The Prince's Boy

by Paul Bailey

  ‘How can I raise my glass to a man with no name? Am I toasting a phantom?’

  ‘No, no. He is real. He is composed of flesh and blood. Let us call him, for convenience, Nemo.’

  ‘To M. Nemo,’ I said.

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘Is it your belief,’ I inquired of my limitlessly snobbish acquaintance, ‘that I shall remain perpetually – I think you chose the word ‘‘perpetually’’ – young?’

  ‘Unless you come to your senses, that is indeed my belief. Enjoy to the full the sorrows of young Werther before you attain the age of thirty and then cast them aside for ever and a day. Do that and give yourself the opportunity of living a reasonably contented life thereafter.’

  ‘You sound very serious and more than a little pompous. Do you regard Albert Le Cuziat as a contented soul?’

  ‘No, no, not at all. I wish to God I were,’ he said, making the sign of the cross again. ‘But I do hope you will achieve happiness.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘I wish, Silviu, I wish most earnestly, that I had refrained from introducing you to Rãzvan. He is a tortured creature.’

  ‘Tortured?’

  ‘Indubitably. He will transport you to hell with him under the name of love.’

  Albert Le Cuziat conveyed these bad tidings with a smile I would describe as pitying. His alert eyes and nicotine-stained teeth were united in conveying the message that my adoration of the prince’s boy was the merest folly.

  ‘I have no evidence of his being, as you say, tortured.’

  ‘That is because you are besotted. You are seeing what you want to see and nothing more.’

  The renowned, or notorious, M. Albert and his distinguished, if not entirely aristocratic, host were then presented with the finest dishes the Ritz’s chef could offer: a sublime lobster bisque; lamb with an apricot stuffing; a ripe Camembert and raspberry, strawberry and lemon sorbets. M. Albert chose the wines, which were – predictably – expensive.

  ‘This is a rare indulgence for me, Silviu. It is a pity Rãzvan is not here with us.’

  ‘Is it such a pity? I sense you are being ironic or sarcastic or ambivalent.’

  ‘You listen well.’

  ‘I look at faces, too. When the words coming from your mouth do not match the expression in your eyes – your twinkling eyes, M. Albert – I become aware of a certain insincerity.’

  I wanted to know more about the prince’s character, beyond the fact that he had shown inordinate kindness to my lover. Rãzvan had told me little of any consequence concerning him, I lied.

  I waited a long time for an answer.

  ‘I am not lost for words, I do assure you. I am weighing them, placing them in the correct order. You speak of the prince’s kindness. It is not a characteristic of the man I knew. He was far from kind to his friends and relatives when he killed himself in a cheap hotel in a drab suburban town in England ten years ago. I have retained enough of my Catholic faith to assert that I consider suicide a sin – a sin composed of vanity and cowardice, to put it precisely. His death reduced the dry-eyed Marcel Proust to tears; it left his doting, admiring brother bewildered and heartbroken, and his cousin horrified at his cruelty.’

  ‘And Rãzvan?’

  ‘He felt abandoned, naturally. He had lost a civilized companion and a brilliant teacher. He was stranded, Silviu. He moped. He began to drink. It was impossible for him to return to Corcova. The prince and his money had refined the peasant boy out of recognition. Try to imagine him toiling in the fields.’

  ‘I can. I can easily picture him at harvest time.’

  ‘You have smelt his cologne?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘You have appreciated his impeccable French?’

  ‘His impeccable Romanian, too.’

  ‘You are absurdly starry-eyed. So Rãzvan is your noble savage, is he? He is such an inappropriate choice.’

  I seem to recall that we finished the meal in silence. Then he anticipated the question I was too frightened, or too jealous, or too despairing to ask.

  ‘He has been in my employment for seven years.’

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘Yes, Silviu.’

  ‘You must be pleased with his work.’

  ‘I was pleased with him when he was capable of performing his duties. He would often disappear for weeks or even months, depending on his mood.’

  ‘Did he enjoy working when he was, as you say, capable?’

