Infamous Desire (3 page)

“Good morning, your Majesty.” I almost curtsey, but a look from Alex stops me.

“Try not to upset him too much,” she says to me. “I’ll be holding you responsible if anything happens to him.”

“Mother.”

“Yes, dear, I know. Allow an old woman her foibles, all right?”

She’s making me nervous already.

They exit and I enter, the dread pooling in my stomach. I have not seen the King since his ball in the Chicago hotel under extremely different circumstances.

The immediate chamber is filled with a sofa and armchairs, but beyond this, in another smaller room, the hospital bed proper sits – linked to beeping gadgets and a constant heart monitor. A nurse is tidying up the scattered newspapers on the table. She looks up and nods at me.

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.”

He waves a weary liver-spotted hand.

“I did not love Alex’s mother when I first married her. Nor did she love me. Love came later and stayed throughout our marriage of twenty-eight years. Had I followed my heart when I was younger and not my parents’ advice, I would have missed out on a wonderful family.”

Not to mention a wonderful fortune.

I know I’m being cynical because I’m on the wrong end of the interrogation, and maybe I’m too young and inexperienced – but I do believe in true love, not marriage contracts.

He studies my crestfallen face.

“You are a nice girl, Elizabeth Turner. There’s nothing wrong with you as a person. But no matter how hard you try, you will never be one of us. This is not your fault. Meanwhile, I will not interfere with your relationship with Alex, as I have never interfered with Alex’s relationships in the past. I will merely let it run its course.”

Unease stirs inside me. “What do you mean?”

“It means that I know my son a lot better than you do.” His still sharp eyes regard mine. “I’ve seen them come and go, Elizabeth Turner. I’ve watched him declare love for a woman time and again, especially when he wants to defy me for some inexplicable reason known only to the young.

“Mark my words. Yours is a fling, nothing more. He will do his duty to his family and his people in the end.”

The King’s words continue to clang in my ears like a haunted bell as I leave the hospital suite. Alex is waiting outside for me. He stands up.

I immediately put on my ‘happy smile’ face.

“How did it go?” he says in concern.

“It was a good conversation,” I say honestly. It was good in the manner in which it revealed unspoken truths. “Your father is a good man who cares very much for you.”

That too is true. I harbor no ill will against the King, much as I would like to. He is a father, just like any other father, looking out for his son in the only way he knows. The only way he has been brought up to know and to believe that it’s all that matters.

I see that now.

It’s the same with the Queen. They are both not bad people. (Though I can’t say the same about Claire.) They are just trying to be good parents.

“That’s good then.” Alex hugs me.

I melt into his embrace, wishing all my troubles would melt away that easily. My mind tumbles with possibilities. I keep seeing images of Alex entwined with Amber Valetta and all the supermodels he has previously dated.

Are Claire and the King right about him? Am I just a brief fling?

I love Alex. There’s no doubt about that. But I’m also aware of the ups and downs in a relationship. People fall in love, people get married, people break up, people get divorced. It’s all part of the relationship cycle. Sometimes it works out forever. Sometimes it doesn’t.

Of course, Alex is unaware of all this going on inside my head.

“You’ve had a rough week,” he murmurs into my hair. “Let me take you someplace nice.”

I nod enthusiastically.

Moldavia is basically the sea, the flatlands and a mountainous region which blends into the border of Nuernberg. It is to this mountainous terrain that Alex takes me to.

We drive to the foothills of the mountain range and park at a base camp site. The vista is breathtaking. All around us are snowcapped peaks streaked with green and crimson, topped by the overpowering blue sky. The air is crisp and fresh and a lot cooler than in the valleys, and everything smells of honeysuckle and grass.

There’s a nip to the wind as it rushes down the mountains, carrying with it the scent of snow. I’m glad we came. Out here, I feel attuned to nature once again. Nature doesn’t judge people. It just is.

A few other cars are parked there as well, indicating there are other hikers aside from us.

“I come here a lot,” Alex says. “Especially when I need to chill out and be alone.”

“Oh, do you want me to go?”

“Ha ha. Funny. I brought you here because I wanted to share it with you and because I think we can both use a break.”

