The other man could not have been more than thirty-five. He was rather short, had a big nose and jet-black hair slicked back with brilliantine. He could have passed for a Portuguese had he not been wearing the uniform of an air force major of who knows which army. He was browsing through a days-old London Times; the foreign press arrived with a few days’ delay. He seemed to have come upon something interesting, and informed his friend.
‘Here it is.’
‘What?’
‘Associated Press reports: Romania’s ex-King Carol and his mistress flee to Portugal.’ He raised his eyes. ‘Shall I read on?’
It took the civilian a few seconds to think about it before saying:
‘Well... all right, go ahead.’
‘Bucharest, 5 March. Romania’s ex-King Carol and his long-standing mistress, the redhead Elena, better known as Magda Lupescu, have fled Spain for Portugal, carrying Polish diplomatic papers. Until yesterday the controversial couple had been in Andalusia under police surveillance following Romania’s extradition request on charges of having embezzled state funds and illegally appropriated state goods. Carol abdicated last September in favour of his son Michael, and together with his mistress he travelled across Europe until he reached Spain where he was detained by the authorities and unsuccessfully fought for permission to continue his journey, most probably to the United States. They took flight last Monday while on their daily drive in the countryside, when their powerful American motorcar raced away from their police escort near Seville and headed for the Portuguese border. The automobile was later found abandoned in the woods. The couple was alone in the car and it is believed that they carried no luggage except for their personal effects and the crown jewels. They left nothing of value behind other than a pack of dogs and three automobiles, including the said Buick abandoned in the woods. All their valuable luggage, including Madame Lupescu’s furs and an invaluable collection of more than forty works of art, had been secretly transferred abroad a few days earlier. When the police searched their hotel rooms in Seville they did not even find the manuscript of the memoirs the king is believed to be writing... Continued on the next page... Wait until I find it. Here it is... Aha... It has been learned in Lisbon that Carol has arrived in the country and is in a safe place, in a friend’s villa in the coastal town of Estoril. It has also been learned that the king, an experienced rally driver, drove all the way from Seville himself.’
The man with the moustache sighed.
‘Does it all have to be like this?’
‘What exactly do you mean?’ the major asked, pretending not to understand.
‘Well, this bit about the driving. And what on earth is this about the memoirs?’
‘Well, we need something to keep it interesting.’
‘If you say so. I guess you understand these things...’ The man sighed as placidly as before. ‘Anything else interesting there?’
‘Most of the world news is from these parts. Things over there are heating up,’ said the major, looking at the other man askance as if not knowing whether he should continue reading. He was encouraged by what he saw and so he read on.
‘All right: Belgrade, 5 March. AP. High-level diplomatic sources in the Yugoslav capital claim that Ion Antonescu, the Prime Minister of Romania, left for Vienna today for urgent consultations with Reichsmarschall Göring on the Soviet demand that Romania cede its Black Sea ports to Russia without delay. The same circles claim that the Russian demand is in the nature of an ultimatum and that...’
‘Wait. Stop there!’ The man with the moustache did not want to listen to any more. ‘How about in the future you spare me such news? You’re upsetting me for no reason... I don’t want to hear anything about that man.’
The officer simply nodded and the civilian returned to perusing the sports page. An awkward silence ensued, the kind that usually follows such emotional outbursts. Suddenly he felt he had been too hard on his friend, and so he pretended that he wanted to know what else was new, just to ease the tension.
‘Is there anything that isn’t to do with Antonescu?’ he asked the man with the moustache.
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘That all the neighbouring countries have mobilized their armies. Us, the Yugoslavs, the Bulgarians. And that tomorrow Prince Paul of Yugoslavia is going to Ribbentrop to see what he can do. That’s more or less it...’
‘I feel sorry for them. Especially for my dear Prince Paul. They’re trying to avoid getting any blood on their sleeves... I don’t know if anybody can avoid war now. This war is like a pandemic, don’t you think? If war breaks out in the Balkans as well, then all that’s missing is Spain and Portugal... Is it possible to pull through without devastation and bloodshed? I don’t know if I’d be able to do it if I were in power...’ the gentleman with the moustache said, contemplating his friend. And he would have continued had somebody or something cavorting around his trouser legs not stopped him in mid-sentence.
* * *
It was Sunday and there was no school. Until a little while ago, Gaby had been practising piano scales; they were so boring you would think they had been invented just to torture children. After that he had roamed aimlessly around the hotel with Fennec. He set off for the front door to keep Manuel company, as they had agreed the day before. Outside, it was as sunny as a summer’s day.
The doorman was not at his post, not inside or outside the front door. Now what? Should he and Fennec wait for him? Or should they go to the kitchen? While he was making up his mind, Fennec made the decision for them. She ran off to the card room. Gaby went after her and found himself standing face to face with a gentleman he did not know.
This gentleman was wearing a light suit. His moustache was so pompous that it looked fake, and his slightly red nose was the kind often found on people who like to drink. True, Gaby was used to being looked at like a ghost, but this man eyed him differently. He appeared interested rather than surprised. The man gave him such a friendly look that the boy thought he must have recognized him from somewhere. The gentleman smiled at him, saying:
‘Sunteti roman?’
