The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

  “I will wait in the sitting room for your decision and the letter and payment in the event you choose not to reinstate the worthy Senor Xalvador.” He drew very close to his father, deliberately forcing his expression to equal the king's in severity and determination. “I will not leave without these or a letter of reinstatement sealed by your hand.”

  “You will leave when I tell you to leave,” King Don Bartolomé commanded.

  “Possibly. But if not on my terms, I will leave this world for good.” With these words the crown prince turned on his heel and walked out of the room, slapping his gloves on his thigh once as he walked.

  Alejandro had every intention of making good on his promise. It would be a blessing to leave this life and his tortured existence. But more than that, the only bargaining chip he had was his life.

  Nothing else.

  When Alejandro reached the door, he turned and looked back at King Don Bartolomé. “Please send my mother and siblings to me. I wish to pay my respects before departing.”

  He bowed to his father most elegantly, as if they were on the best of terms.

  * * *

  As the door shut, a slow smile formed on Don Bartolomé's lips.

  I have made a King after all.

  10

  Love is offered

  The Great Palace, Constantinople, 1895

  Sultan Abdul Hamid II motioned towards Captain Lord Ravensdale. He rose, taking his daughter’s hand, and they walked to the center of the room together.

  Nicolette glanced at her mother looking very fine in a whisper-thin aqua blue soft silk, gliding towards a rosewood grand piano which the sultan had apparently purchased for the benefit of his European guests. Even with child, her mother was slimmer than she was!

  Nicolette had begged her mother not to accompany her—maybe it would be too much of a strain and Nicolette couldn't bear to see her mother's heart broken again—but Lady Ravensdale had laughed at the notion and said she wouldn't miss the fun for anything.

  Lady Ravensdale smiled confidently, solidifying Nicolette's resolve.

  She executed her prettiest curtsey. She thought she managed it tolerably well despite her knees shaking. Nicolette forced herself to smile at her audience as she walked forward.

  Abdul the Great, the Ottoman Caliphate, watched her with undisguised scrutiny, as a lion might watch a field mouse, deciding if the tiny creature was worth the trouble.

  Suddenly she relished the experience. Nicolette raised her chin in defiance.

  She supposed the Grand Seignior expected her to be terrified, and that knowledge gave her more courage, determined to stand up to this fierce looking man.

  The Sultan is my audience, not my adversary, Nicolette reminded herself. She would not wilt before him, but also must she entertain him.

  I must hold his emotions in my hand. Though she be in this room of strangers in a far away city, it was her responsibility to delight her audience.

  Were she to sing before convicts or angels, she was obligated to give the same performance.

  Nicolette stepped up to a small platform and awaited the attention which was her due. When it was not forthcoming, she swept the room with her eyes until silence ensued. Then and only then she nodded her approval and turned to face the Sultan.

  “Begin . . .” The Sultan commanded as he smiled for the first time, the hard lines of his face revealing a gleaming gold-tipped tooth.

  Nicolette raised her eyebrows in disapproval of the Red Assassin, letting him know she would decide when she began. After a pause she said, “Grand Seignior, I will be singing 'Mi Chiamano Mimi' from La Bohéme, written by Puccini.” It means, simply, “My name is Mimi.”

  Nicolette glanced about the room, ignoring his command once again for emphasis in what she hoped was a clear communication of her performance requirements.

  She looked to her father and saw a smile fighting a fierce battle with his frown. This momentarily amused her.

  When there was complete silence, she instructed her accompanist to begin with a slight nod of the chin. And she began to sing.

  I am called Mimi,

  My story is brief

  I make lilies and roses

  from silk and satin

  I am tranquil and happy

  Nicolette felt herself to be Mimi as the beauty of the music overtook her. She longed to reveal Mimi's open spirit to the audience through the music.

  I cherish all things

  that have gentle magic,

  Love and Spring

  Dreams and fancies -

  the things called poetry ...

  Everyone of breeding and taste knew that, in concerts, one was to stand immobile so as to place extra demands on the voice alone to impart the desired emotion. Anything else was both improper and unaccomplished. Above all, she must be accomplished.

  I imagine

  Silk and satin gardens

  I hear

  Music

  which I spin into flowers

  As she sang the aria, the tender moment when Mimi introduced herself to the handsome poet Rodolfo became unexpectedly real to Nicolette. A picture of the beautiful, lonely boy she had seen flashed before her eyes and her heart filled with concern for him. She saw once again the gentleness in his expression, and she was sure it was the same expression which Mimi must have seen in Rodolfo.

  She became Mimi: delicate and sweet, genuine and open, and she saw Rodolfo from Mimi's eyes. Suddenly the music became far more important to Nicolette than the codes of recital conduct: she gave herself to the world she was creating heart and soul.

  Longing and love filled her heart, and she abandoned her stiff stance as her entire being entered into the music. She retrieved her lace handkerchief embroidered in flowers, showed it to the audience, and then caressed her cheek with it, closing her eyes.

