“How long are we supposed to be waiting?  In this thunderstorm?”

 

          “We have fifteen minutes left.”

 

          “Oh Good God -- is that her?”

 

          “Yes.”

 

          “It’s hard to see -- she’s so far away, and the rain is like sheets of water.”

 

          “Not unusual in this high country, a hot sunny day, suddenly the sky turns black.”

 

          “She’s all alone out there!  In an open field! -- Jesus!  Did you see that lightning??”

 

          “Of course I did.”

 

          “Won’t she get struck?”

 

          “The tanning frame has a lightning rod attached.  Don’t worry, she’s safe.”

 

          “That’s what it’s called?  A tanning frame?”

 

          “Yes, they use it for stretching out horse hides before tanning.  Part of the culture out here.”

 

          “It’s big enough to hold her, all tied up and spread out like that.”

 

          “I think they built it just for her.  And put wheels on it.”

 

          “What’s this place called again?”

 

          “Shigatse.  Part of Tibet.”

 

          “Yes, Tibet.  The Reds took over what, four years ago?”

 

          “Yes.  They wouldn’t have spirited her out here if they didn’t think it was secure.”

 

          “‘Spirited’?  Kidnapped is more like it.”

 

          “Yes, during that first night’s attack.  They grabbed her right out of that pool, dripping wet, according to eyewitnesses.”

 

          “Mr. Dynarski . . . you say that thing has wheels on it?”

 

          “I told you, you can call me Nick.  Ok, Steve?”

 

          “Ok, but they really wheeled her around town like that?”

 

          “Down the main street.  So that people could spit at her and throw garbage at her, front and rear . . . The rain is probably washing all that off now.”

 

          “But they’re -- Tibetans?  Wouldn’t they be sympathetic?”

 

          “The Reds were quick to fill this town with their fanatics.  Practically remade it.”

 

          “Why would they spit on her?”

 

          “To them she’s a collaborator with capitalist oppression, or some such crap.  You know how the Reds create enemies to suit their purposes.  All lies, but they tell them over and over.  Propaganda.”

 

          “And what we saw a few minutes ago?”

 

          “Yes, they brought her out here to the fairgrounds, to circle her around, before she goes back to her cell where we could see her.  Then the storm hit and they all ran.”

 

          “Another lightning bolt!  Not a hundred feet away!  She must be scared out of her wits.”

 

          “You don’t know the Princess, my friend.”

 

          “She must at least be freezing, naked in that rain.  I feel bad, all bundled up here in this pavilion, nice and warm.”

 

          “Well, nudity is her life, I hardly have to tell you. . . She’ll probably slip in to mild hypothermia, then they’ll untie her, let her down, bring her in and shove her under a warm shower.  They’re careful not to cause any lasting physical damage.  And she knows that.”

 

          “This can’t be the routine every day.”

 

          “No, every day is different, at least that’s our guess.  Though every evening they put the same document in front of her.  And a movie camera.”

 

          “Yes, I’ve been briefed.  They want her to renounce her throne.”

 

          “The least we can do is have our . . . ‘audience’ with her every two weeks like we’re allowed.”

 

          “And this time it’s us Americans.”

 

          “It’s a rotating schedule . . . Our time’s almost up.  Mr. Zhou??  Mr. Zhou??”

 

          “Yes.”

 

          “We have not yet met the Princess.”

 

          “And I am afraid you must go now.”

 

          “We are entitled to see her, under the terms of the Accords.”

 

          “Yes, I am sorry, but the storm was unexpected.  She is scheduled for further . . . ‘techniques’ momentarily.”

 

          “This is a violation of the Accords.”

 

          “This will be noted, sir.  On behalf of the People’s Republic of China I extend our apologies.”

 

          “Mr. Mihret and Mr. Zewde from Ethiopia will be here next time.  I will advise them not to expect any disappointments.”

 

          “Of course, sir.”

 

=======================================================

 

          “Oh my god.”

