The Prince's Boy (5 page)

If my mother did indeed die happy, it was not in the knowledge that her only child had found a replacement for her affections in the love of a hirsute railway porter with neither money nor prospects. This much her grieving Dinicu understood within minutes of awakening from the worst of all bad dreams.

‘You must trust in the Lord, my darling Dinicu.’

‘I will, Mam
ã
.’

‘For the rest of your days.’

‘Yes, Mam
ã
, I promise.’

It is a promise I have attempted to honour for her sake, though often with difficulty, for forty-seven years. I am putting my limited trust in Him now, I think, as I continue writing about those I loved and tried to love in two European cities that once resembled each other.

R
ã
zvan would stay in Corcova for another year after his bewildered mother at last accepted the prince’s strange proposal. A tutor was found to refine his Romanian and teach him French. The lessons with Alin D
ã
nescu, a prematurely silver-haired graduate from the University of Timi
º
oara, took place in the library of Prince E’s grand house.

Doctor D
ã
nescu was a rigorous teacher, unsparing with his sarcasm when the student inevitably made mistakes.

‘Oh, stop insulting me with your foolishness, young Popescu. It is tiring for me to even attempt to teach someone who knows so much more than I do. Let us reverse roles. Educate me, if you please,
mon maître
, in the eternal art of idiocy.’

R
ã
zvan scowled. R
ã
zvan glared at his teacher. R
ã
zvan did not respond or reply to Alin D
ã
nescu’s taunts, for he realized – this simple peasant boy, who had yet to sit, enraptured, in a theatre – that the man with the slightly twisted mouth filled with insults was an
actor
, a pretend-person. He was like one of those men who impersonated angels or demons on feast days. He was putting on a show.

They read the stories and memoirs of Ion Creang
ã
together and the poems of Mihail Eminescu in those early lessons. Under Alin D
ã
nescu’s tutelage, R
ã
zvan Popescu blossomed into literacy. Within six or seven months, the prince’s boy, as he was known now to peasants and servants alike at Corcova, had progressed to the
Fables
of La Fontaine. There came a day, an important one for the attentive student, when R
ã
zvan asked the momentarily startled Alin D
ã
nescu if he had instructed him sufficiently in the ‘eternal art of idiocy’. R
ã
zvan had phrased the question in his new-found French, to his own delight and his tutor’s surprise.

‘You rascal. You rogue. You devil.’

They became friends at last, and would remain so for years.

‘Do you still see him?’

‘Only in my mind’s eye. He’s dead. My mind’s eye, when not clouded by drink, is constantly occupied. It sees into hundreds of dark places, my dearest.’

I lay beside R
ã
zvan, beneath the icons, listening as he described his unusual schooling, of a kind the railway porter was denied, and marvelling, as I’d continue to marvel, at my absurd good fortune.

‘I am a leisurely storyteller, wouldn’t you say, Dinicu?’

‘You are.’

‘I enjoy keeping you in suspense.’

‘You appear to.’

‘But not for much longer. All will be revealed by the time you return to our homeland. How far into the future is that? Eight weeks? Seven?’

‘Eight, I hope. Eight, I sincerely hope, R
ã
zv
ã
nel.’

I bought the remaining volumes of Proust’s novel, a book so complex and subtle that it dulled all my silly inspirational aspirations. I knew nothing, then, or very little, of life beyond the confines of Dinu Grigorescu, and yet Proust appeared to be aware of everything diversely and peculiarly human. My admiration for Marcel Proust coincided with my love for R
ã
zvan Popescu, the prince’s boy who had shaken the master’s limp hand. I encountered them both in the final days of May 1927, when I was eager and ready to be beguiled. I suppose I have lived in that state of beguilement ever since.

‘I have cast a spell on you,’ he said one morning, when I was too besotted to contradict him. ‘I have entrapped you with my magic powers.’

‘Yes, you have.’

‘You are silly if you believe that.’

‘Then I am silliness personified.’

The days till September were running away from us. There was no time left for arguments, even pretend ones of the kind he was proposing. I made it clear to him with my body that I was in need of love.

‘You are a greedy young man, Dinicu.’

‘I can’t deny it.’

Our mutual hunger once assuaged, I lay in his arms and begged him to go on with his story.

‘Where was I with it?’

‘You are still in Corcova, with your tutor, speaking French.’

‘Ah, yes. But not for long. That autumn I was removed – I think that is the appropriate word – to Paris. Alin accompanied me to this address.’

He paused. He sighed.

‘And then Alin returned to Timi
º
oara and I was honoured with a smart new tutor – an assistant professor at the Sorbonne. And the prince sent me to a tailor who specialized in English – or should I say Scottish? – tweeds. Within a matter of weeks, my dearest Dinicu, I was a young man about town. I was dapper from head to toe. I would dine with the prince in the back rooms of discreet expensive restaurants and sometimes, but not often, in his apartment in the family’s grand house in Île de la Cité.’

I held my breath before I asked if I could be sure that the prince and he had not made love.

‘I have been anticipating a repetition of that question for days. You must understand, my insanely jealous sweet one, that the prince loved me. He loved most of all the
idea
of a peasant boy who could speak perfect French and move and act with grace. I was, I suppose, his creation. We never explored one another, Dinu Grigorescu, if that is what you wish to hear.’

I lacked the courage to say it was. My silence caused him to smile.

‘I have made my happy one happier, I can tell. And yes, I was in awe of my prince for taking me away from the fields of Corcova and allowing me to live a charmed and civilized life. Yes, yes, yes. Yes, and again yes. That is enough of my revelations for today.’