‘S’il vous plait, monsieur?’ the boy said, not understanding.
‘I am Carol,’ the gentleman introduced himself.
‘I am Gavriel; Gaby,’ the boy replied politely.
‘Pleased to meet you, Gaby.’
‘Pleased to meet you too, Sir.’
‘May I know where you’re from?’ the gentleman with the moustache asked.
‘I’m from Belgium. And you, Sir?’
‘I am from Romania.’
‘We haven’t met before?’
‘No. We haven’t met before.’
‘May I ask you something, Mr Carol, without you getting offended?’
‘Go right ahead.’
‘Why are you talking to me when you’ve never seen me before?’
‘From the way you dress I thought you might be Romanian, like me. I only asked you if you were Romanian.’
‘My ancestors moved to Belgium from Romania,’ said the boy.
‘Interesting,’ Mr Carol said, pleased. ‘I’ll tell you something. Now that you have removed your hat there is something about you that reminds me of my son when he was a child. He is fair like you. In any case, I’m sorry if I disturbed you.’
‘You didn’t disturb me. Are you new here?’
‘I’ve just arrived,’ Carol explained. ‘And you?’
‘I’ve been here since last spring,’ replied the boy.
‘How old are you?’
‘Almost eleven.’
‘Do you go to school?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Are you a good student?’
‘Yes... More or less... And what work do you do?’
‘It’s complicated,’ the gentleman replied. ‘The closest to the truth is that I don’t work.’
‘I thought all grown-ups work, just as all children go to school.’
‘I used to work. I don’t
work now because I’m retired,’ Carol confessed. ‘Sit down, let’s talk properly. Ernest, order a juice for my new friend here.’
The boy sat down, but he kept on with his questions.
‘Who would guess that you’re a pensioner? You’re not old... What did you do before you became a pensioner?’
‘What did I do?’ Here the gentleman stopped to think for a minute, as if that was a really difficult question. Finally, he said:
‘I was a monarch.’
‘A monarch? A king or an emperor?’
‘A king. The King of Romania.’
‘And now you’re not the King of Romania anymore?’
‘Now I’m not the king of anything anymore.’
‘Does Romania have a king now?’
‘It does. My son is the king now.’
‘The son I look like?’
‘The very one.’
‘Nice! Are you sorry that you’re not the king anymore?’
‘No!’ the king replied like a shot, then stopped to ponder whether he was being honest, and decided he was. ‘No, I’m not the least sorry. But I’m not sorry that I was what I was, either.’
‘How many subjects did you have?’
‘According to the 1930 census, over eighteen million.’
‘And now that you’re not the king anymore, do you still have subjects?’
‘Of course not,’ the king laughed.
‘Your son didn’t let you keep even one?’
Now the king roared with laughter.
‘I don’t really have subjects. It hasn’t occurred to anybody yet to leave me some subjects. Even I haven’t thought of it,’ Carol said laughing, as if he had discovered something very funny and new. But now that I think about it, I do have some left over. A very small number, mind you... Let’s see...’ and his lips moved as he started counting to himself, until he finally declared:
‘I have exactly eleven subjects. They are people who have decided, in the name of our friendship, not to accept my abdication.’
‘That’s very nice of them. Why did they decide that?’
‘Some out of friendship, some to take advantage of it, some out of pity and some because they had no choice. Isn’t that right, Ernest? Have I forgotten anything?’
That startled the officer, who had been leafing through the papers, pretending not to be listening to their conversation. He took his time before answering.
‘I don’t think so, Your Majesty.’
The boy wanted to know more.
‘Is it enough to have eleven subjects?’
‘It depends on what you want to achieve. If you are actually a ruler, then whether they like it or not, people are born as your subjects. If you are an ex-king, as in my case, then, judging from today’s conversation, the only subjects I have left are those who decide of their own free will to be so. They are fewer in number, but made of better stuff.’
‘What does free will mean?’
‘It means that you do what you want, are with whom you want and are where you want to be. What would you do if you could?’
‘I wish I could be with my mother and father, regardless of where they are.’
‘And where are your parents?’
‘They are on their way... I am waiting for them here.’ The boy did not want to dwell on the subject.
‘You came on your own?’
‘Yes. I came on my own, but I’m not alone. I’ve got friends. And I’ve got a dog.’ He pointed to the little dog running around.
The boy suddenly felt sad and decided to ask the king for something.
‘Your Majesty, I wish my mother and father could be here as quickly as possible... Being a king, could you help me somehow?’
The king, who seemed to have discovered a new talent as a teacher, proceeded to explain:
‘Well, my young friend, one of the most important skills a good ruler must have is not to make promises he cannot keep. Imagine if I were to order my people to look for your parents. Where would they start? Where would they look for them? I don’t think it’s feasible right now because your parents are probably hiding from the war and hardly anybody knows where they are. If I were to send somebody out to look for them, Ernest for example, and if that somebody were to fail, whose fault would it be?’