 

          “Shhhh . . . I told you it might be shocking.”

 

          “Good afternoon, Your Highness.  It’s me, Mr. Dynarski, and Mr. Poris, the Americans again.”

 

          “Good -- uhhh -- afternoon -- Nick.  And Mr. -- Poris.”

 

          “Good afternoon, Ma’am -- I mean Your Highness.”

 

          “Look on me.”

 

          “Steve, do what she says.  You’re not supposed to look away from the Princess’s person.  It’s considered rude . . . There, that’s better.”

 

          “Let me -- uhh -- know the situation.”

 

          “Ahem.  The Second Guard is still holding the Capital.  The Palace is safe.  The Reds have made inroads into the East Pass but reinforcements are arriving from Singapore.”

 

          “How -- did they -- disembark?”

 

          “Paratroopers, from the British Fleet.  Nehru has been cooperative.”

 

          “Zhhhh . . . zhhhh . . . AAAHH!! AIEEE!! AIEEEE!!”

 

          “Mr. Dynarski, we have to stop this!”

 

          “SHHHH! . . . Princess, can you hear us?  Can you talk?”

 

          “Uhhh . . . AIEEEE!!  Y - yes . . .”

 

          “Mr. Dynarski, Mr. Poris, your time is up.”

 

          . . . “Good God, that was horrible.”

 

          “I’ve seen worse.  At least she was able to form words.  You write up the report this time.”

 

          “What do I say?”

 

          “Be detailed and truthful.  Say she was pitched forward, hands tied behind her, while a male guard was rhythmically pumping an artificial penis into her rectum.  With weights stretching her nipples.  And then when the nipples were very sore, the weights were taken off and hot sauce applied.”

 

          “Doesn’t that . . . cause injury?”

 

          “Her nipples will be inflamed for a while, that’s all.  As for her -- anus, they’ve been careful to stretch it out bit by bit.  The Chinese know how far they can go.  They’re experts at that kind of thing.  I think they learned it from the Soviets, who brainwashed people and put them on show trials, testifying the way they wanted, without any sign of being tortured.”

 

          “I hope the Princess won’t get brainwashed.”

 

          “You still don’t know her yet, do you?”

 

=====================================================

 

          “Here we go again, Steve.  If this is what I think it will be, they will let us in just as she is reaching, uh, sexual climax.  Mr. Zhou?”

 

          “Yes, Mr. Dynarski, Mr. Poris.  If you will only wait a moment . . . you may enter now.”

 

          “OHHHH!  OHHHH!”

 

          “Steve -- don’t look away! . . . YOUR HIGHNESS, GOOD AFTERNOON!”

 

          “OHHH!  OHHH!  ohhhh  . . . G - good afternoon . . . Nick . . . ohhh . . . “

 

          “This is horrible!”

 

          “Steve -- pipe down!”

 

          “No -- I can’t -- Your Highness -- you should not be subjected to such -- shame!”

 

          “Ohhhh . . . OHH!  They -- ohhh -- are the ones -- ohh! -- who are sh  - shameddd . . . tchhk . . . not -- me -- OHHH!”

 

          “You see Steve, there are four of them, not giving her a break.  The Reds always did attract a lot of lesbians, and they know what they’re doing.”

 

          “Ohhh . . . Give me the r - report.”

 

          “Your turn, Steve.”

 

          “Your Highness -- “

 

          “OHH!!  OHHHH!!”

 

          “ -- the -- the THIRD GUARD CONTINUES ITS ATTACK UP THE WEST PASS.  THEY ARE -- “

 

          “OHHH!!  OHHH!!!”

 

          “Steve -- wait till she gets through this one.”

 

          “Ok.”

 

          “OHHHHH!!  Ohhhh . . . ohhh . . . “

 

          “Um -- THEY ARE STEADILY ADVANCING.  MEANWHILE YOUR APPEAL IS BEING HEARD -- BY THE UNITED NATIONS COMMITTEE.”

