‘Goodness, son, you’re not bothering me at all! Quite the opposite,’ Carol said, putting on his reading glasses to check that everything was in order. ‘I can’t pronounce their names properly but it all looks legible. I’ll put it all down in my official diary later.’
‘I have their pictures as well...’ The boy pulled three photographs out of the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘This is my mother, this is my father and this is the three of us.’
The first photo was of a roundish woman in a simple dark dress, wearing a scarf over her hair. The second was of a man in a dark suit and white shirt, with a strange hat and long sideburns hanging on either side of his face. The third was of the two adults and a boy, a small version of his father, dressed identically. That was probably Gaby a few years earlier.
The king looked at the pictures and asked a few questions, but out of decency he did not inquire any further and gave the photos back to Gaby. The boy received the pictures as reverently as if they were religious relics and slipped them back into his jacket pocket.
‘Your Majesty, do you have any photographs of your family that I could see?’
One look from the king was enough for Ernest, who had been standing silently nearby, to bring over a thick photo album. Imprinted in gold on the leather binding were the initials CII and a royal crown. The king placed the album on the table so that the boy could look through it. The first photo was of a bearded older man. He had so many medals on his chest that at first Gaby thought it was some kind of armour.
‘That is my great-uncle, Carol I,’ said Carol II.
‘He looks angry,’ the boy observed.
‘He’s not angry. He was constantly worried. He wasn’t a bad man, but before becoming king he was a Prussian officer and he took his job too seriously. His wife, the queen, used to tease him that he slept with the crown on his head,’ the king laughed. ‘This is her, Queen Elizabeth, with their daughter. The child died when she was three and so the king named his nephew, my father, the heir presumptive. The queen never recovered from the loss of their daughter. You can’t imagine what a dear woman my great-aunt was. She was nice, she painted, she wrote poetry and, you won’t believe it, she was a republican,’ Carol said.
Turning the page, they came to a photo of three men: one a bearded older man, the other a young officer with a moustache and the third a golden-haired young boy, all three in the same kind of uniform, their swords hanging from their belts.
‘This is the three of us, my great-uncle, my father when he was the crown prince and me. I was as old then as you are now,’ Carol said, moving on to a picture of a bearded gentleman with a crown on his head, taken in profile, as if for a postage stamp. ‘That’s my late father when he was king. He had his photograph taken wearing a crown but he never ruled. My mother ruled. She was English, a grand-daughter of Queen Victoria, and she looked down on everybody.’
‘Is there a picture of you wearing a crown?’
‘No. I’m not particularly fond of crowns. I was so busy with more urgent matters that I never even got around to organizing a proper coronation.’
‘Is this crown old?’
‘Not that old for a crown. Why?’
‘It doesn’t look very shiny.’
‘It’s made of iron.’
The boy stopped to think for a moment.
‘I thought crowns were made of gold...’ he confessed.
‘Who says? The kings of colonial powers have gold crowns embedded with jewels, but I wound up being the king of a poor country. And I didn’t do so badly either,’ he laughed. ‘In Africa, some kings have crowns made of plumes and leopard skin. Ours was forged from a cannon captured from the Turks during the liberation wars and is a symbol not of wealth but of courage.’
‘I see. And I think that was very considerate of you. It wouldn’t be logical to ask the people to get gold and jewels for a crown if they lacked more basic things.’
The next photograph was of a middle-aged woman with an oversized coronet.
‘Is this your mother?’
‘Yes, it is. She died two years ago.’
‘She was pretty. Did the two of you get along well?’
‘Not really. I told you, she liked to boss people around.’
Feeling that he may have touched upon an awkward subject the boy moved on to the next photograph. It was of a younger, slimmer Carol and a blond young man, both in hunting outfits.
‘This is your son?’
‘Yes. Michael when he was younger. The one you remind me of.’
The next picture was of father and son; the boy was already older and in naval uniform, standing on the deck of a big ship.
‘That was in ’38, when I took him to England to see relatives in London.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Where a ruler should be. With his people.’
‘How old is he?’ the boy asked.
‘He’s grown up now. Nineteen.’
‘Do you write to each other?’
‘I haven’t received a single letter so far.’
‘Do you talk on the telephone?’ The boy continued to pepper him with questions.
‘He doesn’t call. He’s mad at me...’
‘Why don’t you call him? You’re older and wiser,’ the boy suggested.
‘I did actually think of calling him,’ the king admitted, ‘but I’m afraid he won’t speak to me.’
‘All the same, he’ll be happy to know that his father is thinking of him.’
The next photo was again of Carol and Michael when he was ten. Dressed in civilian clothes, they were sitting on a wall, laughing.
‘He looks like you here. Do you miss him?’ asked the boy.
‘I miss him. Do you miss your parents?’
‘All the time... But I can’t write to them because I don’t know where they are,’ explained the boy.
‘Wherever they are... at least you know that they love you,’ the king said, awkwardly hugging the boy. Kings don’t do a lot of hugging.
‘Have you got enough money for your needs?’ he asked.
‘I’ve got something. I brought it in the bag.’
‘Enough?’
‘Yes.’
‘In what currency?’
