“It’s possible for people to own bridges?”
“It’s possible for kings and queens to own bridges. Kings and queens may own anything, Louise. We could lay claim to the rents and rates on the entire London Underground if we wanted. On the Green, Blue, and Red Lines. On any of them. On the Number Thirty-nine and Seventy-four busses.”
“Oh, lay claim,” I said.
“There’s the rub,” he said.
We rode on in silence for a while. It was a beautiful evening. I let down my electric window. This time of night, the air was almost balmy. I relax in a car, and Larry was an excellent driver.
“Take Lord Nelson’s monument there, for example,” the Prince said.
We were in Trafalgar Square.
“What about it?”
“Well, it’s ours, it belongs to us. Just imagine what would happen if we asserted our rights, though, tried pulling him down. The people wouldn’t stand for it.”
“Why would you want to pull down Admiral Nelson’s monument?”
“I don’t. I’m a sailorman myself, I admire Nelson. It’s the principle.”
We passed the National Portrait Gallery. Larry told me that belonged to them too.
“What, the National Portrait Gallery?”
“It’s practically the family album, Louise.”
“I suppose,” I said, “looked at that way.”
And went on, up Piccadilly to Piccadilly Circus and around the Statue of Eros — also in the family — and out to the British Museum — though they let others use it, also in the family, all, all in the family — and doubled back, past their parks and past their palaces, and on to where the Bank of England stood, and Larry stopped the car and turned off the engine and leaned across my knees and reached out to the polished-wood glove compartment where he kept a pack of cigarettes and took one cigarette from the pack and lit it before returning the pack to the glove compartment where it would stay for the week or so before he wanted another one.
“That’s yours too, I suppose?” I pointed to the bank. “The Little Old Lady of Threadneedle Street?”
“The difficulty with theories about the divine right of kings,” he said, “is that not many people are religious these days. We’re holding on by the skin of our teeth. All that stands between us and the barbarians at the gates is the Archbishop of Canterbury, Louise.”
“Is the Bank of England in your family?”
“My father’s picture is on the notes,” he said, “and his father’s before that, and … Well.”
And started to feel his queer financial heroism again, my own poor penniless place in the world — I swear to you, Sid, the fifty thousand pounds you gave for my story means nothing, nothing — and the great distances between us, our immense, light-years differences. It made a girl giddy. It gave me the galaxial shivers, a taste, I mean — can you understand what I’m trying to say? — of the spatial creeps— all that power and certainty— the astronomical fundament and absolute baseline depths from which the Prince, as much of an explorer as he was a Prince, was reaching toward me— that, that’s how I felt close to him, by dint of the sheer exponential, mathematical space between us. I never felt closer. He lowered the electric window on the driver’s side and threw his cigarette into his street and started his engine. I began to move toward him. “Buckle your lap belt, please, Louise,” said the Prince.
Sunday, February 9, 1992
How Push Came to Shove
Because we hadn’t made love since that time on the island. Not even on the yacht coming home. Not in the palace, not in the castle, not in any of the great houses we visited. For all their false walls and secret passageways, their concealed staircases and special, complicated hidey-hole arrangements, their ancient comic architecture of tryst and farce (Lawrence was a serious student of architecture and claimed that the first adulterers, at least those bold enough to commit their adulteries under the very roofs they shared with their spouses, must have been aristocrats, because only aristocrats could have absorbed the high structural costs of weekend affairs and one-night stands; he felt that rather than a mark against the highborn, all their hanky-pank had its plus side; discretion, he said, was essentially an aristocratic idea), for all the opportunity such places provided for assignation, he never once came to me in any of them. He never once came to me anywhere.
“It’s because you’re so high-profile, isn’t it? We have to be careful.”
We were in the unmarked, crestless Jag again.
“I’m not afraid of the people in this kingdom. These people are my people. Why should I fear them?”
“Look,” I said, “if you’re at all unsure, if you want to back out of this …”
“Don’t be silly, Louise. I love you. Don’t you know that?”
“I think you love me.”
“I do love you. Almost from the time of our encounter in Cape Henry.”
“You were all over me in Cape Henry.”
I’d intended my remark as a rebuke. He hadn’t understood me.
“Oh,” he said, “taking the aloe plant from you, that was just chivalry. And when I saw the cuts on your hands, when you explained how you got them, that was just admiration for your bravery, the sympathy endurance earns one in a difficult world. But when you teased me”—here his voice dipped—“when we made love”—and here climbed back up again to higher ground—“and I saw how you handled yourself with the press when I sprung our engagement on you, and I realized how stunningly regal you so inherently are, that, my dear Louise, that was love!”
It was a pretty speech and, worthy or not of his noblesse oblige-obliged condescensions, brave or not, regal or not, like many women, I’m a sucker for pretty speeches, but that wasn’t what stirred me. If he had me jumping — he did, he did — it was the old business of my simple human illiteracy again, the even bigger sucker I am for men I can’t quite make out. (How brave or regal can I really be? There are gothic romance novels in my dumb-blond heart. I’m a throwback, Sid, a traitor to my liberated sisters.) For, even if I had not had the good evidence of his sexual aloofness, I would, a moment later, have had the even better evidence of his cloudy motives.
“Anyway, Louise what do you think this courtship is all about? This shouldn’t be a factor, yet it is, and more on my part, I think, than on Father’s or Mother’s, but do you know how much money it’s cost the Crown? Why in petrol alone! In nightclubs and restaurants and theater tickets!” (In our montage, like the cold chickens, salads, cheeses, caviars, and chilled champagnes laid out on a lawn on the splendid napery from those stocked, magnificent picnic hampers.) “But cost is the least of it; more important is the fact that I’ve given the world my word (let alone the nation) that we’re engaged. And we’re entering the final phases now. Guest lists are being prepared. Our appointment calendars are being synchronized with their appointment calendars. Heads of state have been notified. Such-and-such a president from so-and-so a superpower; such-and-so a chieftain from so-and-such a third- or fourth-world country. Contracts have been let out on bid for all those commemorative soupspoons and keychains — all that licensed Royal tchotchke and whatnot, which, cared for, or merely held onto long enough and passed from one generation to the next, might one day actually become the valuable museum-quality, self- appreciating marvels of historic artifact they’re cracked up to be.
“You must trust me, Louise, this is a very delicate time. Hath not a prince eyes? Hath not a prince hands? I feel what you feel, but preparations for the Royal Wedding proceed apace and aplomb. We can’t afford to place ourselves in compromising positions just now.”