 

          “Ohhh . . . thchhck . . . I th-thought the W - west Pass was c - cleared -- ohh!”

 

          “Um, sorry, I meant the East Pass.”

 

          “OHHH!  Chhhk -- OHHH!”

 

          “Mr. Zhou?”

 

          “I am sorry that the Princess is not in a condition to continue, Sirs.”

 

          “Yes . . . Your Highness, we take our leave of you.”

 

          “OHHHH!”

 

===============================================

 

          “Steve, how could you make such a stupid mistake?  East Pass or West Pass??  She remembers every word, you know.”

 

          “Sorry Sir . . . I mean Nick.  I was too upset to remember what to say . . . Can we talk back here?”

 

          “Yes, this limo driver, all he does is take us to the airport.  I don’t think he even hears us, let alone understands English.”

 

          “How can she stand all those punishments, month after month?  What’s their plan?  They must know by now that she’s not going to sign anything.”

 

          “They’ve been quite inventive.  We have identified seventy-six ‘situations’ they have put her in.  And we do think there’s an endpoint.  First, it was public humiliation, like putting her on that tanning frame and parading her around.  They did other things in that vein too.  For a while they had her cleaning houses, hauling garbage, other menial tasks.  They still have water wheels here for irrigation, and they would put her on one, working that treadmill all day.  But eventually, even among fanatic Reds, the way she comported herself, her dignity, began to elicit some sympathy.  So they turned to things done in private, invasive, painful, though not injurious, predicaments.  Invasion with dildos, clamped nipples, that sort of thing.”

 

          “No rape, I hope.”

 

          “Oh no, certainly not.  There would be a lot of international complications if they did that.  Anyway she is much more valuable to them as a virgin . . . When pain didn’t work, they turned to sexual torture.  Women, at least some of them, can have several orgasms in a row.  Being forced into pleasure over and over like that, caused by your enemies and right in front of them, must be a strange kind of agony.”

 

          “Wow.”

 

          “I do think it’s the worst for her, emotionally.  It’s odd but, from what little has been studied, painful torture does not work on some people.  They somehow get used to it, no matter how severe.  And of course here they can’t go so far as to cause visible injury.  But the orgasm torture will probably not work either.”

 

          “What then?”

 

          “We think they will end up just with hard labor.  Endless drudgery.  Fortuna and Delligatti, the Italian observers, they saw some of that last month.  She was pulling a plow, all by herself on a big field, on a hot day, dirty and sweaty.  You can imagine how inefficient that is, with bare feet sinking into the soil.  When they went up to her, with Zhou of course, he put a bowl of water on the ground.  She fell to the ground, she was so tired, and drank from it, water going down her chin because her hands were still tied up on the yoke.  Day after day like that, monotonously, they think she will finally give up hope.”

 

          “Horrible, that they shame her like that.”

 

          “Like she says, the shame is theirs, not hers.”

 

          “I suppose that’s true. . . Anyway, with this East Pass and West Pass business, how can we coordinate what we’re telling her?  There’s sixteen of us, eight delegations.  There will be a screwup, sooner or later.”

 

          “We have to keep her spirits up.  She lives for her people, her country.  It keeps her going, day after horrible day.”

 

          “Living for a country that no longer exists?”

 

================================================

 

          The London skyline outlines her nude form as she carries the kettle from table to table to pour into each cup.  A national tradition, the monarch serving tea to an international delegation.  Here up on the sixteenth floor they all look at her body closely -- which of course is permitted -- and are relieved that she appears uninjured.  Though there have been some changes, noticed by those who knew her before.  Her all-over tan is a little darker.  The nipples are bigger, standing out a little more.  Her pubic hair is more lush, splayed out.  Her legs are more muscular, her feet broader, tougher looking.  And in her face one sees a shadow of what she has been through.  Is that a strand or two of gray hair over her ears?  Meanwhile there is a faint hubbub from the streets far below.

