All that concerns me is the cessation of the music. Please let her sing again.
And she did. He took more water, his eyes completely open now.
She completed a second aria.
In an instant the colors dulled before his eyes, turning everything to grey. Reality set in: there would be no more music.
It is time to get back to work.
Slowly, he began to heal. Some days later he heard an amazing commotion outside his window, cannons blaring, as if the Seraglio were under attack.
Lord help me, I have survived only to be killed in a civil war.
* * *
Nicolette and her family were guests aboard the golden barge. Her reverie was interrupted most abruptly.
On the captain's orders the men lined the rigging, their muskets at the ready. Drawing the ship close to the Sultan's palace, a salutation of sixty-one guns was fired, creating a suffocating cloud of gunpowder.
An instant later, the British Ambassador and his family disembarked the jeweled ship in a cloud of smoke to a second deafening salute of fifty-one guns.
“It appears the Sultan is pleased we are leaving,” Lord Ravensdale considered.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Val!” Lady Ravensdale giggled as she turned to Nicolette. “I believe this honor must be due to you, Nicolette.”
“I should say we owe it to Mimi. It is her spirit which visited the Sultan’s palace,” Nicolette said as they exited the Sultan’s golden barge.
“I must respectfully disagree with the soprano.” Lady Ravensdale shook her head. “Puccini always writes helpless heroines who couldn’t say ‘boo’ to a goose.”
“Ma-ma! That is quite unfair,” Nicolette protested. “Mimi is delightful.”
“She is. But you, my dear, brought something to Mimi’s character which enabled her to face—and win over—a Sultan. You, my love, transformed Mimi into Scheherazade.”
12
Love before Duty
“ This evening
Love comes before duty”
—CARMEN by Georges Bizet
Paris
Saturday, March 21, 1903
Opening Night
“When do these gad-flies sleep?” the twenty-seven year-old crown prince of Spain asked, acutely aware of his surroundings, his eyes fixed on the scene through the carriage window.
The wheels of the French Brougham carriage made a noticeable clunking sound as it traversed over the cobblestone streets, offset by the rhythmic clippity-clop of four strong Palominos the color and sheen of fourteen karat gold. The cream-colored carriage might be old-fashioned, but it sported all the landmarks of elegance: beveled glass, blue damask interior, a glazed front window which allowed the illustrious occupants seated in the enclosed carriage to see forward, top hat storage, and a speaking tube to the driver. The groom sat high on the platform while the passengers sat low inside the carriage as befitted aristocracy.
With the disappearance of the sun, the lights were unaccountably brighter and the city took on a persona of gaiety to surpass even the daylight hours, a not inconsiderable feat. They passed the Cathedral of Notre Dame completed in 1345 after two hundred years of building, magnificent with an enormous stained-glass rosette above its entryway, then through the Arch de Triumph to see the Eiffel Tower lit by the night sky.
“Indeed, the city of Paris is afire,” the prince’s companion remarked distractedly, agreeing as if he were in a coma, as royalty demanded. Smoothing his tuxedo tails to prevent them from wrinkling, he lifted his opera glasses and proceeded to study the prince.
“They live for nothing but pleasure and preening in this godless city.” Prince Alejandro shook his head disapprovingly.
“It might do you some good were you to join them, your highness,” murmured his companion, smiling hesitantly.
“I already attend confession twice a week. I wish to reduce my vices, not increase them.” Prince Alejandro stretched out his long legs before him, his black silk socks in contrast to his companion's chartreuse silk socks which suddenly came under his notice. His royal highness frowned at the color.
“Is that your wish? I hadn’t observed it. At any rate, vice and pleasure are not necessarily the same thing.”
Alejandro’s eyes rested on the fashionable people strolling along the Left Bank in the moonlight as if it were two o'clock in the afternoon. He felt an irrational longing to be one of them—not a care in the world—at the same time he thought they looked ridiculous.
“Paris is a necessary evil, far too liberal for my taste. Intellectualism and culture permeate daily life. The city has a multinational representation: one can—and will—hear any language one wishes to hear. And several one doesn't.”
“Indeed. It is impossible to remain provincial in Paris. She embodies the fashion of the day in every arena: clothing, food, art. Even thought. That which is fashionable here will not be seen for years in other cities.”
“Something to be thankful for,” Alejandro muttered.
“You don't feel some amazement, your highness, that all this—this window into the future—can be found in a single city when it is absent from every other city on the globe?”
“I do not.” Alejandro tapped his gloved fingers on his muscular thigh in disapproval of his escort's extravagant attire. He, too, was wearing formal dress, but he avoided jewelry outside of pearl cufflinks, the necessary gold pins, and a sapphire ring belonging to Ferdinand VI which he wore in homage to his ancestors. When the occasion called for it he wore his royal heirlooms and medals. His naval career had proven his bravery and resulted in one medal after another until his father pulled him from the service, calling his behavior ‘reckless’.
Thankfully, this evening was not an affair of state: he never liked distinguishing himself from others with his accouterment. He utilized an exquisite tailor, his dress formed to his athletic build perfectly, and, beyond that, he didn't dwell upon it.
