Stella explained that until not so long ago King Simeon had been Bulgaria’s Prime Minister.
‘King Simeon is in The Guinness Book of Records. Under “youngest” and “first”,’ Stella’s daughter said. ‘When his father Boris died, he became the youngest European monarch. He was six. And then he became the first former monarch to get involved in politics.’ The girl spoke with an American accent. She was chewing gum and gazing at Payne with the liveliest interest.
‘Are you interested in politics?’ Payne asked.
‘Nope.’
The girl’s name was Monika – spelled with a ‘k’, apparently – but her mother and Morland addressed her as Moon. Although it was a warm evening, she had refused to take off her long black coat, which, she informed them, was a shinel that had once belonged to an Albanian soldier whose head had been blown off by shrapnel. She insisted on showing them the bloodstains on the lapel. Payne found her good-looking in a rough, dangerous kind of way, but then most teenagers of either gender nowadays struck him as dangerous.
‘Balkan politics have always been terribly complicated,’ Payne said diplomatically.
‘Each time I hear the word “politics”, I want to curl up and die,’ Melisande said. ‘Or to go on drinking Tomb Raiders till some kind of conflagration takes place.’
‘My country has a very tragic history,’ Stella said after a sip of Perpetual Passion. ‘No one understands Bulgaria – no one. It’s a land soaked in sunshine and sorrow. We believed the Russians understood us, our big brother, we called them, but we were wrong. We made a big mistake.’
‘I hate Russians,’ Moon said. ‘And I simply hate Muslims.’
Winifred asked Stella if she and her daughter were in England on holiday.
‘No, not on holiday,’ Stella said.
‘My mother is in England on a secret mission,’ said Moon. ‘My mother is a spy. She’d never admit it.’
‘Are you really a spy?’ Payne entered the spirit of the game.
‘I am not a spy.’ Stella gave an awkward laugh. ‘My daughter is joking. Please, Moon, do not say such things!’
‘I told you she’d never admit it.’
‘My daughter is joking.’
‘The Cold War is mercifully over,’ Payne said.
‘I am not joking,’ Moon said. ‘My mother is an undercover agent.’
‘I am the secretary of the Bulgarian Monarchist League. It was so difficult to get that job, but if I decide to get something, I get it.’
Melisande raised her glass to her lips. ‘Something or someone?’ Payne heard her murmur.
‘I am sorry, but I have a headache. I need to take a tablet. Please, excuse me.’ Stella opened her handbag. ‘Sometimes my headaches are so bad, I need to lie down.’
‘My mother thinks she has a tumour on the brain,’ Moon said.
‘I am afraid of having a scan,’ Stella told Antonia.
‘I don’t think scans are at all scary,’ Antonia said brightly. (Why oh why was it so hard to keep the conversation neutral?)
‘I don’t suppose you are aware that we have a real writer in our midst?’ Melisande waved her hand dramatically in Antonia’s direction. ‘I simply adore stories in which novice nuns succumb into lust, paranoia, despair and psychosis, as the convent environment at first rejects them and then violates them.’
Stella said, ‘I write a little too. Articles on the future of the monarchy, and poetry… What kind of books do you write, Miss Darcy? Detective stories? Who is the killer, let’s suspect everybody, there’s arsenic in Aunt Wilhelmina’s tea, yes? Very amusing, very English. But it is more difficult to be a poet than to write detective stories, I think.’ She placed her hand at her bosom. ‘Poems come from the heart.’
‘Detective stories come from the mind,’ Payne said.
‘Poems come from the soul. It is very hard to explain to people who are not poets. Poets in Bulgaria are regarded very highly, especially in villages and in small towns, where poets read their poems aloud at parties. Poets expect no financial rewards.’
‘Poets are losers,’ Moon said.
‘Poets are exceptional human beings. Poets represent the best of every nation,’ said Stella.
Morland frowned. ‘The child is father of the man – what’s that supposed to mean? The boy stood on the burning deck. My love is like a-’ His eyes rested on Stella. He raised his glass. ‘The cocktails are top-notch, Meli. Well done.’
‘Do you think it would be a good idea if Bulgaria became a monarchy again?’ Payne asked Stella.
‘Oh puh-lease, do not start my mother on the monarchy,’ Moon groaned.
‘It would be a very good idea. Yes. The monarch’s role is moderation, something we lack in Bulgaria,’ Stella said. ‘The monarch is above parties and politics. The monarch’s role is to calm people and lessen frictions and tensions and-’
‘Advise, encourage and warn? I see you know your Bagehot.’ Payne nodded. ‘That’s Bagehot, isn’t it?’
But Stella didn’t answer. She had covered her mouth and her nose with her right hand. She seemed distressed. It looked as though she was about to burst into tears. Payne was taken aback. It couldn’t have had anything to do with his introducing Bagehot into the conversation, could it? He saw her rummage frantically in her bag, then mime imploringly in the direction of their hostesses. A handkerchief, she needed a handkerchief. A sound, like the blowing of a raspberry, was then heard and the mystery was resolved.
Stella had had a sneezing fit. They should pretend they hadn’t noticed a thing, that’s what good manners dictated. As Payne helped himself to a Rum Collins, he heard Moon laugh raucously.
Stella’s thanks were profuse when a handkerchief was handed to her. She would wash it, she would iron it and send it back, she promised.
‘Political parties cannot be trusted, but the monarch imparts a sense of permanency and continuity,’ Stella was saying a couple of minutes later. ‘The wisdom of a monarch is to be treasured. Control your rage and do not give offence. Do you know who said that?’
‘Groucho Marx?’ Melisande suggested. ‘Lord Haw-Haw?’
‘No, no-’
‘Cicero? Liberace?’
‘It was Louis XIV who said it. I like clever maxims,’ Stella said. ‘I have a notebook full of maxims-’
‘And I have extremely fond memories of Maxim’s.’ Melisande raised her cocktail glass. ‘Shall we drink to it? To Maxim’s! I mean the one in Paris. The one and only.’
‘This must be the very first time the Sun King of France has been quoted under this roof,’ Winifred whispered to Antonia.
It was all perfectly absurd and rather droll, yet, for some reason, Antonia was filled with a curious apprehension.
Stella’s preoccupations with poetry and the monarchy had converged in a poem she had written entitled ‘The Return of the King’. She had composed it in a state of quiet exaltation, she said, but by the time she had finished writing it, she had been in floods of tears.
‘Won’t you recite it for us?’ Payne urged.
‘No, no.’ Stella shook her head. She had written the poem in Bulgarian. A spur-of-the-moment English translation would destroy any beauty, significance or deeper meaning the poem might possess. Sometimes translations changed poems beyond recognition.
They were familiar of course with the famous experiment? When a poem was translated from Finnish into English into French into Russian into German into Mandarin Chinese into Swahili into Danish – and then back into Finnish? No? The author of the poem – a Finnish poet of some distinction – had been unable to recognize it! He had written a light-hearted allegory about a lonely clown at a circus who falls in love with one of the two performing bears, not about a divorced woman contemplating suicide in a Tunbridge Wells antique shop.
In the silence that followed, Moon asked if there was any Red Bull.
‘What is “red bull”?’ Morland asked amiably.