Playing the Palace

by Paul Rudnick

  “Stand up. Let me see you.”

  I’d been crouched, rifling through a lower cabinet. I swallowed the rest of my cracker, almost choked, stood and moved closer to the queen, but not too close, because I didn’t want to come off as disrespectful and because while Catherine was eighty-two years old and seemingly unarmed, she was a powerful physical presence, like the most superior, battle-ready, potentially lethal pitbull, off its leash.

  “You resemble the photo, only you’re wearing more clothing and you’ve misplaced your cheap paper crown. You look like an American homosexual.”

  Was this a slur? A compliment? Would “an American homosexual” appear beneath my chin in my Scotland Yard mugshot?

  “I . . . I do?”

  “You look oddly innocent, even cheerful, and yet absurd. You’re not unattractive and you haven’t yet become as large and misshapen as many of your fellow citizens, particularly the politicians. Your hair strikes me as strenuously curated, your skin is acceptable, your dental work remains one of your homeland’s rare virtues, and your feet are inexplicably clean.”

  I was barefoot, which made me feel naked. But I wished I’d recorded the queen’s reference to cleanliness, to forward to my mom.

  “I’m trying to imagine what my grandson sees in you. Are you some breed of double-jointed sexual prodigy?”

  “Yes. Cirque du Soleil. Vegas.”

  I was so scared that I’d aimed for a joke, lacking any other option. There was an extended silence, and then the queen approached smiling, but thought better of it. Her disdain remained absolute but my approval rating had shifted some microscopic iota.

  “Come closer.”

  I walked slowly, in case this was a trick and she was luring me toward a hidden trapdoor, where I’d plunge into a palace subbasement and land among the skeletons of previous interlopers. To postpone this fate, I held out the box of crackers.

  “Would you . . . ?”

  “You dare to offer me a cracker, which belongs to me? Have you lost your mind and all sense of decency and decorum? Yes, I would like one.”

  I handed her a cracker, carefully and at arm’s length, not making any sudden moves. As Queen Catherine nibbled:

  “This cracker is dry, flavorless and ancient, which I prefer. I’d been told, by Mr. Bracegirdle and Ms. Talbot, that Edgar had sought to issue an invitation to you, a morally objectionable creature. At first I refused on principle, but I reconsidered. I was strategic: if there was a fractional hope of Edgar seeing you for whom and what you truly are, and thereby recognizing your utter unsuitability and sending you packing, then he must witness you among his people, and in his home. Where you will diminish and crumble, much like this cracker, and be swallowed by cold, harsh reality.”

  She sipped from my glass of milk, which I’d left on a countertop.

  I was about to either slink away in abject defeat or compose an outraged speech on behalf of the American dream, gay civil rights, and esteemed associate event architects who’d changed the course of history, who I’d invent, when the queen added, “Or not.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  I’d Googled: Edgar was Your Highness, Catherine was Your Majesty and the rest of us are just zip codes.

  “You assume that I’m some unspeakable, intractable ogre, rooted in the fossilised prejudice of centuries long past. Perhaps because you’ve glimpsed my slippers. But I have only one real desire, and that is for Edgar’s happiness and that of his brother. So I’ll ask three simple questions, and should you answer acceptably, I shall countenance your presence for the next several days.”

  “Go ahead. Ask me.”

  I could do this. I was a Trivial Pursuit grand master. I’d watched so many pageants where Miss Nebraska had sailed through the personality quiz on what she’d tell her younger self (she’d recommend “Don’t worry so much” but what she really meant was “Sleep with the judges”). I’m good under pressure. And if Edgar could face off with Abby and Miriam, I could handle Nana.

  “Will you be able to avoid any and all further embarrassment to the Crown?” the queen began. “Because Edgar cannot afford additional infamy.”

  “I’ll try. I promise. Because I would never want to do that.”

  “Excuse me, but does your T-shirt read ‘Honey, Just Don’t’?”

  The shirt had been a birthday gift from Adam.

  “Is that your next question?”