“I am grieved at your inability to appreciate the magnificence in which you find yourself, your highness.”
“One has to be seen in Paris, that is all there is to it,” Alejandro responded absently. It increased his popularity both at home and abroad to be seen, and it was necessary to increase his popularity. Nothing that he cared for himself, but he had always to think of his future reign and the stability of his country.
“Your misfortunes are great, your highness,” his companion nodded sympathetically.
“I prefer vacationing in Rome. Rome is at least Catholic.” Alejandro tapped the window with his ebony cane. “Catholicism is the religion of the people.”
“Begging your pardon, your highness, but France is a Catholic nation.”
“One would never know it in Paris. Rome honors its traditions. Paris has no traditions; yesterday is yesterday's news.” And today is a new opportunity for debauchery.
“Most astute, as usual. Paris is all about progress.”
“Progress. Do you recall the World Exhibition in 1900, my friend?” Alejandro cleared his throat. “The greatest collection of frivolity the world has ever seen.”
“Your highness, I regret to inform you that you are, let us be clear on the point, arrogant,” his companion pronounced matter-of-factly.
“Take care I do not put you before a firing squad for insubordination, sir.” Alejandro redirected his attention to stare at the speaker with a haughty disdain which would have made another fear for his future.
The elegant gentleman, nonplussed, returned the prince's stare with resolve. His short, pointed beard, thin moustache, and strong angular features added emphasis to his stare.
Suddenly the prince broke into laughter, catching Senor Esteban Xalvador off guard, who joined in his laughter, unable to resist. As Esteban shook with laughter, so did the wild, disheveled curls which danced down his neck. In the picture of health, he looked much younger than his thirty-nine years.
Alejandro forced himself to wink at Esteban. He did not feel the amusement he knew he conveyed, but he
loved his friend and sensed his anxiety.
“And yet, I find your conceit endearing, Alejandro. You are so charming in your disdain, so debonair, and so witty that one cannot help but be drawn in.” Esteban made a show of studying the prince. “In addition, you have good reason to be arrogant: you have a poet's heart, a warrior's physique, and you are destined to become the king of Spain.”
“God willing, and with your help, Esteban.” Upon reaching his majority, Alejandro had employed Esteban Xalvador as his personal fencing master and bodyguard.
Many knew Xalvador to function more as a confidante and close advisor, to the extreme jealousy and distrust of members across all of Spain's political parties.
“I cannot help you where you most need it. I cannot give your spirit an openness to life,” Esteban stated softly, the frown returning to his expression.
“No doubt you would want me to think less of myself and more of the scintillating toad-eaters with whom I must surround myself.” Acutely aware of complex political undertones for most of his twenty-seven years, Alejandro’s engaging smile had, on many occasions, woo-ed sworn enemies on the opposite of the political spectrum.
“No, I would not, Alejandro. And do not waste your charm on me. It is me, Alejandro, your friend.”
“Who else might you be, Esteban?”
“And who are you, Alejandro? You do not allow others into your heart or your mind. I come the closest, and even I cannot penetrate the structured fortress.”
"That is quite the oddest thing you've ever said.” Alejandro laughed with a hint of bitterness. “No one is less complicated than myself. Discretion is necessary, but there is no complexity underneath the role.”
“I blame myself.” Esteban sighed, shaking his head. “I was not the father to you I should have been when it would have made the most difference. I always loved you as a father, but to treat you as such would have meant an immediate dismissal rather than the seven years it took.”
“Don't be ridiculous, Esteban. You sacrificed everything for me. You were far better to me than my own parents.” Alejandro frowned.
“My greatest wish is that you would find pleasure in the life you have been given, Alejandro. With less thought to both yourself and to others.”
“To myself, certainly. But not to others.”
“Less thought. Not less feeling.” Senor Esteban sighed. “The heir to the throne of Spain counts each day as drudgery, as if it were something to be endured instead of embraced, savored, lived. Your life should be a source of rapture. You who have everything anyone could want feel life to be a burden.”
“It is a burden. A great burden. If you have not noticed this, you have not had your eyes open, Esteban.”
“You have a job to do, but that does not mean you cannot enjoy yourself along the way, Alejandro.”
“Enjoy?” Alejandro repeated incredulously. "Enjoyment does not enter into it, Esteban. Only discipline, duty, and honor. There is nothing else for me.”
“You navigate life by enforcing the strongest will I have ever encountered.” Esteban released his breath in frustration. “Can you not consider, Alejandro, that discipline is a tool, not a goal?”
“Decidedly. The welfare of Spain and its people is the only goal.” Alejandro shook his head, his wavy dark brown hair falling into his eyes before he pushed it back into place.
“Extreme discipline leads to being distanced from oneself. You don't know how to receive, Alejandro.” Softly Esteban added, “You don't even know who you are.”
“Who I am?” Alejandro snorted, studying his gloved hand. “I am the crown prince of Spain. Outside of that, it is of positively no importance who I am.”
“You are admired and envied by everyone. You would rather be anyone else on earth.” Esteban tapped his elegant cane on the floor of the carriage for emphasis, holding on tightly to the wooden inlay handle hiding a sword.
