Marge couldn’t believe she had heard it. “You said so, not me.”
Logan asked to see the spot where King Raymond XXXIX had died. Both Pierre and the factory manager hemmed and hawed, obviously reluctant to show it. But Logan insisted, and they finally led him to a large, clunky piece of machinery that alternately groaned and roared like a mechanical lion with an upset stomach. It was pretty clearly part of an assembly line; conveyor belts carried partially assembled clocks into it and out the other side. “What on earth is this for?”
The manger, a pinched little man with a pencil-thin mustache, explained that it was a lathe.
“You’re joking. I’ve seen lathes before, and they’re nowhere near this big. This thing is monstrous.”
“This machine is more than a hundred years old, sir. And it is in perfect running order. None of this modern technology and miniaturization for us.” He beamed with pride. “Old ways are the best ways. Bulvanian ways. Tradition matters here, in a way it never could in a young country like America.”
P.T. found this thought subversive. “You could make a lot more money with modern equipment and modern methods.”
“We make enough for our needs, sir. Why should we want more?”
P.T. harrumphed.
Logan inspected the machine doubtfully. “A lathe, you say.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how did it kill the king?”
“Alas,” Pierre explained, “his majesty fell into it. When the conveyor belt carried him out again, his body was covered with wooden cuckoo birds.”
Logan wasn’t buying it. “The opening is four feet above the ground. How could he have fallen into it?”
“It was an accident, sir.” The manager clearly didn’t like being questioned.
Logan turned to Pierre. “Are you certain he wasn’t pushed?”
Before he could answer, the manager interrupted. “As I said, sir, it was an accident. There was an official inquiry—conducted by the queen herself—and that was their finding.”
“By the queen, hm?”
“Yes, sir.”
His suspicions aroused, Logan ignored the rest of the tour, lost in thought. Just as he was leaving the factory, he decided to probe a bit deeper. “May I ask who owns this factory, by the way?”
“Count von Schlutow, sir. His family has owned it for generations.”
“I see.” The queen’s reputed lover, and a political rival of the king.
The tour also included several nut farms and goat ranches. To say that Logan was bored would be an understatement.
* * *
Evenings were another thing entirely. There was nightlife in Flausenthurmopolis, though not really a lot. P.T., Logan and Marge were all given memberships in an exclusive club, the Flausenthurmian, the haunt of Bulvania’s best and brightest. The club had its own gambling and cabaret; a first-class restaurant served exquisite cuisine.
But that was hardly the kind of nightlife Logan wanted or was used to. He had Constantine make a few discreet inquiries, and the news was that there were no gay bars in the city. Gay clubs, whether discos or sex clubs, were beyond the pale completely. “There have to be gay people here,” Logan complained. “A community of them, even. Where do they go? How do they meet?”
“They meet the way people everywhere meet.” Constantine’s manner was patient, like a teacher lecturing a slow child. “Socially, discreetly.”
“That’s unheard of,” he grumped.
“Not at all, Logan. How do you think gay people met in the U.S. before the rise of the modern gay movement?”
“That’s ancient history, Constantine.”
“This is modern Bulvania. Logan, we’re in Eastern Europe. Practically Russia. The churches still matter here. Tradition matters.”
“If I hear the word ‘tradition’ one more time, I swear I’ll scream.”
“You’d better start training your lungs then.”
Logan grumped, but there wasn’t much he could do. He found himself hanging out more and more with the royal guardsmen, most of whom were gay or at least casual about gayness. The thought that that, too, was one of their traditions, was one he refused to dwell on.
His photography kept him busy, too. He made extensive photographic records of everything he saw—with a special emphasis on the male population, of course. The male population was a mix of darker guys—Turkish, Greek—and fair-haired, blue-eyed Slavic types. Lots of eye candy. Logan found himself wondering if he could get many of them—or any of them at all—to pose nude.
But nudity was almost beside the point. He couldn’t even persuade any of the guards to put on their dress uniforms and pose for him. Alex explained that according to tradition those uniforms were only worn on formal state occasions. Peter seconded that, and Evgeny endorsed that view. Logan had budding friendships with all of them, but friendship, even with the son of the American ambassador, was outweighed by that damn Bulvanian tradition.
“We’ll all be dressed formally for the coronation on Sunday,” Alex told him. “You can take all the pictures you want then.”
“You’ll pose?”
“No. There is no tradition of us making a public show of ourselves. But in our official duties… ” He smiled. “You may think those uniforms are photogenic but try wearing one. They’re hot and uncomfortable. I think they must have been designed by some mad monk during the Inquisition.”
So Logan resigned himself to waiting. The actual coronation ceremony was to be conducted in private, in the cathedral by Archbishop Defilippo jointly with Abbot Beech. But after that there would be a parade through the streets of Flausenthurmopolis, the people’s first chance to see their new king. Logan got details of the parade route and planned for the event.
* * *
He spent his nights partying with the royal guards. They all liked him, and they made him welcome whenever he stopped by. In time he even got used to the ticking of the cuckoo clocks throughout the barracks. There was always a good supply of liquor and an even better one of wine. Unfortunately, the wine was a local Bulvanian vintage. The first time Logan tasted it, he made a face so sour men at the far end of the barracks saw it. “Jesus, this tastes like something you’d use to remove a tattoo!”
