The Paleys (1921-1927) - An Alternate Romanov Story

Loathing

Vladimir

The party had been going well. The music was pleasant, and Vladimir had the chance to talk to some of his old childhood friends from Paris who, in some cases, he hadn't seen in years. People who shared his interest in writing and with whom he felt he could have a fruitful conversation on the subject. That was what he loved the most about Paris: unlike in Petrograd, not every conversation centred on the army, politics or unbridled gossip. It was actually possible to discuss ideas, philosophy, writing styles and methods without the fear of being labelled as "soft" or "unmanly" for it.

He was mid-conversation, discussing the merits of unreliable narrators in fiction when the atmosphere shifted. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed someone approaching. His friend, who had been animated just seconds ago, faltered mid-sentence. His eyes darted over Vladimir's shoulder, widening in a way that could only mean that someone important had arrived. Vladimir turned, tightening his fingers around his glass of champagne. And then, he nearly dropped it.

Standing behind him, sharp and unmistakable in a tailored midnight-blue suit, was none other than Crown Prince Carol of Romania.

"Well, if it isn't the Poet Prince!" He blasted.

Before Vladimir could react, Carol stepped in and clapped him hard on the shoulder, the kind of pat that wasn't meant to comfort. It lingered just a second too long, firm enough to be felt through the fabric of his jacket.

It took Vladimir a moment to understand if the scene playing out right in front of his eyes was real. He only had two glasses of champagne, which was not nearly enough to hallucinate, but still, he could not fully understand why Carol had come to him. He tried to think if they had ever been formally introduced but could not remember that ever happening.

"Don't look so surprised. I know I don't look like the sort of man who enjoys poetry, but I've read all your books," Carol explained in a tone that came across as condescending.

Vladimir's first instinct was disbelief. He almost laughed at the thought of Carol reading poetry. It just didn't fit the image he had created in his mind. This was a man who spent his life among officers and generals, men who could name every cavalry manoeuvre in Europe but wouldn't know Pushkin from a pastry. But Carol was still watching him, still smiling, and that was when Vladimir knew for certain he wasn't joking. He blinked once, slowly, as if to clear a fog from his mind.

"I'm flattered," Vladimir said, schooling his voice into neutrality. "I didn't think you had the time for those sorts of books."

Carol chuckled low in his throat.

"I make time for things that interest me." His eyes didn't move. Not once. "Besides, my wife keeps them by her side all the time, and she's a mystery to me, so I'd figure I should just read them to see what all the fuss was about. Trying to understand her a little better, you know?"

For a moment, Vladimir felt like he'd been struck in two places simultaneously. Although Carol kept his outward appearance of amusement and casualness, there was something ugly in his tone, something so bitter and small that it was impossible for Vladimir not to feel it. It was a veiled accusation disguised as praise, and he knew it all too well. But, at the same time, the bitter taste that Carol had left with his veiled comments gave way to the tender thought that, even after all these years, it was not only Vladimir who had kept a special place in his heart for Olga. Despite all appearances, it seemed that she had kept one for him, too.

"Did you get any answers?" Vladimir asked casually after a moment as if there hadn't been anything out of the ordinary with Carol's curiosity.

"A few," Carol said, his grin never faltering. "But not the ones I was looking for."