Which shall I pack, sir?” asks Balthazar.
I survey the forty dress shirts meticulously arranged across the formal dining table. The garments are pristine in their plastic sleeves, each box laid out with razor-sharp precision. I know the family seamstress has altered each with a surgical attentiveness, the results meant to streamline my posture and accentuate my overall pleasing physical makeup.
The very sight of them fills me with annoyance. “I am only going for the weekend.”
“Never underestimate the necessity of thorough preparation.” Balthazar smiles knowingly.
“Duly noted,” I mutter.
He ignores the sarcasm, as he does most things he deems inappropriate or improper.
“They are all satisfactory. Just choose the ones you believe most adequate.”
“Adequate is fine, sir. But personal taste is far more important.”
I sigh. Naturally he picks the day I have a pressing engagement. With less than forty-five minutes until my departure, nonetheless.
I know this routine well, having acted a part every day since my arrival in New York. In fact, I could recite his responses for him.
The script goes something like this: If I do not indulge his queries, I will incite Balthazar’s distress. Once distressed, he will choose to extend said task. If he extends said task, I am prone to a lapse in tact, which will only serve to incite further queries, more distress, and, if pushed far enough, a call abroad. To discuss, of course, my impatience for mind-numbing tasks and tendency toward tactless outbursts.
It is hardly worth the effort, I think.
I will myself to contemplate the shirts, and he watches with satisfaction, every inch of him radiating smugness. Balthazar’s life, I have come to understand, is an experiment in ceremonious banality.
I suspect he apologizes to his shit before being so rude as to flush it.
Needless to say, this is precisely why my father chose him: to deter behavior unbefitting one of noble heritage. Or, as the Americans are fond of saying, act the buzzkill.
Despite the years of elite English tutoring, slanguagedictionary.com has become a trusted resource. After all, I came to the US with a mission, and cultural adaptation is the key to the realization. But how do I escape the castle confines with forty dress shirts and a manservant intent upon royally cockblocking me?
He watches intensely, awaiting my decision. Today is integral to forwarding my mission, so I haven’t the time for meaningless frivolities. Who is he, after all, but the hired help?
“The blue, I suppose. And now, if you do not mind, I must excuse myself.”
For the thousandth time since arriving in the US, I wish he were Johan.
At first, I had not been keen on Johan’s arrival. I had been distraught to lose my nanny, even though I knew thirteen was too old for such things. And indeed she could act the twat with her endless chastising, her annoyance over unfinished tutoring assignments, and my inability to follow the simplest of ground rules, but I still felt a childlike attachment. After all, she had been around since I was a baby, nursing me through nightmares and fevers. And, I suspect, nursing me on her breast as well.
The Countess may have birthed me, but she was far from maternal. Nevertheless, I adored her, as one would a fun-loving, immature sister. She spent her days flitting around the master suite, trying on her vast selection of finely made dresses, doing her hair into strange, complicated styles, and experimenting with makeup she had especially imported from America. I often spent hours observing these rituals, listening to her airy, nonsense prattle. Even as a near-adult, I would sprawl across the four-poster bed and listen to her read from gossip magazines and embark on lengthy, thought-provoking analyses.
It was rather dull on our isolated estate, and she offered much-needed entertainment.
George Clooney is terribly handsome, yet strikes me as untrustworthy, do you not agree? Something about his hair perhaps, she would say, or Queen Margrethe was seen smoking again! Everyone is in an uproar, my dear. But had I married a man like Henrik, I would relay vice as well! I see he escaped to his French castle again. . . .
I enjoyed these interludes, during which, more often than not, I was stoned. One of the stable boys, Hans-Jakob, offered up an excellent selection of weed.
The Countess had been the one to relay the unfortunate news. You need structure, my sweet Christian. And thirteen is appropriate to acquire a butler.
Translation: the Count had put his foot down.
We have chosen the most wonderful applicant, she added. Exceptionally qualified, I am told. Worked wonders for Prince Frederik’s ne’er-do-well fourth cousin.
Translation: the Count had found me a personal slave master.
The Countess and Count rarely spoke, their interactions limited to formal dinners and the rare entertaining of a visiting dignitary. Half her life was spent in the east wing, the other half attending benefits and social gatherings, most of which he refused to attend. I would await these glamorous entrances and exits, her kissing my cheek and sweeping out the door, a cloud of chiffon and diamonds disappearing into the night.
