by Kim Newman
In Alix's, her favourite cheap restaurant ("You can get your kixes at Alix's'), a waiter thought he recognised Charles. She said "Karol made a record once, but it didn't sell." Charles flashed the peace sign and solemnly said "man" like a longhair. She laughed for minutes.
Without meaning to, she opened Vladi's door. A herbal scent still clung to everything inside. Charles lead her into the room.
"Who's that?" he indicated Che. "A relative?"
"You don't get out at all, do you?"
He looked sad and silly in his absurd moustache. She sat down cross-legged on the crimson and yellow cushions. Awkwardly, Charles folded his legs and joined her.
Most of the books on the shelves were by French or American communists. French reds had more style, Cinzia understood, which was
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why kids followed Chairman Godard's Paris line rather than the stolid grimness of First Secretary Goldwater's USSA.
They were holding hands.
How does one set about seducing Royalty? She had imagined from Anastasia's novels that it would be easier. The room should be a lot bigger, more luxuriously appointed, and have a four-poster bed in it. She should be in a ball-gown with three yards of silver train.
Charles was in his embarrassed phase again. Like Balham, he was only confident when pretending to be someone else: Old Karol, or the fairy tale prince engaged to Ekaterina. As himself, he was terminally uncertain.
She wondered if Vladi had left any bhang behind.
His eyes were fixed on her chest. A lot of men were like that. But this was just a way of not meeting her eyes.
She tilted his chin upwards and looked at him. He was not that much older than her. She peeled his moustache off in one easy pull and stuck it to her own upper lip, twitching it in an exaggerated manner. She looked like The Little Anarchist, the character her grandfather played in his silent films.
"Kiss me and tell me if it tickles."
Emerging from the lobby of the apartment house as evening fell and lamps flickered unreliably, Cinzia was sure every passerby and loiterer was watching them.
For her, this was a first. Having made love with a Prince, an interesting enough addition to her repertoire of experience, she was certain the whole world knew about it. It was ridiculous to assume that a big furry hat and a fake 'tache could enable Charles to avoid his Okhrana shepherds and whichever agencies, foreign and domestic, who might take an interest in his affairs. In his affair, in this case.
She kissed Charles goodbye as he slipped back for his evening's televised fireworks display. He walked off jauntily, like any other man who has spent an afternoon with his girlfriend.
She looked up and down the street. The man with a dog might have been stirred by Charles's appearance and be following him in the pretence of exercising the animal. And the big German car prowling towards the canal seemed slower than it should be.
Charles turned and blew her a kiss. He looked about twelve. His ears kept his oversize hat from falling over his whole head.
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She told herself not to be paranoid. Not everybody was a spy.
Charles hurried off, whistling.
A man in an expensive coat, who had stood shadowed in a doorway opposite, stepped forward and clicked a camera, startling her. She realised she was wearing Charles's false moustache.
She recognised the attache from the Happy Guys Club. Not everyone might be a spy, but Isaac had told her that Harlan was. The American smiled with genuine friendliness and took a picture of Charles turning the corner.
Cinzia looked to the sky, a grey wedge above the black building-tops. Now, she was of interest to Great Powers.
She worried about what Mother would think.
In the upstairs bar of the Happy Guys Club, Isaac Asimov and Georgi Sanders played faro. A half-empty litre of vodka sat between them.
Cinzia was unsurprised to see Allen's Wallachian moppet, still not old enough for liquor, at the bar. She'd dumped her novelist for Rostovs star Romek Polanski, who was cajoling her into sampling an ice cream topped with three inches of assorted fruit.
"Weren't you going to shoot yourself?" she asked Georgi.
He didn't look up from his cards.
"Thought I'd wait, my dear," he purred. "This damn Imperial Wedding is getting all the air-time. My suicide would be relegated to a humorous item before the weather forecast. I await a slow news season."
"Isaac, things are complicated," she explained. "Can we talk?"
"Of course, child."
