The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

  “It looks more like death.” Alejandro discarded his low card. “Picasso may call it what he will. What is its contribution to society?”

  “The painting is meant to incite one's emotion,” noted Esteban.

  “It has fulfilled its purpose.”

  “Life begs us to take notice of the suffering of humanity,” Esteban added.

  “We have all noticed it, but let us do something about it rather than painting dismal pictures.” Everything was a reminder of so much that needed to be done.

  And I have so little power.

  Now. Someday I will king. I must be prepared to make a difference when the time comes. I must choose my bride well to strengthen my alliances.

  A subject he hated to revisit but which was repeatedly impressing him with its importance.

  “You are not yourself this evening, your highness,” le Comte de Saint-Cyr remarked gaily as he dealt the cards for another round. He glanced at himself in the mirror behind Leroux's head, seemingly pleased with what he saw. “You are quite afflicting us all with gloom.”

  “I am very much myself, which is why you find fault with me.” Alejandro turned to scan the other boxes for a sign of the woman in black before returning to his cards.

  Diantre! Why can I not see her? She could light the night skies.

  “Where is the other party you said would join us, my dear prince?” Saint-Cyr asked. “Are they soon to arrive?”

  “I had expected to be joined by the British diplomats to France this evening, but at the last moment the wife fell ill. I received the note only upon arriving at the Opera House.” Alejandro didn't really give a damn at that moment, though he had earlier been quite put-out by the change of plans.

  “A shame. I so enjoy affairs of state,” le Comte de Saint-Cyr quipped. “What is his name?”

  “Ravensdale,” Esteban interjected, even as he kept his eyes forward, scanning the opera house. “A great war hero. I understand he is a most interesting and formidable fellow.”

  “Scintillating, no doubt,” Saint-Cyr murmured, picking up his cards.

  “Didn't Ravensdale serve for many years in Tibet?” le Duc de Valentinois asked pensively.

  “To be sure. Despite his military career, Captain Ravensdale is active in the mediation of peace treaties,” stated Leroux. “He is currently working with Lord Lansdowne and Paul Cambon, France’s ambassador in London, on the Entente Cordial treaty, which will bring closure to centuries of hostility between France and England.”

  “For that Saint-Cyr can never forgive him,” exclaimed le Duc de Valentinois, discarding a five of diamonds.

  “Why should Saint-Cyr object to peace between nations?” Leroux asked.

  “I assure you the hostilities between France and England have not ended as far as Saint-Cyr is concerned,” noted Valentinois, smiling at his friend. “The blood of the warrior flows in his veins.”

  Saint-Cyr waived his lavender hand to a friend in the opposite box, tossing his blonde curls defiantly in le Duc's direction. Alejandro felt some amusement for the first time that evening as they all suppressed laughter.

  “Saint-Cyr would put Marie Antoinette to the blush,” the prince agreed.

  “Not so with you, Alejandro,” Saint-Cyr smiled. “Do you recall the time we were set upon by bandits, and you had overcome the lot of them before we had managed our surprise?”

  “I owe what little skill I have to Esteban.” Alejandro turned to glance into the audience. The gloom was descending upon him at not being able to find the woman in black. She was far too exquisite to have disappeared into thin air, and it appeared she had.

  The curtain began to rise and, with it, the level of noise. Alejandro turned his back to the stage and applied himself to his hand, reluctantly taking another sip of champagne.

  And then he felt as if he had been pushed off a cliff, so vividly abrupt was the change in his experience of his existence.

  Suddenly Prince Alejandro was surrounded by the most heavenly ambrosia he had ever experienced. He had never heard anything so beautiful, so entrancing in his life.

  As long as I keep my eyes closed, my party will remain silent. Despite their façade of equality, no one would speak as long as he was clearly in a reverie.

  In contrast to their usual friendly banter, one could have heard a pin drop. The soprano’s voice intermingled with his soul and captivated him there.

  Alejandro opened his eyes and turned to discover the source of this magic, oblivious to everything but that first moment of seeing the angel—surely a saintly being—delivering this intoxicating experience.

  No. It can’t be. The soprano and the woman in black were one and the same.

  It is unthinkable. He, of royal birth and blood, had been ensnared by an opera singer.

  15

  I Forgot every other

  “On the day I saw her,

  I forgot every other”

  —Lindoro, The Barber of Seville by Gioachino Rossini

  Damnation! How did I allow this to happen?

  The reality of his obsession’s identity was a slap in the face.

  He had been made to look like a fool by a stage singer. An actress.

  Alejandro shook his head in self-recrimination as his irritation grew. He should have been more discerning and picked up on the clues.

  Did I not observe her unusual style of dress? How could I have not seen it?

  In all fairness to himself, Alejandro wondered if anyone might have overlooked the obvious, mesmerized in the presence of this conjurer.

  There was something cultured in her manner. Even contemptuous.

  Definitely contemptuous. She did not have the demeanor of an opera singer or an actress. She made even the haughtiest exhibitionist look like a sniveling toad-eater begging for approval.