I was sure she had a lover. I was unsure if the Count had emotions, let alone a penis.
If the Countess was akin to a fun-loving older sister, the Count was a cold, distant stranger who, for some odd reason, lived in my home.
As the Count of Hirschenborg, he oversaw the estate. Thousands of acres, including the castle, gardens, stables, and outlying properties; not to mention the holiday retreat in Rio and the beachfront hideaway on Strandvejen.
His sole responsibility, from what I have gathered, is the signing of documentation. Otherwise, he is left with inordinate amounts of time to contemplate new additions for his rare-stamp collection.
He rarely acknowledged me, and over the years I had grown not to care.
What I did care for, and deeply, was the impending arrival of a personal prison guard in the guise of a butler.
I had one fond memory, though I had begun to wonder whether it was a figment of my imagination. A few years earlier—was I ten, eleven?—Father had gotten drunk on vintage wine. He had been celebrating, if I remember correctly, some honor bestowed on him by the royal family. These things mattered a great deal to the Count, in fact, made his very existence worthwhile.
You have a legacy to uphold, my boy, he had slurred. Why was he talking to me? He had unexpectedly showed up at my door, though I could not remember his ever coming to my wing. It was late, past midnight, and I was stretched across the floor next to a pile of comic books, shoving Matador Mix in my mouth and amusing myself with the Playstation.
A legacy to uphold? What the fuck was he talking about?
Okay, I had said.
Follow me.
He led me through the sleeping house, my every footstep echoing across the marble. I followed him through the cavernous great room and atrium. I passed the library, a plush magenta haven I often visited, though less for the rare books and more for the Count’s wet bar. As much pride as the Count took in this extensive periodical collection, I had never seen him in there, except on the rare occasion when he showed it to a dinner guest.
He stumbled a few times.
Down the narrow staircase, into the pitch-dark cellar. Excepting the vintage-wines room, I took care to avoid the place. In the movies, this is the location where a serial killer prepares his victim.
The Count clearly knew this labyrinth well, leading through narrow passageways and around sharp corners.
The whole thing was odd, to put it mildly. I barely knew his eye color, let alone his interests. Perhaps he did not have a personality at all, as I had never been privy to one before that moment. Yet now, he would barely shut up.
I always knew of my obligations, my boy, he had said, as though through a mouthful of mush. Upholding our heritage? Nothing matters more.
I kept my my own lips tightly shut, afraid to break the spell. This was the most exciting thing that had happened in months, maybe years.
Then, just like that, we were in a tiny room lit by a single bulb. The Count slid open a panel in the wall, revealing a safe. Cool, I had thought. Very James Bond.
A code, a click, the metal door squeaking open.
This is your legacy. He smiled at me perhaps for the the first time ever. Go on, boy. Look inside.
The black-opal brooch, the pearl-drop pendant, the Edwardian sapphire with seed-pearl borders. I held each with a gentleness I had not fathomed was in me. The pin of pinkish-red rubies, the ring of square-cut emeralds. The marquise diamond-drop necklace.
Piece after piece, blinding me.
Never had I imagined anything so perfect, let alone held such a thing in my hand.
One day, all this will be yours, he had said, holding his balance on the wall. Generations of history. Do you understand?
A great deal to live up to, he had slurred. And failure is not an option.
The Count never mentioned that night again, once again retreating to his distant, vaguely disapproving demeanor and stamp collection.
There were perks to having absentee parents, especially those with an inheritance dating back to the Vikings. The Countess suffered occasional fits of guilt, immediately compensating for her lack of parenting with a barrage of expensive goodies.
Could she buy my love? Absolutely.
Father had his hobby, mother the social circuit. To that point, I had been left with a pushover nanny and my own devices, which had served me well. Within a few years I would be off to boarding school, and until then, what was rebellion but performance art for an audience of paid household employees? A butler was unnecessary, not to mention idiotic.
Additionally, my behavior seemed warranted. After all, the country could be boring as hell, even in a castle.
True, I had become a tad unruly, as well as immune to punishment. Restrict me to my quarters? Jeg er sgu da lige glad!, I would think, then shrug and retreat to my weed stash, Bang & Olufsen speakers, and forty-two-inch flat-screen television.
But now everything was to change; I had been assigned a keeper. And if he was anything like the Count’s butler, Balthazar, this turn of events would prove unfortunate.
