The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

  “Above all, we must maintain our purity,” Captain Ravensdale muttered, as if in agreement. But she wondered.

  I must not concern myself with these unimportant squabbles today. It is only the performance that matters.

  But I know very well I owe some of my talent to my papa. She had inherited Lord Ravensdale’s propensity for languages, though not his discipline and interest. In truth, her studies had progressed slowly until her grandparents made the long trek to Tibet for their first visit. Even then, Lady Elaina Stanton told her granddaughter she recognized a great talent crying to be developed.

  A singing career is not a profession for the uneducated Lady Elaina Stanton informed her.

  An opera singer must speak at least four languages, sing in three octaves, and be an actress of the first caliber, Lady Elaina emphasized.

  With this information in hand, Nicolette had committed herself to her studies. Her education advanced by leaps and bounds.

  “And what will you sing, Nicolette?” her father asked.

  “An excerpt from La bohème. Mimi’s song.”

  “Ah, in Italian,” he considered. “The ill-fated heroine. I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

  You haven’t liked many sounds since we arrived. “Mimi’s song has a beautiful melody.”

  “La bohème by Puccini,” Lady Ravensdale added. “One of my favorite composers.”

  “A bit too dramatic and passionate for me,” Captain Ravensdale murmured.

  “That should agree with the Sultan’s temperament,” Lady Ravensdale considered, “And Nicolette’s.”

  “Definitely Nicolette’s.” Lord Ravensdale agreed, taking a sip of his Turkish coffee.

  In her mind’s eye, Nicolette pictured the path she would take to the Sultan’s table. She knew her father would accompany her. She contemplated what she would look like as she stood before the large, formidable man in the turban.

  Will I shrink before him? No, not this girl!

  Nicolette found it was helpful to imagine the scene before it took place and envision the desired result. As she pictured herself walking across the marble floor, she had to fight the inclination to feel dowdy in these opulent surroundings. Luxurious tapestries from Baghdad and Teheran lined the marble floors framed by huge fluted columns. There were candelabras of cut glass, frescoes by French artists, and the grandest mirrors she had ever seen. The tablecloth was velvet embroidered in genuine silver. The napkin rings were mother-of-pearl set with diamonds. Real diamonds!

  And the clothing put heaven's angels to the pale. Vests adorned with precious stones, Bursa silk trousers, velvet tasseled caps embroidered with pearls, and sheer, luminous veils.

  We truly are living inside a magical fairy tale.

  When Nicolette stood, her dress reached between her knees and her ankles, revealing white stockings and maroon silk slippers. Lady Ravensdale did not allow her daughter to wear any heel on her shoe or makeup on her face, saying she did not need it.

  Which is silly because I do. She did not have her mother's aristocratic features or high cheekbones: her face was almost round.

  But there was never any point in arguing with Lady Ravensdale once her mind was made up. How a sweet person could be so stubborn was a mystery to Nicolette.

  “Do you see, Nicolette?” Lady Ravensdale asked as she inclined her chin. “It appears there are other Europeans present.”

  “Oh, Mama, my heart is pounding!” She glanced about her completely unfamiliar surroundings, scanning the crowds for any signs of welcome.

  “Put it in God’s hands. Trust that God will take care of you so you are free to give to others. Imagine the light entering through your head and out your mouth. Let the loving energy flow through you.”

  “Do you mean a picture in my mind?”

  “Imagining is a way of channeling.”

  “I only pray that I might do my best, I ask no more than that. But I feel so nervous!”

  “All performers are nervous. The trick is to channel your nervousness so as to enhance your performance. You may thus surprise yourself and do better than your best.”

  “How is that possible, Mama?”

  “It is possible because we are, none of us, alone.”

  9

  A tiny breath of evil

  “So you ruin some poor devil

  With a tiny breath of evil

  So you beat him and mistreat him

  Till he trembles in disgrace!”

