King Me!
Rey Me!
Roy de Moi!
“You wrote that last part in by hand—how do you know these things? . . . ‘And this, this is the phrase on the lips of the boy as he takes the last round of the man his father has hired to train him . . . ’ I mean, it’s checkers! Yeah? It’s all about this boy who plays checkers and . . . well, help me find the next part, why don’t you? It’s got to be here somewhere . . . ”
Jeffrey’s gone quiet. The fire has died down a bit. The pages lie flat now, all around us, a still white pond. I pick up one page, and then another, and try fitting them together. I wait for Jeffrey to tell me that I’ve gone mad—that he never so much as thought of a single checker in all the time he was in Iceland. But then, slowly, Jeffrey lifts one page and holds it up against the light from the fireplace. He turns it this way, and that, as if not sure which end is up. Then he takes up another and, scanning the end of the first, matches it to the top of the second, and holds them together between his fingertips.
“Page numbers, page numbers,” he mutters. “My kingdom for fucking page numbers.”
• • •
It takes nearly every available hour between that one and Sunday, but we’re not much for sleeping. At first we take breaks only for room service and so Jeffrey can smoke in the window and watch the men playing checkers. The Black Panther barely ever leaves the Place Guillaume II. At all hours we see him there, looking up at us. Watching. Jeffrey makes faces at him from the safety of the room, but only because he has me to send for more cigarettes. But by the third day, Jeffrey has stopped doing even this. His sovereign addiction is replaced by his very first—the steady rush of pen against paper.
We work in tandem, communicating in inks: mine, red cross-outs, circles, exclamation points, and question marks; his, black insertions, deletions, refusals, and acquiescences. Occasionally there is a great laugh from one end of the room or the other, or else a swift intaking of breath. Not only is it pleasant to work with Jeffrey for a change, but playing editor makes me think of Tina. Late one night I catch my reflection in the window, going line by line over a fresh page, and for a moment I am she, reading something of my own.
Jeffrey’s thousand pages are steadily milled down to five hundred, which we sift through further, until we have it at just under three hundred.
The Sunday-morning church bells have long since rung and the sun is coasting down. Jeffrey takes one last shower, and we tie each other’s bow ties, and he puts the finalized pages back into the wine box again, and tucks this lighter parcel squarely beneath his arm. Then we head out into the dusk together.
There is a small crowd waiting over in the Place d’Armes. Just a little congregation around the used-book cart, where readers from all over have come to meet the girl who broke the news of Jeffrey’s return, and, while they are at it, pick up a paperback or two for the journey home. I spot a pair of aged hippies with white ponytails and circled spectacles discussing a volume of Hemingway with a thin man in a gray suit. A squat, wild-maned lion of a man studies Chekhov through the bottom of his beer mug. Three girls who look as though they might have been classmates of Carsten Chanel’s compare translations of The Metamorphosis and laugh as if to wake the dead. Jeffrey’s whole self tenses as they come into view, but he keeps walking steadily, even as they all look up with one expectant face.
“Am I naked?” Jeffrey asks. “Why are they looking at me like I’m naked?”
“I’d probably have mentioned something earlier if you were,” I say.
“Probably?” he snaps.
But on we go, past the crowd at the book cart, even when they bring up their phones and hold them out at arm’s length like so many Yorick’s skulls. Jeffrey flinches a bit when the flashes go off but never breaks stride. We march down one of the cobblestone avenues to the palace, where dozens and dozens of the paramilitary parking squad are keeping their eyes on the assembled mass. I think we’ve about doubled the population of the Old City. There must be a few hundred of them—Oakes fans from all corners of the European Union. Perhaps there are Chunnel-borne Brits out there; perhaps the sons of sons of Soviets. Perhaps some TOLSI-ites have trekked in from even farther away. And there are so many phones pointed our way, taking pictures and videos—capturing this moment for all time and for all people in all places. I wonder if Einar will watch, or simon/, or whoever is doing simon/’s homework for him these days. Everywhere there are copies of Nothing Sacred, and the air is filled with a tremendous cheering. Still, Jeffrey looks humbler than I have ever seen him. As we move toward the front of the crowd, I find myself searching for a large hat, a burst of gingery hair, a dress fifty years out of fashion—but she will not have come, not all this way. But is she, maybe, at a computer a world away, watching this unfolding in a choppy, pixilated stream?
