The Virgin King

by John Michael Curlovich

Logan sighed. This was worse than pulling teeth. “Robert, what do they export?”

  “Goats and nuts.”

  “Jesus.” The waiter brought the wine and poured for them. Logan sipped his; it was too sweet for his taste. Making a face, he asked, “What’s this crisis they’re having?”

  The waiter came with their appetizers. Robert poured more wine for them both and dug into his salad eagerly. “God, I love feta cheese.”

  “You’re being a cheese yourself. I want to know about this crisis.”

  “I’m not sure how much of a crisis it really is, except to them. Their king died last month and they’re having trouble finding a successor.”

  “Who wouldn’t want to be king? I mean, even in a hole-in-the-wall country, a king’s a king.”

  “It’s not that simple. Bulvania’s a hereditary monarchy. It was founded by some German knight in the Middle Ages who skipped out on one of the Crusades and decided to start his own country. Raymond von Flausenthurm, I think was his name. The country’s been ruled by his male descendants ever since. All of them named Raymond.”

  “So on top of everything else, they don’t have any imagination.”

  “Will you stop complaining? Anyway, the last one, Raymond XXXIX, died a month or so ago. He died without any children, so he seems to have been the last of his line. There are a few scattered peasants—farmers and such—who were distantly related to the royal line but none of them are suited to run the country. And there’s one old man, a Grand Duke or some such. He was the brother of King Raymond, I think. He’d normally succeed to the throne, but he’s, like, a 108 and he doesn’t want it.”

  Logan sipped his wine. “And how did Raymond XXXIX cash in his chips?”

  “Please, Logan. If you’re going to be a diplomat—”

  “I’m not.”

  “Of course. But for God’s sake try and be a little more diplomatic.”

  The waiter came with Rob’s spanakopita and Logan’s burger, refilled their glasses and left discreetly. Rob took a long drink. “Well, the official communiqué says the king died in a cuckoo clock incident.”

  Logan couldn’t stop laughing. “A—! What the hell is that?”

  “Who knows? Cuckoo clocks are the Bulvania’s major export, after all. There’s a big factory in the capital.”

  “Maybe he fell into the works at the factory. Maybe the cuckoos pecked him to death.”

  Rob lowered his voice and looked around. “The unofficial reports all say he was with his mistress when it happened.”

  “You don’t have to be so furtive. It’s hardly classified information that kings have mistresses.”

  “He had a wife, too, Queen Theodora. She wanted to succeed her late husband, but she never produced an heir so the Council of Nobles or Privy Council or whatever they call it couldn’t even appoint her regent and passed over her.”

  “Poor queen.”

  “You’re sounding a lot like a poor queen yourself, Logan. Look on the bright side. These diplomatic appointments have a short shelf life. Most ambassadors don’t stay on the job for more than a couple of years.”

  “Two years in the salt mines is two years out of my life.”

  Rob reached across the table and took his hand. “Poor, sad Logan. What can I do to make you feel better?”

  “You know damn well. Let’s finish eating and get out of here.”

  “I should know better. We both know things never worked out between us.” He paid the check and got to his feet. “But God damn you, you’re just too cute.”

  “Let’s make love, Rob. For old time’s sake.”

  Rob leaned across the table and kissed him. “I’m not sure that would be a good idea.” He repeated with a bit of emphasis, “Things didn’t work out between us, remember?”

  Logan squeezed his hand and stroked his forearm. “Sexually, things were fantastic. It was all the other stuff we couldn’t make work.” Come on, Rob. I really need it.”

  They left the restaurant and walked hand in hand through the city. The famous national monuments were lit up—the Capitol, the Washington Monument and the rest—giving the landscape a not-quite-real aspect. Logan kept turning the conversation back to the time when they were lovers, wanting to spark an erotic reaction. Rob resisted, but Logan was determined.

  Rob worked at finding neutral topics. “When did you say your opening is?”