"Don't mind me," said Sanders. "I have no one to tell your secrets."
She sat down and poured herself a shot of Stoli. She took it in a swallow. Hot tears pricked her eyes as her throat burned.
"That's supposed to clear the head," Isaac said.
She took another.
"And that's supposed to fog it up again," said Sanders.
She looked around. Polanski cuddled up to the gymnast, who shrank away, playing with a cherry plucked from her sundae.
"Cinzia," Isaac said. "I scry something is the matter?"
She laughed. "What are you, a fortune teller?"
She was leaking hot tears, but not crying.
"You said I'd marry a Prince, Isaac Judaiovich. You were nearly right. I seem to have slept with one."
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"Not Yussopoff!"
She felt sick. "No. It's not that bad. It's Charles, the Duke of Cornwall. The fiance of Grand Duchess Ekaterina."
"Big Ears," said Sanders, still pondering his hand.
"They aren't that big," she snapped. "It's the way he wears his hair. He can look quite nice with some work."
"Cinzia Davidovna, you're in love!"
"No. Yes. Maybe. I don't know. You're supposed to see all, you old fraud."
"There are mysteries impenetrable even to my powers."
"Stow it, Isaac. I need help, not mumbo-jumbo. I'm being followed. Your friend the American cultural attache, Harlan. And someone I'm sure is Okhrana."
Isaac was still shocked. Obviously, he had not foreseen this.
"They can make me disappear, can't they?"
"They made me disappear," Sanders said.
"I don't see it's any of their business, whoever they might be," Isaac said.
"But with the wedding..."
"That's it. Harming you would raise questions. Your little affair would come out. That would spoil the story. Nobody wants that. Not the Tsar, not the Brits, not ITV..."
"Soyuz TV would broadcast your confession," Sanders said. "They've offered me an aristocratic game show, What's My Lineage? You could go public, piddle on the parade. Scupper Yussopoff s ratings."
"I don't want trouble. I don't want to spoil the wedding."
"Is that why you're sleeping with the groom?"
"Have slept."
"There's a difference?"
"This thing with the Duke," Isaac said. "It was a one-time occurrence?"
"So far."
"I thought better of you."
"So did I."
"You haven't slept with either of us," Sanders grumbled. "And it's not as if you haven't had the opportunity."
She looked at the pair of them and was tempted to laugh. The gymnast slapped Polanski, who burst into tears as he did every week on The Rostovs.
"Are you going to see him again?" Isaac asked
"I have to. I'm doing make-up for the wedding."
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"Not like that."
"I don't know."
"Look into your heart and scry the truth, Cinzia."
"Don't be silly, Isaac."
"It's so beautiful, loves," sobbed Paradjanov as he fluttered a length of see-through orange silk over the camera, one eye on the couple on horseback, the other on the monitor. "So poetic."
Cinzia wanted to be sick. At the moment, as fine rain fell on the lawns of Tsarskoye Selo, only Paradjanov, who had ear
lier told the Tsar to stand aside to aid the composition of one of his long shots, saw the beauty.
Charles and Ekaterina were returning from a ride through the grounds, unchaperoned though Ensign Chekhov and a detachment of guards dogged their tracks, hanging back a hundred yards or so. Chekhov looked as if he would like to use his sword on someone. Security men in slick raincoats flitted through the woods like foxes, looking for snipers in the trees.
Cinzia stood under the pagoda-like marquee with a crowd of Royals and hangers-on. The Earl of Balham was subdued in the presence of his wife. The Tsar, who must be wondering whether to have Paradjanov shot or appoint him First Minister, discussed diplodocus knees with Sir Anthony Blunt. Anastasia and the Duchess of York sighed in tandem, cooing over the couple.
Ekaterina was uncomfortable on her horse and kept shifting on her ladies' saddle, held in place mainly by the weight of her dress. Charles, raised as a rider, slouched like a cossack and looked miserable. Cinzia hoped he was miserable thinking about her.