I prepared myself for the worst, imagining a domestic with Nazi tendencies and portable whipping post.
Johan was the last thing I ever expected.
Upon the day of his arrival, Johan found me in the stable, a half-naked baroness beneath me. Seeing him in the doorway, the baroness squealed and crossed her arms, attempting to hide the massive store patter for which she was infamous.
I stared up at Johan defiantly and awaited the flagellation. Instead, he raised an eyebrow. “Your meal is ready,” he said calmly. “And do join him, Baroness. Though, if I may be so bold, you might consider dressing for the occasion.” With that, he turned on his heel and exited, his strides measured and graceful.
“He saw my babser!” the baroness yelped, arms still crossing her goose-pimpled flesh. “He saw them, Christian!”
“So? Everyone else has.”
That was followed by a slap, a slew of degrading insults, and a huffy exit.
This was not my finest moment. A bed of hay is unrefined, even by rebellion performance-art standards, and even more so with a lounging partner widely known as Miss Royally Slutty. Easy access, though, in more ways than one, with her estate nearby and her lineage approved by the Count himself. Maybe you will marry her one day, the Countess had once said. I believe your father is hoping for such a match.
Fat chance, I responded. She is dumb as a doorknob.
That said, I was not above socializing with her, as I found parts of her to be of great interest. The breasts part, to be more accurate. In certain circles, they were as highly regarded as her family crest.
In regards to Johan, I was testing him. And the biggest surprise was his lack of any.
Yet, I saw his true feelings right there in his expression. Forget surprise; he simply did not care one way or another.
I could relate. On may levels.
Johan would be the first person to treat me as something other than a bloodline. He would not question my judgment or chastise my ineptitudes or call me sir when not in the presence of others. If he found me in my room, engulfed in a cloud of smoke, he would simply unlatch the windows to air it out and ask if I would like crackers or macaroons with my tea.
He was not friendly per se and revealed little of himself, seemingly immune to my pestering. His favorite technique? Answering a question with a question.
Did you want to be a butler as a child, Johan?
Do you believe a child would aspire to be a butler, Chistian?
I do not know, that is why I asked you. Had you many girlfriends?
Do you believe girlfriends to be of great importance, Christian?
Oh, just shut up.
I knew he had interests beyond butlering, as he spent free hours in the library. What do you do in there all that time? I had asked. Drain the wet bar?
It has already been depleted, he had said with a slight smirk. But I am certain you know nothing of that.
In truth, I already knew of his specific library activities, having spied on him. I returned later to examine the books he spent hours poring over, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. I was hoping for a revelation that would illuminate his inner workings. Perhaps he was obsessed with Nazi propaganda or fighter jets, the psychology of the mind or Indian mysticism.
Watches? This was not the secret passion I had been expecting.
Antique Timepieces and Their Makers; Vintage Luxury Wristwatches; A Hundred Years of Watchmaking; The Pocket Watch: A Self-Winding Legacy.
What a bore, I had thought. Yet, on infrequent occasions, I would find myself back in the library, drawn to peruse these materials myself.
Only when he took a rare holiday, though, or was fast asleep.
Whether Johan offered the “structure” my parents sought was up to debate, but they both seemed pleased with my turnaround. And true, with Johan’s arrival I was less apt to act out. Not that I smoked less weed or drank less stolen wine or had less frequent interaction with those of slutty, regal status; I simply no longer saw the need to flaunt such things to the household staff.
The Count seemed especially relieved, as his belief in proper child rearing had always been that of the seen-and-not-heard mode. Now he was free to sign documentation and poke about for new stamp additions without his worrisome son entering into the mix.
As my boarding-school departure grew closer, I came to understand that he had simply been biding his time until he could pass me off. I would be exported to Norway, just as they did with pork and cheese, and there I would be versed in Scandinavian history and royalty-approved etiquette. I would take high teas with the headmaster and mingle with the rest of Europe’s upper echelon, the future barons and other counts-to-be and perhaps—though this was more my hope than his—a wide selection of slutty baronesses. I would be exposed to a vast array of new people, my father believed, acquiring the skills necessary for my resounding future success.
Translation: I would socialize with others just like me and cultivate some equally asinine hobby as his.
This, in his mind, was how you formed a man.
