“I am afraid,” he paused to compose himself, “I am afraid to say, your Royal Highness, that your brother, Prince Paul, is dead.”
Prince David, the colour draining from his face, stumbled backwards before steading himself on a rococo sideboard. Tears welled in his eyes. “My God,” he said, the hint of a sob on his voice, “My God not Paul.” A gloved hand to his face, the camera focused past him to the figure of Princess Christiana and the slightest of smirks that crept across her face.
And then the credits rolled. “Oh,” said Vanda Keszthelyi, “That was good. Do you want to watch another?” Her husband, Osvát Keszthelyi, glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece and sighed. “Best not,” he said, “There’s a press conference tomorrow on the booster program and you know how much I love those. I should try and get an early night.”
Vanda said nothing but, raising herself from the couch, began to collect the plates, cups and other detritus of dinner. “She’s okay,” she said, “The actress who plays Christiana, but I think the one who played the younger version captured her better. What was she called?”
Osvát thought for a moment. “Elke Rühl,” he said after a moment, “She was in the A híd.” His wife made a noise of agreement.
Das Schwert, ‘The Sword’, had been the breakout star of Ernestrian television of the last few years. A semi-fictionalized account of Emperor David IV of Excalbia and the rest of the Imperial Family had been a ratings sensation and talks were already well underway for an English-language remake, especially now that the programme’s conclusion had unfortunately been brought forward.
Osvát Keszthelyi relaxed back into the chair and fumbled for his pipe. The Leader of the Socialist Party cut an unlikely figure. He looked and sounded like an old-fashioned headmaster of a provincial secondary school. A famous picture of him, widely circulated in the Press whenever mention was made of him, showed him cutting the grass of his suburban home in a shirt and tie. Perennially underestimated by his showier, more intellectually rigorous opponents within the party, he had been the compromise candidate who had solidified his hold over 10 years. A quiet, respectable man; simultaneously forgettable and vital. He was, with his Party, the driving force of the coalition government.
The Christian Democrats were a shambles. Tired of government, bereft of ideas, they were like a line of extinct volcano which occasionally emitted a puff of smoke but were otherwise silent. The duke of Starograd remained as party leader primarily because no one else wanted the job. After 8 years of government they deserved a spell in opposition to recuperate, what they got was an electoral landscape that was slowly fracturing under the competing weight of nationalities and ethnicities yearning for independence. Men in grey suits assembled and, in solemn invocations, demanded that something be done ‘for the good of the country’. And so the party of Cincinnatus were denied the plough once again and made ready for another term in office.
On the other side, the Ruthenian Farmers Party practised a pork-barrel politics of the best, or worse, sort. Need to pass a budget? A leisure centre. Tax reform? A new bypass. Constitutional amendment? A regional airport. Osvát’s colleagues sniffed that the RFP knew the price of everything and the value of nothing, but Keszthelyi found his dealings with them refreshingly free from ideology.
He lit his pipe and looked through his notes. There had been some concerns over the current variant of VODAIS-6 but, thankfully, an increase in transmission didn’t seem linked to an increase in severity. Vanda returned to carry more of the dishes into the kitchen. “On the basis of current figures,” said Osvát as she passed, “It looks like we can avoid another lockdown.” His wife wasn’t listening.
“Do you think,” she asked, “They could make something like that for our Royal Family?”
“Like what?”
“Das Schwert?”
Osvát thought for a moment. Although Tarján, and fiercely proud of it, he also maintained a common sense patriotism to Ernestria; a fact which (alongside the centralised structure of the Socialist Party and a recognition that the Party’s aims were better served in a united nation rather than a host of smaller states) had helped keep the Socialists a united force when so many of their rivals had broken up into smaller ethnic parties. He was therefore inclined, out of a sense of loyalty to the king, to disagree.
“I wouldn’t have thought so,” he replied after a moment, “The Royal Family is far too boring for anything as dramatic as Das Schwert.”
Vanda disagreed. “Well you say that Osvát,” she said, hands on hips for added emphasis, “But Keraunos and Prince Demetrius were killed on their boat by that bomb.”
Osvát sniffed. “That was terrorism, Vanda, not tawdry entertainment.” She shrugged and went about her tasks.
Keszthelyi tried to read his notes again but found he couldn’t. Something his wife had said had stirred up something half-forgotten.
“Having said all that,” he said, partly to his wife and partly to himself, “They’re not that uninteresting. After all, there is that son…”
He had not expected his wife to hear but she had. She swung round and gave him a look. “Now don’t start all that again Osvát!” she said with a stern wag of her finger.
Her husband protested. “All what?”
Vanda was not impressed. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. You and that conspiracy theory of yours.”
“It’s not a conspiracy theory Vanda! I remember the scene perfectly well. Radnótfája, we were campaigning in the local elections in 1996. Myself, Flórián Papp and János Hegedüs were about to do a leaflet run when the radio announced that the Queen had given birth to a son. There was even something in the paper the next day.”
The past is another country; they do things differently there. So even in 1996 it was not unusual for royal children to be kept from the limelight. There were no happy pictures of the couple holding the newborn; only a curt announcement to a public who probably weren’t even aware the Queen was with child. It was different now of course.
“I know what you say you remember Osvát, but I don’t remember it. What do Flórián and János say?” Osvát did not reply but stared into the fire. “What do they remember?” his wife pressed.
“They don’t,” he replied.
“And what did the newspaper say when you checked the archive?”
Osvát squirmed in his chair. “It didn’t say anything. But Vanda, I know what I remember!”
She sat down next to him. “Look, Osvát, I know you have a good memory but it was over 20 years ago. Perhaps you made a mistake.”
He folded his arms. “There is nothing wrong with my recollection Vanda.”
She gave the smallest of shrugs. “Okay then, let’s say you’re right. Let’s say that there was a son; You remember how longed-for Prince Johann was. How the King and Queen struggled to have him. Why would they go through all that if there was another son?”
Osvát puffed his pipe importantly. “I don’t know…”
“Well..”
“I don’t know Vanda but something tells me, with every fibre of my being, that something is awry here. Something is being kept from us, the public, and we should be told.”
“What if he’s dead Osvát?” she stood up, “What if the reason no one mentions it is because the little boy died? Do you want to go poking around someone else’s private grief?”
“If you’re right,” he replied, “Then there is no harm in telling us. We don’t need to know the details. If we knew something of their private torment it might help the King and Queen. Make them more relatable.”
“Osvát that is a cruel thing to say.”
“It’s not Vanda and you know it. With the parlous state of their reputations they could do with all the help they could get. And even if it doesn’t, we still have a right to know. No one, not even Royal Princes, just disappear.”
“Maybe they don’t want to be reminded of it”
“It is a bit much to change newspapers to remove all mention just to avoid being reminded Vanda. I’m telling you, someone isn’t hiding the truth they are actively removing it.”
His wife’s patience gave out. “Fine Osvát,” she said, raising her hands in the air, “Fine, well you’re the Deputy Prime Minister. You have all the powers of the government at your disposal. If you think that somehow you’re the only one who remembers this mythical child then why don’t you do something useful and find out?” With that she stormed back into the kitchen.
Osvát Keszthelyi stared into the flickering flames of the fire. “Maybe I will,” he muttered to himself, “Maybe I will.”
