Forbidden Desire(4)
He leans his seat back as far as it would go, which isn’t much. “Do you believe in karma, Liz?”
“I don’t know. I’m not religious, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Not religion, but karma. What goes around comes around. I’m getting punished for what I did, and someone else I love is paying the price.” His voice cracks a little at the end. “Despite everything, I love my father, Liz. I love my family. We don’t always see eye to eye. Hell, we certainly don’t – ” he gives a short, humorless laugh, “but I love them nonetheless. And because I walked away from them, bad things happen to them.”
Tears fill my eyes. His expression is so anguished and torn that I cannot reconcile the happy, relaxed man I’ve made love to and spent a glorious month with to this shadow of a person. I can only grip his white knuckled fist as the plane heads west into the murky unknown.
*
When we disembark in Moldovia, whose capital is also called Moldovia, being the city state that it is, several officious aides in dark suits are waiting for us at the gate. They wear ear and mouthpieces like Secret Service agents in movies I have watched.
“Your highness,” says one, stepping forward.
Passengers all around us turn to stare. Thank goodness we were among the last to disembark, being seated at the tail end of the aircraft, or there would be more people stopping in their tracks.
“Please,” Alex says, looking embarrassed, “let’s go quietly and not make a fuss.”
An aide reaches for my backpack. “If you would allow me, Miss.”
“No thanks,” I say, “I can carry my own.”
“As will I,” Alex says.
Seemingly ill at ease, the aides fall behind us as we walk ahead with our gigantic backpacks strapped behind our backs. I make to follow the other passengers down the travelator towards the Baggage claims and Customs, but Alex stops me.
“This way will be faster.” He indicates a sign that says ‘VIP’.
This is the first inkling I have that things are not going to be normal for either of us in this country.
When we speedily clear customs (“Welcome back, your highness, good to see you again”) and exit the airport, a multitude of reporters and paparazzi are waiting for us. There are TV crews and Internet crews and the shutter clicks and flashes of multiple cameras going off at once. I recognize the logos of a dozen different crews – CNN, Al-Jazeera. Oh my God. So the press coverage is not confined to Moldovia.
The police have set up barricades everywhere, clearly demarcating the lines between the common people and our entourage. Alex has his arm firmly linked through mine, as though he is afraid I would go astray. Although the aides flank us, shielding us somewhat, the paparazzi still click away furiously. If it wasn’t daylight, I would be blinded by their flashes.
Most of the questions from the reporters are hurled in French, but there is a smattering of English ones that I can understand.
“Your highness, where were you the past month? Speculations have been that you were holidaying in Bali.”
“Would that be a spa you were in, your highness? Because you had a mental breakdown?”
“Your highness, your father is extremely ill. Why did you stay away for so long? Do you think you contributed to your father’s sudden attack?”#p#分页标题#e#
My heart is knocking against my ribcage. Oh no, I think.
“Speculations are that you ran away after the announcement of your engagement, your highness. The people are dubbing you ‘The Runaway Prince’. Don’t you think that is a little irresponsible to your people?”
With each question, I sink deeper and deeper into my sneakers.
“Your highness, is the woman with you your new girlfriend? Is she the reason why you are refusing to marry the Lady Tatiana?”
How does Alex stand it?
It occurs to me that I’m in this for real. Standing by Alex in his hour of need means that I’ll be exposed to his lifestyle and this constant barrage of press. And they are certainly far from being deferential, royalty or not.
What have I gotten myself into?
3
The drive to the hospital is fraught with tension. We are seated at the back of a black Mercedes, an official state car, and we are heading directly for the Royal State Hospital of Moldovia.
Despite the somber mood in the car, I can’t help but peer out of the darkened windows. The streets of Moldovia are festive and filled with interesting stores, and the facades of the buildings are medieval French, like what you get during the Renaissance period – or at least, that’s what the postcards tell me. The Moldovians who throng the sidewalks are well-dressed, and the entire city has a French Riviera vacation-like atmosphere.