What my father had not realized was that after all those years of isolation, he was offering up the world on a tray. Whereas he had been a model student, serious about upholding the dignity of his legacy, I saw another kind of opportunity.
Forget performing for the household staff; I was getting an even bigger stage.
I was finally free of the castle confines. The only problem was being unsure what to do with such liberation. With no Johan to keep me grounded, I went with my natural impulse: extreme.
There were always others willing to join me, be them titled or not. The vast array of people my father had hoped for—others like me—also had vast resources.
By seventeen, I had been kicked out of several boarding schools, eventually managing to graduate from a Dutch institution noted for their liberated approach to academic standards.
Translation: a holding pen for burned-out heirs whose filthy-rich parents had run out of options.
By twenty, I had left university, reentered university, and left once more. I finally returned at the Count’s insistence and graduated despite a rather checkered attendance record. His generous donation had been the determining factor.
The Count’s main concern was damage control. The damage being, of course, me.
By twenty-two, I had seen the world, having engaged in meaningful exchanges with a diverse range of international personas.
Translation: I had gone on drug-fueled benders from Monte Carlo to Mykonos; snorted cocaine with Lindsay Lohan on a Saudi prince’s private island; fucked every available baroness from Copenhagen to Finland; accidently set a fire to the yacht of a Greek shipping heir; unknowingly impregnated a Dutch socialite and a British publishing heiress, whose subsequent abortions I learned of much later; fallen in love with a French It girl, accompanied her family on holiday to Crete, and subsequently realized I was really in love with her former-model mother.
The father and husband, as luck would have it, approached life from a rather open-minded perspective.
Not until my stint in an exclusive Swiss rehab did I understand that I had not loved either of them, or anyone else for that matter.
Least of all, myself.
Over the years, I had often revisited that night with the Count, imagining those jeweled pieces in my palms, the light reflecting off their many planes and facets. I would think of them at odd moments, the cool aquamarine emeralds while having a champagne-and-coke-fueled tryst, the sharply cut diamonds while coming down from another debauched weekend.
During an especially frenzied night on a beach in Mallorca, after ingesting a hazardous mix of eight balls, poppers, vintage chardonnay, and truffles, the medics were called. The evening is a blur, except for one moment: picturing the sharply cut planes of that marquise diamond as they pumped my stomach on the sand.
I had never returned to those jewels, as I feared a reexamination would prove them less vibrant, the memory of their perfection more powerful than the actuality. No matter the women I used, or the drugs—the faces on which I had incited disappointment—those heirlooms would remain unchanged. In my mind, they would be eternally perfect.
Following my second stint in rehab—this one in a Tuscan villa where we engaged in grape-picking therapy—I returned to my childhood castle. My daily schedule vacillated between bong hits and Grand Theft Auto, the chef sending up plates and the maids not meeting my eyes when tidying up my wing.
My parents barely acknowledged my presence. And for that one consistency, I was thankful.
My father need not die for me to inherit his title, I realized. I had earned my own: loser. Albeit a loser with excellent bloodlines.
Johan had been kept on as a general butler, and I avoided him like the plague. I did not like what I saw in his eyes; mainly, my own reflection.
Late one night, after lonely hours spent stalking the darkened grounds of the estate—this was a time of day when I could move about without eyes shifting quickly away in judgment—I found my legs, seemingly independent of my body, leading me on a familiar downward path.
I had watched the Count drunkenly punch numbers all those years prior and, for some reason, chosen to burn them to memory.
The code was the same, as was my legacy.
The jewels were just as I remembered them.
What do you know of antique jewels?” I asked Johan. He was carrying a tray of tea upstairs to the Countess, who required nourishment during her lengthy preparations for whatever social event she had planned for the evening.
I took great pains to avoid her, just as I did Johan.
Yet he had not seemed surprised at my sudden query, simply setting down the tray on the antique side table.
“A great deal, in fact.”
“As much as watches?”
“Even more, perhaps.”
“And will you teach me?”
He stared at me for a moment, his face unreadable, and I was taken aback by how much older he seemed, lines around his eyes and graying at the temples.
“Do you want to be taught, Christian?”
I had not answered, only nodded.
