The Prince's Boy

by Paul Bailey

  I told her she was frightening me. I screamed at her to stop.

  I awoke to find my father at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Are you emerging from a bad dream, Dinu?’

  ‘Yes, Tatã, I think I am.’

  ‘Have you been eating an excess of cheese? Dr Stãnescu is of the opinion that Brie and Camembert provoke the dormant imagination to the wildest of fantasies. You must be more careful with your diet.’

  I promised him I would be more careful, now that I was away from the culinary temptations of Paris.

  ‘You may dress casually for dinner, my son. No members of the royal family or government ministers will be present. It is going to be a modest affair.’

  Then he was gone, with the name ‘Elisabeta’ on my lips, waiting to be voiced.

  Ah, that ‘modest affair’. My lawyer father had a sly way with words. There was nothing remotely modest about the event that was staged for my homecoming that late September evening in the dining room at Carmen Sylva 4. The encounter with Elisabeta should have alerted my dull brain to what was coming, but I was exhausted after the journey and thinking only, and selfishly, of Rãzvan. It did not surprise me when I learned, later, that she had become my stepsister.

  ‘I had hoped, Dinu, that I would have had the privilege of introducing you to Elisabeta’s mother first, but it was not to be. Once she is in communion with her perfumes and soaps and lotions, it is difficult to extricate her. When she emerges, Dinu, you can rest assured that my new wife – your new mother – will smell like Helen of Troy or some such divine being.’

  ‘Your new wife? My new mother?’

  ‘Yes, Dinu. I married Amalia while you were living a luxurious vie de Bohème in Paris. You look taken aback, which is understandable, but are you not pleased for me?’

  I could not, and would not, say I was. I observed, instead: ‘I have not met her. I have no idea what kind of woman she is.’

  ‘She is totally unlike our treasured Elena, Dinu, in every conceivable way. She has energy and wit and – this I know to my cost – a refined taste for beautiful clothes. The houses of Worth and Chanel would collapse without her custom.’

  ‘Is she younger than you?’

  ‘You asked that question disapprovingly. She is younger, yes, by five years.’

  ‘Her husband, her first husband, is dead?’

  ‘And her second.’

  Before I could give expression to the consternation I felt, he said, with one of his rare smiles: ‘She didn’t murder them, if that is what is in your mind. This is the real world, Dinu, not some lurid novel.’

  I had not considered that my still unseen stepmother might be a murderer, but the words ‘lurid novel’ gave me cause to wonder. I had never suspected the austere Cezar Grigorescu of being attracted to fiction, especially of the lurid kind.

  ‘Ah, there she is, my darling Amalia.’

  And there indeed she was, the Helen of Troy I hated on sight. Her every word, her every gesture, seemed intent on eradicating my mother’s goodness and modesty.

  ‘You are the prettiest boy in the world,’ she declared. ‘You are ravishing.’

  ‘I am honoured to meet you,’ I replied. ‘My father has kept you a secret from me.’

  ‘You must not blame me for the deception, Dinu. I pleaded with Cezar to be open and honest with you. Believe me, I did.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  She kissed me. I did not draw back in revulsion, much though I wanted to. The prettiest boy in the world – she had obviously travelled extensively – guessed on the instant that Amalia Grigorescu was a fabricator, a dealer in charm. I could be such a dealer too, I thought, as she led me by the hand into the dining-room my mother had graced throughout my childhood.

  ‘You will tell me all about your Parisian adventures, won’t you, Dinu?’

  Yes, of course I will, Amalia, in abundant detail. I will reveal to you how, half-drunk and in a frenzy of lust, I made my unsteady way to Albert Le Cuziat’s baths. I will inform you, with complete exactitude – for you would expect nothing less – how Honoré, soon to be identified as Rãzvan, conquered the heart (the appropriate cliché of turgid fiction) of the pretty Romanian boy who had rechristened himself Jean-Pierre. I promise, Amalia, that you will be agog as I re-explore in words the explorations that Honoré and Jean-Pierre embarked upon that summer day, and how Rãzvan and Dinu became sexual Marco Polos as their mutual desire refused to wane. All this, and more, I will pass on to you as we take tea or coffee in the delicate Grigorescu china that was my mother’s pride, for it was she who designed it.