It was on the third Saturday in August that I next met up with my cousin Eduard. He was even more welcoming than usual, embracing me fulsomely when I arrived at the table in Café Larivière. He ordered vintage champagne – ‘Cezar is paying for everything today’ – and announced that there would be greater treats in store for me.

‘Why?’

‘No questions, if you please. Let this be an afternoon of pleasant surprises.’

‘But why?’

‘Let us just say that your generous Tat
ã
is exceeding himself in generosity.’

I wanted to ask why a third time because I was mystified by my cousin’s decidedly theatrical behaviour. He seemed almost too happy in, and with, the role he was playing.

‘We are booked in at four o’clock.’

‘Booked in? Where? At a theatre?’

‘A theatre of sorts.’

‘The circus?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘The opera? The ballet?’

‘Oh, Dinu, this entertainment is superior to all of those. I insist you believe me. Have faith in your Cousin Eduard.’

The champagne disposed of, we took our first sips of a glorious Château Palmer. Oysters were followed by brill, the brill by grouse – ‘The first of the season’ – and the grouse by a selection of black, blue and red autumnal fruits.

‘That was truly a feast, Eduard.’

‘As it should be, on such an important day. Cognac, I think. We shall have one each and nothing more. We have to perform as best we can, and drink may diminish the quality of our performances.’ He winked at me. ‘There must be no diminution this afternoon.’

‘Eduard, you are drunk.’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes, you are. You drank most of the champagne and almost all of the claret and I suspect you weren’t sober at the start of the meal.’

‘Coffee will solve the problem. The
temporary
problem.’

‘I shall go back to my attic and try to work. I have to return to Bucharest with a few written pages, at least.’

‘No, no, Dinu. The pages are of no consequence. What matters to Cezar is that you accept his gift, his precious gift, this very afternoon. We must honour our engagement in twenty minutes.’

‘Must we?’

He consumed more coffee, paid the exorbitant bill, and asked the head waiter to hail a cab for us. He named an address off the Bois de Boulogne.

‘They know me as M. Gérard, so please do not look surprised,’ he said when we arrived at our destination.

The driver, to whom my tipsy cousin gave a lavish tip, told us we were lucky devils. He wished he was a man of leisure with money to burn.

‘What did he mean, Eduard?’

‘You will soon be enlightened.’

The door was opened by a maidservant, who curtseyed as we entered.

‘Madame Laurette is expecting you, M. Gérard.’

We followed her into a salon. My eyes took in a heavily bolstered sofa, covered in plum-coloured velvet, a large gilt-framed mirror and a potted palm.

‘Ah, my dear M. Gérard, it has been too, too long since you last honoured us with your presence.’

A tiny woman, with dyed orange hair, appeared from behind a silk screen.

‘Yes, Mme Laurette, it has been far, far too long. I am a very busy man. My business leaves me little time for the unique pleasures you offer.’

‘That is sad to hear. You will allow Denise to offer you her special brand of consolation?’

‘Never doubt it, my dear Madame.’

‘This pretty youth is the cousin you spoke of?’

‘He is, indeed. Permit me to introduce you to Alexandru.’

‘Good afternoon, Alexandru. You have the name of a warrior.’ Her laugh was surprisingly deep for such a frail, even skeletal, woman. ‘Perhaps you are a warrior, too.’

‘Perhaps,’ I responded, thinking suddenly of R
ã
zvan, my own Alexander or Xerxes. ‘Perhaps.’

‘You are a fortunate young man, Alexandru. The utterly exquisite Sonia is all prepared for you.’

Sonia? All prepared for me?

‘I shall take you to her, Alexandru. My dear Gérard, you do not need me to remind you where to find Denise. Come with me, you handsome beast.’

Why did I go with her? Why didn’t I apologize to Mme Laurette and to my cousin and leave the scented house immediately? The ‘utterly exquisite Sonia’ was for other men, not Dinu Grigorescu.

Mme Laurette mistook my embarrassment for nervousness. She patted my hand and told me to summon up my courage. It was natural that I should be agitated. Sonia would soothe and charm the anxious warrior.

‘Sonia?’

‘Yes, Madame?’

‘The Romanian gentleman is with me. He has the looks of Rudolph Valentino.’

‘Bring him in this minute.’

Sonia was wearing a pearl-coloured dress that stopped above her knees. I saw her clothes before I registered her elfin beauty.

‘I will leave you to your loving ways,’ said Mme Laurette. ‘Be brave, Alexandru.’

Sonia wondered if I cared for a cigarette. I replied that I didn’t.

She sat on the bed and invited me to join her. I answered that I was happy enough standing where I was.

‘Were you in Paris when Mr Charles Lindbergh landed his aeroplane in January? What a remarkable achievement, don’t you think, to fly all alone across the Atlantic?’

‘Very remarkable, to be sure.’

‘I am yours, Alexandru, if you want me.’

‘I don’t want you, Sonia. I can’t want you.’

‘You are not the first shy boy to say that. Would you like to see my breasts?’

‘No, I would not.’

She rose from the bed and moved towards me.

‘Is there another shy boy in there?’ she asked as she attempted to undo my trouser buttons.

It was then, to her astonishment and mine, that I began to weep. I had glimpsed, if only for a second, the eyes of Elena Grigorescu in Sonia’s face – those eyes that had always looked on me benignly were a trapped animal’s now, signalling terror.

‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

‘Yes, there is. Yes, there is,’ I all but screamed. ‘I have to leave this place. I have to go.’