I glimpse the photo on the front page of one of the newspapers. It’s me and Alex, arms entwined. Composing myself and making sure my blouse is not tucked out of place, I enter the hospital room.
The man I saw earlier in Chicago was robust and in the pink of health. He held himself with authority. But now, he is shrunken and shriveled, half his former self. His skin sags, and he has obviously lost a lot of weight and muscle tone. There is a butterfly cannula in his wrist, and his arms are pockmarked with plasters – indicating that he has had lot of needles through his skin. A nasal prong circles his face midway, delivering constant oxygen to his nose.
A pang squirms within my chest to see him like this.
The heart rate monitor maintains a constant flowing line. I haven’t upset him too much by my presence.
Yet.
I curtsey – a damned difficult thing to do in my tight Moldavian designer skirt. What do you wear to seek audience with a King anyway in a hospital room?
“Your Majesty,” I say, trying to keep my eyes lowered.
“Elizabeth Turner, isn’t it?” He feebly beckons me to come closer. His voice is weak. “Let us have a look at you.”
I move closer in trepidation, as if any contact I have with him will spontaneously cause the cardiac monitor to beep alarmingly. He smells of hospital disinfectant and elderly skin.
“I won’t bite.” He smiles. “I used to bite, but I won’t today.”
He holds out his hand, and I clasp it, feeling a little less apprehensive. After all, we both love Alex. Me more than anything in the world, and I think he senses it.
That’s the only commonality so far between us.
“You have been making waves around the world,” he says.
“It was Alex’s idea.”
“It’s a good thing, and yet not a good thing.”
“Why so, your Majesty?”
“It’s a good thing because you both are trying hard to give me … and the world … a good impression.”
I nod. “We are trying.”
“And hopefully succeeding.”
“Thank you.”
His features grow grave. “There’s the downside though. It’s not a good thing to go too deeply into this … because you both are ultimately not suited for each other.”
A sharp dagger pricks my chest.
My lower lip trembles as I say, “But isn’t that up to both of us to decide?”
“If my son were an ordinary man, that should be the case. But as it is, he is the heir to my throne. Moldavia’s throne, in this city-state which is very much still a monarchy. Our lives are not ours to dictate. They belong to tradition, family, country.”
“You married an American woman.”
“Who is an heir to a multi-billion empire in her own right and who can trace her ancestors back to your Mayflower. If America had royalty, she would be it.”
This conversation is not going well. I don’t want to stress out the man, but it doesn’t mean I have to agree with everything he says. There’s a tightrope I have to walk here. And what he says wounds me – very deeply.
“With all due respect, your Majesty, is it because I’m poor?”
“Allow me to be blunt here, Ms. Turner. That is partially the reason, but even more worrying is your lack of pedigree.”
Yes, I know that. I’ve had it hurled and flung like mud onto my face for the past couple of weeks. I was never conscious of my status as a human being before, but the royals have made me very conscious now. It’s almost as though I’m wearing a skin color not to their liking.
I am sorry for the King, lying infirmed like this in bed, but mostly because he has the prejudices of a white man from the early part of the last century.
It’s as if the world has moved on, but these royals in Moldavia have not and are still living in their closeted ivory tower. Or maybe it’s because I haven’t been exposed to enough royalty and they all think like this. Maybe the entire rich Ivy League set thinks like this, and the only Ivy League person I have ever been privileged to meet is Alex, who sort of spoiled me when it comes to rich Ivy League sets.
So the King agrees with everyone else and he thinks I’m white trash.
I’m not even considered white trash where I come from. My mother had a blue collar job, but we didn’t live in a trailer park, sleep with every man who comes along and shoot ourselves up with drugs every occasion we got money. And there you see, even that is a stereotype.
What right do we have to stereotype anyone?
I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking, “I’m not out to trap your son, your Majesty. We just happened to fall in love with each other.”