What I do see, as Jeffrey moves into position under a quaint streetlamp, is a window up in the palace, with warm light spilling out. Silhouetted there is a woman in a wide-shouldered gown, guarded on one side by a slim black man with a bulb of dark hair, speaking into his sleeve.
“It’s the Black Panther,” I say to Jeffrey. “He’s with her.”
But Jeffrey is not listening to me. He is quite busy extracting pages from the wine box. He places the box on one end and then steps onto it. All the blood in his cheeks has drained elsewhere. But he stares into the crowd, facing the thing he’s been afraid of since I’ve known him. Perhaps longer than that even. Perhaps even longer than the shadow in the window has known him.
“So sorry to keep everyone waiting,” he says softly. The words catch the stone walls of the palace and they echo, and in an instant everyone is laughing. Is it my imagination or is he blushing? “This is from a work very very much in progress—”
Whatever else he says is lost in a volcanic eruption of applause. His eyes flit over the crowd, from one curious face to the next. There is a glint in his eyes that I recognize. He has them entirely under his spell now, and he’s wondering why he ever waited this long. He clears his throat, turns back and winks at me, and then announces,
“This is called ‘King Me.’”
• • •
He reads for nearly an hour. After he’s through, there is a thunderous ovation, and then a somewhat-tidy receiving line that I do my best to help corral. I stand by Jeffrey’s side but I don’t have to step in even once. He sits on the wooden box as if it were his own tiny throne. He entertains each audience seeker with wit and patience. Two more hours rush by and then, out of nowhere, the Black Panther appears at the head of the line.
“Her Majesty, the Princess, requests the pleasure of your company.”
Jeffrey stands and faces the man, appearing to consider the offer.
“It’s about time,” he says finally.
But the Black Panther holds a hand in my direction.
“Not you.”
I feel my throat go dry. I look up at the window but the light is out. She is gone.
“Specifically?” I manage to get out. “I mean, did she say she didn’t want me to come up or did she just not say, because she may have assumed that—”
But Jeffrey cuts me off. “Hold on there, Black Panther–man. He comes, too.”
The Black Panther looks Jeffrey squarely in the eye. “You would refuse a request from Her Royal Highness?”
Jeffrey snorts. “I’ll refuse it and then I’ll say she’s got an ice-pop for a heart—it makes no difference to me.”
The Black Panther snarls, and then when Jeffrey moves to leave, he gives in.
“Come this way,” he says to us both.
And that is that. We are whisked through a side door by the armed guards and shepherded down along a long, dark corridor.
“What is this? Huh? Hello? Mr. Black Panther? Are you taking us to the dungeon?” Jeffrey shouts.
“To say ‘Black Panther’ is redundant,” the man informs us suddenly with the thinnest glimpse of a smile. “All panthers are black. A panther is not its ow
n breed but a name common to all large jungle cats that have a dominant pigment that overrides the natural undercoat of the animal. In America, you’ve typically got black cougars. In Latin America, we have black jaguars. In Asia or Africa, a panther is a black leopard. From a distance they appear to be all black, and yet—if you’ve got the nerve to get a close look—you can see that they actually still have their normal markings. Their spots. They’re just not visible against a background that is also black.”
Jeffrey is speechless, which, from the satisfied look on the man’s face, seems to have been the object of the lesson. It doesn’t last long.
“Well, thank you, Jack Hanna,” he says finally.
At last, we reach a door and the Panther motions for us to go through. He looks sweetly at Jeffrey, much less so at me, as we proceed.
We emerge into a great hall lined with tapestries and suits of armor and flowing banners bearing coats of arms. A dozen servants are lined up to greet us, all dressed impeccably. At the far end stands our old friend, and she looks not a day older than when I saw her last. She smiles and, to the shock of her servants, runs over to us so quickly that she seems to nearly trip on her long golden gown. Before I know quite what to say, her arms are around us both, and there is the most incredible charge in me as her lips press firmly onto first my cheek, and then Jeffrey’s.