  ‘You have turned very thoughtful, Dinu.’

  ‘I was thinking of how I should address you.’

  ‘Ah, that is problematical, isn’t it? I am not your mother, and ‘‘stepmother’’ smacks too much of the Brothers Grimm’s Fairy Tales. I am of the belief that we should be very, very modern and that you should call me Amalia, providing that you pronounce my name without the passionate emphasis your father, my utterly divine Cezar, puts on it.’

  ‘That presents no difficulty, Amalia.’

  There were four guests at table, each of them invited by my father to share his delight in Amalia’s wit and beauty. I have forgotten them – a lack of recall I attribute to the fact that they never appeared at the house near Ciºmigiu again. I do remember Amalia as a shining presence and that the Château Talbot we drank with the lamb Denisa had cooked in the slow-roasted Romanian tradition was of a sublime mellowness.

  My dream-or-nightmare mother had told me the truth. Her portrait was no longer at the top of the central staircase. It had been replaced by a landscape painting of a view of fields in Transylvania over which a lone stork hovered.

  Gheorghe handed me a letter with a Paris postmark. I laid it beside my breakfast plate and went on eating.

  ‘May I have the stamps, Master Dinu, when you have finished with the envelope?’

  ‘You may have them now. Are the Lindbergh stamps collectors’ items?’

  ‘They soon will be.’

  There was a message from my lover inside, written on the flimsiest paper.

  ‘Here you are, Gheorghe. I shall read this in my study.’

  I slid the message into a pocket of my dressing-gown and went upstairs. I dreaded its contents, suspecting a farewell note that would have cost my practical, sensible lover great anguish to write. I shaved and bathed before I dared to look at it.

  My dear friend – I miss your amusing company – Paris is the duller without you – You must send me the news of your homecoming, which I await with interest – I have plans to visit our country as soon as I can – I am still working at Les Deux Cygnes – How is your appetite? Mine is not healthy – I had a dream last night in which I was an EXPLORER, can you believe? – The autumn is almost over and I fear a cold and lonely winter – I send you my respectful greetings – R.P.

  My loving correspondent, whose affection for his beloved Dinu I detected between the dashes, had penned these cryptic lines with my father and his prying servants in mind. There was some deciphering to do – the loss of appetite; the word EXPLORER used to dramatic effect; his fear of a ‘cold and lonely winter’. Could Cezar Grigorescu, the keenest legal intelligence in Romania, see that ‘appetite’ was not confined to the need for food, that the boastful EXPLORER was not a Columbus or Marco Polo, and that R.P.’s fears of coldness and loneliness were different in quality from those he shared with thousands of others at the chilly close of every year?

  I wrote Rãzvan an immoderate, unguarded reply, which I took to the Central Post Office. I had it registered, to ensure that my words of love and lust were not delivered elsewhere, or lost completely. They were meant to speed to him alone, with the accuracy of Diana’s arrow.

  ‘It seems that you weren’t appreciative of the expensive parting gift I arranged for you in Paris.’

  ‘Which expensive parting gift was that, Tatã?’

  ‘Your question is impudent, Dinu. There are not many young
men who can afford to visit Mme Laurette’s establishment. I gave you the precious opportunity to assert your manhood with a beautiful young woman of experience and charm. It was my best intention to spare you the bloody horrors of the virginal wedding-bed. Why didn’t you fuck her?’

  ‘I had no wish to.’

  ‘Why was that? What was wrong with this Sonia?’

  ‘There was nothing wrong with her. There was nothing wrong with her at all.’

  ‘I am bewildered, Dinu.’

  ‘I had no desire to go where others had gone before me,’ I said, hearing the disgust in my voice. I continued: ‘I could not rise to the occasion.’

  My father smiled.

  ‘It’s an old joke, but a good one, Dinu. Shall we try the experiment again, here in Bucharest?’

  ‘I should prefer that we didn’t,’ I said. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘As you wish. I am not pleased with the idea that you will go through life your mother’s son.’

  ‘What type of son is that?’