 

          “I am glad you could come.”  She is now sitting cross-legged on a high cushion in front of the big window.  “I thank the British Foreign Office for offering this forum, and for putting me up.  Thank you, Sir Anthony.”  A nod to a short, bald man at the side.  “This is Lakshmi, my maid in waiting, and Messrs. Harad, Forlu and Korkan, officers of my surviving Cabinet.

 

          “Please introduce yourselves.”

 

          And so they did.  Guiseppe Fortuna and Stefano Delligatti, Italy; Jehu Slinglight (in uniform), from the British colony of Singapore; Hikaru Seku, Japan; Francois Levale and Pierre LaPorte, France; Koro Mihret and Jomu Zewde, Ethiopia; German Bufando, Mexico.  Nicholas Dynarski and Stephen Poris, United States.

 

          “I am sure you have questions for me.  But I also have questions for you.”

 

          Sir Anthony says, to a general nodding of heads, “If anyone deserves the truth, it is you.  Ask us anything.”

 

          “Give me details of the invasion.”

 

          Mr. Slinglight says, “The Chinese, using troops supported by airpower, swept over the country within three weeks.  Only the mountain terrain prevented a quicker rout.  The army fought bravely but were overwhelmed.”

 

          Mr. Dynarski says: “Your Highness, I’m sorry we were deceiving you during your captivity as to . . . ongoing fighting.”

 

          “That is all right.  I quickly figured out you were lying but I took it as a sign of your regard for me . . . What were the casualties?”

 

          Mr. Slinglight: “Fortunately only thirty-one killed, two hundred twelve injured.”

 

          “I would not call that fortunate.  Now that we can properly memorialize it, I have been given permission to preside over a service at the Cenotaph.  The bell will be rung thirty-one times. . . I assume there was no help from India.”

 

          Sir Anthony: “They did not provide the promised free path.  Apparently the Soviets were supporting the invasion and India did not want to risk a wider war.  I apologize, but we no longer control India and we discovered, far too late, that we had no influence.”

 

          “I suppose I can’t blame them.  What was the purpose of the invasion?  If you can make a guess.”  Suddenly her voice trembles.  “Wait . . .”

 

          She puts her head in her hands.  Despite her efforts at regal dignity, she is suddenly overcome.  Lakshmi offers a tissue.  Everyone looks away.  No one has ever seen her cry.  A tear falls on her nipple and she wipes it off.  Now one falls onto her pubic hair.  She dabs that one off too.

 

          She recovers, sniffles, blows her nose, clears her throat, sits up again, flexes her toes and continues.  “Do they want to annex us?  Like they did with Tibet?”

 

          Mr. Levale: “Unclear.  Perhaps they just want a buffer state, a neighbor they can control and fortify, to prevent invasion.  Like the Soviets have apparently done with East Germany.”

 

          “And my government in exile?”

 

          Sir Anthony: “There are offices in Lincoln House we can give you.  At Her Majesty’s Government’s expense.  Some time is needed to gather everyone who can be gathered.  And make an appeal for recognition from the United Nations and other countries.”

 

          “You mean -- continued recognition.”

 

          “Yes, of course.”

 

          “I assume the Chinese have set up a provisional government.”

 

          Mr. Slinglight: “Yes, headed by . . . Mr. Tentenla.”

 

          “Oh dear . . . George . . . well he is an old man.”

 

          “His view is that a native puppet is better than a Chinese overlord.”

 

          “I imagine so.  I recommend overtures be made to him, through back channels of course.  Mr. Forlu?”

 

          “Yes, I will speak to you about how that can be best done.”

 

          She straightens up again on her cushion, head erect, breasts thrust forward.  “The well-being of my people is my main concern.  If temporary concessions have to be made to ensure their health and safety then they will be made.  Perhaps the Chinese will tire of us.”

 

          They look up at her, with pained smiles.