Johan began with the basic mnemonic device: cut, color, clarity, and carats. He taught me of grouping, specie and variation; mineral structure and grading system. From there we moved on to historical context, sitting in the library for hours at a time, Johan patiently charting the evolution of each crown jewel. The Emerald Tiara, he would say, tapping a page with his fingers, the sapphires believed to have been a wedding gift from Napoléon to the Bavarian princess Augusta when she married his son, yet arriving in Scandinavia via Josephine, Augusta’s daughter. These are not to be confused with the Leuchtenberg Sapphire Parure, of course.
Of course, I would say, leaning forward and nodding, Johan watching me with a vague smile.
Johan taught me what the jewels represented: the alliance of peoples, the union of formally disaffected cultures, the spurning of one legacy for another in the choice of bestowing. This was not about signing estate papers in a study, this was innate, the legacy of nations, the genetic makeup of historical DNA.
My DNA, I realized.
And it was not silly or dismissible as was a stamp collection, but something painstakingly designed to highlight symmetry and beauty. Eleven sapphires in a frame of diamonds, Johan would say. Do you see how the leaf and honeysuckle motif accentuate the blue of the gemstone?
Yes, I would say, nodding. I see everything.
Johan called in a favor, securing me an exclusive internship at the exclusive Jewelry Academy of Copenhagen. He vouched for me, somehow convincing the Count to allow my attendance.
Johan, I am sure, suffered equal disappointment in the outcome.
I would make it up to him, I decided, both for his sake and my own. When my father agreed to a year abroad—his last effort at damage control, perhaps—I saw a second chance.
You may go to New York, he had said, but there are stipulations. One year, and it will be spent wisely. You will meet with schools and decide upon the most appropriate. Which will be Harvard, of course, the same as Prince Frederik. Then, once graduated, you will return to Denmark and take up your duties as the future Count of Hirschenborg. Do you understand?”
Yes, sir, I had said, though my plans differed a bit, as further schooling was not among them. I would find investors, I had decided, and launch my jewelry line in the land of free enterprise, Mickey Rourke, Kanye, and Bruce Springsteen.
And the best part? Johan would accompany me on the journey.
Unfortunately, my father had other ideas.
Johan has proven inadequate in your proper development, he had said from the desk in his study a week before my departure. He was working his way through a stack of documents, signing the bottom of each page with a zestful flourish. He suggested this jewelry-internship nonsense in the first place and is therefore partly to blame for this mess. So, no, he will not be going.
He had lifted his mother-of-pearl pen and dipped it in ink.
Balthazar will be your chaperone, he had said, resuming the task, his voice full of unwavering finality. And that is the end of that.
Unfortunately, it was not.
And Christian, he had added, as I neared the doorway. Upon returning, you will be in need of a suitable mate. The young baroness, I believe, has already expressed an affinity for you. You shall speak with her on the matter, proclaim equal affection, and, once graduated, go about setting up a life with her.
But, Father, I responded, I do not love—
Love is beside the point, he said. And if you wish for this American excursion to proceed, you will do as I say.
Two months later, and I have finally arrived in New York, where my innermost hopes will manifest into reality. That is, after Balthazar is satisfied enough that my time has been wasted.
“The blue?” repeats Balthazar.
“Yes. Absolutely.”
Despite my father’s stipulations, I am hopeful for the future. New York is full of investors, and I am sure one will be willing to fund a talented young designer, especially one with charm and a royal lineage.
“Midnight, periwinkle, or azure?”
Not that I would be meeting them anytime soon.
“Azure, I suppose.”
“The periwinkle goes well with the white linen pants, sir.”
“I am not taking the white linen pants.”
“I saw to repacking, sir.”
I stifle a sigh, reminding myself of my father’s final words to me before boarding the plane: Be wary, Christian. Balthazar will regularly update me on your progress, and I will demand transparency.
Translation: one wrong move and I was right back where I started.
If I could not have Johan, I would have preferred no butler at all. In fact, I would have preferred another residence entirely, one less ostentatious than this Park Avenue monstrosity my father has purchased solely for me to inhabit, this six-bedroom triplex with marble floors, a formal dining room, prewar moldings, and wrought-iron fixtures.
While perfectly nice, I had hoped for something more youthful. An expansive, open-air loft in SoHo, perhaps, where I could host hip parties, charming potential investors with my modern, sophisticated edge.
Instead, I am in a building of crotchety, aged socialites who, despite their lavish dwellings, loudly discuss the exorbitant price of tomatoes while riding the elevator.