  Her confidence was not the blustery pretention born of insecurity. This diva truly did believe she was God’s gift to mankind.

  And maybe she is.

  Distance provided him with a more objective view: the hem of her dress did not even reach the floor. He had certainly not been looking at the hem of her dress before.

  His eyes moved eagerly along the outline of her legs and her figure before being drawn to her exotic face.

  How can each visual be more beautiful and scintillating than the last?

  Not for a moment had Alejandro suspected her identity. Reluctantly he admitted the truth to himself: he had been too besotted to notice anything but…her.

  Even now, with the evidence being thrown in his face, the reality of her identity surprised him. Despite her delightfully revealing dress and shocking display, there was nothing uncultured or inelegant about her. Nothing groveling or grasping for his approval.

  She seemed more inclined to spit on him in disdain.

  How dare she. This shapely siren seemed to be from the upper echelons of Parisian society despite all evidence to the contrary. Her speech, her deportment, her confidence: everything proclaimed education and breeding.

  The fact is she fooled me however I might attempt to justify it. More important than the embarrassment to himself, Alejandro took every lapse in judgment as personal failure which could impact his future reign.

  It is imperative I am able to read every person and every circumstance. Being so easily mislead would mean failure as a ruler.

  Alejandro experienced a stab of pain as he remembered the stage actress of his salad days. Something about actresses, he supposed. They seemed to be his weakness. And yet, there was something vastly different about this actress.

  Alejandro cursed under his breath. The last incident—also involving an actress—had only broken his heart, that was no matter. But what if his gullibility led to an assassination, leaving Spain without a sovereign? Or to the theft of top security papers? Or to an event which threatened the financial stability of his country?

  I must overcome this weakness.

  As he watched the seductress slink across the stage, it seemed an impossibility.<
br />
  Would she have eventually told me the truth? He had no way of knowing her character because he had played his hand too early, fatal to the diplomat.

  If the truth be told, I am the fool, not her. She merely played along with the game he set into motion.

  Involuntarily Alejandro set his indignation aside as he allowed himself to be entranced by her performance. She was the most enchanting, the most provocative, the most desirable woman he had ever encountered.

  He watched her with a growing desire. As she moved across the stage with the most alluring of movements, every man in the opera house had his eyes glued to the stage. Her movements were sensual and graceful, her hips swaying as her chest arched subtly but provocatively.

  Love is a rebellious bird no one can tame, a thing no force can hold. You call it in vain if it chooses not to come.

  Holding nothing back, she flaunted her power over men, promising that she knew how to delight. Clearly she took pleasure in both the jealousy of women and the lust of men. Her movements and her voice escalated, blending with and feeding the intensity of the audience's reaction at the same time.

  Once she had every male eye on her, desiring her, she warned her admirers against the dangers of amore, singing in French, “If you don't love me, I love you. And if I love you, watch out for yourself.”

  There was a collective gasp in the audience. She slinked across the stage and Alejandro's mouth went dry. Without thinking he reached for the expensive champagne, which gave him no relief.

  Why am I responding in this manner to a mere stage production? The fact remained she was an actress playing a part. This was preposterous.

  Or is it? No woman could play the part so convincingly without possessing the qualities. She exuded sensuality. Every movement, every glance expressed her ability to captivate any man still breathing and to have him—if she so chose.

  Against his every wish, Alejandro felt himself wanting her.

  He watched the opera attentively, the story unfolding so real to him. She was Carmen, who played with men as if they were toys. When she tired of them, she tossed them aside. Don José, her initial conquest, did not want her, but she determined to have him.

  This femme fatale made the character believable: she lived by her own rules, no one else’s, absolutely true to herself with a courage and determination to match his own.

  “An exquisite performance. She plays the seductress very well, don't you think, Alejandro?” Esteban was the only person present who had the nerve to interrupt his reverie. Was his companion attempting to bring him back to earth?

  It won’t work. Not today.

  Alejandro shrugged and returned his eyes to the stage in a manner of dismissal. But it was not necessary, he was only aware of her whatever others might do or say.

  A slow smile came to Alejandro's lips as a tantalizing thought occurred to him. She was an opera singer and not a woman of high society as he had initially believed. The irony was that he might actually have a chance of bedding her.

  A very good chance, I should think. He had never known a woman earning her own livelihood who would hesitate in aligning herself with wealth and royalty. Her lack of interest in the foyer was surely an act intended to further entice him.

  After all, acting is her profession.

  The thought filled him with anticipation. His royal highness leaned back into the red velvet cushion of his chair, stretching his legs. He rubbed his hands along the armrest, feeling the soft velvet underneath his fingertips as he watched her move across the stage.

  The only peace he knew, the only happiness he knew, was when he was in the arms of a beautiful woman. In that moment in time, he forgot everything but the sensation of being surrounded by desire and adoration.

  Everything I need and want.

