The Princess’s Confession

Postscript

The above, completed my last night in the Palace, is being sent by regular channels without the “Top Secret” designation, because failing to send some kind of report would arouse suspicion.  What follows is added to the Top Secret version for reasons that will become evident.

As noted, I was invited to share the reviewing stand with Her Highness atop the Palace Pavilion at the Review of the Soldiers.  Of course I was not on the top stand, but one a little lower to the side.  We were about ten feet apart and glanced at each other as the troops filed by, far below.  There was no one up there but us two.  For someone of my humble standing this was an unexpected honor.

It may be called “Review of the Soldiers” but it is mostly not soldiers.  The armed forces of this country are just a few hundred.  What she was “reviewing” seemed to consist of religious orders, fraternal organizations, and schools, in neatly ordered procession with interspersed bands of musicians playing traditional drums and flutes.  Every half minute or so she waved approvingly, almost a stereotypical royal wave like you see from the newly ascended Queen Elizabeth.

This was an event that called upon her reserves of stamina and endurance.  It was one of those uncommon cloudy days with a stiff wind blowing down from the mountains, and with us being on top of the Pavilion there was nothing to shield us from it.  I had been warned and was fully bundled in my overcoat, gloves and thermal boots.  Not so, of course, the monarch.  She was goose-pimpled and before long was shivering, her nipples dark pebbles on puckered areolas.  Probably none of these details were visible to the crowd far below.

Suddenly she said, “I hate this.”

I couldn’t believe what I had heard.  Maybe the wind had distorted her words.  “I beg your pardon?”

“I hate this.  I hate being naked.  I hate being cold.  I hate everyone seeing me!”  While giving another wave she was reduced to pathetic whimpering.  “Please, O Buddha, give me clothes!”  She sounded like a pleading schoolgirl.  The abrupt transformation from the forceful and confident young monarch I had been observing, was jarring.

It was not my place to be seen conversing with her on the stand.  So I tried to look at her while turning my head as little as possible.  I saw that she was in tears.  “What?”

“Every night I pray for clothes.  Or pray at least to not care about every little bit of me being on display.  But it doesn’t happen!  Every morning I wake up and I’m naked!  And everyone’s looking at me!  And I can’t cover myself!  I still cringe like that very first time.  It’s been five years . . . five years!”  She was sobbing now, somehow while still keeping her head still and giving another royal wave.  “Everybody gets to wear clothes except me!  I want to rip them off and put them on me!  And I’m so cold!”  More sobbing.  “I . . . can’t take it any more!”

Speechless myself, I let her continue.

“I want my Haji!  We write each other through back channels.  I love him, and I want him, and I . . . want . . . clothes!”  Her voice broke.  As she waved again.

“Shinn-te tries to blunt my desire, she and Lakshmi and Patama say they are releasing my . . . ‘yin’ energy . . . with their tongues.  I have d - discovered sexual climax but it is so terribly shaming with them watching, over and over.  And it is no substitute for a man.”

I figured I could be more forward.  “Surely as the monarch you can change the rules.”

“My people need me as I am.  Did you hear about the Gangi incident?”

No, I hadn’t.

As she waved again with a shivering arm she said, “A c - cartoonist depicted me with clothes on.  He was convicted of treason.”

Treason!

“I signed the order of imprisonment but that night I hid the cartoon under my pillow and cried.  I still look at it and dream.  Ohhh . . . clothes . . . please . . .”

At this another icy wind blew upon us and she shook more violently.  I thought of taking my coat off and getting cold too, in solidarity, but that would cause great offense to the Ministers who were watching us from below.  Fortunately the end of the parade came into view, a color guard.  We would be downstairs and in the warm reception room in about ten minutes.

I said, “Why are you telling this to me, of all people?”

“There is no one in my country I can unb - burden myself to.  I c - can’t let them down.”  She cleared her throat, having regained her composure, or as much as one can while shivering.  “Thank you for -- listening.  I feel b - better now.”

I thought of what we could possibly do to help her in her dire distress.  Marriage to Haji is the solution to her ordeal but how can we urge it?  Our influence in the region is so attenuated that I don’t know where we could begin.  Also at present it is against our national interest to try to influence matters in the region one way or the other.

It is clear however that what she told me absolutely cannot leak.  She seemed to read my mind.  Shiveringly she said, “You are a d - diplomat.  I t - trust your discretion --- OHHH!”

A biting Himalayan wind stung her, causing her knees to knock against each other.  The pimples on her bare buttocks seemed to get bigger.  Stamping her numb bare feet on the cold concrete, breasts tightly bouncing, she struggled to stay standing as she gave a final wave and then the benediction, shivering arms finally meeting over her head.  “Zh - zhekani!” she yelled in a quavering voice.

The responding shout from below, as her countrymen gazed up upon their beloved young monarch, was deafening as well as in its way inspiring.  “ZHEKANI!!!”

Miserably I mumbled, “Zhekani.”