‘I’ve got dollars, Swiss francs, pounds and some escudos. My father always says: “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket”... And I’ve also got diamonds.’
‘Excellent...’ The king was satisfied with the boy’s understanding of the subject. ‘I trust that’s enough for a period of time.’
‘It is. Considering the current price of diamonds, which is pretty low, and all the cash, and considering the price of the hotel, I think I’m covered for the next 388, maybe 389 years,’ the boy said.
‘Oh, excellent!’ said the king, pleased. ‘I don’t have to worry then.’
*
After dinner Carol told him a few more stories about his life. The best one was when he was king in 1930 and all on his own chose the national football team for the World Cup in Uruguay, paying for their trip, accommodation and equipment. He even had to wrangle with the players’ employers to give them their jobs back when they returned home from the championship.
The king’s stories were interesting but Gaby, who had got up early for school that day, started at one point to yawn. The king chuckled.
‘Do you know that it’s rude to yawn in a public place?’
‘I do. I apologize,’ the boy giggled. ‘I couldn’t help it.’
‘Never mind. It’s nice. I haven’t seen anybody yawn for years,’ the king laughed. ‘You must be tired. Take yourself home and to bed. Do you want to go with Ernest and me to Lisbon the day after tomorrow and watch a game? Benfica are playing.’
* * *
When he returned to the hotel Gaby had just enough time to play a game of chess with Bruno. He and Fennec slept well that night in their hotel room by the sea. But the king, in his villa on the hill, did not sleep a wink.
‘What’s the matter w
ith you this evening, my love?’ asked Elena, who could not sleep from all his tossing and turning. ‘Shall I ring the bell and have them bring you a soothing cup of camomile...?’
‘Nothing’s the matter, I’m just thinking about that child. His parents are probably dead and he probably knows it. You and I have only each other. True, I have two sons, but I never saw them grow up and have no relationship with either of them. And I’m forty-seven already.’
The tick-tocking of the wall clock punctuated the silence.
‘He is such a good, dear, clever boy,’ the king went on.
Carol thought that Elena would come to his aid, that she would understand before he said anything; he even hoped that she shared his secret wish, would tell him so now and make it easier for him to decide. But Elena said nothing. And the wall clock tick-tocked.
‘What do you think, darling?’ said Carol. ‘Shall we take the child to America with us and take care of him as if he were ours? There’s something special about him. He’s like the son I never had...’
‘And if his parents turn up?’ she asked, the voice of reason.
‘We’ll inform the hotel where we’ll be. If they turn up, all the better. If they don’t, he can be ours, forever. What do you think?’
‘It’s for you to decide. But how can we adopt a child, my darling, if we’re not married...? I don’t know. Whatever you decide, you know I will always support you.’
REVIEWED BY THE NATIONAL COMMISSION FOR CENSORSHIP
The news of the day is: A Thrilling Football Duel. Then comes the headline, splashed in bold letters across the whole page:
SPAIN BEATS PORTUGAL 5–1
and the subtitle:
Spanish team better. Portugal not up to expectations.
Apart from that, there is not a single other news item on the front page of today’s 16 March 1941 edition of the weekly Diário de Lisboa. All four columns are devoted to the friendly game played in Bilbao the day before.
Another seven pages in the newspaper offer a wide choice of articles. The Sports column has news about cycling, boxing, basketball, volleyball, equestrianism; City Life carries announcements ranging from the birthdays of prominent ladies, dances, and evenings of fado to the viva voce of a doctoral dissertation on The Idealization of Love in Portuguese Romanticism. There is also a big paid advertisement announcing scheduling changes in Radio London’s services in Portuguese, French and Spanish, and the results of the current week’s lotto draw.
The third page is devoted to entertainment and culture. The theatre, revues, musicals, operettas and parodies. The most popular films are the Hollywood melodrama I Take This Woman with Hedy Lamarr and Flash Gordon Conquers the Universe.
The middle pages are full of news about the war, divided into two equal sections. It is clear from what is written and what is left unsaid, that the war is going badly for the Allies, both militarily and politically. Then there is a geopolitical analysis that draws no conclusions and is devoid of bias. Its dry style and absence of emotion makes it read more like a formal historical record than last week’s war report.
In Portugal, it’s business as usual: a forger arrested, a local feast held, a new shipping route to America opened, an attempted murder with an axe, the property of a bankrupt company auctioned off, numerous offspring left to mourn the death of an eighty-eight-year-old widower.
Next comes news from parts of the world that are not at war: in Seville an explosion at a fireworks shop, in the US a snowstorm, in Sweden military manoeuvres, in China riots at a football game. Then sales and advertisements for coffee, the lotto, clothes, watches, Bayer aspirin, cures for addiction to gambling and itching and ageing, raincoats, original Italian razors and brilliantine. There is room left only for one line: This edition was reviewed by the Commission for Censorship.
* * *
Shortly after ten in the evening, a gleaming limousine pulled up on the white sand in front of the entrance to the Grand Casino Estoril. Liveried young men ran up to help the guests step onto the red carpet where the manager welcomed them with a bow and led them inside.
‘Votre majesté...’