Evgeny shrugged. “You’ll get used to it. We have.”
“Never. Where’s the nearest vodka bottle?”
Some nights turned into sex parties. Everyone coupled—or tripled, or whatever—with everyone else. The sex tended to be on the vanilla side for Logan’s taste, but as vanilla sex goes it was quite satisfying.
In time he began to think of the various guardsmen as friends and vice versa. Even the straight ones liked him and cultivated his company. In time, as friendships go, things turned more personal. One after another of them asked him the same question, with variations: “So, what do you think of our country?”
At first he was noncommittal—what Constantine would have called diplomatic—but eventually he became less guarded. “To be honest with you, when I first learned I was coming here, I thought I’d been sentenced to Siberia. But this place really… isn’t so bad. It’s not Paris or New York, mind you, but it’s not backwoods Arkansas either.”
Logan and Alex grew into a fairly close friendship in a surprisingly short time. Alex opened up about his love for the late king, and about the depth of the grief he was still feeling. “It’s been nearly three months, Logan, and I still hurt as much now as I did when I first heard what had happened.”
He wasn’t sure he should ask, but he couldn’t resist. “What exactly did happen, Alex?”
“I wish I knew. We got the official word, of course. ‘There has been an accident at the cuckoo clock factory.’ But none of us has ever been able to uncover any details. The official inquiry was led by the queen and, aside from the fact that her lover owns the factory, she was perfectly happy to see Raymond dead.”
“Someone should find out. There has to be a way. There have to be witnesses.”
Alex s
hrugged. “We have to focus on the present. And just between us—” He lowered his voice. “We are concerned that the same kind of ‘accident’ might happen to the new king. Theodora made no secret of the fact that she wanted the throne for herself—or at least for her Schlutow.”
“I haven’t even seen the new king yet. Is he—?”
“He’s young and inexperienced. He’s smart, and in time he’ll master the kingship. But for now, he’s quite inexperienced at court intrigue.”
“What’s he like? Is he g—”
“We don’t know. There are signs, but I’m not sure he even knows himself.”
“I see. In the U.S. at 20 he’d explode out of the closet and his hormones would be raging.”
Alex laughed. “Do you mean to tell me you’re typical of American gays?”
“Well, maybe not typical, but not exactly untypical either.”
Alex fell silent for a long moment. “What are you looking for, Logan? What do you want? In life, I mean,”
“I wish I knew. Oh—if you’re worried that I might make a pest of myself—I mean, I know you’re grieving, Alex. You’re a beautiful man, a good man. But I have to respect your… your mourning.”
Alex leaned close to him and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re a good man, too, Logan. I think someday soon you will find what you want, who you want, even if you don’t know yet what it is.”
“Who knows? Stranger things have happened, I guess.”
Alex walked him back to the embassy. They hugged at the doorway and parted, their friendship cemented.
* * *
Logan had three glasses of wine before he went to bed. Fortunately, it was imported French burgundy, not the local Bulvanian stuff. When he finally crawled into bed, he fell asleep almost at once. His sleep was deep but not exactly restful.
It might have been this conversation with Alex that triggered the dream, or it might have been that part of Logan was still a child. At any rate, he dreamed a vivid, fantastic dream.
He was in a Walt Disney world, all animation, all Technicolor. Sunlight beamed, animals capered happily about, brooks babbled cheerfully and a bright, vibrant rainbow arched overhead. And Logan was the center of it all. He was still himself. But somehow, he was also Snow White, Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty rolled into one, a storybook princess skipping through a fantasy forest. Birds tweeted and wove flowers into his hair. Foxes, squirrels and rabbits scampered along beside him. Even as he dreamed it, he knew—part of his mind knew—how silly it all was. And yet…
Then he appeared riding majestically on a pure white steed. The handsomest storybook prince ever, tall, strapping, boyish but masculine… He was everything Logan could want, everything any gay man could want.
The prince stopped his horse, and his eyes met Logan’s. And it was love at first sight. The very nanosecond they saw one another they knew theirs was a love for the ages. The prince swept Logan up into the saddle behind him, and they galloped away into a sky colored by a glorious sunburst, trailed by happier little forest animals than the Brothers Grimm ever imagined.
A prince for a lover! Soon to be a king! Logan purred happily in his sleep and curled up like a contented cat.
Chapter Fifteen
The Cathedral of St. Zephyrinus was located a short distance from the American embassy on Schlutow Boulevard, the broad boulevard that crossed through the heart of Flausenthurmopolis. It had originally been built in the 12th century or rather construction had been started then; lack of money, lack of skilled manpower had stretched it out over two centuries. The building had not actually been finished until just before 1400, under King Raymond VII. It had been in continual use ever since, both as the main church in the city and—since the Reformation—as the official seat of the Church of Bulvania. Most—not quite all—of Bulvania’s kings were interred in the crypt there.
