The Prince's Boy (7 page)

‘And R
ã
zvan?’

‘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 R
ã
zvan 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. R
ã
zvan’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 R
ã
zvan.

‘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 R
ã
zvan, 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 R
ã
zvan.’

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 R
ã
zvan, 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 R
ã
zvan 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,’ R
ã
zvan 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 R
ã
zvan 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 – R
ã
zvan 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 R
ã
zvan, 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 R
ã
zvan 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.’

R
ã
zvan 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, R
ã
zvan,’ 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 R
ã
zvan 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 Ci
º
migiu, 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?’