  They call me Mimi

  I live by myself

  I eat alone—sometimes I forget

  I don't often go to church,

  My life is my prayer

  from the window of my tiny white room

  I can see the Paris rooftops

  the moon and the stars

  Nicolette made a circle with her arms to the sky as she sang “the suns first rays are mine,” and then she hugged herself. She felt a pang of guilt for her lack of discipline even as she succumbed to the music.

  When spring comes

  A rose blossoms in my vase,

  I breathe its perfume, petal by petal

  The flowers I make, alas,

  have no scent

  But when Spring comes

  She whispers in my ear

  The sun's first rays are mine

  April's first kiss is mine!

  When she sang April's first kiss is mine! Nicolette did the unthinkable: she fell to her knees and clutched her handkerchief to her heart.

  She could not regret it—she owed it to the music. Her eyes scanned the audience, preparing to exit in disgrace.

  There was a long moment of silence when her heart fell.

  How could I have been so unaccomplished as to succumb to my feelings?

  A long interval of shocked silence made Nicolette want to disappear into the floor. Then a single clap was worse than the silence.

  A thunderous applause ensued. An avalanche of emotion burst into the stupefaction. She saw tears in the eyes of some. One gentleman pulled a single rose out of a nearby vase and threw the deep crimson flower to the floor at Nicolette's feet. Four or five more roses followed with no apparent remorse or embarrassment for rearranging the Red Assassin's flower arrangements.

  Nicolette learned a valuable lesson that night: in giving herself to the music, she imparted those emotions to everyone present.

  She received something unexpected: their hearts reached out to meet hers.

  “There are few who can actually bedazzle an audience, but you, my dear, are one of those few,” Lady Ravensdale whispered as she hugged her.

  “Oh, no, Mama. I don't wish to dra
w attention away from the music. I want to be the music.” She heard the truth from her own lips for the first time. “I want to do this every day for as long as I live.”

  “Come to me, child,” the Sultan commanded.

  Captain Ravensdale took her hand and his touch made her feel safe. He was dressed in the full military garb of the Princess Royals, the 7th Dragoon Guards, reminding her he knew how to fight, if she needed such a reminder. An enormous sword was strapped to his side.

  One would never know how old her father was if it weren't for his graying temples. In fact, with his coal black hair and sapphire blue eyes, he was far from ugly. Some might even say he looked quite dashing in his uniform: he was tall and slim and he wore a red jacket sporting his captain's insignia, black pants with a wide claret stripe down the sides, and black leather knee boots. He carried a steel helmet adorned with a long black tassel.

  Her hand firmly resting in her father's, curiosity became her overriding emotion as she approached the dark man upon the throne.

  Nicolette turned to look at the Captain of the Guard, who did not appear to share her enthusiasm for the experience. He kept his deep blue eyes straight ahead, never wavering from the Sultan.

  The Sultan studied her from the throne for a long while before speaking. Like her father, the Sultan wore his traditional military dress and a fez hat. The impression of ferocity was furthered by dark, piercing eyes, a moustache and a pointed beard. There was no doubt in her mind she stood before a person of great power.

  “Most interesting. I have heard other European music which I found stale by comparison.”

  She curtseyed. “Thank you Grand Seignior.”

  “Your music sounds different from Eastern music. Explain this to me, Lady Nicolette.”

  “Europeans sing in half tones, rather than in the quarter tones of Eastern music, Grand Seignior. What to the European ear is ‘sharp’ or ‘flat’, or out of tune, is actually a note to the Eastern ear.”

  “Out of tune?” He frowned at her and it seemed his beard grew longer and more pointed.

  “The truth,” she added quickly, swallowing hard, “is that Eastern music actually requires extra training. I apologize that I am unable to sing this more difficult music, Grand Seignior.”

  A slow smile came to the Sultan's lips. “I found nothing lacking, Lady Nicolette.”

  “Thank you, Grand Seignior. I am much gratified.” Her courage was waning, and she found she was having trouble keeping her heart in her chest. Her father squeezed her hand, but his eyes remained straight ahead.

  “And how do you like our city, Lady Nicolette?” the Sultan asked.

  “I have never had a more glorious time in my life!” she exclaimed.

  Her father tightened his hold on her. “Nicolette, please show the proper deference to the the Grand Seignoir.”

  “I am not in the least offended by your daughter’s enthusiasm. I would like to know why she enjoyed herself in the parlor of the palace,” the Sultan asked, a slow smile forming on his lips.

  In truth, she would never forget when they first sailed into the City of Constantinople. Nicolette had never seen a more beautiful sight in her life. Though she had been raised in the awe-inspiring Himalayas of Tibet, the sight before her made her gasp: seven gold mosques on seven hills of varying heights, rising out of the water like a magical air castle—or a mermaid’s jeweled citadel. A city bordered on three sides by water connecting Europe and Asia. And there in the bay, lanterns everywhere and the Sultan’s magnificent gilded barges: golden ships.

  “When we sailed into the bay, I knew in an instant why Constantinople is called ‘The City of Wonders’…the golden ships. And, of course, to have the honor of singing for you, Grand Seignor.”

  He smiled. “You liked my gold barges?”

  “Oh, yes, your excellency! And everything about this palace.”

  The Sultan turned to her father. “Your daughter is quite charming. And most genuine.”

