Kitty & Virgil Read online

  Other Titles by Paul Bailey

  Fiction

  At the Jerusalem (1967)

  Trespasses (1970)

  A Distant Likeness (1973)

  Peter Smart’s Confessions (1977)

  Old Soldiers (1980)

  Gabriel’s Lament (1986)

  Sugar Cane (1993)

  Non-fiction

  An English Madam: the Life and Work of Cynthia Paine

  (1982)

  An Immaculate Mistake (1990, revised 1991)

  The Oxford Book of London Ed. (1995)

  Copyright

  First published in the United States in 2000 by

  The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.

  Lewis Hollow Road

  Woodstock, New York 12498

  www.overlookpress.com

  Copyright © 1998 by Paul Bailey

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

  ISBN 978-1-46830-555-5

  For the Bartolozzi Family

  Contents

  Other titles by Paul Bailey

  Copyright

  Prologue: A Comical Hero

  Chapter 1 Stainless Steel

  Chapter 2 Cerberus

  Chapter 3 The Fisher of Perch

  Chapter 4 Breaking the Glass

  Chapter 5 The Time of Afterwards

  Epilogue: The Names in the Dark

  The Poems: Stainless Steel

  Cerberus

  The Fisher of Perch

  Breaking the Glass

  The Time of Afterwards

  Prologue: A Comical Hero

  When she learned that Virgil Florescu was gone from her life, Kitty Crozier remembered their first, silent encounter. She had opened her eyes after a long, drug-induced sleep to find a stranger sitting by the side of her hospital bed. He’d risen as soon as she looked at him. She had noticed there was a glint of something like silver in his smile.

  Then he took his smile out of the ward, and she surprised and amused herself by thinking, ‘I can’t have your baby now, even if I wanted to.’ Months would pass before she spoke the thought aloud, to the very same man who was its inspiration that October morning.

  ‘I am not easy in English,’ said Dinu Psatta, who had come from Paris to bring her the news. ‘Not like Virgil.’

  She assured him there was no need to apologise. The only Romanian words she understood were the ones Virgil had taught her – about a hundred, if that, in all.

  ‘You might solve a mystery for me, Mr Psatta. If you can.’

  ‘Mystery? Which mystery?’

  ‘Virgil never told me how he escaped from Romania. Do you know how?’

  ‘Yes. The Dunarea. You say the Danube. He crossed the River Danube.’

  ‘In a boat?’

  ‘No, no. With body.’

  ‘He swam?’ She pretended to swim – her arms beating a way through imaginary water. ‘Virgil swam across the Danube?’

  ‘Yes, yes. From Turnu Severin. God was with him. Many others were shot. Many were caught and shot. Virgil survive.’

  He had crawled into the country that once was Yugoslavia, Kitty heard. Somehow – it was quite a miracle, in Dinu Psatta’s view – he had got from Kladovo, near the border, to Split, and from there to Ancona in Italy. He had slept in fields, washed in streams, hidden himself in forests, in the manner of the gypsy.

  ‘He had dollars, in a leather bag, for food.’

  She tried to picture an heroic Virgil, a man of daring, of extraordinary physical prowess, and could not see him in her stooped, shambling lover.

  ‘It is natural you are distressed, Mrs Kitty. I am not embarrassed. Cry, as you please.’

  What was causing her to weep, she wanted to explain, was the fact that she found it almost impossible to believe in Virgil’s courageous swim to freedom and felt ashamed at doubting his bravery. Yet it was the God-attended atheist, the miracle worker, who even now was responsible for her being so sceptical, as she recalled his constant references to his puniness (‘I am more bone than flesh, Kitty’) and his distaste for sport.

  ‘The idea of an athletic Virgil is –’ She choked on the word she had in mind.

  ‘Comical, perhaps?’ Dinu Psatta offered.

  ‘Yes, comical. Ludicrous. Terribly funny.’

  ‘It is the truth, Mrs Kitty, the comical truth, that Virgil swam, with body, the Dunãrea.’