  - The Barber of Seville by Gioachino Rossini

  Anselmo, 1891

  “You cannot be serious. I will not stand for it!” Alejandro’s anger mounted.

  It isn’t thinkable—not twice in one lifetime. Once again, the place where his heart dwelled was being ripped from his body.

  At fifteen years of age, there was nothing left to live for except his duty. Alejandro stared straight ahead at El Anselmo's headmaster delivering the news from behind a massive walnut desk, crouching in his chair as if a piece of furniture might protect him from his conscience.

  Or the fury of a young prince.

  “I-it was not my decision, your highness,” stuttered Senor Claudio, El Anselmo's headmaster. “I would never suppose…the king has decreed it.” The headmaster’s nervousness was apparent as his eyes darted about the room while his neck remained immobile, held in place by a tall, stiff collar which was turned over and pressed into wings.

  Senor Claudio wore a cutaway morning coat and a high-buttoned waistcoat. He had a full beard and moustache in contrast to his balding head. He fidgeted with a pipe in his hand, apparently purchased to further complete his contrived persona of the Spanish gentleman.

  “Of course. And did the king give a reason for his arbitrary decision?” Alejandro studied his white knuckles as he attempted to regain his composure with little success, something usually child’s play for him.

  Alejandro bit his lip. Whatever else happens, I will not cry. He would not let his grief be a source of amusement for others.

  Besides, it wouldn't make any difference. Just as yelling would not make any difference.

  “King Don Bartolomé feels…he believes…Senor Xalvador is no longer suitable to…uh…educate you.” The headmaster was noticeably shaken under Alejandro's outburst and subsequent scrutiny.

  “Suitable.” Alejandro slammed his fist on the table and jumped to his feet, causing the headmaster to jump in his chair before resuming his hunched over state. “Might you explain to me what is meant by suitable, Senor Claudio?”

  Someone as cold and unfeeling as his father, the young prince supposed. Someone who would make his every waking moment hell, as it had been before Senor Esteban had taken an interest in him.

  With lightning speed Alejandro played all the possible explanations through his mind. He had spoken warmly of Esteban Xalvador on his brief Christmas and summer holidays to his family, and now, by an odd coincidence, Esteban was being removed.

  How could I have been so stupid? Alejandro hadn't imagined his father would exert himself to this degree on his son’s behalf; the king had not for seven years since sending him away.

  But apparently it was not enough for Don Bartolomé to withhold his own time and love—he wished to ensure no one else had the opportunity to care about his eldest son either.

  Alejandro wanted to kick himself, he wanted to scream, he wanted to bash his head in two.

  But it wasn’t his own grief which concerned him as overwhelming as that was. What would happen to Senor Esteban with his career destroyed? A teacher’s salary was not great.

  I misjudged, and now the innocent will suffer because of my lack of comprehension. I believed I was entitled to some small happiness in this world. I perceived no reason why anyone would wish to deny me love—least of all my family—as long as I fulfilled my duty.

  Alejandro clenched his fist in fury. He had sought intimacy with his father and been punished severely for it. Never again will I make that mistake.

  As he pictured his fathe
r, surprisingly an image of Esteban flashed before his eyes. He saw everything about his teacher in great detail. Even in Alejandro’s grief he felt his heart lighten as the waistcoat with peacocks embroidered on it came to mind.

  Everything Senor Esteban did was undertaken with great forethought and attention to detail, but it was far more personal than the expression of conspicuously unique clothing and jewelry.

  When Esteban looked at him, Alejandro felt he was the only person in the room. Senor Esteban is the only person in the world who makes me feel visible.

  “I do not propose to know the mind of the king,” replied the headmaster nervously.

  “You will tell me, Senor Claudio. If you fear the king now, who is growing old, he will have nothing on me when I am king. I will remember you and your descendants.” Alejandro fixed his gaze upon the headmaster, ready to rip his throat out for the answer. The humiliation of having to be told by a second party that which should have come from his father's lips was not lost on the prince.