  “Certainly not. My next question is: Are you a person of integrity? Do you believe in doing what is just and necessary, no matter the cost?”

  “Yes. Unless I know in my deepest heart that being ruthlessly honest will only hurt the other person and that their new haircut will eventually grow out.”

  “Finally: do you love my grandson?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. My late husband Richard loved me deeply, and this provided an essential balance to every challenge. If a human being is loved, they have strength. If Edgar isn’t loved, on his own merits, I fear for him. And should you only pretend love, from lesser motives, I will see you not only removed but demolished. Edgar has undergone more than his portion of tragedy, and I will not permit another heartbeat of sorrow. So I ask: do you love him?”

  I hadn’t let myself get anywhere near this question. Edgar and I had been flung together and were making our way. I’d made awful mistakes. Love under any circumstances is the greatest risk, the most highwire undertaking, and I’d fooled myself in the past. I wanted to be in love, this yearning defined me, but I’d spent far too long, my entire life, arguing myself out of it. I wasn’t worthy, I wasn’t anyone’s type, my trapezius muscles were nonexistent, I drooled when I slept, I still hadn’t found the right pair of jeans, I was a minefield of quirks and obsessions and excuses.

  The queen was waiting. My mom would tell me, “Of course you’re worthy of love, even if the sideburns were a mistake we all lived through, because the left side never really kept up. Haven’t I taught you that everyone deserves to be loved, except serial killers, people who eat smelly food on the subway, and anyone who hits a child, even a child who keeps kicking the airplane seat in front of him? But you can’t lie to Queen Catherine, because she’s been around the block, and she’ll know. She’s lost her daughter, her son-in-law and her husband, and she hasn’t shattered, at least not in public. She’s tough, and her grandsons are all she has. So do this: picture Edgar’s face. Then imagine you’ll never get to see that face ever again. You’ll know.”

  I did this. I wasn’t sure if I believed in love at first sight, or even after only a few weeks; it’s so unlikely, the equivalent of learning another language from a single conversation, or memorizing a library at a glance. But—Edgar’s face. Smiling.

  “Yes,” I told Queen Catherine. “I love Edgar, but I haven’t told him, not yet, so please respect that. He’s a wonderful man, and I came here to see if I can make him happy, which I probably can’t. But I am sure fucking going to try.”

  I’d just said “fucking” to Queen Catherine. What was I thinking? Had I broken some ultimate taboo? But I wanted her to understand that I’d meant what I said. And there was something about the queen, something feral and watchful and shrewd; she’d heard the word “fucking” before. She’d used it. We weren’t on equal footing, but we’d both made our positions clear. Game on.

  “We shall fucking see,” said Queen Catherine.

  CHAPTER 18

  Edgar had a full schedule of meetings the next morning, but by noon we were in a car on our way to Wembley Stadium, just outside the city.

  “Are you keen on rugby?”

  In these politically forward, stereotype-busting times, I should reply that, as a proud queer man, I’m as capable of following sports as anyone else. Except I hate them. All of them. I don’t like having anything thrown to or at me, or running around a field chasing a small object, or a slightly larger object, or s
taking my self-esteem on defeating another team or individual in the course of a bewildering competition that causes head injuries. And of course I think that certain athletes are combustibly hot, especially when as naked as possible, but like opera and ballet, I feel sports should exist only as still photography.

  I don’t hate sports because I’m not man enough or because I never played catch with my dad or because I’ve never given them a chance. I hate sports because I’m sane and have taste and know that going to the gym is about being able to wear a T-shirt to brunch afterward. Of course I’ll aggressively cheer for a victorious female soccer team led by lesbians and honored with a ticker tape parade. But that’s as far as I go.

  “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been to a rugby game.”

  “Match. A rugby match.”

  “Or that either.”

  “But you’re sure you’ll hate it.”

  “I’m sure that I’ll like anything as long as I’m sitting next to you.”

  We both burst out laughing.

  “I was fairly certain you’d be resistant, and I actually adore rugby, but I’m scheming, because I adore you as well, and I want England to share that. But just right now, due to an incident in Manhattan involving a photograph of two fellows in bed, which I’ve entirely forgotten, England is somewhat divided. On the subject of you.”