  ‘Enjoy? Dear God, no. He hated – oh, why am I speaking in the past tense? – all his customers. Some of them were excited by his rage and happily returned to be insulted, but others were appalled by his insensitive behaviour. Rãzvan’s is a sophisticated cruelty, thanks to the prince’s tutelage. Tell me, Domnule Silviu, has he been cruel to you?’

  ‘He has no cause to be.’

  ‘Allow me to make a confession. I gave Jean-Pierre to Honoré as a gift – to placate him, to soothe his savage breast. He thanked me for my kindness. He thanked me so frequently and so much on the days he was pining for you that I cursed myself for my uncharacteristic generosity. Oh, Silviu, what a fool I was to show him kindness.’

  ‘I am exceedingly grateful that you did.’

  ‘Your feelings are understandable at the moment.’

  ‘May I accuse you of cynicism?’

  ‘You may. It is an accusation I can neither challenge nor refute.’

  There was a curious relationship developing between us – a friendship, almost; a marriage of unlike minds. I did not tell him I found his company diverting, since there was no cause to. I had made it apparent with smiles and nods and spontaneous bursts of laughter. I could not picture him as my enemy, despite his regret at having introduced me to Rãzvan.

  ‘I am drunk, M. Albert, but you do not seem to be.’

  ‘I have willed myself to remain clear-headed. It is a talent I have mastered in the service of my chosen profession. I cannot afford to be inebriated on a day of gladiatorial sexual combat. I am referring, you will recall, to the imminent liaison of the timid industrialist and the merciless Safarov. Would you care to witness the bloody spectacle? There is a peephole in the wall of the torture chamber. I have only to remove the minute landscape painting that conceals it for you to have an uninterrupted view of the grisly proceedings. I had a similar peephole in my previous establishment for the sole benefit and satisfaction of my dear departed Marcel.’

  ‘I thank you for the generous offer, M. Albert, but I rather think I prefer to be where no blood is shed.’

  ‘As you please.’

  ‘You cannot tempt me into being even more wicked than I am already.’

  ‘So you consider yourself wicked, do you?’

  ‘Yes. And perhaps, no. It was bad of me, seriously bad of me, to visit your sinful establishment. But my love for Rãzvan, and his for me, is—’ I hesitated before saying the word ‘—sacred.’

  ‘Ah, my dear, you make such a fine distinction between the disorderly house and its saintly occupant. Such a very, very fine distinction.’

  I settled the astronomical bill, the very last astronomical bill of my life, while thanking Cezar Grigorescu for allowing me to be so profligate.

  We descended the steps outside the hotel – I shakily; he with enviable assurance – into the street.

  ‘My name is Dinu Grigorescu,’ I said to Albert Le Cuziat as he entered the cab the doorman, whom he tipped ostentatiously, had hailed for him. ‘That is who I am.’

  ‘In vino veritas, Dinu Grigorescu. My compliments to the treacherous Rãzvan.’

  I returned to the prince’s boy’s apartment and slept the sleep of the satiated beneath the benevolent icons of the Virgin and St Nicholas. I was awoken hours later by Rãzvan, who freed himself from the uniform he was now constrained to wear as a barman at Les Deux Cygnes.

  ‘What did you do today while your lover was in respectable employment?’

  ‘I met M. Albert. He seemed to be waiting for me outside the bank. He invited himself
to luncheon at the Ritz and I decided to accept his invitation.’

  ‘You paid?’

  ‘I paid.’

  ‘You fool.’

  ‘I paid for him out of gratitude, for introducing us to one another. He proved to be an amusing guest.’

  ‘Being an amusing guest is one of his talents. He does not have many, but that is certainly one of them.’

  ‘Come to bed, my love. I am lonely here.’

  ‘Did he mention me?’

  ‘Hold me in your arms and I will tell you.’

  I waited until he had done my bidding before I answered.

  ‘Yes, he did mention you. He thinks you have betrayed him. He considers you to be treacherous.’

  A long silence followed and then Rãzvan was spluttering with laughter.

  ‘Oh, Dinicu, he says I am treacherous. That is wonderfully funny.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Of course it is. The old snake has the effrontery to accuse me of treachery. This man is a cheat and a liar beyond compare.’

  ‘I am sure he is. Let’s forget him now.’