  She had no alternative but to answer ‘Of course it is,’

  such was the conviction in his voice. ‘I’m sure it is,’ she added more emphatically. ‘I’m sure it is, Mr Psatta.’

  ‘He talked of his escaping just one time and he laughed.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes, yes. He mocked himself. He mocked what he did with his body. For him, as for you, it was funny. Not so serious, not so important, as his poems.’

  ‘That one time, Mr Psatta – when was it?’

  ‘Seven, eight years past. Before he was in England, in London. We met in Rome.’

  ‘Then you escaped, too?’

  ‘No, no. I was lawful, if that is the exact term. I had a post in the embassy. I feared I would be ordered back to Bucharest every day and night. I am a coward.’

  ‘I’m sure you aren’t.’

  ‘You cannot be sure, Mrs Kitty, of what you do not know.’ It was the gentlest of rebukes, delivered with a smile. ‘I truly am a coward.’

  ‘If you insist, Mr Psatta.’

  ‘Please,’ he said and nodded. ‘I am one of millions upon millions, all frightened. I am no one unique.’

  ‘Oh, but you are’ – the phrase came to her spontaneously, but she did not say it. She offered him a drink instead. ‘I have nothing stronger than wine.’

  ‘I shall take wine with you. I shall be happy.’

  He took most of the bottle, while she lingered over the small amount she had poured for herself. Dinu Psatta regretted he was not so easy in languages as Virgil. He was forced to stumble in English, the words like stones in his path –‘On bad days they are boulders, Mrs Kitty’ – but in French he had less trouble. Now that he was living in Paris, his French path was clearer than it had been for him in Romania, with no big stones left to stop him. He could make his way without falling, now that he was the owner of an apartment on rue de Dunkerque.

  ‘Is there a word for small stones, tiny stones, Mrs Kitty?’

  ‘We call them pebbles.’

  ‘Then I have just pebbles to worry me. On my French path.’

  She suspected that he might have Italian and German paths, and waited numbly for reports of his progress along them. But he stayed silent.

  ‘Virgil –’ he began and stopped.

  ‘Virgil? What of him?’

  ‘There are papers, Mrs Kitty, and some books. There is a letter. They are for you.’

  ‘Where are they? Have you brought them?’

  ‘Yes and no. They are in the hotel, in the hotel’s safe. I did not bring them with me today – here I am stumbling, and at your mercy – because of etiquette. I thought it would be discreet to bring first the news, and after the news to bring the books and papers and letter. I did not want you to have a too great shock at once.’

  Although she was irritated by his perverse thoughtfulness, she thanked him for showing her consideration.

  ‘I am in London until Wednesday. I can visit you at any hour tomorrow. You will be at home?’

  ‘In the early ev
ening.’

  ‘With your permission, Mrs Kitty, I shall come with the books, the papers and the letter from Virgil.’

  ‘Of course you have my permission,’ she almost snapped.

  ‘You will not need to offer me your beautiful wine and delectable biscuits. I shall come and be gone in moments.’

  He kissed her hands and bowed his farewell.

  ‘Is one of the books Miorita, Mr Psatta?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And is another the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘His old, old copies?’

  ‘So old, Mrs Kitty, they are infirm.’ He smiled at his choice of word, which amounted, he realised, to a conceit. She smiled, too, in appreciation. He could have observed that they were battered or used or much-read, but ‘infirm’ nicely described the look of them, if not their substance.

  ‘And they were with him when he crossed the Danube?’

  ‘In his leather bag, yes.’

  He kissed her hands again. ‘Dear Mrs Kitty, they were only made a little wet. He dried them in the sun, with his dollars, in a field near Kladovo.’

  Kitty Crozier did not sleep that night. She lay with closed eyes on the bed she had often shared with Virgil Florescu, aching for his bony embrace. She longed to hear him insist that he had to leave before morning, while it was dark outside, with his familiar joke: ‘I have no home to go to.’ He sometimes added, as bleak decoration, ‘… I must see if it’s still there’ or ‘… and it’s where my heart is’.