 

          Mr. Slinglight: “The Chinese are not insensitive to the feelings of your people.  I believe they want the territory but not hegemony.”

 

          Mr. Delligatti: “If that is true it is not characteristic of how the Chinese behave.”

 

          Mr. Slinglight: “The Chinese themselves are a new nation.  The Reds took over only in 1949, a few years ago.  They have enough problems with assimilating the various ethnicities in their own vast territory.

 

          “Let me give you an example of how they might govern with a, shall we say, light touch.  They have blotted out all public images of Your Highness.”

 

          “That is not surprising.”

 

          Mr. Slinglight: “But then they went further and put up depictions of you -- sorry I have to say this -- wearing clothes.”

 

          Lakshmi, Mr. Harad, Mr. Forlu and Mr. Korkan -- her countrymen -- bow their heads and knock their knuckles against their foreheads.  It is a sign more or less opposite of “Zhekani” -- from what foreigners can gather, it means “I wish I had not heard that!”

 

          There is a respectful, partly shocked, silence.  Then Mr. Slinglight says: “It caused a riot, your people tearing down the likenesses.  Thereafter the invaders wisely left the matter alone.  In private people still revere your -- proper -- image and the Chinese have not gone into houses to pry.”

 

          “Is the shrine still intact?  And the palace?”

 

          “Yes, all still operational.  In fact war damage has been repaired.”

 

          “Food?  Medicine?  Schools?”

 

          “All still being provided.  The Chinese, as you know, believe in central planning, but in fact they have not changed anything except for adding Communist theory courses in school.  Like I say, I believe they want the territory, as a strategic location, and have little interest in remaking the culture or the economy.  A small, mountainous country, with little arable land and few natural resources, is of little use to them otherwise.”

 

          Mr. Korkan, who is the “shadow” Home Secretary, adds, “Though your likeness in public is forbidden, there is a symbol that people write on walls, that has come to represent you.  We call it Upsilon, because it looks like that letter of the Greek alphabet.”  He takes out a pad and shows it to her: a stylized letter “V”, with outward loops on the two upstrokes and a little loop at the (literal) crotch.  It is a flowing representation of two breasts above, connected to a vulva below.  “It is a symbol of resistance.  I do not think the Chinese have caught onto it yet.”

 

          There is a short silence as they wait for the Princess to speak again.  Then Sir Anthony says: “Is there anything further you wish to know?”

 

          “Not at the moment.  And now, gentlemen, you may ask me what you wish.”

 

          Faces look around.  Who will ask first?  It’s Mr. Bufando.

 

          “Tell us about your escape.  From what I hear, you walked five miles through brush country to the rendezvous with the helicopter.”

 

          “I saw Captain Dugal signaling to me one afternoon as I was being . . . well . . . subject to ‘techniques’ out on the front lawn.  I suppose they figured I couldn’t observe when I was in such a state.  But he was clearly to be seen, in front of the far gate.”

 

          “But you didn’t go with him.”

 

          “I couldn’t, that day.  The next day he wasn’t there.  But he had shown me the way.”

 

          Mr. Harad:  “Captain Dugal was the winner, shall we say, of the contest to select the parachutist.  It was considered a suicide mission -- but to save you, every qualified countryman volunteered.”

 

          Mr. Bufando: “It seemed almost too easy, the Reds not noticing you were gone, not looking for you until the next day.”

 

          “It is clear they wanted me to escape.  I am not sure why.”

 

          “But you did make it safely.”

 

          “It was a cold night, with frost, and I had to climb over some rocks.  My lower body got scratched all over by the brush, and I cut my toe.  But the journey was not any more -- arduous -- than what I had gotten used to.”

 

          Now Sir Anthony says, “We must inquire now into your physical condition.  We know you endured various punishments for a long time.  Were you adequately fed, and all that?”

 

          “Yes, the food was tolerable.  I did not want to eat meat but I had to.  They kept my hair short and clipped my nails.  I had to sleep on a hard bench without blankets.  I was exercised, made to run about ten kilometers a day, around the town, followed by soldiers in a truck.  And I was bathed, after a fashion.”