  It was an impossible request. Entwined together in bed, we banished him from our thoughts, we imagined, as we embarked on another exploration of familiar territory. We made love. We made love in defiance of Albert Le Cuziat, our Pandar, our cold-eyed matchmaker.

  ‘I beg you not to see him again,’ Rãzvan whispered as we shared a cigarette. ‘He is poisonous, my sweet one. His tongue drips poison. Please keep away from him. If you love me, do as I ask.’

  ‘There is no “if ”,’ I assured him. ‘There won’t ever be an “if ”, I promise you.’

  I was with Rãzvan when I saw my cousin Eduard again. We were sitting, hand in under-the-table hand, outside a café near rue des Trois-Frères.

  ‘Good evening, Dinu. Did I hear you speaking Romanian with this gentleman?’

  ‘You did, you certainly did,’ I answered, putting my hands on the table. ‘Good evening, Cousin Eduard. Allow me to introduce you to a new-found friend of mine – Rãzvan Popescu.’

  ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Domnule Popescu.’

  ‘And I yours.’

  ‘May I join you, Dinu? Or are you discussing urgent private matters?’

  ‘Of course you may join us, Cousin. You are most welcome.’

  I hoped that my excessive politeness would disguise the embarrassment I was feeling.

  ‘Do you speak French, Domnule Popescu?’

  ‘He speaks perfect French, Eduard. His way with the language is a pleasure to listen to.’

  ‘Dinu is very generous with his praise, Domnule Grigorescu.’

  ‘Vasiliu. My name is Eduard Vasiliu.’

  ‘My apologies.’

  ‘There is no need for them. Your glasses are empty. Do you have a taste for champagne, Domnule Popescu?’

  ‘I do indeed.’

  ‘Then that is what we shall drink.’

  Cousin Eduard was clearly intent on impressing Rãzvan, for the champagne he ordered was of an expensive vintage.

  ‘Did you meet here in Paris or in Bucharest?’

  ‘In Paris,’ we replied, almost in unison.

  ‘Tell me more.’

  It was Rãzvan who rescued us.

  ‘I met your cousin Dinu on an overcrowded tram. The passengers were pressed together, like sardines or anchovies in a tin. It was unbearably stuffy and people were losing their tempers. Dinu was so exasperated that he cursed very loudly in our language. I echoed his fierce sentiments in a gentler tone of voice and from that moment we were friends.’

  Rãzvan answered the questions Eduard seemed to hurl at him with a calmness that could only dazzle me. Nothing was said of Corcova and his poor peasant origins. He was a native of Cluj, he declared. His father, now alas dead, had been a schoolteacher, and his mother, a gifted dancer, still taught the rudiments of ballet to a group of impossibly thin little girls who aspired to be Tchaikovsky’s cygnets one day.

  ‘Were you eligible for military service in 1914?’

  ‘I assumed I was eligible to fight, but the examining board, in their ancient wisdom, decided I was not. I have flat feet, Domnule Vasiliu. It is a sadness to me that I was considered unfit to be a soldier.’

  ‘Those are noble words.’

  ‘You fought for the Allied cause, I trust?’

  ‘Old as I look now, I was just too young then.’

  ‘That is a pity. I was expecting to hear that you had been awarded a croix de guerre or some Romanian medal, at least.’

  ‘No, no – I am not cast in the heroic mould. I am a businessman. My sole interest is in amassing money.’

  ‘Which you are spending on your nephew and his friend with exceptional generosity.’

  ‘It’s not exceptional, Rãzvan,’ I interrupted. ‘It is customary.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Decidedly so. My cousin is like my father in that respect. It pleases him to be generous when the mood seizes him.’

  ‘Domnule Popescu, are you entirely certain that you encountered Dinu on a crowded tram?’

  ‘Entirely.’

  ‘And not at the Opera, during a performance of La sonnambula?’

  ‘I tend to fall asleep during La sonnambula. I have, I fear, made a regretful habit of it. The crowded tram represents the dreary truth, doesn’t it, Dinu?’

  ‘It does,’ I agreed.

  ‘So be it,’ said my disbelieving cousin.