  She dozed once, briefly, and in those seconds or perhaps minutes she saw her lover wearing the kind of clothes her father wore in his modelling days in America – a bright-green blazer, a yellow shirt, a floral tie; trousers with perfect creases, polished brogues. He seemed comfortable, happy even, in this implausible outfit, for he was smiling the wide smile that revealed his Communist tooth, which glinted like silver.

  Soon after his arrival, ‘on the dot of the nineteenth hour’, Dinu Psatta urged Kitty Crozier to address him by his first name: ‘You were the friend of Virgil and I was also his friend.’

  ‘That’s a good enough reason, Dinu.’

  ‘Exactly, Mrs Kitty.’

  ‘No, not “Mrs”. Relieve me of “Mrs”. Let me be Kitty.’ She wondered if she would tell Virgil’s plump ambassador, his bearer of bad tidings, that she did not merit the title, having been rescued from marriage with Freddy by Freddy’s sudden defection to Ethiopia. ‘I prefer to be Kitty,’ she simply said.

  All that Virgil had left her was contained in a bag from Galeries Lafayette. ‘I bought him a pullover there,’ Dinu Psatta explained. ‘For his birthday. It was two sizes too small. I had to drag him to the shop to change it.’

  ‘I didn’t know he had a birthday,’ she said, then apologised for sounding ridiculous. ‘Virgil kept the day of his birth a secret from me.’

  ‘It was the five of May.’

  ‘And the year? It was nineteen forty-six, wasn’t it?’

  ‘The same as myself, yes. I am a month behind, in June.’

  She took the bag from him and remarked that she wasn’t surprised to find it so light.

  ‘It holds his books and his poems, but nothing more, Kitty. His letter for you is also inside.’

  ‘Have you read it?’

  ‘Virgil’s letter? No, no, most certainly not. It is private. It is for yourself alone. It is sealed. It is not opened.’

  ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘You must not imagine, Kitty, that because I worked in an embassy I have the habit of reading always the letters of others. I am away from diplomacy for ever. You will trust a music publisher, which I am today, I hope.’

  ‘I trust you, Dinu.’

  ‘You should.’

  She persuaded him to break his promise to come and be gone in moments and to share a simple dinner of fish and salad. She assumed that he understood why Virgil had had an abhorrence of meat and made no reference to it. Nevertheless, she asked him, casually, if he was a vegetarian.

  ‘I regret no. I enjoy lamb, Kitty. Lamb is my ultimate weakness in food. But I shall be most happy tonight with your trout.’ He hummed the opening bars of Schubert’s Piano Quintet in A and laughed. ‘Whichever way it is cooked.’

  ‘Plainly, Dinu. Under the grill.’

  Dinu Psatta ate everything she set before him with obvious pleasure. Food, for Virgil, had rarely been more than a necessity, except on those occasions – she recalled to herself – when his delight in the world encompassed it. Then, an oatcake or a handful of raisins would be ambrosia; whisky or water, nectar. Then, a glistening dollop of jam on his breakfast plate would be the cause of inexpressible joy.

  ‘I see why you live in Paris, Dinu.’

  ‘I see what you see.’ He patted his stomach. ‘Yes, alas, yes. I cannot resist the place. I cannot resist this cheese also.’

  She took Miorita out of the bag, and Marcus Aurelius, and a pocket edition of George Herbert – stained with tea or coffee and annotated with innumerable pencilled comments – that he must have added recently to his portable library.

  Virgil had attached to each of his poems his own rendering into English prose.

  She opened the letter, cautiously, with a paper knife. It ran to twelve pages, of which she only managed to read the first before the most terrible dismay possessed her. She let out a howl of misery and listened to the silence that followed it.

  1

  Stainless Steel

  Early one summer evening, nine months after the operation she had begun to fear would leave her permanently listless, Kitty Crozier was overcome by the sweet scent of angels’ trumpets. She looked about her to find the source of the smell, so familiar from childhood, before she came to understand it was of her own imagining. There were no flowers in the room. There were no datura plants in the garden, or in any of the other gardens along the street. Memory, and memory alone, had brought the loved and hated perfume to her.