  ‘A prig. A holier-than-thou plaster saint. A man who is almost too good to live.’

  The word ‘good’ was apropos, for Elena Grigorescu believed in the healing powers of goodness, as she often counselled me. But she was averse to priggishness, to moral superiority in any form, as my blinkered father ought to have been aware.

  ‘Believe me, Tatã, I am not too good. I very much want to live a moderately wicked life.’

  ‘Moderately wicked?’ What was I saying? I did not consider my love for Rãzvan wicked, whatever the world thought. That world, I understood, included Cezar Grigorescu. Perhaps I was ‘moderately wicked’ in the ways most people are – obsessed with themselves and their own needs; intolerant and envious; thoughtless and inconsiderate in their dealings with others. These were some of the everyday sins my mother had warned me not to commit.

  ‘I hope and trust, Dinu, that you are not set upon disappointing me totally.’

  I assured him, as best I could, that he would be proud of me one day. It was my devoutest wish.

  We embraced, after a manly fashion, and I was struck, I recall, by the smell of his sickly-sweet cologne. Did it captivate Amalia as much as it nauseated me?

  Oh, what madness, I thought happily, as I placed the enlarged and framed snapshot of my beloved on the bedside table. I could see him now as soon as I awoke and before I drifted into sleep. He was there beside me at all hours.

  I had left the door of my room open. Amalia entered, apologizing for intruding on my privacy.

  ‘Who is that wild-looking creature, Dinu?’

  ‘He is a friend I made in Paris. He is Romanian. His name is Rãzvan Popescu.’

  ‘But he’s the prince’s boy.’

  ‘Yes, he is, or was. The prince died in England some time ago.’

  ‘Are you very close to him, my impossibly beautiful stepson?’

  I considered my impossible beauty before answering. ‘Yes, I am. I am, Amalia.’

  ‘I should like, in the finest tradition of Romanian decadence, to seduce you, Dinu. To take a stepson in adultery is so exquisitely decadent. May I tempt you?’

  ‘In God’s name, no.’

  ‘You look terrified by my little joke. Has the ogress frightened you?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I lied.

  ‘I promise you, in return for a kiss on the cheek, that I shall keep your secret safe from Cezar. You could make it easier for me by hiding the prince’s boy’s photograph somewhere – in a drawer, perhaps, to which only you have the key.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Cezar would recognize your close friend instantly. He was, and still is, the subject of gossip in Parisian society and here in Bucharest. The prince has made the simple peasant notorious, if not famous.’

  ‘Rãzvan is not simple. He is an intelligent man. He speaks flawless French.’

  ‘My dear Dinu, you must endeavour not to be too unhappy. Are you in contact with him?’

  Was she, I wondered, my father’s spy, feigning concern for me?

  ‘No,’ I lied again. ‘I am still awaiting a reply to a letter I wrote him a month ago.’

  ‘I trust that he is being discreet, rather than cruel.’

  ‘You can trust in his discretion.’

  She said: ‘I most sincerely hope so’ and, enfolding my hand in hers, she went on: ‘You are resentful of my place in Cezar’s affections. I understand your resentment. I am not cast in your mother’s mould, Dinu, my dear one. I am a slut by comparison. I cannot believe in her God. And yours.’

  ‘And mine, yes.’

  ‘He has not been kind to us. He seems, from my reading of the Bible, to be exceedingly bad-tempered and quick – all too quick – to take offence. But if He offers you consolation, then so be it.’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘I don’t think that He, even He, is capable of protecting you from Cezar’s anger and disappointment if your earthly father sees this photograph. Do be careful, Dinu.’

  I thanked her for the warning.

  ‘I am very serious. You are such an innocent, for all your sophisticated cleverness. Can’t you understand, my sweet one, that your behaviour is – what is the precise word I am seeking? – perverse?’

  ‘I do understand, and I really don’t think I care.’

  ‘Then you should care – for your safety; for your dignity; for your future.’

  ‘What do you care?’ I asked her, unaware in that moment of my cruelty.