She had not slept much last night. Her head throbbed from Sanders' vodka. Vladi's cushions were faintly scented with the Duke's hair oil.
"Perfecto" sighed Paradjanov. A rainbow shone through drizzle, settling a multicoloured glow around the mounted couple. "Mr. Duke, lean across and kiss the Grand Duchess. Your public demands it."
The couple were startled by the demand. Cinzia thought her heart would stop as Charles bent in the saddle, bringing his lips to Ekaterina's cheek. Spooked, the Grand Duchess's horse jittered away a few yards. Ekaterina lurched badly and slipped to one side, clutching reins.
Paradjanov was pleased with the moment.
"That mount they've dug up for Chas," Balham mused. "He's not a gelding, is he?"
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"I don't think so. Why?"
"It might be better if he were, Mags. Look."
Balham pointed to the monitor. Paradjanov's camera zoomed steadily in on the couple. Cinzia saw what the Earl meant. Charles's horse, obviously a stallion, was obviously aroused by Ekaterina's mare.
"The symbolism, the earthy beauties..."
Cinzia thought ITV brass might not share Paradjanov's enthusiasm for equine erections.
Charles's horse reared, waving its hoofs at the flanks of the Grand Duchess's mount. What seemed like a foot of throbbing horse penis bobbed in front of a hundred million tele viewers worldwide.
Balham was laughing. He turned to his wife.
"Reminds me of our wedding snaps. Remember the one with the custard and the handcuffs."
The Tsar's impassive, bearded face flickered with rigidly suppressed humour. He issued an order and Chekhov dashed into the field to rescue the Grand Duchess.
"Can't have dear old Ek coming between true lovers," Balham said, winking at Cinzia. "It'd spoil everything."
Now, Cinzia was going to be sick. Charles must have told the Earl.
Chekhov gallantly scooped the Grand Duchess from her saddle and, staggering under the weight of the girl's dress, got her out of the way. Charles dismounted gracefully, showing off the curve of his rear in riding trousers, and let his horse off the rein.
The Royal horses nuzzled and manoeuvred into position. The stallion pressed the mare down, and his pole-like organ slipped neatly in.
Cinzia had to sit down. She was not sure if the pain in her stomach and heart came from trying not to laugh or trying not to cry.
"Stop filming, you Georgian exquisite!" the Tsar roared at Paradjanov. "There must be dignity in all things."
"No dignity in that," Balham said, smiling at the noisily copulating animals. "And no shame either."
Ensign Chekhov put the Grand Duchess down on the lawn and began to fan her with his hat. She had fainted.
Cinzia had to escape.
"Where are you off to, Cinds," Balham shouted as she ran for the gate house.
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"Cinzia... Cindy..."
She looked up, and he was there, as cute in his riding outfit as an auricular freak could be.
She was sitting against a stegosaurus leg, racked with fear. She was afraid of going on and afraid of going back.
He took her hands and hauled her upright. Cinzia.
He kissed her, expertly now. There was no false moustache between them.
"This is dangerous, Charles."
She pulled him behind the model dinosaur, checking that no one could see them, and responded to his kiss. It was not wise, but it was impossible to resist.
"They'll notice you've gone. Search parties will be sent out. Worse, Sergo will happen along with his orange silk and live outside broadcast camera. You'll be seen betraying the Tsar's daughter in millions of homes."
"I don't care."
He pressed her against the stegosaurus. She was reminded of his horse.
"Of course you care, Charles. You told me how much you care."
He hesitated and gulped.
"I love you, Cinzia Davidovna."
It was like a rabbit punch.
"And I love you, Charles Edinburgovich," she wanted to say back, wondering instantly if it were true. She kept it to herself.
She wanted this, but she knew better. She struggled, pushing his chest, fending him off.
"It's just because I'm the first real woman you've met, Charles. You've been spoiled by princesses. I'm not a saint, believe me."
"That's not true. I was in the Navy. When my mother was expected to inherit the throne. I've met real women."
"Girl in every port?"