  Two

  I had a photograph of Rãzvan with me on my return to Bucharest. I had no need to look at it for the moment because the smell of him was with me, enticingly with me, as the train made its uncaring progress across the dreary Hungarian plains. I kept hearing his voice, insisting that ours was only a temporary parting – once reunited, we would never be separated again. Yes, I answered aloud, to no one and anyone.

  I was met at the station, the ersatz Gare du Nord, by Gheorghe, the family chauffeur. He doffed his cap to me and welcomed the young master home. The fatted calf had been killed in my honour and his wife, Denisa, was already in the kitchen preparing it for tonight’s feast.

  ‘I hope there will be some of it left over for the servants.’

  I promised him that I would eat sparingly, though I could not guarantee that my father’s guests would do the same.

  We lived in one of the city’s smartest streets, near Ciºmigiu, overlooking the park of that name. The Grigorescu house was grand enough to be mistaken for an embassy. Cezar Grigorescu was not contented, as his fellow lawyers and distinguished acquaintances were, with an apartment, however large. He demanded a mansion in which to strut and assert his authority. Carmen Sylva 4 was his ideal palatial residence. I entered it now with something akin to loathing, remembering the attic in which I had pretended to write and the rooms the prince had rented for my lover. My lover. I stood in the hallway, picturing him beside me, the welcome guest of my father and my mother’s shade.

  ‘You must be Dinu,’ said a voice I did not recognize. I turned and saw a woman dressed in a similar fashion to the girl who called herself Sonia to the boy pretending to be Alexandru. ‘I am Elisabeta.’

  ‘Are you?’ I answered, stupidly.

  ‘You have not heard of me?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing. Should I have heard of you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Your father has not told you?’

  I was beginning to enjoy this game of questions and counter-questions.

  ‘No, Elisabeta, my father has not told me whatever it is he should have. He has kept me in ignorance on the subject.’

  ‘I am very surprised.’

  ‘Are you? Why?’

  ‘Because his failure to tell you something so important makes no sense to me.’

  ‘He must have a reason for keeping his son in the dark. The word ‘‘failure’’ is not in Cezar Grigorescu’s lexicon. He is a man accustom
ed to making decisions.’

  ‘Of course he is.’

  I ended our mysterious conversation by stating the truth. I was tired to exhaustion after a long train journey on which I had been deprived of sleep. I needed a hot bath and a few hours’ rest before dinner.

  ‘I shall see you at dinner, I assume?’

  ‘Yes, Dinu.’

  ‘Au revoir, then.’

  ‘A bientôt.’

  Where could I hide the photograph of Rãzvan? That was my first thought as I walked into the room I had been absent from all summer. Then I wondered if there was any reason why I should conceal it. He was the friend I had made in Paris, who had turned out to be the ideal companion and guide to the city for the uninformed and guileless Dinu Grigorescu. I had no cause to be secretive about this man in his late thirties, handsome as he was, captured smiling at the camera by a street photographer on the Champs-Elysées. No one was to know, unless I told them, that he was my deflowerer, my consummate and passionate lover, my precious Rãzvãnel.

  I would have the snapshot enlarged and framed.

  I slept. It was the sleep of death, with my mother at its centre.

  ‘Welcome home,’ she said, rising from her grave. ‘It is good to have you back in the bosom of the family.’

  ‘Mamã.’

  ‘So you have remembered me, you forgetful boy?’

  ‘Yes, Mamã.’

  ‘Your thoughts are all of that wretched man who has stolen your heart. Where are your prayers for me? Where are my Dinu’s tears?’

  ‘I have been too busy living for myself. Forgive me, I beg of you.’

  ‘You did not even stop to look at my portrait at the top of the staircase. You walked straight past it. You have never been so circumspect before.’

  ‘You are wrong, my darling mother. I saw your dark eyes and hair and the pearl choker and the blue silk gown you wore for the artist who painted you in 1908, the year you gave birth to me. Of course I stopped and looked at you.’

  I heard what I said to her and believed it. There was no reason for me not to.

  She laughed as she had never laughed in life. It was the cackle of a witch or a woman who had been painfully hurt and maligned. She did not sound remotely like Elena Grigorescu.