  Captain Ravensdale bowed his head ever so slightly. “Lady Nicolette is indeed true to herself.”

  The Sultan snapped his fingers and a servant walked forward carrying a stunning assortment of silks, satins, mohair, and cashmere. Nicolette felt her eyes open wide at the beauty of the fabrics. One of the turquoise silks in particular would make an exquisite gown for her mother. Unwittingly she smiled widely at the Sultan before catching herself and turning to her father.

  He nodded his curt approval, and she bowed her head murmuring, “Thank you, Grand Seignior. You are most kind.”

  “Sing again.” He nodded towards the center of the room.

  “One more piece, and that shall conclude my daughter's performance,” Lord Ravensdale stated clearly, bowing. “She needs to eat her dinner and then retire to her room for rest. She has refrained from food that she might provide a more pleasing experience for your excellency.”

  The Sultan frowned but waved his hand in dismissal as he allowed himself to be lulled into a trance under the spell of Lady Nicolette's performance.

  11

  A miracle

  She whispers in my ear

  And brings me back to life

  The Great Palace, Constantinople, 1895

  Finally I will find peace. Alejandro welcomed his death. He longed for it.

  He was nineteen years old, the crown prince of Spain, and on his deathbed.

  I have failed at my duty, he admonished himself through the pain. There is no shame greater than this.

  Alejandro visualized his father before him holding out the crown. In another instant he saw Esteban, his hand reaching out to his student while moving further and further away.

  Why doesn't anyone give me water? He felt his mouth go painfully dry. It seemed as if he had been begging for water for all of eternity. He shook his head back and forth, struggling to make his will known. The murmurs of strangers speaking in an enigmatic language he did not know escalated all about him.

  Most of my life has been spent with strangers, why should my death be any different?

  A breeze caressing his face carried the aroma of exotic foods. Probably the thing which poisoned me to begin with. He felt his stomach churn but thankfully there was no longer anything to expel.

  Where am I? Alejandro tried to open his eyes but could not.

  Frantically he searched his memory. After laboring for what seemed hours, he saw in his mind's eye dark-skinned men and veiled women staring at him as if he held their lives in the balance.

  The memories were like pieces of an irritatingly tedious puzzle, each piece raising one's expectations only to find the last piece missing.

  Ah, yes. I came to Constantinople on the king's behalf and fell sick almost immediately. King Don Bartolomé would not be pleased.

  I wish I had never been taken from active duty. Once he had finally been allowed to return home, the greatest wish of his heart for so many torturous years, it was the last thing he wanted.

  For a young man now devoid of emotion without attachments, military school was a perfect match. For once in his life he was like everyone else. Only he wasn’t: Alejandro de Bonifácio was exceptional, and military school gave him an outlet to excel.

  Alejandro was accustomed to discipline and to working beyond endurance—more so than the other young men—and finally his competitive spirit was allowed full reign. His commanders had called him an ‘animal’, much to his pleasure.

  Now this wild beast was reduced to lying about in silk pajamas ogled by foreigners in sheer veils.

  A humiliating way to die. He who had served, fresh out of military school, on the Almirante Oquendo, a 6890-ton armored cruiser, launched at Balboa, Spain. Alejandro had longed to stay in the navy and travel the seas, rising up through the ranks to command his own ship.

  Every time I find happiness, it is taken away.

  Soon it would all be over. Sweat trickled down his brow; it was no wonder his mouth was dry. He reached for the cup of water but was unable to pick it up.

&n
bsp; His arms searched everywhere for the cup. Suddenly the chatter grew louder and more frantic. But still no water.

  Where am I housed? Why am I situated so close to the dining room? He could hear the clash of dishes and the distant sounds of chatter.

  No doubt he was adjacent to the doctor's quarters. Somehow he managed to will his eyes open again which immediately met checkered tiles on the floor. It made him feel dizzy as they danced about him. Blue, purple, and maroon silks swayed back and forth between large fluted columns, as if to mock him.

  Through slitted eyes he saw the inhabitants of his room and their distress.

  Their concern was not personal. How could it be? Only one person alive knew him personally and he had long ago been removed from his life.

  Still I am grieved those surrounding me will suffer because of my inability to conquer this malady.

  He closed his eyes again.

  I am so tired. It is near. Not much longer and he would finally be free…

  And then he heard it: music so enchanting, so exquisite, so deliriously beautiful that he knew he was at heaven's gate. There could be nothing so rapturous on this earth.

  His heart filled with pleasure, recalling a long-lost feeling.

  I must hear more. He opened his eyes abruptly. The music continued, and a smile formed on his cracking lips.

  He heard the rustle of silk and excited, foreign mumblings. The servants smiled back and hurriedly lifted his head.

  Finally the water drifted between his lips.

  Shhh! Not now, I must hear the music! He swallowed, fighting the urge to cough. He opened his mouth to speak, attempting to command them to let him listen in peace.

  As surprisingly as it began, the music stopped and was replaced by abrasive shouts and roars, presenting a sudden jolt to his system. How peculiar to hear such a raucous noise level in the dining room of the Sultan.