"Every British port."
He kissed her again, his hands in her hair, his right leg pressed between hers. She felt the knobbled iron dinosaur hide against her back and did not care.
His mouth was on her throat, in her hair, tasting her, smelling her. She looked, cross-eyed, up at the canopy of branches. Perched in an old oak was a statue pterodactyl, with glass eyes like those of the Grand Duchess Anastasia.
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These woods were the heart of Europe, stretching trackless across the continent. They might be alone with the extinct animals. Safe from all harm.
Her hands were under his riding jacket, loosening it from his shoulders. The buttons of her blouse were undone.
He might be a huntsman, and she a hermit's daughter. Away from the world and uncaring.
His warm mouth was on her skin above her heart.
She thought of Marie Antoinette, pretending to be a shepherdess. Of the young Nicholas walking in his Jurassic playground. Of Anastasia, lying about the past to keep people from asking about the future.
With great difficulty, fighting herself as much as him, she broke the embrace, and fastened herself up.
"I wont be a Royal mistress, Charles, better than that."
"I don't want a mistress. I want a wife."
"You'll have one soon."
He shook his head. "Marry me, Cinzia."
"You can't ask that. You're not free."
"I'll be a king. I can do what I want."
She was crying now.
"No you cant. No king is more powerful than the Tsar, and he had to marry whom he must."
"Then I won't be king."
She shook her head and mopped her eyes with her hankie. The world was spinning.
"Cave canem, Chas," shouted Balham. Cinzia realised Charles must have left the Earl as a look-out. "Tsar Nick's in a bate, and you'll be missed."
Balham loped out of the wood, a camera slung around his neck, light-meter at his hip.
"Say cheese," he smiled, snapping off a shot. "Magic memories, children."
Now, Cinzia was afraid again.
Charles stood away from her and walked towards the Earl, shoulders slumped, back bent. She knew he felt as good as she did.
And she felt horrible.
Even Balham was serious for a moment. She wondered what his Royal Marriage was really like.
"You stay here for a bit, love," the Earl said. "We'
ll see you at the picnic later."
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Cinzia nodded and watched Balham and Charles walk away, through the trees towards the palace.
The ITV crew were billeted in the gatehouse, which was itself the size of several of the smaller palaces she had seen recently. Cinzia had been given what must have been a maid's room. High up in the roof somewhere, it had a gable window the size of an icon. The child-sized bed was piled thick with eiderdowns and pillows. Lying on it, looking up at the ceiling, Cinzia felt she was sinking. The pillows would close over her, and she would be forgotten.
During the picnic—a thousand guests gussied up for the tele and endless toasts to the happy couple—she had resisted the temptation to get drunk again, and concentrated on doing her job. She went into remote control to work on Charles and Ekaterina, resisting the temptation to write "SHAM" in lipstick letters on their foreheads. Charles made one attempt to talk to her but she silenced him with a look. The Grand Duchess wanted to chat about something trivial, but Cinzia could not concentrate on it.
Now, she wanted to sleep.
It had not been this bad before, even when she found out about Allen and the gymnast. Nothing had ever been this bad for anyone ever.
At the very edge of the picnic, staying away from the lights and the cameras, she had noticed a veiled lady, very chic, very mysterious. It was Princess Flavia, Nicholas's one-time wife and long-time mistress. She stayed away from the Tsar, who was surrounded by his children, and drifted like a ghost.
Cinzia could imagine.
Also, she was getting good at spotting the spies. Besides the men in raincoats, she knew which waiters, guests, tele crew were secret agents. It was impossible, however, to tell for whom they were spying. It might be, from what she understood of the trade of deception, that they themselves were not fully aware of who their masters were.
A tinkle resounded. There was a stand-up telephone on the night-table. This could not be good news.
She picked up and heard his voice.
"I wish I were with you, darling. In bed."
She knew what he meant. Yesterday had been the first good sex for her in nearly a year. She could do with some more.
"I wish I were your sanitary towel."