  Senor Claudio must have understood the intent in Alejandro's eyes as he sat still for some seconds before answering. Alejandro was not one to make threats, and he was certainly not one to make them lightly.

  The headmaster cleared his throat, quickly reaching for a drink of water, spilling some of the liquid down the front of his perfectly pressed shirt. Senor Claudio’s eyes remained fixed on Alejandro. “His royal highness f-feels…King Don Bartolomé believes you need someone s-stricter…harsher…who can prepare you for your immanent entry into military school.”

  Senor Claudio’s expression revealed he believed Alejandro to clearly be severe enough.

  Harsher. And in fact Alejandro understood ‘harsh’ very well and had no further need of instruction in that arena. King Don Bartolomé had not paid his son a personal visit in imparting this information which removed the only person who loved Alejandro from his life, nor was the prince asked for his input on a decision which impacted him so dramatically.

  Never in his life had Alejandro defied his father, even when he was torn from his family at eight years old. He had obeyed and done his best.

  And I will continue to do so.

  Exiting the headmaster's office, Alejandro hurried for the stables, saddling his own horse as he frequently did.

  The crown prince’s independence combined with his complete adherence to the rules would pay off on this day.

  He leapt upon his Andalusia stallion and rode. Only this time he took a different path, taking a unique turn and jumping the northeast corner fence, easily accomplished with his stallion. They rode for five hours straight until he reached his destination. It felt like an eternity later.

  As the Palacio Real came into view, it pained Alejandro to realize the palace no longer felt like home. Ever since his eighth birthday, he never visited his family without a formal invitation, which came at Christmas and at holidays.

  The place of his childhood was not his home nor did his family dwell here. Did one have to receive an invitation to visit one’s family?

  Nor was El Anselmo his home.

  My home is wherever Esteban is.

  And now my duty lies elsewhere. Alejandro patted the magnificent white stallion whose ancestors were brought to Spain eight thousand years ago by the Moors, the best horse breeders of their time.

  “I have driven you hard today, Picante, and you have born my temper with patience. There shall be a reward for you, my friend.” Upon first acquiring the horse, the stallion was not easily tamed, the initial anger in his equine eyes inspiring his name. Alejandro had channeled the anger into speed.

  Picante “neigh-ed” and jerked his head, his long, lush mane and tail swishing in unison.

  After issuing his orders as regarded his stallion and inquiring after the king's whereabouts, Alejandro strode through the Plaza de Armas towards the royal throne room of the largest palace in all of Europe. He glanced in one of the many floor to ceiling mirrors surrounded in gold, checking the appearance of his close-fitting beige riding pants, knee-length black boots, and navy blue jacket.

  My father will not approve of the sporty riding dress. Alejandro frowned. The chiseled lines of the young prince’s face revealed he was becoming a man—he needed the reassurance today—but he had a slim build yet. His dark brown hair was over-long, which he knew his father would not like, and his lush eyelashes gave him a pretty look which annoyed the king as well as himself.

  Ah, well, his royal highness does not approve of anything to do with me. So it is all irrelevant. He entered the throne room.

  “How did you get here?” demanded King Don Bartolomé, seated upon his throne. The king stared at the prince suspiciously as if he suspected the person before him of being an imposter.

  “I got on my horse and rode, father.” Even after five hours of hard riding, Alejandro was still livid with anger, but his manner was calm and his delivery polite. He stood before the throne, two bronze lions facing him. He was surrounded on all sides by embroidered velvet red walls. He did not need to look overhead to see the elaborate fresco painted on the domed ceiling depicting gods, titans and the numerous vast and magnificent regions of the world once under Spanish dominion.

  “Where are your body servants?” King Don Bartolomé demanded. The king wore formal riding dress designed for show rather than for riding. His attire consisted of snow white pants, black leather boots to his knees, a red and gold riding jacket and a blue sash. His long moustache curling up at the ends emulated a smile which the king’s personality managed to negate.

