The Frog Prince (22 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Less than two minutes later I watch on TV as Roman emerges from the rear of the Great Gallery in Schönbrunn Palace, looking spectacular in a dark suit. I squint my eyes, trying to decide if he got a haircut in the middle of the night. In complete contrast to our conversation, he appears calm, striding to the podium with quiet confidence.

“And here you can see that Crown Prince Roman has entered the hall,” says the announcer. “Behind him is his mother who, although she will be the mother of the King once he’s crowned, will not be referred to as ‘the Queen Mother’ since she was never married to a reigning king. Also here you can see other members of the now-royal family, including aunts, uncles and cousins.

“Our sources tell us that experts on royal protocol had to be flown in overnight from England, Sweden and Spain to help orchestrate today’s events, and to act as advisors for the new royal household.”

“And here we have the press corps standing out of respect,” says the other.

“I understand that the beginning of the prince’s remarks will be in German, but that he will likely switch to English.”

“That’s right,” says the second host. “The prince was born in the United States, and although he does have dual citizenship he has never spent more than a few months at a time in Austria. We’re told that he’s not fully fluent in Austrian German.”

“Bull
shit
,” I mutter to myself.

“
Grüßgott
,” says Roman into the microphone. “
Bitte setzen Sie
.”

There is murmuring and muffled shuffling as the audience sits.

“According to our translator here in the studio,” says the host, “Prince Roman used the formal German greeting ‘
Grüßgott
.’ Translated literally it means ‘may God greet you,’ and is similar to the English salutation ‘God bless.’ It’s basically a very formal way of saying ‘hello.’”

“He followed that with ‘please be seated,’” says the other.

I sigh, hoping that Roman will switch to English so the anchors can go back to doing the play-by-play on Monday Night Football, or whatever their regular job is. I wonder why they just don’t scroll the translation on the bottom of the screen, like subtitles in a foreign film.

Once the press is seated Roman continues. “
Da Sie das Parlament kennen,
” he says,
das gestern eine Rechnung geführt wird, die Monarchie in der Republik Österreich wiedereinsetzen würde
…”

Roman seems to show no sign of switching to English. I have no idea what he’s saying, and the hosts have decided to dispense with their translation for now. Half of the screen suddenly cuts away to the crowd gathered in the courtyard of the palace, then to a close-up shot of a wizened old lady peering up at one of the huge monitors.

“Believe it or not, there are still people old enough to remember the original monarchy,” says one host. “According to local reports, this woman remembers the abdication of Prince Roman’s great-grandfather, Karl the First, in nineteen-eighteen when she was just ten years old.”

The camera zooms in closer, and my breath hitches when I realize the woman’s cheeks are covered with tears.

“That’s right, Frank,” says the other. “She’s lived through two world wars, and says that things ‘haven’t been right in the world’ since King Karl gave up the throne. As you can see, she is very emotional listening to Prince Roman, who will at some point in the very near future become
King
Roman the First.”

The camera continues to pan across the crowd. “Austrian police estimate the crowd in the courtyard and around the Schönbrunn Palace to be at least twenty thousand.”

“It appears,” says the anchor, “that Prince Roman’s German speaking abilities were wildly underestimated, so we have Ingrid Gadow standing by to translate for us.”

“
Eine neue Monarchie muss die Demokratie und die Zeiten reflektieren, denen sie
….”

Suddenly Roman’s voice fades until it’s barely audible, a female voice translating in English over his German. “A new monarchy must reflect the times from which it has sprung,” she translates. “As a democratic nation in the twenty-first century, we cannot ignore the fact that on its face a monarchy is antithetical to democracy. I believe the new monarchy must find a way to complement our nation’s government and serve its citizens, or it ceases to have a justifiable purpose.”

I barely notice as the jet’s acceleration pushes me back in my seat. I briefly glance out the window as the plane tilts up and propels us into the air.