  Women practically fell about his feet, and he came alive in their reaction to him. He loved everything about the feminine sex at their best. He loved their beauty and their grace. He loved their nurturing and their sensitivity, their sweetness. He loved their observations and astuteness, noticing what men missed. He loved the feminine mind which favored conversation and connection to the jovial game of cards or the meaningless jousting match his male friends preferred. He loved their depth and their complexities. He even loved their coyness and manipulations.

  And he loved them in his bed.

  He had first realized at fourteen years of age that women responded to him. His friends always wished him to accompany them because, wherever the young prince went, invariably women materialized. He was quiet and shy, strikingly handsome, looked much older than he was, and of course, the prince of Spain. He could sit and say absolutely nothing, and women were almost fainting simply looking at him, not knowing a damned thing about him. Alejandro suddenly was surrounded by devotion and need after a childhood absent of these feelings.

  Their meaningless infatuation gave him an identity. Almost as if he existed.

  Almost.

  In the arms of a woman, he bought into the illusion for a brief moment of time.

  There was the irony: his station in life allowed him to create a situation to forget his station in life.

  If I had no station in life, would I exist? He wondered.

  Being born royal was the thing Alejandro most hated and most needed in the world. It caged and eradicated him while providing him with ecstacy, much like an illicit drug.

  And it gave him purpose. Unlike most royals, he did not see his birth as his God-given right, but his duty.

  The soprano turned and looked back at him over her bare shoulder, tossing her hair as she did so.

  Madre de Dios! He felt the sweat trickle down his brow.

  “Perhaps she had better be the one to watch out as she put it,” chuckled Saint-Cyr, as he motioned with his head to Alejandro.

  “Are my intentions that obvious, my friend?” Alejandro smiled momentarily at Saint-Cyr.

  “Crystal,” remarked Esteban.

  “But I didn't say anything,” he shrugged, his eyes returning to the stage.

  “Precisely,” replied Valentinois. “You have made remarkably little effort to entertain us all evening. Most unusual for you. Now, if Saint-Cyr were a dead bore, that wouldn't surprise me, but you, Alejandro…”

  Laughter ensued, but Alejandro's eyes returned to the stage, ignoring his social responsibilities once again with surprising ease.

  She entered into a powerful aria. Carmen's sentiment might be less than admirable, but her voice was that of an angel. He had never before heard such a range, her voice reaching to the heavens.

  She delivered the notes effortlessly. Her high notes were of such a crystalline lightness and purity that, as he listened, he could not help but be swept away. Her embellishments—trills and runs—were unbelievable to the ear.

  Suddenly and unpredictably there was a shift in his longing which Alejandro could not have anticipated. It wasn't that he no longer desired her, but somehow in hearing her sing, all his needs were met in that moment.

  For an instant, he knew no need, no lack, no desire for anything unrealized. He had far more than he wanted or had ever dreamed he wanted. He felt pure bliss. Joy. He forgot himself and was himself all in the same moment.

  Just as abruptly, terror encroached upon his happiness, crushing the present with a forbidden memory.

  It is happening again: the terror of abandonment.

  Vividly real.

  Excruciating…

  Swaying…

  The room stopped spinning. He opened his eyes and his blurred vision came into focus. He began to breathe again.

  The music filled Prince Alejandro’s heart as water fills a drowning man's lungs.

  Every joy was an illusion.

  Life had taught him this. He fought the pleasure, knowing it to be deception.

  Alejandro’s life flashed before his eyes. He reminded himself that the feelings of betrayal only whispered to him; he was no longer controlled by them. His feelings were now only information, no
thing more.

  Just as he had functioned out of need, others were only out to use him for their own purposes. Could he blame them when he was no different? There was no such thing as love, pure and unselfish.

  He knew now how to obtain what he wanted while acknowledging that it was all pretense, as was everything in life: all politics. One played the game in order to procure a desired outcome. Feeling was useless and forgotten.

  Until now.

  The emotions he had thought long dead resurfaced. He felt as if he would explode into a thousand pieces, his very identity disintegrating.

  His head was so light. As was his heart…

  But this time, unlike his childhood separation, instead of devastation and shattering, his pain dissolved into something sweet, something divine. The reality of reliving that memory he had so long suppressed, so long avoided, was deliriously painful but cleansing.

  And not nearly so bad as his anticipation of it. The memory was only temporarily terrifying, like the anticipation of battle, forgotten in the aftermath of victory. It must be akin to childbirth, the pain becoming something so sweet in the life which emerges.

  Alejandro felt suddenly light, almost free. He was feeling not pleasure, but something unnamable…something…

  The audience was clapping.

  Cheers. Deafening noise. Flowers falling from the sky.

  No, no! I don’t want this moment to end.

  It must not! I am almost to the finish line.

  He had almost found resolution to the most devastating experience of his life.

  I was so close. He threw his head into his hands.

  “Alejandro! Your highness!” Esteban was shaking him. “Are you all right? Speak to me!”

  16

  Something Lost

  “You think to hold it, it avoids you

  You think to avoid it, it holds you”

  —CARMEN by Georges Bizet

  Why does he watch me so intently? Generally Nicolette thrived on garnering attention, but the intensity of the prince’s focus was a bit unnerving.