The Grand Tour, Ch. 4
Hotel Adriatic
Terenverti, Vlatava
Late July, 1938
You lay down the formally printed document brought to your by a hotel bellhop. "It's official. A royal dinner by Zog I, formerly Prime Minister of Vlatava, formerly President of Vlatava, now…"
Mildred smirks. "Now the grand high panjandrum of Vlatava?"
"Technically, only the king. He's from some old Ottoman family of beys or deys or what have you, and he was the one paying the mercenaries, so when he said "a king am I," most of the country bowed before Almighty Zog." You smirk back. "But he sounds like a fun type. He's even saved the seat of honor for me! Being the-" you pause, feeling like the cat that got the canary, an apt analogy given how much clawing it took to get to where you are- "
brains of Luthor Industries hath its privileges." At the look on her face, you smile. "And
yes, you're invited too."
She doesn't look very pleased at that. "Let me guess. They'll be plunking some unshaven walrus who stinks of overpriced brandy and old-man smell between us, to keep up boy-girl-boy-girl-boy alternation. Just like Milan. Or Charleston." She snorts, a sour look in her eyes. "Or worse. Foot of the table? Fifty feet away across the room?"
You smile more pertly and raise a fingertip to bop her on the nose. Raise quite a bit; she overtops you by three inches. "Now, now, Millie, you know I'm not one to let some strange man get between us. Unless-" You let the arch of your eyebrow carry the punch line to the joke, and she laughs.
You wait for her to calm down, and carry on. "Seriously, I wrote ahead to ask. I will be 'trapped' between you and the king, opposite his new queen, and
you will be trapped between me and Count… Walrus." You wink. "Does his real name matter to you?"
"Not really- and thanks." She grins, properly mollified. "At least I'll have someone to talk to in something besides my half-baked, school-days French."
"I really ought to teach you some more languages."
Millie groans. "What, are you going to try to start me on ancient Greek again?"
"Hm, no." You can feel the wicked light dance in your eye as you grin, thoughtfully. "We'll start you with Latin. Something you should remember; you
did take that one semester."
"
Latin!?" She looks at you, starkly unbelieving.
"Relax!" You laugh. "We shall-" and with as little warning as you can manage, you lunge forward. You push her back a step, and she makes a sudden, positively hammy production of flailing in the air and falling back onto the bed on her side of the room. "You wait for the laughter to stop. "As I was saying, we shall begin with elementary regular verb conjugations." You take a half step closer, grinning wider. "Now, repeat after me:
amo, amas, amamus…"
Royal Residence
Several Hours Later
The packet you picked up from a Luthor Industries commercial agent while staying with Madame Barney remained in your luggage for a long time, but it had more than a few interesting little details. Your man in Paris says that King Zog I of Vlatava is the heaviest smoker in Europe. You believe him. Zog's been chain-smoking ever since he entered the ballroom, spread with tables for his many guests. And it seems as if every man and most women in Vlatava is trying to catch up to their king. A faint haze fills the ballroom, and it's growing thicker.
Then again, you're a Maryland girl, and used to it. The Turkish tobacco favored by the Vlatavans makes milder smoke than you'd expect at home, and you could… really… use… a smoke of your own…
Normally the faint waft of smoke would soothe your nerves, but this evening it only seems to be sharpening the itch in your fingers and the press at your temples. Absently you fish out your cigarette holder and fit it with a neat little custom-rolled cigarette from a farm and tobacconist on the Eastern Shore, whose produce has suited the Luthors' needs quite well since the seventeenth century.
With a raised eyebrow and a practiced smile, you turn from a plate awaiting the next course to face the king, letting the jewels on your cigarette holder catch the light of the chandelier above. You're not interested in really turning on the charm, especially given the rest of your table company, but it gets King Zog's attention when the light flicking across his eyes draws his gaze. He settles his eyes on the young, gorgeous vision in white- if you do say so yourself- who sits at his right hand.
He turns to you, as the man across from Mildred trails off into silence, and you speak- in French, of course. Your Arabic is poor, your Turkish nonexistent, and you get the feeling the king doesn't want to hear any more Italian than he has to at the moment.
"Your Majesty, could you spare a light?"
He smiles and produces a filigreed gold lighter. You angle your holder, and soon have a smoke going. That should take care of the headache.
