The Paper Crown

7. The Wedding Night

Mariusz runs towards the goat, flings his arms around her neck, and kisses her. For this, he is rewarded with a butt to the belly, and he goes down on his bottom before her.

The goat steps peevishly into the ballroom. She is followed by a young man, shoving at her from behind. He says something to Mariusz, who is apparently very pleased with him, for he jumps up, slaps the young man on the back and messes his hair. The goat is pleased with nobody and begins to eat Mariusz's coat tails.

Mariusz's fat friend shouts something, and the others cheer in agreement. I shriek as two men pick me up on their shoulders and carry me towards the goat.

"What are you doing? Let go!"

They do not let go. They put me firmly down on the goat's back. I have to grab at its neck to keep from sliding off its hot, greasy round belly. The goat transfers its attention from Mariusz's coat tails to my wedding dress, rolling its yellow eyes at me.

"No. Stop. I don't like goats. Stop. Please."

The men do not stop. Instead, they push Prince Mariusz up behind me, ignoring his protests. He grabs hold of my waist as the goat tries to buck, disturbed at her load, and we both almost fall off.

We are not given the chance to fall after that. People surround the goat on all sides and herd it through the room. They manage to get it out into the front hall and halfway up the marble staircase. I beg to be let off unheeded.

They are clapping and cheering, and there is not enough room on the staircase for them to surround the goat, and here she gives an almighty wriggle, and I fall off one way and Mariusz the other. While I groan on the steps, the goat skips away up the stairs to freedom.

Beside me, Mariusz sits up and begins to argue with his friends. From the rate at which he is repeating the name Eleonora, I gather he is offended on behalf of his goat. Apologies seem to be offered, but Mariusz is sullen and keeps shaking his head and refusing them. We are both sitting on the stairs still, while our guests stand above us. I don't know what to do or say. I fear that doing or saying anything will start me crying, because I am so, so very drunk. And I fear that that will start everybody crying, because they are all drunker than I am. So I sit there and let them argue, and this time when the two men lift me up onto their shoulders, I do not protest. Behind me, four women have between them picked up Mariusz, who is still arguing, one on each limb.

We are carried like this through the palace until we reach my apartment. Perhaps there was once some more sedate plan for this moment. If so, it is well forgotten by now. We are both deposited on the bed. Mariusz immediately scrambles off and heads for the door, but the women laughingly push him back. He pulls his blindfold back down over his eyes and gropes one of them, but the chubby man pulls him away and indignantly retrieves his cravat which he ties around his bare neck. Again, the women pick up Mariusz, carry him to the bed, and throw him down upon it. Somehow, he manages to tumble off the other side onto the floor, scramble back up and head once more for the door, and when that way is barred, to the window. Two men grab him and lift him, legs wheeling, into the air. The chubby man opens a linen chest with a shout of triumph, and the other two deposit Mariusz in it and latch it shut.

I sit bemusedly on the bed and watch as the men and women go around the room testing all the windows are locked. They have to check each one at least three times in their drunkenness, and when they are sure of the windows, they hold a concerned conference by the bathroom door, which has no key.

"Leave it," I say tiredly in French. "There is no exit there."

And they do leave it open, and then leave the room and me alone in it. They shut the pocket doors after them. For some time, I sit drunkenly on the bed and listen to them giggling and scuffling behind the doors. I lie down and shut my eyes. I wish they would go away.

Mariusz bangs on the chest.

I sit up. I suppose I must be the one to let him out. I crawl off the bed and unlatch the chest and lift its lid. He clambers out, red-faced, and ignores me to head to the doors, which do not budge under his tugging. The handles seem to be tied together on the other side. A woman giggles outside. He bangs upon the door, and shouts something at her. Some footsteps run hastily away.

Mariusz is no longer laughing or smiling. Maybe he only pretended to find the game funny to begin with. He goes around the room closing all the curtains tight over the windows, then he looks under the bed and in the wardrobe.

"There's no one. They all left," I say.

He looks at me through bloodshot eyes. Then he yells out in Selician again, and more giggles come from beyond the doors. He shouts again. The giggles abruptly silence and slow footsteps stumble away.

At last we are truly alone. I stand in the middle of the room, swaying slightly, and watch him. He draws back the covers of the bed, then flings himself down upon the mattress and beats at it with his fists. I know what happens next, and I think, in our current state, we are both going to be disappointed by it. I did not envision romance, not after the first night here, but I never imagined my wedding night would become this bawdy farce.

Mariusz stumbles away, kicks off his shoes, and takes off his jacket and vest, which he flings over the chaise longue. He looks at me, but does not speak. He is no longer bothering to pretend not to be sullen.

There is a bowl of fruit on the dressing table, and he walks over to it, examines it carefully, and selects an apple. He pats at his shirt, looks surprised, then goes back to the chaise where he threw his vest. He fumbles in its folds and removes a knife from the pocket, with which he cuts slices from the apple, and eats them, one by one, pacing swayingly up and down by the doors. Dimly, I recognize the knife. He must have purloined it from the supper table.

I want to say I am ready, or that we should get it done, because I am tired and want to go to sleep. But when my mouth opens, the words that come out unbidden, are:

"I had more fun at my father's execution."

He looks up. His apple is almost finished. His eyes are shadowed and his lids drooping. He shrugs.

"They like their little jokes."

He tosses the apple core into the fireplace, wipes the knife on his trousers, and comes over to me. Not looking in my eyes, he takes up my hands. Like a puppet, I let him. I don't know how to welcome his advances, and I don't want to make a move he might interpret as refusing them. The best I can do is stand passively as he removes my left glove and drops it on the floor.

His own gloves were lost long ago, and his flesh is dry to the touch and surprisingly gentle upon mine. He traces the lines of my palm with his thumb. When he reaches my wrist, he pauses. The scar is still healing from where I last broke the skin with my chains. He runs his thumb over it, then turns my hand over to examine the back of my wrist. Even in the candle light, the old white scars are faintly visible. He traces their overlapping patterns.

His eyes come to mine, a question in them, but he does not ask it. He only shrugs once more, drops my hand, and turns away. He stands over the bed and looks down upon it. Without speaking, he holds out his own palm, lifts the knife, and cuts slowly down the centre crease. It is not deep enough, and he has to make a fist and squeeze before a few drops of blood fall to the sheets. He rubs his palm on the sheets to get a few more red smudges for artistic effect. Then he tosses the knife back onto his vest.

He takes off his shirt and tosses it on top of his vest, then he loosens the buttons of his trousers but does not take them off. He gets on the non-bloodied side of the bed, punches at the pillow, and shuts his eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to sleep."

"But the blood – why?"

He opens his eyes, and looks at me from their corners.

"How do you put it in your country? I am trying to remember. Ah. That is right." His eyes fall shut again, and he murmurs sleepily: "I have not the desire to fuck you."

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2024-04-12: Burn score - Mariusz 2, Alex 0.