They were taken along the outer rim of the room to their carefully chosen table; the plan had been to draw as little attention as possible. But, as soon as they appeared, the crowded room was buzzing, couples rose to their feet and bowed. Management’s efforts had been in vain; secrets get out.
Carol and Elena were virtually the sole topic of conversation at the casino that evening.
‘Twenty years ago, when they were living in Paris, she was one of my clients. I must say she’s gained quite a bit of weight since then,’ whispered Madame Rabinovitch, who until recently had owned a fashion boutique in Paris.
‘An affair?’ Miss Lang, an artist from London’s West End, wondered aloud. ‘Affairs subside once you’ve been to bed a few times. This, my dear, is love.’
‘If they had wanted to reign, he and England’s King Edward, they would have held onto their crowns, but they are too fond of the Germans. They use women just as an excuse,’ said Dr Walbaum, a former member of the Austrian Medical Society.
‘He’s a major stockholder in Deutsche Bank and AEG. What problems can he have?’ the doctor’s son, a liberal economist, asked rhetorically.
‘If he weren’t taking her with him, the English would grant him a visa. But not like this. What do the English need an ousted monarch and his mistress for? No, they’ll have to go across the ocean. Anything goes over there,’ was all that a Spanish diplomat with an aristocratic name too long to pronounce had to say on the subject of Lupescu.
Elena was already at the roulette table. She took no risks; she was a cautious player. When she lost, she could not hide her disappointment; when she won, you could see she was happy, though discreetly so.
Carol did not feel like gambling that evening. He sat down at the dining table with its starched tablecloth, his bow tie tucked under his chin and a glass of red wine in his hand. Beside him was the ever-loyal Urdăreanu. People said that until recently the triumvirate he formed with Elena and the king had shaped the fate of Romania. They also said that he had acquired power not because of any particular skills or knowledge he possessed, but solely because he had the trust of Carol and Elena. Especially Elena. None of them were doing anything special at the moment. Urdăreanu concerned himself with Carol. Such were the circumstances that His Majesty could not be left alone or unprotected for even a second. So many people had read about the playboy king, about even the most intimate details of his life, that they felt they knew him personally and that is how they approached and spoke to him.
‘Your Majesty. Brinkman, radio engineer from Toronto, Canada... My wife, my daughter... We’re on our way home after three years in Rome,’ said the tall plain man in the company of two equally plain women. ‘We wish you the best for your return to freedom.’
‘Your Majesty. Dr Carneiro,’ a portly man from Porto presented himself. ‘I keep your country, your people and you in my prayers.’
‘Your Majesty. Superintendent Cardoso from the Surveillance and State Defence Police,’ a small, bald man introduced himself. ‘I’m a great admirer of yours. I have the good fortune and honour to have been placed in charge of your security while you are in Estoril.’
Time passed; different faces came and went as they introduced themselves to Carol: a loud Greek ship-owner, a haughty Italian diplomat, the pretentious widow of a Danish industrialist, a pacifist professor and a deserter from the German army... Carol was well versed in the secrets of being a monarch, which was not an easy job. He had been trained for it since childhood. Be pleasant to everyone who speaks to you but as soon as you feel like it, make it clear that the audience is drawing to a close. The only exception was if somebody started talking about politics. That young American journalist, for instance.
As soon as the young man had introduced himself as a freelance reporter, the king slightly recoiled, and when he asked him some stupid question about whether it w
as true that he had brought into exile with him the crown jewels, paintings by Rembrandt and Rubens, and even the crown itself, Urdăreanu stepped in and asked the inquisitive young man to step away. He also ignored the question about why an international warrant had been issued for him.
* * *
No one was being let into the hotel anymore without a reservation.
‘I’m sorry, really sorry. There’s too big a crowd in there, believe me, you’d be crushed,’ everybody was told.
But sometimes, like now, a mere smile sufficed.
‘Bienvenue, Monsieur Popoff,’ the doorman said with a welcoming smile to the unannounced guest.
Popov walked up to Carol’s table with wide-open arms, as if expecting to be embraced. He cried out:
‘Votre Majesté! Ernest!’
Unusually for a monarch, Carol responded in kind.
‘Duško!? Mon ami. What brings you to this part of the world?’
‘Work, Your Majesty,’ Popov said with a shrug. ‘This is my third time here in the past year. And I like the place. I’d love to stay but every few months I have to go back to London. I may even have to nip over to America...’
‘It’s better if I don’t know what kind of work you’re involved in, my dear Duško,’ laughed the king, and then asked, ‘How do you spend your time?’
‘How? People here live like there’s no tomorrow,’ replied Duško. ‘What about you? The last I heard, you were being held prisoner in Spain.’
‘And we were, until not so long ago when we managed to get away. But let’s drop that now. Pity we didn’t run into each other sooner. We’re leaving in a few days.’
‘Where to, if I may ask?’
‘We don’t know ourselves. As far away from Europe as possible... You probably know what’s been happening to me of late?’ But as Popov just listened to him attentively, giving no indication what he knew, the king continued. ‘Had our common friend Prince Paul not come to my aid, the rebels would have executed me... They fired at the train when I was crossing the border!’
‘Dreadful! And?’
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