  “Listen to this,” said James, from the front seat, checking his phone. “It’s from a squalid, wholly objectionable gossip website which I’m addicted to. And they’re taking a poll. Is Carter Ogden A) A gold-digging nonentity, B) An amateur porn star, or C) A Soviet agent. How shall I vote? Oh, wait, there’s an additional choice, D) An Associate Event Albatross.”

  I’d been veering away from these sites and royalty-oriented YouTube channels and the TMZ-style cable shows that I’d once mainlined. But Adam and Louise had sent me the GIFs of King Kong, with my head, clambering up Big Ben with Edgar in my paw; Edgar’s and my heads transposed onto a Dancing with the Stars tango; and Drag Race contestants blessedly supporting us by saying things like “Hate the hate, not the boys.” My mom has always told me, “Don’t feed the trolls,” but when an exceptionally nasty, bigoted tweet got the better of her, she’d log on with, “Carter Ogden is a terrific man and why don’t you just fuck off right back to your Klan rally, shithead.”

  Like everyone else, I’d always guessed that celebrity dish never drew blood and that the stars, wannabes and bottom-feeders hoarded the clicks, because while all publicity isn’t really good publicity, at least it’s free publicity. But now that I was playing for the other team, even as just a water boy, it was hard not to get defensive and to keep my hand from wandering to the keyboard, despite the fact that any kinder comment (“I think Edgar and Carter are hot, even if I’m the only one!”) was invariably met by a raging flood of anti-LGBTQ, anti-Semitic, anti-royal family sewage.

  “Here’s how to deal with the Internet,” Edgar explained. “Never read anything more than once. Don’t fall down a comments k-hole and waste your afternoon. And remember that while nothing really goes away, something always lands a few seconds later to replace it. So when somebody says I’m getting chubby, or that I’m dealing crystal meth, or that I’m, and these are my favourites, ‘rubbing my gayness in the world’s faces’ or ‘shoving it down everyone’s throats,’ I pray that Kim Kardashian will have another baby or another divorce, or introduce another buttock-firming miracle cream, or appear nude atop a Ferris wheel, to take the heat off of me.”

  Fair enough, but the real reason I might return to monitoring the online mood was to chart a course toward pleasing Queen Catherine and making Edgar proud of me. The pendulum might be swinging, because my mom just sent me someone’s tweet reading “Carter is cute in a nonthreatening, prom-date-placeholder, basic gay way.” I’m getting there!

  “Today,” said Edgar as the car approached the stadium, “will also be our first official appearance together, so I should prepare you.”

  “There are rules,” said James. “The royals are to be presented with dignity and restraint at all times. So you must stand slightly behind His Highness and never overshadow him or suggest you’re his equal. Avoid all overt displays of physical affection. Don’t be photographed eating, picking your nose or repositioning your crotch. Always appear to be fascinated by whatever His Highness is saying or doing. You may wave politely to spectators, whom the security detail will hold at bay. Should you speak to anyone other than His Highness, restrict your remarks to the weather, the noble spirit of athletic competition and the glorious nature of the British people.”

  “I apologise for all this,” added Edgar. “But it’s efficient, and I’d like the world to see us at our finest.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “Does this mean I can’t buy one of those huge foam rubber ‘We’re Number One’ hands, or paint my face in team colors, or drink beer from a gallon plastic cup, like people do at American football games?”

  “We can leave Mr. Ogden in the car,” said James. “We don’t even have to crack the window.”

  As we were being escorted to our seats, Edgar asked me, “Are you certain you’re up for this? It’s quite a bit to ask.”

  I was anxious, like the lesser partner of a Hollywood power couple nearing the red carpet at the Golden Globes. This was a moment of pure fame, divorced from any achievement or worthy cause. I’d borrowed one of Edgar’s navy cashmere topcoats, and he was wearing a down-filled vest, so we were going for a young-hedge-fund-managers-just-before-the-indictment vibe.