I get that. Alex is never one for city life. He much prefers nature and indigenous peoples. I find it hard to reconcile the relaxed, happy man I see before me here with the emotionally irresponsible playboy his parents and sister are trying to paint him to be.

Then again … how long have I known Alex?

I try to banish these niggling doubts as we strap on our backpacks of supplies. We begin our trek upwards. The mountain foot path is narrow and winding, and slopes gently up at first to fool us into thinking the going is easy.

“You doing OK?” Alex says. He’s always solicitous, slowing down his pace to let me keep up with him.

I’m relatively fit, thanks to hours of cleaning as a maid.

“No problem,” I assure him.

I desperately want to talk to him about what his father said, but something keeps me mum. How do you talk to a man about his torrid past? How do you ask him if you are the one he intends to have for keeps – to love, honor and cherish until death (not family) do us part?

How do I even begin?

Darling, is the sex we are having the best you’ve ever had?

I really want to know how I compare with Gisele Bundchen, and yes, you’re allowed to lie.

I’m saved from having to talk too much as we ascend the mountain because the path veers steeply up from a point onwards. I have to use all my strength just to keep going and not stop, as I’m tempted to. My calf muscles start to ache something fierce, and my breaths come in short, sharp bursts.

“Anytime you want to rest, just holler,” Alex says, seemingly unaffected.

I shake my head stubbornly. I’m going to prove to myself I can climb this mountain by sheer willpower alone. In fact, not just this mountain.

I’m going to climb every mountain.

Bring them on!

“You know, you don’t have to push yourself so hard,” Alex says after a while.

“I can make it.”

“No need for mock bravado.”

“Shut.”

My shins start to feel the strain as we hit the halfway mark. The view here is incredible, and the wind stings my cheeks as it rushes down the mountain. Even though my chest is bursting and I’m starting to see the green stars of oxygen deprivation, I’m happy. I haven’t felt this carefree and relaxed in the longest time.

And there’s even something missing – like a shadow that isn’t there anymore.

Oh yes, I know what it is.

There’s no paparazzi!

“At least there are no photographers,” I manage to mumble.

“That’s why I like it here. The mountain hike is too much for them.”

We are at the three quarter mark when Alex holds up his hand. He indicates a little trek – choked with overgrown trees and rocky boulders – that splinters off the main path.

“Let’s go down this way. I want to show you something.”

I’m glad for the level ground, and I manage to catch my breath as I follow him down the curving little trek. The ground here is pebbled and precarious, and I have to watch where I put my feet. Alex lends me a hand now and again, and I take it, glad for his warmth and comfort.

A pair of startled eyes greets me around some shrubbery. I stop. To my delight, a mountain goat bounds away.

“There are plenty of them here,” Alex says. “Use to be a lot more – whole families of them. But their population dwindled with progress, as with everything else wild and free.”

We round a rocky bend and I stop in amazement. A cave mouth yawns at us, tucked snugly into the mountain like a chamber of secrets.

Alex grins. “When I was little, this used to be my hidey hole. Come on. I want to show you what’s inside.”

“You could climb this high when you were a little boy?”

“I climbed everywhere. I was a real monkey. Still am.”

We enter the cave. The temperature dips considerably and I draw my lined jacket closer around my neck. There’s an unusual stone table of sorts in the middle of the cave, which stretches back about twenty feet.

We shrug off our backpacks. Alex fumbles for his torch while I bring out my flask. There’s Gatorade inside and I take a long cool drink, the liquid spilling from the sides of my mouth in my haste to consume it.

“Liz, come over here and look at this.”

He shines upon a spot in the far wall. I wipe my mouth and scramble to my feet to join him. I feel like an intrepid explorer. There are cave markings on the wall – etched by hands far, far older than today’s mountain climbers. An etching of a stick man with frog legs squats before us – faceless but timeless.

“Oh wow,” I say.

“This cave has been studied by archeologists. The frog man is probably thousands of years old, drawn during Neanderthal times.” His face lights up as he gazes upon it, as he has gazed upon it many time throughout his formative years.

I study his profile. In the light of the torch, the outlines of his features are clean and well-delineated. He resembles a beautiful fresco on a cathedral wall, painted by Renaissance masters.