 

          “After a fashion?”

 

          “Every morning they hosed me down in the town square and scrubbed me with long-handled brushes.  And dried me off with rough towels.  The guards were nice to me, personally.  Cruelty was only something they were assigned to do.”

 

          There is a pause, during which everyone wonders what it was in her pampered upbringing that gave her the strength to endure such a long ordeal of deprivation and torture.  Then Sir Anthony says, “And now for the examination.”  He rings a buzzer.  “Please send in Dr. Crowninshield.”

 

          Her body is her country’s throne; it is unspoken but assumed that in the present situation its healthy state should be certified in front of an international audience.  She gets off the cushion, stands up straight, extends her arms and legs, turning all the way around so that every (unscarred) bit of her can be viewed.  Her nipples look normal, if larger than before, after all the abuse that they were subjected to.  She shows them the palms of her hands, the soles of her feet.  Now she sits on the table and her reflexes are checked, her ears with the otoscope, her mouth is opened to check her teeth.  Then she lies back onto the cold marble table, bends her knees, and spreads her legs, very wide so as to accommodate the heads of the men looking in.  She reaches in to spread her vaginal lips so that they can see no damage to her outer vulva or the clitoris, no redness, no abrasions.  Now the Doctor comes forward to insert the speculum.  As she looks up at the ceiling, expressionless, the Doctor invites all to look inside at the interior of the royal vagina, healthy with no signs of trauma, the royal cervix unbruised.  She turns around and gets up on all fours.  She spreads her buttocks and shows them her anus, a tight asterisk in a ring of brown skin, in exactly the same condition as if it had not been penetrated by increasingly large dildos, electrodes delivering (noninjurious) electric shocks, cold soda enemas or tabasco sauce, or perhaps female tongues.  The speculum pries her open in this different place and the formally-dressed observers from eight countries look inside at the undamaged royal bowel, cleaned and irrigated with the enema Lakshmi gave her an hour ago.  She grunts softly as she relaxes her internal muscles, looking down at the table, to give them a better view.  The Doctor shines a penlight in and they can see all the way in to where her rectum diverts to her sigmoid colon.

 

          Given the nature of some of the punishments, impairment of her sexual functioning -- relevant to marriageability -- is naturally a concern.  She gets up on the edge of the table, upright on wide spread knees, as Lakshmi kneels in front of her as if in worship and practices her old specialty, licking the royal clitoris and vulva.  As she faces them they are relieved to witness the welcome signs of arousal -- the gasps, the flushed face, the stiffening nipples, the pungent scent of female musk -- escalating up to climax within five minutes.  Mr. LaPorte is given the honor of verification, leaning back and inserting a lubricated finger into the anus, nodding to everyone when he feels the contractions, of which there are nine.  Her initial moans are smothered and quiet but then, perhaps to give them further proof, she cries out with the last few jolts.

 

          When she has caught her breath and her eyes have been dried off she is helped up by Lakshmi and re-installs herself on the cushion.  Sir Anthony says, “I am so glad you are well.  And with us again.”

 

          Without thinking everyone claps and she bows with a little smile.

 

          Mr. Harad says, “Your Highness, your life as world traveling advocate for your people is to begin.  The Cabinet have decided that you should go from capital to capital while we perform the necessary groundwork here in London.  The crowd downstairs awaits.”

 

          Of course they all know that.  He gives her a sheet of paper.  “Here is your speech.  I note that you didn’t suggest any changes.”

 

          “No, it was fine.  Good job.”

 

          “Finally,” Mr. Harad says, “we have developed a special flag for our attempts to get our country back.  I think you will agree it is distinctive and sure to command attention and sympathy.  We call it the ‘liberation flag’.”