Alejandro tapped his fingers on his thigh. It is true, but I will never admit it. It is beneath my dignity.
“Recall, Alejandro, when you were in school. You often used your position to help the other boys—but never yourself. It was anathema to you to use your position to your own benefit.” Esteban straightened the watch chain suspended from his white satin vest while momentarily admiring the charms dangling from the chain.
“What is your point, Esteban?”
“What do you do for yourself, Alejandro?”
“You know my weakness, Esteban.”
“I do not speak of your women. They are not for your pleasure, Alejandro.” Esteban shook his head. “Would that they were.”
“Not for my pleasure? If they are not, the delusion is sufficient.”
“They are to satisfy your need. And they will never meet it.”
“They do their best, that is all I ask.” He studied his mentor. “You need a woman yourself, Esteban.”
“I agree. But it would not be fair to her. My heart is elsewhere.” Esteban sighed. “I love you, Alejandro. What does that mean to you?”
“I thank you, my friend,” replied Alejandro softly. “It is my singular good fortune.” He looked out the window, hoping they were not far from their destination.
“No, Alejandro, how do you feel about it?”
Alejandro tapped his index finger on his thigh. "The English diplomat to France—Ravensdale, I believe his name is—will join us this evening. More than any other issue at hand, I wish to improve Spain's relationship with the English. The war with the Americans hurt Spain in more ways than can be counted. Five years later, and we are no closer to recovering than we were in 1898. Cordial relationships with influential dignitaries cannot be over-rated.”
Esteban stared at him, his jaw dropping slightly.
“When do we dine with the French prime minister, Esteban?”
“Tuesday evening, my friend,” Esteban replied softly. “The thirty-first of March.”
Raising his eyebrows in disapproval at the sigh which had escaped from Esteban's lips, a sigh which almost anyone else would have suppressed, Alejandro forced himself to address the issue once and for all. "Esteban, I grow exhausted from this discussion. I have long accepted that my life is not my own: I have been born into certain responsibilities. If I had been able to choose my family and my life, I would have chosen far differently. But I take my responsibilities extremely seriously.”
“Far too seriously.”
“The lives of my countrymen depend on it. If I waver from my purpose, people will suffer, even die. My mistakes and successes will be passed down for generations long after I am gone. My destiny is to rule Spain, and that I will do so to the best of my ability. I know what I owe to my country: Everything.”
“Everything? Fulfill your destiny and live, Alejandro. Answer me this. Do you have any value outside of this purpose? Who are you outside this role?” He patted Alejandro's hand gently, his expression impassioned. "In the moment of being abandoned by your parents, you were taught your only function. Most royal-born persons have a vastly exaggerated sense of entitlement: not so with you, Alejandro.”
“I am no different from any other royal,” Alejandro replied wearily.
“You are. As the second highest titled person in your country, you, Prince Alejandro are, in fact, not entitled.”
“Not entitled to what?” Alejandro demanded.
“To anything. To your life.”
Bloody Hell. He loved Esteban, but he was so damned serious. And about all the wrong things. “Esteban . . . have you been sleeping well?”
“Ave Maria, I am concerned for your heart, Alejandro! Do not treat me as a child to be abated.”
“My heart? You cannot be serious. As you say, there is nothing left to destroy.” He added in Castilian in low tones. “I am well past that, Esteban, my friend.”
“I suppose I should be thankful that yours is a function for good, my prince. But I cannot. You are being erased and swallowed whole.”
Alejandro was relieved to see the carriage had reac
hed the Palais Garnier.
“My duty is to my people, as is yours.” Alejandro tapped on the door. “Let us serve them.”
* * *
There was a stilted silence in the carriage until the footmen opened the velvet-lined doors. An entourage of Parisian dignitaries greeted the carriage and guided the crown prince forward.
The party of two found themselves surrounded by glamorous people showcased by the neo-Baroque style of the Palais Garnier, opulently decorated with elaborately multicolored friezes, columns, and statuary.
Esteban whistled under his breath. Rumor was that there was even an underground lake in the Palais Garnier. It was well in keeping with the sight before them.
Prince Alejandro smiled and complimented the architecture of the Palais Garnier in French, bestowing his graces upon the notables surrounding him. Only Esteban perceived that Prince Alejandro found the opulence of the Palais Garnier discomfiting.
No one else saw past the prince's genuine charisma which captivated both men and women. Alejandro had cultivated a phenomenal memory which he applied not only to the prestigious and influential but to the poorest of the population. Could any other royal remember the names of gardeners, bricklayers, and innkeepers he had met two years prior?
And his soul is dying. Esteban felt his head swaying. He himself had willingly foregone everything—a wife and a family—to stand by his prince.
I begin to wonder if it has made any difference.
I need to get some air. Esteban resolved to take a short walk before the opera began to clear his mind. He motioned to the first footman, a muscular lad and as good a bodyguard as Esteban himself, to stay close to Alejandro. Joaquin nodded his understanding.
I am more an elderly companion than a bodyguard anyway, my fighting skills are rarely needed. I’m practically in my dotage, thirty-nine years old and no wife, no family. Nothing to show for this life.
The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren Page 8