  “Let’s do this,” I said, and I was about to take Edgar’s arm until I caught myself, remembering why this wasn’t the right idea and was, in fact, the opposite of the right idea.

  Edgar was greeted with a roar of appreciation from the crowd as we took our place in a middle section of the bleachers, acting like two friendly, down-to-earth guys who just happened to be surrounded by a security team, who were wearing plain clothes to blend in.

  “Just breathe,” Ian said in my ear. “Only not too loudly.”

  “Pretend you’re straight,” Clark said, from over my shoulder. “Get drunk and fall down.”

  The stadium was packed, and the enthusiasm grew more boisterous as Edgar’s beaming, waving image was projected on the enormous Jumbotrons with a nervous and intimidated-looking American beside him, a cross between a dutiful Republican wife and someone who really needed to use the bathroom but was too jittery to ask for directions.

  “You’re doing splendidly,” Edgar whispered to me, without turning his head. “Steady on.”

  Just before the match started, Gerald showed up with his wife and twin two-year-old sons, all in matching plaid windbreakers, mufflers and caps. They began waving vigorously to the crowd even before anyone saw them, holding their babies aloft and manipulating their tiny hands to make them wave too.

  “Hello, chaps,” said Gerald as he and his family sat beside us. “Carter, this is my wife, Maureen.”

  “The Duchess of Longshire,” Maureen added quickly, extending her mittened hand as if she expected me to kiss it. Maureen was very pretty in a perfected way, with a sheaf of expensively blonde hair, expertly displayed. She was still in her twenties but wore the masklike makeup of an older woman, as if she’d chosen the face she wanted from a catalogue and had it permanently installed, with a whitened sheen that looks ghostly in person but flawless in high-definition video. She was smiling brightly, as if she wanted to sell me something and then kill me.

  “So nice to meet you. Although of course I’ve seen the photo. So awfully sorry.”

  As the match got underway, I activated my high school technique for comprehending quantum physics: I stared really hard and opened my eyes as wide as I could, as if sheer focus could do the trick. But just as with physics, this didn’t work. The game was like football only with less headgear and padding and a kind of rugged soccer ball. I kept an eye out for wooden paddles
until I remembered that was cricket. Every so often something would happen and the team members would run around in random patterns, the ball would get kicked and half the crowd would leap to their feet and cheer. Edgar cheered for both teams, since he couldn’t show favoritism, but he was truly into the game itself, so I kept telling myself, It’s fine, some very nice people enjoy eating ground glass.

  “You’re hating every second of this, aren’t you?” Edgar whispered to me, smiling.

  “No, no, it’s great, I was just thinking about how Ralph Lauren once had a line of cheaper sportswear called Rugby, but he shut it down.”

  As the game kept going, I tried to anticipate when Edgar would stand and cheer, but I was always a beat behind, while Gerald and Maureen were holding their babies over their heads and shaking them as if change might fall out.

  “Here’s what you need to do,” Edgar confided. “Imagine that every man on each team is secretly in love with a man on the opposing team, and after the next goal, envision all of them ripping off their jerseys and making out passionately on the field.”

  Finally! Without helmets or shoulder pads I could see that the players were major hot stuff, and more brawny and rambunctious than America’s billionaire quarterbacks, who often seem doughy and just a few Big Macs away from beer-bellied middle age.

  I began pairing up the players, placing favorites in steamy locker room grind sessions or motel room marathons, inventing chest hair patterns and “You’re buggerin’ me right proud” rugby porn chatter.

  Then it happened: a goal was scored and I saw a full-field orgy, with all the players naked and sweating and going at it ecstatically, in couples, threeways and pileups. My imagination took over, and I was hired as a sex referee, running onto the field to get a closer look before making a call, like “Touchdown!”, “Bravo!” or “Great use of hands!” I was so into my version of the match that I jumped up beside Edgar and cheered every decibel as lustily, or maybe moreso. As we joined the stadium in banshee howling and fist-pumping, I got so overheated that I grabbed Edgar and hugged him.