  “It was quite simple for me to leave the grounds as I have never before attempted to do so,” the prince replied cordially.

  “This is preposterous, Alejandro!” King Don Bartolomé's heavy eyebrows rose. He turned to the servants present and dismissed them. Furious, he returned his gaze to Alejandro. “You could have been hurt or killed. And what of the future of Espána then? Do you think only of yourself?”

  “I honestly thought another attempt on my life for the newspapers might please you, Father, eliciting national sympathy for the monarchy. That this attempt is instigated by me instead of by you is of no moment.” Alejandro was surprised to hear the words come from his own mouth, but he was too angry to care.

  The King began to sputter, but Alejandro's mood was stone cold and he had no intention of wasting any more time. “You have made me a pawn in your game long enough, father. That I can—and will—endure for the sake of my country. But I will not stand by while you hurt innocents.”

  “What nonsense are you spouting, Alejandro?” King Don Bartolomé's expression was one of genuine confusion.

  Alejandro sneered. It did not surprise him that though King Bartolomé had only just dismissed the person his son loved most in all the world, the king had no inkling of what might be the source of his first born’s distress.

  “I speak, of course, of Senor Esteban Xalvador's dismissal,” Alejandro said almost in a whisper, striving to maintain his temper.

  “Senor Xalvador is no longer suitable.” King Don Bartolomé waived his hand disdainfully in dismissal.

  His father never discussed, he only pronounced. Alejandro resolved then and there to never be such a king.

  “Then you shall compensate Senor Xalvador accordingly for his years of service, Father,” stated Alejandro with a command in his voice to match the king's.

  “Remember this, Alejandro,” King Don Bartolomé blustered, inflamed, “I am king. I take orders from no one, and most certainly not from my own son.”

  “And you remember, this, father. I swear to you, if you hurt anyone else in my vicinity, I will take a sword to my heart—or to yours if I deem that better for the future of Espána.” If he had learned anything in his fifteen years, it was to act through his fear. Even so, he surprised himself at how readily the words came to his lips. “You have taught me to care more for Spain than for you and, believe me, the lesson has been learned.”

  King Don Bartolomé stared at his son in palpab
le disbelief, speechless. Alejandro knew his father had no way of knowing this remark was out of character, not knowing his own son’s character very well.

  “Do not think I will not do it.” Alejandro studied his father, enjoying the knowledge that Don Bartolomé had no inkling as to whether or not he was speaking the truth. “This life means nothing—nothing—to me personally. I live to serve my country. But allow you to hurt the people I love, I will not allow.”

  “You will not allow?”

  “I only follow your example, father. You have raised me to think thus, do not stare at me in surprise.”

  Suddenly Alejandro felt light-headed under the scrutiny. But he was determined to see this through to the end. “You find it acceptable to sacrifice members of your family for the good of Espána. Why should I not act as you have taught me?”

  King Don Bartolomé's eyes remained fixated on his son, his expression fierce.

  Alejandro had trained his mind to function even when threatened, ashamed he had once not been able to do so.

  Considering the situation now, he knew well his father would not change his mind nor would he consider his son’s preferences in the matter. Though Alejandro longed to beg or reason, it would do no good.

  Therefore, he had to address the only thing he might be able to do: to assist the one person who had ever loved him to exit from his life.

  The young prince observed a flicker of uncertainty cross the king's face, and it gave Alejandro the tiniest glimmer of hope—enough to present him with an idea. He took the opening.

  He turned to the sovereign ruler of Spain and added, “I bow to your judgment on a tutor, though I beg you to reconsider if my well being means anything at all to you. If it does not, as I suspect, I expect a generous compensation and an excellent letter of reference for Senor Xalvador.”

  “The only thing any of us ever think of is your well-being. And you have the effrontery, the absolute disrespect to come in here and make demands before your king,” Don Bartolomé boomed.