  “Two weekends from now. Will you be there? Maybe we can—”

  “I’ll be out of the country, I’m afraid. Otherwise, you know I’d come.”

  Logan threw his arms around him and kissed him, deeply and passionately. “Why don’t I make you come right now?”

  Rob kissed back. Then he caught himself. “It would be a mistake, Logan. I know you. You’d want things to go further. And we—”

  “Please, Rob.”

  “If you ever do figure out what you want, and when you meet the man who can give it to you, you’ll really be something. But Logan darling, you haven’t figured it out, and I’m not that guy.”

  They were at Rob’s apartment building. Rob kissed him, and it was a long, warm kiss. Rob’s resolve finally broke down. They went inside and screwed like mad rabbits.

  Chapter Four

  The Zinc, Inc. board met two days later. Marge had managed to get hold of all the directors but two who were on vacation in the Australian outback. Unfortunately, they were P.T.’s two biggest allies on the board, men he could count on to support him no matter what.

  Things didn’t go exactly as P.T. hoped. Tibbets, the scientist, gave a preliminary report that verified the rumor that an enormous store of tin had been found in the hills behind Bulvania’s capital. The prospect of a new lode of tin ore, and of their company getting exclusive rights to it, had the directors all but salivating. After a bit of discussion, they arrived at a consensus: P.T. was to do anything in his power to get his hands on that metal for Zinc, Inc.—anything, up to and including accepting the ambassadorship and relocating to Bulvania.

  “But I don’t want to go to Bulvania,” P.T. protested.

  “That is beside the point.” P.T.’s biggest rival on the board, Jerrold Carothers, was almost breezy as he said it. “You have an obligation to this corporation and its stockholders. If you miss this opportunity to increase the company’s worth… ” He didn’t out and say the board would have to replace him as CEO, but the threat was pretty clear; a clear majority of the board was backing Carothers.

  P.T. protested a few more times, but it was clear he was stuck. When the meeting ended, he went back to his office and sulked. There had to be some way out of this, but he was damned if he could see it. When, a few minutes later, the cuckoo popped out of its clock and chirped at him, he threw his coffee cup at it.

  An hour later, Logan showed up. His manner was light and casual. “I noticed a few of the objects in your cases need some conservation work. I’m going to take them to a friend of mine to see if he—” His father was sulking, not paying the least attention to him; it wasn’t like him at all. “Oh. So… what did the board decide?”

  P.T. glared at him. “We’re going to Bulvania, that’s what.”

  It caught Logan off guard. “Has the earth trembled and I didn’t notice? You’ve always had the board of directors in your hip pocket. How could they—”

  “Carothers.” He snorted the word contemptuously. “The prospect of getting me out of the country so he can take over the company has given him a major erection.”

  “Lucky bastard.”

  “I’m serious, Logan. He’s been jockeying to take my place as CEO since the day he joined the board. This ambassadorship will be exile in more ways than one.”

  “You’ll come out of this just fine, dad. You always do. If you can actually get hold of all that metal for the company, your position will be stronger than ever.”

  “If. That’s the trouble, isn’t it? If. What the hell do I know about doing business in Bulvania? For all I know, their currency consists of potatoes and cabba
ges.”

  “It can’t be that bad. And you won’t exactly be on your own. You’ll have the power of the U.S. government behind you. The embassy staff there will be able to give you all the guidance you need. It shouldn’t be too hard to turn this whole thing to your advantage.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Our advantage, you mean.”

  Logan froze. “You’re not really serious about making me go too, are you?”

  “Perfectly serious. I’ll need someone I can lean on, someone I can trust.”

  “Get a dog, then. I don’t want to go to Bulvania.”

  “That’s exactly what I said to the board, and you see where it got me. Look on the bright side. As official photographer you’ll have a government expense account. You’ll have more fancy cameras than you know what to do with.”

  “I already do. Dad, don’t do this to me. I’ve just met the cutest guy, and we—”

  “Exactly. It really is time for you to settle down. And find a career that will give you some substance, some status, not just these damn photo exhibitions of yours.”