  ‘Oh, I should say, in my role as the wicked, or perhaps, downright evil stepmother, that I don’t give a damn about you. But I am not that figure of popular, vulgar imagination. How could I not be concerned for you, Dinu? Your very eyes crave affection. Yes, they are looking beyond me, even as I talk to you. They are looking at your Rãzvan Popescu.’

  ‘You are being fanciful, Amalia.’

  ‘Ah, you called me Amalia, and without that cynical edge to your voice I have become accustomed to. We are progressing. We are progressing faster than I had hoped.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that I know something important about you that Cezar will refuse to acknowledge. You are irretrievably – not to say, irresponsibly – in love with the prince’s boy. You are, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘I will keep your secret safe from Cezar for as long as I can. I will keep it safe from Bucharest society as well. You can put your trust in me, Dinu.’

  In that moment I had no reason to doubt her. I feared that she was becoming my closest confidante, even – and this was a greater fear – my most intimate friend.

  I wrote constantly to Rãzvan from the country whose king was eight years old. I received cryptic postcards in reply. It was rainy in Paris or it was sunny. R wished that D was there. He said nothing that would make my father suspicious, though Amalia and her already worldly daughter understood the precise nature of his wish. I was the prince’s boy’s pining lover, contenting himself with sepia views of the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe and the Tuileries.

  Then, one day in the summer of 1929, Gheorghe brought me a substantial letter with a Parisian postmark. I gave him the eight or so stamps for his collection before I had the courage to read the contents of the envelope.

  Honoured Sir, it began:

  My dear Silviu (perhaps) or Alexandru (perhaps) or Dinu (most certainly), I am writing to you in the capacity of a concerned friend – a term I seldom, if ever, employ. If you are planning, with or without your father’s money and permission, to return to Paris, I should alert you to the distressing fact that life here is unsettled. I fear I shall have to close the doors of my Temple of Immodesty sooner than I could have anticipated. You were a welcome guest there, Domnule Grigorescu, for a day or two, as I am certain you will remember. Business – to employ that distasteful bourgeois word – is not flourishing.

  There are two persons responsible for my temporary fall from immoral grace. The first is that Russian scoundrel Safarov, who has forsworn
his formidable sadistic talents in favour of a quiet life in the tender arms of a wealthy vintner’s widow in Bordeaux. The other offender is Safarov’s once-ecstatic victim, who threatened to withdraw his custom unless I provided him with a replacement brute. I scoured the docks for three wearisome nights before I chanced upon a beast from faraway Brazil with a scant command of the French language, although his brown eyes brightened as soon as I mentioned L’ARGENT. He was born with a PECTUS EXCAVATUM (a sunken chest) but he is otherwise statuesque. His torso is festooned with inexplicable tattoos, apart from the inevitable heart pierced by the mischievous Cupid. He also boasts a strange blue and red sign above his groin which resembles a feather (a macaw’s, perhaps) and a pair of crossed keys and a miniature crucifixion on his left arm. He is due to molest the industrialist this forthcoming Wednesday. I can but hope that Louis, as we have decided to call him, will be Safarov’s repellently worthy successor.

  Allow me to turn to the subject of Honoré or Rãzvan – have I put the accent in its rightful place? – of whom, I feel certain, you wish to hear. Of course you do. Prince E’s boy is often excessively drunk on the coarsest red wine, if his breath is any indication. We meet rarely and accidentally and our conversations begin with social banalities and end with his lamenting the absence of the enticing Romanian who broke his heart. He informs me that he sends you postcards in code because he is terrified that your forbidding Papa will smell a rat, to resort to a cliché that cannot fail to summon up a haunting vision of my cherished friend M. Proust. I have ceased to offer him employment. His apartment was paid for years ago by the prince and he assures me that he earns enough as a barman to satisfy his daily needs, which do not include – he is adamant on this matter – sexual gratification. I believe him, alas.

  I trust you are well, as I am not. The House of Impudence is taking its toll on my nerves and sanity.

  Salutations,

  Albert Le Cuziat

  I hid the letter, along with Rãzvan’s snapshot and the cryptic postcards, in a volume of Eminescu’s poems the lawyer who owned Carmen Sylva 4 never consulted. They were in the melancholy company of distant horns and ominous alders and thoughts of death.