“
Ich war in den Vereinigten Staaten geboren
,” says Roman, still showing no signs of hitting the back wall of his German-speaking ability.

“I was born in the United States,” the woman’s voice translates. “With a few brief exceptions, I have spent my life there. My parents brought me up abroad in the hopes that I would be able to enjoy a normal childhood without the scrutiny that would have become a part of my life had I grown up in Europe. Growing up and living abroad–especially in a country that values the resilience of the individual–has understandably helped shape my view of the world.

“And perhaps this was for the best. I had no expectation of living the life of nobility, and my parents impressed upon me the value of education and hard work. Without the scrutiny of the press, and without any promise of a title or riches, I was expected to pursue my interests and make my own way. By the age of sixteen I had graduated from high school and earned my pilot’s license. I went to college, and finished a stint in the American military flying fighter aircraft before beginning law school at age twenty-five.

“A year ago I started a successful specialty home construction company that donates twenty-five percent of its profits to a charitable organization that builds housing for the poor.”

My right eyebrow lifts at this.
He never told me that
, I think to myself.
How did I not know that?

“I was content with the path my life had taken,” the woman’s voice translates. “When the legislation reinstating the monarchy passed, I immediately resolved to refuse the crown. How could I be king of a country, I asked myself, where I had never lived? How could I represent a people who were strangers to me?

“Last night was, as you can probably imagine, a sleepless night as I considered the answers to those very questions. Very early this morning it occurred to me: I am not
only
a proud citizen of Austria, not
only
a grateful citizen of the United States…I am a citizen of the world.”

Over the English of the translator and Roman’s German in the background I hear another sound, a low buzz that gradually builds into a roar. The split screen shows the courtyard crowd as they erupt into cheers and wild applause as he continues: “
Und dass die Leute von Österreich nicht Fremde zu mir sind...
”

The translator promptly translates: “And that the people of Austria are not strangers to me, but my brothers and sisters; and that I would not be their king, but their servant.”

By this point I have joined many of the twenty thousand people in the courtyard in choking up as Roman continues.
Jesus,
I think
, did he write this himself
?

“And so I have resolved to accept the crown if the people of Austria would consent to my conditions.”

The crowd falls silent, their faces quizzical.

“The first: That the continued existence of the monarchy be voted upon by the people, not the Parliament, at regular, predetermined intervals. If at any time a majority wish to abolish the monarchy, their wishes will be honored by me and my family.

“The second: That I be given an annual stipend that is no more than the highest-paid public servant in Austria. The annual stipend proposed in the legislation passed by Parliament is, in my opinion, more money than is required by one person who receives housing, transportation, staff and security at no cost.

“If these conditions are acceptable to my fellow citizens, then I will humbly accept the crown. If they are not acceptable, then I will follow in the footsteps of my great-grandfather, Karl the First, and will, as he did, ‘relinquish every participation in the administration of the State’ and return to the life of a private citizen.”

Roman grips the sides of the podium with his hands, and pauses. Only then do I notice that he looks more than fatigued, he looks absolutely exhausted. I do some quick calculations in my head and realize that he has been awake for more than thirty hours.

“I will have it said like my great-grandfather before me that ‘the happiness of my people was my aim from the beginning.’”

Outside the crowd goes absolutely crazy, screaming and shouting and crying and waving Austrian flags. Inside the Great Gallery, Roman nods his head to the press. I get the sense that he’s wrapping it up.

“Thank you for listening to me this evening,” the woman’s overlaid voice translates as he holds up his hand in a half-completed wave and adds, “Austria will be the last to perish. Good night.”

The crowd outside goes berserk as I watch him turn away from the podium, the sound so loud inside the Great Gallery that it sounds like they’ve somehow managed to storm the palace. Members of the press scream questions at him in unison. The flashbulbs from the cameras are absolutely blinding. I can barely make him out as he walks to the side of the hall to shake hands and kiss the cheeks of people standing in a line.