  “My photography—”

  “Will come in handy. Being an official State Department photographer will look good on your resume. It’ll impress the hell out of everyone. You’ll be able to work as a photojournalist anywhere you want.”

  Logan was getting desperate to find some argument against what his father wanted to do. “I don’t want to impress anyone but this guy I met.”

  “You can do better.”

  “How can you say that? You don’t even know him.”

  “I know the kind of guys you hook up with. Graffiti artists, government clerks, actors… Why don’t you find a nice, understanding lesbian heiress and get married? The appearance of respectability, of normality, would—”

  “We don’t do that anymore. That time is past.”

  “I’ll have Marge do some research on Bulvania for us. She’ll dig up a lot that’s really useful, not just the stuff we’ll hear in our State Department briefing.”

  “Dad, please.”

  P.T. had argued long enough. “My mind is made up. You’re coming with me. I couldn’t survive there without you. If you refuse, that’ll be the end of your allowance and your trust fund.”

  Logan fell silent. After a long pause he said quietly, “Oh.”

  “You’ve had a free ride for far too long, Logan. It’s time for you to start earning a respectable living.”

  “Oh.” He looked away. “Oh.”

  “Look, I’m going to need you, son. For the first time in either of our lives, I’m really going to need you. “Don’t let me down.”

  “You’re not leaving me much choice.”

  P.T. buzzed for Marge. She had been his private secretary for years; she was the kind of assistant who knew what her boss wanted almost before he did.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Marge, I’m going to ask you something.”

  Her puzzlement showed. “Whatever you like, sir.”

  “You’ve heard about this ambassador thing I’m stuck with?”

  “Of course, sir. And congratulations. A friend of mine was there once. It was part of a package tour of the Black Sea region. The Crimea, Yalta, Georgia. And Bulvania. She said it was... quaint. But you must know all about that area, what with your ancestry and all.”

  He went on. “Logan here will be coming along as my official photographer and personal assistant.”

  She nodded at him. “Congratulations to you too, sir.”

  “Don’t rub it in,” Logan grumped.

  “So, Marge, I’m wondering if you’d be willing to come along too, as my secretary. I’ll need people I can depend on.”

  “Oh, Mr. Bockwein, I’d be thrilled! My friend Alice says the Black Sea is beautiful!”

  So the deal was done. Logan realized there was less and less wiggle room for him; everything and everyone seemed to be stacking up against him.

  * * *

  When he left a few minutes later, he stopped at Marge’s desk. “You’re not serious about this Bulvanian thing, are you?”

  “I couldn’t be more serious.” Marge was in early middle age. Her hair was just beginning to show some gray, and her face was starting to show a few wrinkles, but she had too much self-respect to resort to cosmetics to cover it. Logan had always found her a wry, no-nonsense type; her enthusiasm for Bulvania surprised him.

  “I know you, Marge. You’re even more of a devoted urbanite than I am. You can’t really want to relocate to the Third World.”

  “I can and I do. If you knew me as well as you think you do, you’d know how burned-out I am by this city. Just yesterday, doing some shopping, I found myself face to face with three conservative congressmen. It was a repulsive experience.”

  “There are conservatives everywhere. Unfortunately.”

  “Not like these, Logan. You know the old saying: Washington is Hollywood for ugly people. The pace here, the pressure, the constant fighting… I’ve had enough.”

  He laughed. She had a point, for what it was worth. “But isn’t going to Bulvania a bit of an extreme reaction?”

  Marge shrugged. “You don’t want to go, I take it.”

  “I’d rather be in hell with my back broken.”

  She frowned, then broke out in a laugh. “It can’t be that bad. It really is a pretty part of the world, judging from everything I know.”

  There was no point bickering about it. “How’s Mary?”

  Marge leaned back in her desk chair. “She’s left me for a younger woman.”

  “Oh. Oh.” Then it clicked. “I thought there was more to this Bulvanian thing than just a desire to see the Black Sea.”