“That was fantastic,” she cries, any semblance of royal propriety quite out the window, and then her eyes have locked steady onto mine. “And it was you, too, wasn’t it? Of course, it was. Stay here, until it’s completely finished. You must be starved. The chef will whip something up for you.”
Jeffrey strides after her toward the dining room as if he’s lived here his entire life. To an apple-cheeked maid he says, “Yes, I’d like two slices of wheat toast. Crusts removed. Then two poached eggs with smoked salmon. No sauce. And he’ll have—”
Jeffrey is gesturing in my direction. “Oh. Uhm. Steak, then. Bloody.”
The princess adds, “Just have Marcel throw something together for me.”
She takes us into a grand dining room, where a long table is covered in tomorrow’s fine breakfast china. On the walls hang gigantic portraits of the former dukes and duchesses of Luxembourg, milky skinned and red nosed, always looking just a bit malnourished, as if they’d left sitting for the portrait off until they were actually on their deathbeds. At the head of the table is a massive golden throne, cushioned in red velvet. I expect that the princess will sit there, but she takes a seat to one side. The Panther sits behind her, and Jeffrey and I sit across. Wine is poured and Jeffrey chugs a glass down triumphantly before I can remind him he’s stopped drinking.
“Where’s the head honcho?” he asks, thumbing his finger at the throne.
The Black Panther speaks cordially to Jeffrey, “The duke is with his three sons in Argentina.”
“Argentina!” I say. “What’s in Argentina?”
“Don’t tell anyone,” she replies sweetly. “This country’s getting a bit small for us. We’re thinking of invading the Falklands. Do you think anyone will mind?”
She raises her eyebrows devilishly at me, and while Jeffrey bursts into laughter, I feel my heart begin to flutter.
“Nothing wrong with Argentina. Some of us might like to be in Argentina,” the Panther says, making eyes at Jeffrey, which, surprisingly, Jeffrey makes right back.
“Don’t pout now,” she says, giving his hand a light smack. “Cyrus was left behind to guard me.”
“Seems some rather disreputable foreigners had taken up residence in the Hotel Luxembourg,” he said, eyeing me. “Do you believe that?”
“Is that right?” I cough. “Well. Foreigners. Good for trade, I expect.”
“Only if you count sales of luxury cigarettes and fire repairs to hotel rooms.”
Jeffrey tips back his empty wineglass and taps it with one finger. “We bought some theater tickets! And a lot of room service. And judging from the crowd tonight I’d say there can’t be a vacant hotel room for miles!”
Cyrus grins wolfishly, and, if I’m not mistaken, there is, again, the briefest lingering in his looking at Jeffrey.
“So,” I say, desperate for any reason to look in the princess’s direction. “Is that why you didn’t go to Argentina? These, uhm, ‘disreputable foreigners’?”
Her eyes glint like the light on the rim of her wineglass as she drinks from it. “They don’t have much need for me when it comes to things like that. Negotiating trade agreements. Four percent this for two percent that. Amortized over six years. Steel for soybeans. Very dull stuff.”
Cyrus smiles. “Her Majesty is in charge of the Get Fit Luxembourg! initiative.”
She punches the air gently, as if quite gung ho about it, and then she and Jeffrey explode into laughter.
“You know what they’re making out of soybeans now? Lemonade! And tuna fish! Out of beans! The other day I met three men who use it to make synthetic peanut butter. Isn’t it just as easy to grow peanuts? I asked them. Apparently not. That’s what it all is now. Everything reinvented! Nothing genuine. Next thing you know they’ll be injecting pregnant women with it so the children can breast-feed soy milk! This is how I’ll be remembered. ‘The Synthetic Princess!’”
“You should have them carve a statue of you out of tofu!” Jeffrey cries.
The idea seems to delight her. “If I put it over on the throne and snuck off, do you think they’d know the difference?”