“And that concludes the first address of Crown Prince Roman von Habsburg-Lorraine,” says the host. “It doesn’t appear as if he plans to take any questions from the media.”

“No, it doesn’t look like it,” confirms the other. “You can see him there greeting representatives of some of the other royal houses in Europe, most of whom–like Prince Roman– found out about the parliamentary vote in the middle of the night.”

I squint, looking closer at the screen as Roman leans in to kiss the cheek of a familiar blonde. Not satisfied with a chaste peck, the woman wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him in for a more familiar hug.

“There you can see him accepting a congratulatory embrace from Princess Isabella of Denmark,” says the host. “Prince Roman’s mother has been friends with Queen Margrethe and her family for many years.”

The camera zooms in on their faces. Isabella’s smile is one of unadulterated joy. Roman’s return smile is only slightly less delighted. Their heads are close together and I can see Roman’s mouth moving, saying something in her ear.

One of the hosts chuckles. “Looks like Prince Roman has decided to spend a few extra seconds with Princess Isabella.”

The second host smiles. “I can’t say that I blame him.”

“Do I sense a renewed romance in the air?” The two of them chortle like a pair of frat boys.

“Well, we’re going to have to leave that alone for a moment to bring in some experts to discuss the speech.”

“That’s right, Frank. Our first guest is Nicholas–”

I cut him short by turning the set off and folding it back against the wall. My seat is one of those soft leather recliners; I push the proper buttons on the armrest and it unfolds like a hospital bed, the footrest scooping up my feet, and the seat back falling backwards until it is nearly horizontal to the floor. I lay there like that, my hands clasped across my stomach, my eyes closed, trying hard not to think of how Isabella was allowed to rush to Austria to be with him during this important moment in his life, but I am banished back to the States.

“Leigh?”

My eyes fly open to see a vaguely familiar face standing over me. I stare at him until the proper sequence of neurons fires and I remember that I am on a plane to Denver, that I probably fell asleep, and that this guy is the hired help.

“Sorry to wake you up, but we’re getting ready to land,” says Jerrod.

“Where are we landing?”

His expression is guarded like he doesn’t want to tell me bad news. “We decided that DIA would be the best choice.”

“Why not Centennial?” I say. “It’s probably a lot closer to my house.”

Jerrod clears his throat. “DIA has a larger security force already in place.”

The plane abruptly drops in altitude and my guts sort of bunch up inside my throat. “Reporters went to Centennial too?” I say after I take a deep breath and dislodge my spleen from between my teeth.

Jerrod nods. “They’re probably covering every landing strip in Colorado. Prince Roman agrees that it would be safest to take you through DIA.”

I sit up, fumbling with the buttons to get the seat back vertical again. “You talked to Roman?”

“He called about an hour ago, but didn’t want us to wake you up. He asked us to call once we’ve gotten you out of the airport safely.”

“Out of the airport to…where?”

“We’re still working out the details,” he says, turning back to the front of the plane to buckle up. “Probably to the Brown Palace or the Adam’s Mark downtown,” he adds over his shoulder. “They’re used to famous visitors and they’ll accommodate our security detail.”

I lean out into the aisle to eyeball G1 and G2. They don’t look like much of a “security detail,” but I don’t want to hurt Jerrod’s feelings. I also don’t want to dwell much on the fact that Jerrod has just referred to me as a “famous visitor.” People will start to worry if I start laughing hysterically back here by myself.

Then I get irritated. If Roman called one hour ago, that means he’s been awake for going on thirty-five hours.
Why aren’t they letting him sleep?
I resolve to chew his ass as soon as I get him on the horn. As soon as we land…

I pause, considering this. If they’re advising
me
not to use my phone, I’m sure his phone has been confiscated, his new phone number a closely guarded state secret. Or maybe they’ve already assigned him a personal assistant, and I’ll be forced to go through a third person like a kid calling their dad at work.