Despite its centuries-long construction history, and despite repeated additions and modifications ever since, St. Zephyrinus was one of Europe’s less imposing Gothic cathedrals. All the usual elements were there—the towers, the flying buttresses, the rose window over the main door—but somehow the building had always been unimpressive compared to the more famous examples of Gothic church architecture. So it was, all in all, a perfectly apt cathedral for Bulvania.
Technically, the king was the head of the church and had been since the Reformation. In practice the archbishops of Flausenthurmopolis had always functioned more or less independently, even autocratically. The tradition that each new king in turn had to submit to the archbishop for his crown insured that. Archbishop Defilippo was one of the most powerful ones ever. He had made no secret of his support for Queen Theodora and Count Schlutow, and when the Privy Council decided to crown Raymond instead, it was widely seen as a slap in the archbishop’s face. Royalty-watchers waited eagerly to see how the archbishop would conduct himself during the coronation and whether he’d make any public comments. Bulvanian royalty-watchers, that is; the rest of Europe and the world, as usual, ignored what was happening in Bulvania.
The situation wasn’t helped by Raymond’s request that he be crowned by Abbot Beech, from the monastery. Defilippo dug in his heels, flexed his muscles and strong-armed the Privy Council to enforce tradition and let him conduct the coronation. So, it was Round One to the archbishop not the new king. Not an auspicious beginning to his reign.
* * *
Coronation Day dawned bright and sunny but cool. Flausenthurmopolis has been decked out with bunting and streamers for the occasion, and it was, by tradition, a public holiday. Crowds began lining the parade route before dawn. Sidewalks were crowded, and street vendors selling ersatz Flausenthurm junk did a lively business. People carried streamers and Bulvanian flags. Grown men carried children on their shoulders so they could get a better view of the historic occasion.
The actual coronation ceremony was scheduled to take place at St. Zephyrinus at 8AM. It was closed to the public. Only members of the royal family and the country’s nobility were permitted to attend. By special dispensation, Abbot Beech was allowed to come. Raymond had made it clear that, archbishop or no archbishop, Abbot Beech was to be his spiritual adviser. Defilippo bristled, but the king was the king, after all, and he had the royal right to choose his own advisers.
After the ceremony there was to be a parade along Schlutow Boulevard from the cathedral to the palace. It was the people’s first chance to see their new king. Since Raymond had spent his life in the monastery and no one in the city knew him, expectations were keen. The throng along the boulevard was the largest anyone could remember.
And following the parade there was to be an official reception in the throne room of the palace. The nobility and representatives of the people were to be presented to the king and do homage to him. Ambassadors from the few other nations that had official relations with Bulvania were to present their credentials.
So P.T. Bockwein had a role to play. Never having met a king before, either personally or as a representative of the United States, he was nervous as hell. He rehearsed his speech again and again.
P.T. and his entourage were not invited to the coronation ceremony at the cathedral, but they had places of honor in the V.I.P.’s box for the parade. Logan refused to sit there. Devoted shutterbug that he was, he wanted to find a good sight-line along the parade route where he could finally get some photos of his friends the royal guards in their formal dress uniforms. Under pressure from P.T. and Constantine, he agreed to join them for the ceremony at the palace. He wasn’t happy having to do it, because photography wouldn’t be permitted there, but he consoled himself with the thought that he’d finally be getting a look at Prince Charming, or rather King Charming.
* * *
Inside the cathedral, the coronation went off as smoothly as possible. Raymond was the focus of everyone’s attention, of course. But any number of other participants—the queen, the archbishop, Count Schlutow—did their best to upstage him.
Tradition required the new kin
g to dress in formal military attire, a starchy red, white and green uniform with elaborate gold and silver trim. Raymond flat-out refused to wear it; he was much more comfortable in his simple, homespun monk’s robes. That would set the tone for his reign, a new tone for Bulvania, loose, informal and comfortable. But tradition was tradition; everyone he made that suggestion to was deeply shocked, even scandalized. But again, the king was the king; there was no way to make him wear something he didn’t want to.
* * *
Outside, P.T., Marge and Constantine took their places in the V.I.P. box. P.T. was in a foul humor; Constantine had insisted he had to wear proper diplomatic dress, a morning coat, striped pants and a top hat. P.T. grumped. “First thing in the morning, I have to climb into this ridiculous costume.”
“I’m very sorry, sir, but it is protocol. You know how devoted to tradition the Bulvanians are. To dress less than formally would give deep offense.”
“Let them be offended, then.”
“Please, sir. That is hardly the way we want to begin our diplomatic mission.”
P.T. grumbled but wore the clothes. But the morning was windy; a stiff breeze blew off the Black Sea and whipped through the city. Almost as soon as he was seated, P.T.’s hat blew off and went rolling down the boulevard. He barked at Constantine, “Go get that!”
‘I, sir? It would hardly be seemly for the American charge d’affaires to go running after a—”
“You may be the charge d’affaires, but I’m in charge of the whole works. You’re the one who insisted I wear the damn thing. Now go and get it.”
Glumly, Constantine went off in pursuit of the topper. P.T. turned to Marge, a triumphant smile on his face. “That’ll show him.”
The Virgin King Page 9