Their laughter fills the empty dining hall, and in an instant there are tears in the corners of her eyes. Then she reaches both hands across the table. Jeffrey takes one and I take the other—and her fingers slip around mine as if I had held them only yesterday. “You have to stay here a few more weeks. Please. It’s just like the good old days,” she says, smiling as the servers arrive with our food.
And as we drink, and Jeffrey and I entertain Her Majesty with stories about our years apart, it does feel as if very little has changed. It’s only when I lean back in my chair and into the dead eyes of the portraits on the wall that I remember that we are not having brunch in some ritzy New York hotel. This is her home now. High up on one wall is an empty space. I can’t help but think that it is waiting for a portrait of her.
• • •
After dinner I am shown to a magnificent guest suite, done up in Far Eastern crimsons and golds. There is a huge canopy bed, a black bearskin rug on the floor, a huge bookshelf filled with leather-bound classics, a wardrobe the size of a New York apartment, and a spacious writing desk in the corner. A Spanish boy named Roberto brings me silk pajamas. The moon is high and full in the sky outside the window, and after the meal and the wine and a few hours with my old love, I am desperate to write. But I check all the drawers in the writing desk and there is no paper. I could ask Jeffrey, but he’s in the neighboring room, and judging from the way things were looking between him and Cyrus as we left dinner, I think that perhaps I will not disturb him. I hear an occasional faint thumping noise that makes me blush. It’s nice having the old Jeffrey back, I think to myself, but I’m worried for him at the same time. Will one bottle of wine lead to twelve? Will the good reviews, already streaming onto the blogosphere, go to his head even more quickly than the wine? And how long until Russell Haslett comes calling?
Just as I’m considering tearing some pages from the back of one of the ancient books on the shelf, I am interrupted by the sound of the door opening.
“Roberto, do you think you could find me something to write on?” I ask.
But it is not the Spanish boy.
The Princess of Luxembourg studies me a moment, her eyes curious, as if surprised to find me where she’d left me. Should I bow? I’m half tempted to curtsy.
“Good evening, Your Majest—” I begin, but before I can get it out she’s rushing toward me. Her hands grip my cheeks firmly, her lips devour mine, and though her golden hair keeps falling in our faces, she does not close her eyes, as if she needs to be sure it’s really me.
<
br /> “Don’t you dare call me that,” she says, holding me tighter.
It’s what I’d dreamed of for nearly a decade, and yet something about her suddenly makes me nervous. I’d imagined myself all this time as some sort of world-weary knight, a lovelorn Lancelot come to free her from this prison. Instead I feel more like a confused Quixote, lost in lovely La Mancha, tilting at the same old windmills. Would that make Jeffrey my Sancho Panza? If anything, I must admit, it’s all the other way around.
“I thought you didn’t even want me to come up to the palace,” I manage.
Her eyes burn at a thousand watts. More. “I’ve told you,” she says. “You always make me forget my lines.”
She kisses me again and the nine interceding years begin to fly away. Yet as they do I find myself grasping at them with both hands. My heart is hummingbird-pounding, and I feel a faint throb in my leg as she pushes me toward the canopy bed—but we don’t even get there—we end up on the floor, and I feel the pricking of the bearskin against my cheek. She’s heavy on top of me and behind those carefully painted lips I feel the faint tensing of her teeth against my tongue. Her hands are on my shoulders, in my shirt, and all I can see is a frenzy of golden hair.
“What’s wrong?” she says, pulling back. The red of her lipstick is all smudged around the edges.
“Nothing,” I say, squirming beneath her.
“Tell me you’re not thinking of someone else?” she teases.
“No! No one! No one!” I insist, but in my head I am thinking, Outis! Outis!
Her smile hangs white as a pearl necklace, just out of my reach. “I knew you wouldn’t forget me.”
We kiss again and I am just about to give up my reservations: her absent husband; Cyrus—who is likely armed and just in the next room; and even Jeffrey, with whom I’ve only just repaired things; but then I hear the thumping noise again, and I falter. Is it coming from Jeffrey’s room? It sounds closer than that.
“Can’t we pretend everything is like it used to be?” she asks, perhaps more to herself than to me.
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