Good medicine, you think to yourself, as you thank Zog.
"Thank you, Your Majesty. By the by, may I ask a question?"
"Of course, Miss Luthor." He nods- quite regally, all things considered.
"Your guards are very fine- and quite a few of them, I see. Has there been trouble lately?"
"Always. Since before the Ottomans, perhaps even before the Romans, Vlatava has been the land of the blood feud. Fools and malcontents have declared nearly six hundred blood feuds against me! A man cannot be too careful." King Zog says it with an easy smile- and yet he does have quite a number of bodyguards, though you can't help but wonder if some of them are more parade-ground troops than real soldiers.
"Six hundred? That must make life interesting. However do you keep track?"
"With difficulty, of course. Men have tried to assassinate me nearly fifty times! But I- I am still here!" Zog gestures, taking the Turkish cigar out of his mouth and waving it grandly in a mighty display of bravado.
You lean over to translate for Millie, admiring the man's nerve. You lean closer than is required but only a
little more than is decorous, to whisper the translation in her ear. She raises an eyebrow and looks around thoughtfully.
"Your friend does not speak French?" Zog inquires, noticing the byplay.
You shrug, smiling fondly.
"Mildred is a woman of many gifts. She doesn't translate, but then, I don't try to keep a horse under control or put a bullet through a bullseye at half a kilometer."
"I see. And what brings the two of you to my little Ruritania?" The king's expression is just slightly self-mocking, characterizing his relative backwater of a nation thusly.
"If madame-" he tilts his head at Mildred-
"is such a markswoman and equestrienne, is this perhaps a hunting trip?"
"Perhaps- but mostly we're here just to tour the mountains. I've heard fine things about the scenery in Vlatava, while I was in Italy."
"Vlatava is beautiful in the summertime. The mountains are very picturesque." Zog's face shows a genuine pride, now. And he says more, in a different tone, one you've heard from many men. Or rather
almost in that tone- in a deliberate attempt to fake it.
"Perhaps you would like to stay at one of my hunting estates…"
There is a trapped, brittle expression in the man's eyes as he leans closer and takes your hand, slipping a note into your palm- which covers it entirely. The note is in English- a language rare here compared to French, Italian, and German. So far as you know, the king does not speak English. The handwriting is tiny and crabbed, and, appropriately, has the look of something laboriously prepared out of a dictionary.
I expect the Italian army to move to Vlatava at any time. I must take care of the safety and comfort of my family. Certain assets are liquidated to guarantee this. The help of your offices, especially in Italy, will be appreciated.
You glance at the note, smile, and nod, replying in French and feigning an expansive cheerfulness.
"Why, of course, Your Majesty!" you exclaim, feigning a laugh easily.
"I'd be delighted!"
Queen Geraldine eyes you suspiciously, for all that she's about your age and no frump herself. Such a pity, to be misunderstood, but in its way, it's a good cover for an the king's obvious desire to be discreet about selling off national assets to have a nest egg he can escape the country with, in case of foreign invasion.
Zog nods, solemnly enough to detract a bit from the flirtatious picture the two of you are trying to present. His smile is appreciative, though, if not in quite
that way. Especially as you raise your glass of thick, sweet Venetian wine, palm the note and drop it in, soaking it quite thoroughly.
You make bright chatter about your recent trip to Paris, making sure to reach out to the queen and indirectly reassure the poor girl that you're not planning to enthrall her husband. You can only approve of the girl keeping a jealous watch on Zog, under the circumstances. The Treaty of Trianon hasn't been kind to the nobility of the Balkans. A daughter of Hungarian counts, reduced to working as a typist and a gift store clerk after the family fortune ran out, has all the more reason to keep her eye on the main chance. And when all's said and done, you'll be in the country for at least a week or two and avoiding trouble can only help.
The gentle music in the background plays on, course after course of banquet is served- seemingly all of them with onions; you have come to believe that the onion is the Vlatavan national vegetable…
And then Millie leans over with her left arm and practically drags you to the floor by the scruff of your neck, shouting
"DOWN!" as she reaches down with her right hand to flip the table. The king acts likewise, lunging to grab his wife's leg and drag her down as he himself falls to the floor on seeming instinct. The table thumps over, but the squawking protests of the Italian couple across from you are drowned out by gunfire.