  “At this point I want to see anything that doesn’t look like the American gay community.”

  “Should I take that picture of the two of you out of the exhibition?”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t make any difference one way or the other.”

  “Are you coming to the opening?”

  “I’d sooner lose a tooth. I told you, I’ve had it with the gay community.”

  The intercom buzzed. “He wants me again. Look, I’ll talk to you another time, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Chapter Five

  On the far side of the world, at the northeast corner of the Black Sea, on an island in the river that flowed through Flausenthurmopolis, stood the villa of Duke Otto Ludwig von Schlutow. Unlike most of the city, this place was not at all Germanic-gingerbready-fairy-tale architecture, but a rigid, upright classical building fronted by elegant columns. In Rome or Athens it would have fit right in; in Flausenthurmopolis, it always struck visitors as jarring.

  The Schlutow family had been among Bulvania’s ruling elite almost since the day the country was founded. The first Duke von Schlutow has been a close friend and comrade of the country’s founder, Raymond von Flausenthurm. That family connection had boosted the Schlutows’ family fortunes for centuries. They had been typical—some said archetypal—old world aristocrats, arrogant, condescending and corrupt since time out of mind.

  But now that the royal family, the Flausenthurms, were near extinction, in a situation that shook the whole country, Duke von Schlutow saw not crisis but opportunity.

  Not long after the day when Captain Borodenko and his men had made their visit to the mountaintop monastery, the duke had a royal visitor. She was shown into his parlor, where she reclined grandly on a plush brocade divan. If it had been anyone else, she’d have been kept waiting. But she was much too important for that. Duke von Schlutow joined her at once.

  “Queen Theodora.” He bowed deeply to her. There were servants in the room, and he had to put on a proper show. But the instant they were gone he dropped any pretense of formality and joined her on the divan, took her hand and kissed it. “I’ve been wondering when you’d come.”

  Theodora was tall, blonde, regal in her bearing—every inch a queen. You’d have picked her out as royalty from 20 yards away. “And I’ve been wond
ering why you’ve been avoiding the palace. You know how much I have to do. The arrangements for the royal funeral alone are exhausting.”

  “Tradition must be observed.” The duke was dark, thin, and sported a black goatee. He looked exactly like the villainous noblemen in scores of silent movies. “The country needs stability.”

  “The country needs my royal self, with you at my side, and you know it.”

  “Of course. But we must go through the motions of respecting tradition. The surviving Flausenthurms must be considered for the royal succession. That is why the Privy Council has the Royal Guard scouring the country for the next king. We’ll even survey the rest of Europe, if need be.”

  Beside the divan was a small table, and on it was a plate of bonbons. The queen took one, bit into it and made a sour face. “Coconut. You know I hate coconut.”

  “My apologies.”

  On the nearest wall was a large cuckoo clock. The gears whirred loudly, and the cuckoo popped out on its little platform and chirped twice. Both the queen and the duke ignored it, or rather, they seemed not to hear it. They went on exactly as if nothing had interrupted the flow of their talk.

  “The latest Flausenthurm,” she explained in an offhand tone, “the one they dug up in that monastery, is at the palace now. I’ve had the staff install him in the farthest wing from my quarters.”

  “Probably a wise move.” The duke took a bonbon and ate. “Have you seen him yet?”

  She nodded and took another one. “And if he is a king, I’m Madame Curie. He’s spindly, scraggly and looks like he hasn’t been near a bathtub for years.”

  “That bad? We’ve discussed it often enough. If you marry the new king, and if he’s sufficiently pliable, you and I are made.”

  “Marry him? Go to the palace and take a good look at him, Otto. You’d have to boil him in a strong soap first.”

  “He can’t be that horrible. After that clot you were married to—er, I mean, our late, divinely appointed ruler—how much worse can this one be?”

  “At least my late husband changed his socks every day. This one doesn’t even seem to own any. I’m hungry. Do you have any pheasant?”