Gaby replied without a second’s hesitation:
‘Yours.’
‘That’s right,’ said the king. ‘All we can expect of somebody is what that person can do at the given moment. But I promise to do everything in my power to help you as soon as the time is right.’
‘I understand. And when do you think that might be?’ Gaby wanted to know.
‘The soonest is if there is a truce, the latest is when the war is over,’ said the king.
‘Is it hard being a king?’
‘Well... it is not easy,’ replied the king.
‘I think it must be much easier to be a king than to be a doorman,’ the boy declared.
‘Yes and no. Kings, I cannot deny, have many privileges, but being a doorman has its advantages as well.’
‘For example?’
‘For example, when a doorman wants to marry, he can choose from lots of girls and fall in love with anyone he wants. But when I wanted to marry, I could only choose from among princesses. There were only three suitable girls at the time and I was simply unable to fall in love with any of them.’
‘And what if a doorman wants to marry a princess?’
‘You have a point there, I must admit.’
‘I won’t be able to fall in love with just any girl either. She’ll have to be of my faith. And my parents will have to like her.’
‘There you go. Like me.’
The king looked at his watch. As he started to stand up the fleet Ernest was on his feet ready to come to his assistance.
‘I see that this conversation can go on and on, and we have things to do... What do you think about coming to see me tomorrow and giving me some information about your parents? Does that sound like a reasonable proposition?’
‘Perfectly reasonable,’ Gaby was glad that the king had not forgotten his promise.
‘As of today, we won’t be staying at the Palácio anymore. The major will pick you up in the car. He likes to drive. He was a rally racer in his youth. Isn’t that so, Ernest?’
‘At your service, Your Majesty,’ said Ernest saluting. Urdăreanu took advantage of any opportunity to salute.
‘Agreed?’ the king asked his young friend.
‘Agreed. We’ll see each other tomorrow,’ Gaby said as he was leaving.
‘A nice boy,’ said Carol to his most loyal subject. ‘It’s as if he’s from another planet.’
Major Urdăreanu laughed. He always laughed at all of the king’s jokes, even when they were not funny, but this one made him really laugh. His royal friend’s sincere liking for this unusual boy surprised him, especially as the king had two sons of his own, one born out of wedlock and the other in marriage, but he took no interest in either of them.
THE IRON CROWN
The two friends met one spring day on the terrace of a villa with a view of the pale sky and the steel grey ocean.
‘Good afternoon, Your Majesty!’ Gaby said bowing; apparently somebody had taught him in the interim how to address a king.
As usual, the boy was wearing his only black suit. With his starched, white shirt, and trying to make sure to follow protocol, he looked like a functionary from a funeral parlour who has come to express condolences and measure the deceased for his coffin. Except he was a child.
Fennec immediately inserted herself among the pedigree dogs. They sniffed under each other’s tails until Fennec was fully integrated into the royal pack. Violating royal protocol, the king rose from his rattan throne, a masterpiece of workmanship, to shake the boy’s hand.
‘Welcome, my young friend, to our humble temporary home!’ the king said, and introduced him to the redheaded lady in a light dress sitting next to him.
‘Elena, thi
s is my friend Gavriel. Gaby, this is Elena.’
‘Pleased to meet you, young man. Carol often mentions you, and in a good way too,’ said the lady.
‘Really?’ You could tell from the boy’s expression that he was pleased.
‘Only the best,’ affirmed the lady.
Gaby did not know how to address her, so he asked very politely:
‘Are you the queen?’
‘No, I’m not,’ she replied in a tone that immediately made it clear she did not like the question. Gaby was somewhat wrong-footed. He had apparently tripped up somehow. After a moment’s silence Elena said:
‘The first strawberries of the season have arrived. Let’s go and see how they taste!’ she said briskly, walking into the house as if she was going to serve the fruit herself.
‘I missed an excellent opportunity to keep quiet,’ the boy said.
Carol did not appear to be particularly upset.
‘Don’t worry. Just don’t mention queens and everything will be all right.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know it would upset her.’
‘How could you know?’
‘But what’s the problem?’
‘It’s hard to explain even to an adult.’
Gaby shrugged his shoulders.
‘All right, whatever you say. But I don’t see what can be so complicated that I wouldn’t be able to understand it.’
‘You’re right,’ the king said, and since Elena was not coming back he had time to try to explain their complicated relationship to his young friend.
‘The two of us are not, so to speak, quite married... We have been living together for years and we love each other, but we haven’t yet had it officially recorded...’
‘You can’t get married?’
‘We could now but that would not make Elena queen. Since I’m no longer king, she could, at best, be a princess. Anything you don’t understand?’
‘I think I understood everything. She is your mistress. Like Madame de Pompadour? Right?’
‘Something like that,’ laughed the king. ‘Let’s not talk about it anymore.’
‘Certainly. Again, I’m sorry. I really don’t want to bother you. I’d like to give this to you and then I can go straight home,’ said the slightly embarrassed boy, holding out a scrap of paper with names written out in a child’s handwriting.
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