With the ever-present butler, coupled with the antique furnishings—Father saw to having the place decorated in a style befitting one of your station—I have simply traded one castle for another.
And now Balthazar is seeing to my packing as well. “I had concerns as to your selection of waterfront attire,” he says curtly.
“Waterfront attire?”
“The Charles River. I did a bit of research and gather that it is quite the recreation destination.”
In the month prior to our voyage, Balthazar saw fit to verse himself in the art of Google search, a newly acquired skill that he uses to spit even more useless information in my direction. “They had a variety of images on the Harvard website. The students by the water, and I did not want you to feel out of place. Some even lay out blankets and eat their lunch.”
“And I suppose you packed a blanket as well.”
“Yes, sir.” He reaches assuredly across the table.
“Naturally. Well, you just think of everything.”
“One of my duties is seeing to your needs before they have arisen.”
“Excellent selection, sir. I am sure it will prove most flattering.”
Square-paneled, pavé-set black sapphire or white-gold bezel with diamonds? Ten minutes later, I am in my room pantomiming lifting a flute of champagne to observe each cuff link in action. While the sapphire is cut to highlight the artistry, the diamonds offer that elusive wow factor, the bling so desired by North Americans.
Both pieces are impeccably designed, but that is to be expected; I am the designer. But virtuosity will only take me so far, which is why I always consider my market. In Denmark, we count centuries over carats; in America, Kim Kardashian’s 15.9 D-cut makes headlines.
Razzle-dazzle over sophistication, I tell myself, settling on the diamond.
I consult my watch, knowing our three o’clock rendezvous is imminent. For a moment, I am lost in a dream, marveling at the timepiece. The grainy face is partially composed of moondust, the mechanical insides sprinkled with bits of Apollo 11. Limited edition, firmly held on by a strap woven with space suit and crocodile. I am jealous it is not my creation.
Some pieces achieve transcendence, I think, but this one is literally otherworldly.
I will just have to do better, I tell myself, just as the doorbell chimes.
For helvede! In my meandering over the watch, I failed to check the time.
Three on the dot, just as agreed upon. And no one else could possibly have come for a visit. Only why is she here? She agreed to meet in the lobby, a request I was firm on.
“I’ll see to it, Balthazar!” I yell, already sprinting down the hallway. I am just in time, intersecting his path to the foyer. “Please, let me,” I say pleasantly. He steps back, nodding curtly.
Balthazar has a plethora of nods. As I am not a butler linguist, I would never presume to attempt decoding all of them. Yet this one, I am certain, falls somewhere between You exhibit behavior unbefitting a young man of your stature and Stop doing my job, you retard.
I swing open the door and there she stands, grinning, her lips a disconcerting shade of fuchsia. “Christian!” she squeals, then launches herself upon me. I attempt to untangle her in a swift yet gentle manner.
I will never understand this American need to embrace virtual strangers.
“We were to meet in the lobby,” I say, my voice low. “Were my directions unclear in this matter?” I speak slowly, as though she were the foreigner.
“Oh yeah! Duh. I totally forgot!”
A falsehood, to be sure. She peers over my shoulder with a distinct lack of subtlety, her eyes greedily consuming my Park Avenue residence.
“Sir? Shall I arrange tea, perhaps?”
“You are a student at Harvard,” I tell her in a frantic whisper. “Do you understand?”
“No problem,” she whispers back. “I took a class in improv!”
I turn to Balthazar, who contemplates us from the arched foyer. “Thank you, Balthazar, but we haven’t the time. Our schedule requires a hasty departure.”
“Of course, sir.” He looks pointedly at the young woman behind me.
He cannot leave well enough alone, I think. Why am I not surprised?
“This is Miss April Holiday,” I say, stepping aside to reveal her. “She is a Havard alumni but now resides in New York. The administration appointed her as my tour guide and was kind enough to have her escort me to Boston. They have been terribly accommodating.”
I can see Balthazar question the validity of the story, but before he can open his mouth to speak, April has bounced forward with a squeal. “I just love Harvard!”
“Welcome, Miss Holiday.” A flash of his eyes—so quick as to be nearly imperceptible—and he has sized her up. Taken in the long, lithe body, the perky nose, the dimples, and the blond hair piled on her head. He has assessed the clothing, deeming the dress too pink, yet acquiescing that the garments are well made, if a bit overt for his taste.
