postelnicu.’

  ‘Excuse me. Postelnicu. You are observant, Signor Postelnicu. I am a frequent visitor to Rome. I no longer have need of guides. My head is filled to overflowing with the necessary information.’

  Sensing that Sorin Postelnicu was poised to test Signor Vitale’s historical knowledge, he had the man from Ferrara (why Ferrara? He had only glanced at the city) look at his watch and express amazement that he was still here in the Forum when he ought to be at the railway station meeting his sister (why sister?) off the midday train. Elisabetta (why Elisabetta?) would be desperate with worry if she did not see her beloved Enrico (why Enrico?) waiting at the barrier. ‘She is of a highly nervous disposition,’ Signor Vitale elaborated, to Virgil Florescu’s alarm.

  ‘Goodbye, Signor Psatta. And goodbye, Signor Postelnicu. There, I have completed your name. Postelnicu, yes? I must run. Goodbye.’

  But running was impossible with so many people around, and ahead of, him. He walked away as quickly as he could, with Enrico Vitale’s anxious sister imploring him to hurry faster.

  ‘It’s a rice pudding, Virgil. I’ve sprinkled the daintiest amount of saffron on top, to add a touch of colour. I haven’t gone the whole Turkish hog, with pistachios and currants, as I do normally.’

  ‘You are kind. Thank you.’

  ‘Thanks are unnecessary, my dear. I am enjoying nursing you, in spite of the scowl that is your customary greeting. I want you to eat as much as you can.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Please try. The weather is behaving offensively today, if it is any consolation to you. You have heard the wind, surely?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Then be thankful, at least, that you aren’t out there fighting against it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With all those other poor souls who have to earn a living. You have your appetite back, I see.’

  ‘The rice is good.’

  ‘It always is when I remember to time it. I didn’t think you would appreciate one of my burnt offerings.’

  The words ‘You are like a mother to me’ escaped from him unchecked.

  ‘Should I feel flattered, Virgil? Let me decide. On balance, yes, perhaps I should. I wasn’t the motherly type in my younger days, I must admit. I loathed small children with a vengeance. I would have out-Heroded Herod, given the opportunity. No, Virgil, I never welcomed the patter of tiny feet and neither did Patrick, bless his memory. We wanted ourselves to ourselves. But being like a mother to a moody grown-up Romanian is a different matter. I am flattered.’

  She took from him the dish that he had licked clean, told him he was the ideal son and left.

  (He awoke to find her smiling down on him. ‘My brave Virgil,’ she said.

  ‘Read to me from the book, Mamã.’

  ‘Not Harap Alb again? Not the horrible Smooth-Face and his nasty tricks?’

  ‘No, Mama. The funny Russian soldier.’

  ‘Ivan with the knapsack? You are old enough and clever enough to read about him yourself.’

  ‘I would rather listen to you, Mamã.’

  ‘Is that because you are sick, or lazy, or both?’

  ‘Both,’ he replied.

  ‘I will allow you to be lazy just this once. Just this once, remember.’

  She sat on the end of his bed and opened the treasured book.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Yes, Mamã.’

  ‘I swear I shall have a sore throat by the time you are better.’

  She began to read, and he was soon absorbed by the story of the drunken old soldier who gave away his army pension of two silver roubles to God and St Peter, believing the shabbily dressed men he met on a bridge to be beggars. God was impressed, though not surprised, by his natural goodness and returned the money to him, saying, ‘Learn now, Ivan, that I am God, and can give thee anything thou dost ask of Me; for thou art an honest and a liberal man.’

  ‘What did Ivan ask for, Mamã?’

  ‘Have you forgotten, Virgil?’

  ‘Yes,’ he lied.

  ‘No more interruptions, if you please.’

  ‘No, Mamã.’

  ‘You know very well that Ivan asked God to bless his knapsack, as you are about to hear.’

  The Almighty, he heard, was amused by Ivan’s strange request and blessed the knapsack, bestowing upon the old soldier the power to command what or who should enter it. ‘“When thou art tired of wandering through the world, Ivan, thou must come and serve at My gate,” and Ivan answered, “With pleasure, Lord, but now I must go and see whether something
won’t drop into my knapsack.”

  ‘Then off he went, and walked and walked, until he came at evening to a group of houses he had seen at the beginning of the day on the distant horizon. These were the property of a rich boyar who was close with his money. If Ivan had been any old soldier the boyar would have refused him hospitality, but the wily landowner saw that he was wearing the Imperial uniform and ordered a servant to bring him food and drink. He also offered him a bed for the night, in an empty house where uninvited guests were sometimes permitted to sleep. The grateful soldier ate his fill, and the servant showed him to a room in the empty house and left him there, alone.

  ‘Except that he wasn’t alone, as the boyar was well aware. The house was empty of the godly and pious, but not of the wicked and unclean. “He’ll pay dearly for his night’s rest,” said the boyar to himself. “I know there will be work tonight. Either he will get the devils or the devils will get him.”’

  ‘What do devils look like, Mamã?’

  ‘You promised not to interrupt. Devils have horns on their heads. And they have tails.’

  ‘Have you ever seen a devil? Face to face?’

  ‘No, Virgil, I haven’t. Not face to face. Not with horns and a tail. I haven’t seen that sort of devil. In drawings and pictures, yes, but not in the real world. Now, shall I continue? Or is there something else?’

  ‘No, Mamã. Go on.’

  ‘Where was I?’

  ‘With Ivan in the room.’

  ‘So I was.’

  Ivan was overcome with tiredness, Virgil heard. After saying his prayers, and using the knapsack as his pillow, the old soldier, fully dressed, fell fast asleep on a comfortable divan. But could he rest? No, not at all. No sooner had he put out the light than the pillow, his knapsack, was whisked away from under him and thrown across the room. Ivan sprang up and lit the candle, and took hold of his sword and searched all over the house, but found nothing. It must have been an earthquake, he decided, that caused his pillow to move.

  ‘It wasn’t an earthquake, was it?’

  ‘No, Virgil. Be quiet and listen.’

  ‘Yes, Mamã.’

  ‘It wasn’t an earthquake, as Ivan soon discovered. He went back to bed and closed his eyes, determined to sleep. Then, all of a sudden, he started to hear voices – soft at first, but gradually becoming louder. Some miaowed like cats, some grunted like pigs, some croaked like frogs, while others growled like bears. “Aha,” thought Ivan, “I realise what this is about. Whoever’s there will have to reckon with me, the master.” And, rising from the bed, he shouted, “Into the knapsack, good-for-nothings!”