  She had been thinking of her mother. The dark-haired Eleanor Crozier was taking her two small daughters, Daisy and Kitty, to their new home, their stately home, in the country. ‘You have to thank your dear dead grandfather for this,’ she told them as they stared in wonder at the grand house. ‘I bought it with the money he put in trust for me. The money he made in India.’

  (Daisy and Kitty were to believe for years what their mother and grandmother would have them believe – that Kenneth McGregor had died, as many settlers did, of malaria. Daisy Hopkins, visiting Darjeeling in middle age, learned from an elderly missionary how the dedicated tea planter had occupied his last hours on Christmas Day 1938. He had eaten porridge, prepared by his Nepalese cook, for breakfast. He had bathed – the bath drawn by a servant – and dressed. The morning being fine, he had walked to St Andrew’s, the Presbyterian church where he and his fellow Scots regularly worshipped. He had joined in the singing of carols and heard the rector warn from the pulpit of the terrible trouble fermenting in Europe. The service over, Kenneth McGregor was given lunch by Gavin and Elsie Anderson, friends of his parents. No meal of Mrs Anderson’s was complete without broth, and the broth that day – the missionary remembered, for he had tasted it – was one of her rarities. Mrs Anderson, God rest her, had stored the smoked fish that was its glory in her larder, beneath a muslin food cover that debarred even the smallest insect. When she lifted the lid of the tureen and revealed the precious flakes of haddock, it was as if the four of them – they each remarked on it – were near the faraway North Sea again. The next moment they were laughing at their foolish fancy.

  ‘I do meander,’ confessed the missionary. Then, sensing her impatience, he said: ‘Your grandfather took his life, Mrs Hopkins. We used to say there were two things that sent white people to their deaths – mosquitoes and misery. Poor Kenneth was afflicted by the latter. He wanted to be with his wife and child, and they weren’t here. He wasn’t always at his ease on the McGregor plantation. That much I saw in his grey-blue eyes, but never learned f
rom his lips. He was a man of discreet feeling. On that worst of Christmases he drank whisky and sang with us around the piano, and some time that night he went up to a spot on what we used to call Suicide Hill and put a pistol to his head. It was, if I may be flippant, a popular place with the seriously depressed. Indeed no, Mrs Hopkins, he did not die of malaria.’)

  Kitty Crozier asked her mother why she had bought them a palace to live in, and Eleanor replied that she had always dreamt of living somewhere with great big rooms and with a great big garden, and now her dream had come true. ‘You can share it with me, Kitty. And you, Daisy. The three of us are going to have wonderful fun at Alder Court.’

  They were standing together, hand in hand, on the back terrace. Kitty, breaking free, saw flowers that looked like bells. She wondered if you could ring them and whether they made a noise.

  ‘They’re angels’ trumpets, Kitty. They’re silent angels’ trumpets. I should imagine nobody hears them except angels.’

  ‘I can smell them,’ Daisy said. ‘Can’t you smell them, Kitty?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, and began to cry. She was suddenly aware that her father was missing, and as the strange smell became more powerful so did her sense of the loss of him increase.

  ‘What’s the matter, Kitty? What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s him’s the matter. I bet it’s him,’ Daisy ventured.

  ‘It isn’t, it isn’t.’ Kitty glowered at her sister. ‘There’s no matter. Nothing’s wrong.’

  Eleanor Crozier praised her lying child for being brave: ‘You are my brave girl.’ Those five words, lightly and tenderly spoken, caused Kitty’s tears to stop, her anger to vanish. Hearing them in London, in her mind, on another July evening, she was struck once more by her own childish percipience, for she had recognised her mother’s praise, bestowed upon her at the age of five, as the surest evidence of love.

  ‘It is you.’

  The man who called out to Kitty Crozier as she walked distractedly in Green Park was picking up litter from the grass with a long spike.

  ‘It is you,’ he repeated, approaching her.