 

          This is a surprise to her and her facial expression is hard to describe as it is unfurled by Mr. Forlu and Mr. Korkan, in front of her and the delegation.  It is an adaptation of her likeness on the 200 Silver Petal note, in “lotus” position in front of the Himalayas, her arms up in the “Zhekani” benediction, and it copies that note’s slogan in big, Romanesque letters: “She Without Clothes Will Lead Us to Glory”.  Compliments and appreciative chuckles are uttered all around.

 

          She seems out of breath for a moment.  Then she says, “When am I expected to speak?”

 

          “There are some introductions, and I want to make a few remarks.  Maybe twenty minutes.”

 

          “Thank you, Bin,” she says, referring to Mr. Harad by his first name.  “I will be down soon.  Mr. Dynarski and I are old friends and have some catching up to do -- can you stay for a moment?”

 

          All bow to her, one by one, and head out to the elevator, leaving only Nick Dynarski behind.

 

          She watches as the door closes and it is just the two of them.

 

          “Well, Nick,” she says.

 

          “Well,” Dynarski says.  Of course it is her turn to speak first.

 

          “It has been a long time since I -- unburdened myself to you on that palace roof.”

 

          “Yes.”

 

          “Did you report it to your superiors?”

 

          “I had to.  But I put it under special cover.”

 

          “Did they say anything about it?”

 

          “I didn’t hear a thing.  And it was not my place to follow up.  For all I know it went into a file unread.”

​

          “What about -- Haji?”

 

          “Married six months ago.  To someone in the Italian royal family.  I hear she’s pregnant already.”

 

          She inhales, then exhales, her breasts rising and falling.

 

          “I’m sorry,” he says.

 

          She sighs.  “It is part of being royalty.  One often can’t control these things.”  She grunts mordantly.  “I certainly couldn’t.”

 

          “I’m sure he felt as bad about it as you do.”

 

          “Yet life has to go on doesn’t it?  Chances are, we’ll meet again. . . at some function . . . he’ll come up in the reception line and we will say our pleasantries . . . look in each other’s eyes for half a second with no expression . . . and go on to the next person in the line.”

 

          “I hope I’m not being forward by saying this, but even among us commoners, it is not unusual that one doesn’t get to marry the love of one’s life.  Timing is everything.”

 

          “Yes, timing.  And politics.  Bloody politics.”

 

          This language is so unusual from the Princess that Dynarski’s eyes widen for a moment.  Then he says, “Being a monarch in exile gives you a more active role than before.  We all saw that, just now.  It might give you more leeway in decisions about your personal life.  You can find someone to marry . . . and finally be clothed.”

 

          “Can I really put on clothes now even if I do marry?  With clothes on, I would be just another ousted monarch.  There must be dozens of them traveling the world now, going to functions in evening dress, wearing ribbons, making speeches at dinners that people applaud politely and that have no effect.  Hanging out with other pretenders, and the idle rich, and people who just want to be able to say they’ve met you.  Such an empty, useless life . . . For me, being naked is my whole f**king reason for existence now!!”  She stamps her tough heel which thuds on the marble floor, her breasts jiggling.  Now she catches her breath.  “I’m sorry for being crude.”

 

          “Don’t be.  I understand perfectly.”

 

          They stand there for a moment, looking down at his shined shoes next to her bare feet.  He is sure she is also looking down at the bareness of her breasts, her nipples still erect as they always are when she is passionate about something.  The only bare breasts in the world of displaced royalty.

 

          “I have to think about my people.  They love me and now they need me, especially now.”

 

          “Indeed . . .”  He hates to break the mood.  “Your Highness, I think you’re expected on the balcony.”

 

          “Give me a few moments alone, please.”

 

          When she finally appeared, the cheers in the square were deafening.  She had to wait a full two minutes before she could read the speech.  But first she did what they were waiting for, raising her hands over her head, her breasts rising up as if ready to fight, her nipples stiffening in the brisk London air, and saying in a proud and strong voice, “Zhekani!”

 

[end]