He has a cool villa in a green suburb of Madrid. Twenty minutes from the cacophony of the Gran Via. At the end of a pale pink drive of dusty gravel. Among orange trees and the stately swish of water sprinklers under a big fat sun.
We stopped in front of a tall, white gate and my friends told me to wait while they fixed the bona fides with old Gustave the royal bodyguard. I sat obscurely in the car while the right words were whispered through the fence. And then the proud entrance, casual as I could make it. Nervously adjusting my new persona grata.
Across spongy grass to the patio where there we wicker chairs and a round table of wrought iron thoughtfully laid out for drinks. The king came down the steps tall in shirt sleeves. Fresh no doubt from his counting house and all the golden bars. Glad I’d remembered to wear my new purple tie. And I thought of bowing neatly from the waist but realized in time that this might be a mild lapse of taste. The king’s eyes spelled informality. I was struck at once by his long black hair and round tortoiseshell spectacles which looked engagingly out of place on his tired young face. And an American accent spread thinly over a dark brown Balkan sound. He might have been a king of Manhattan specially created by the public relations men. I thought of the sad immigrants stepping off the boat at Ellis Island. With a brisk Atlantic breeze to polish the homesick consonants.
But the king smiled into my reverie and said, ‘Hi, friends, what’s your poison?’ I said, ‘Thank you so much, please make mine a Scotch.’ I stood with a fat crystal glass and cautiously helped myself to the tasty pastries. We talked a lot about water skis and the price of power boars. With Gustave all the time sternly omnipresent looking like it had never been the same since they sold the Hispano-Suiza.
This breathless afternoon soon fading, with the sun a giant chrysanthemum sulking behind the orange trees. And an impious wind coming to play with the sprinklers and speckle us all with water. We said politely we really should go. But the king said no he wouldn’t hear of such a thing and ushered us firmly into the drawing room.
We stepped from Spain into Austria-Hungary and a forest of dark furniture dangerously deployed. Something of a social mine-field. I nearly toppled a shako of the Imperial Hussars laid out no doubt for instant readiness. Sitting down for safety I could hear the whisper of satin and the sad bones of these old chairs. All the exiled ghosts imprisoned in this distant microcosm. There were wine-red drapes, small tables delicately inlaid, the ragged head of a deer and a schloss-sized chandelier.
I spied an oval portrait of great-aunt Sophie and a photograph which must have been the late king. He was splendid in sepia with uniform tunic bulging at the chest. And bristling Balkan moustaches. My king in magisterial pose raised his glass and gave his bare top lip an atavistic twist. How I envied those distinguished chromosomes. And thought of all my common ones palely lurking somewhere.
A Spanish maid in a black dress came with a tray of iced cakes and while the others were busy sinking polite teeth into the soft sponge, the king laid a conspiratorial hand on my arm saying he would like to show me around. Gustave, he assured me, was outside checking for anarchists. I thought of his slow silhouette stalking around the neat grounds. Perhaps with a Mauser rifle, vintage nineteen ‘three, tucked under his arm and sadly couchant. Back in Bohemia there would have been crisp snow under his boots. The dogs smelling real blood as they stopped in their tracks. And the snuffling wildschwein careering between black Wagnerian pines.
This spring evening the king in his study. Great moon face solemn across the green baize. Around the room were displayed guns of all shapes and ages. Being a military man I could see that these shooting instruments were properly oiled and ready for any conceivable altercation. Neither was novelty forgotten. See this fountain-pen. Just press the clip so and let go with a neat 22. Ideal for the ticklish tete-a-tete. I sat on an ammunition box and admired this swinging arsenal.
We smoke and drank champagne and when I rose to go the king said he hoped I’d come again. But before I went would I accept this parchment commissioning me in the Household Hussars. Naturally, I could serve on the General Staff. I knew a tailor in the Via Velazquez where I could buy epaulettes. Back in the drawing room to join my friends I clutched my proud document and thanked his majesty for a fascinating time. The king smiled. ‘Hope to see you soon. And by the way all my friends call me Fred.’ Crunching away on the royal gravel I wondered what old Franz-Jozef would have said.
1967 The Guardian
Tags: The Guardian