He strongly suspects, if does not outright know, that the closest she has been to Harvard is a layover in the Boston airport.
“Oh, wow, look at this place! Totally old-school. I just love the furnishings!” says April, and I wonder if loving everything is also an American trait, or simply a publicist one. “I mean, this antique table is to die for! Where’d you get it?”
“A gift from the French royal family, I believe,” says Balthazar.
“For real?” She reaches out, her hand gliding across the polished mahogany. “I was sure I saw it at Restoration Hardware!”
“A different variety, perhaps,” says Balthazar, watching her movements with thinly veiled horror. “This is an Empire gueridon, most likely from the 1900s. Which therefore accounts for the intrinsic delicacy.”
“Wow!” Her hand is still firmly affixed to the surface. “You know a lot about design! Where did you attend school, Mr. Balthazar? Is there, like, a class for butlers?”
“The Royal Institute for Domestic Management,” he says coolly. “Before that, I received my degree from Oxford.”
As with most British butlers, he fancies his birthplace the height of butlering artistry. Unfortunately, most agree with this assertion, my parents included. A British butler is a sure sign of class, even if he is, thank you slanguagedictionary.com, an utter dickwad.
“Well, I’m happy to give Christian a tour of the campus. Harvard is the best, after all!”
Balthazar smiles politely, but I sense he is wary.
“I mean, it’s real exclusive and all—”
“Which is exactly why we must be departing,” I say, cutting her off. “So I will make a good first impression.”
“Okey doke!” says April, lifting her hand from the table, and Balthazar practically sighs with relief.
“Your bags are in the lobby, sir. I had the porter fetch them.”
“Excellent,” I say, guiding April toward the door.
“Nice to meet you, Balthazar!” she calls over her shoulder.
“Yes,” he says, adding nothing further.
It’s true!” she says in the elevator. “You really are a royal.”
“You were in doubt of the fact?”
“This is America, sweetie. For all I know, you worked the register at Royal Dry Cleaners.” She laughs loudly. Do all publicists laugh at their own jokes? No, I decide, this inappropriateness is hers alone.
“For what you charge, a dry-cleaning position would hardly prove suitable.”
“A joke, Christian. Ever heard of one?” Once again, she finds herself terribly amusing. “Is all this yours?”
We have reached the lobby, the porter racing forward with a cart of baggage. At least four Louis Vuitton travel pieces, one of them a trunk.
“I suppose,” I say.
“We are only going for the weekend.”
“Never underestimate the necessity of adequate preparation.”
“Whatever. I’m just glad we upgraded to the limo van.”
We are on Park Avenue, standing in front of an enormous vehicle. Part limo, it seems, and part bus. A hulk of a man slides open the door for me. “This is Rocky,” says April. “He will be serving as your bodyguard.” Rocky grips my hand in his large one, my teeth practically chattering with his firm shake.
“A pleasure,” I say. I move to sit but nearly bump into a metal rod.
“A stripper pole,” says April apologetically. “This was the only limo van available.”
Rocky chuckles. “Maybe April will give us a little show.” He winks at me. “Welcome to New York, Chris.”
“I prefer Christian, thank you.”
“But that’s only half of it! Tell him the whole thing, Christian. Puhleeeese? Rock, you have got to hear this.”
I sigh. “Christian Vincent Knud Valdemar Guadeloupe Rixen of Hirschenborg,” I say, feeling akin to a private circus monkey.
“Ain’t that something?” says Rocky. “What’s with the Guadeloupe thingy?”
“My great-grandfather was stationed in the West Indian islands during the period of Danish colonization,” I respond matter-of-factly. This is not something we advertise, my father often leaving out the surname purposefully.
“What does that mean?” asks April, eyebrows pinched in confusion. Harvard student indeed.
“Great-Granddaddy got himself a little case of jungle fever,” snorts Rocky.
Finally, the van-slash-limo-slash-strip-club begins moving. “On our way,” says the driver.
“Okay,” says April. “Then let’s get down to business.” Instantly her voice is deeper, her tone taking on a seriousness. She flips through pages on her clipboard with determination, and I wonder what she did with the seemingly vacuous April who was only recently sitting across from me. “In a debriefing, it is best to start at the top. First off, the host. Gerald Hoff, you might have heard his name. Corporate giant. The press has coined him the Master of Media. . . .”