American Queen

She finally shakes her head. “No English,” she manages.

“I don’t speak Ukrainian,” I apologize. Dammit, why wasn’t my boarding school education more useful? All those hours translating Cicero and Rousseau, and not a single one focused on any language in the Slavic family tree. “And I suppose you also don’t speak Old English or Middle English then. But maybe…Francais? Deutsch? Latin?”

Lenka’s head snaps up and the faintest pulse of life shows in her eyes. “Ich spreche Deutsch.”

I give her a big smile. “Wunderbar!” Another sip of wine and a decision to forgive Cadbury Academy a little. “My German is very rusty,” I explain to Lenka in German. “I haven’t used it much since college, when I transitioned to medieval languages.”

“I haven’t spoken it in many years either,” Lenka says softly, also in German. I recognize instantly that her accent and pronunciation is much stronger than mine.

“You must have learned it very young. You sound almost like a native speaker.”

Lenka picks up her fork and pokes at her salad. “My grandmother was German. She looked after me while my mother worked, and I grew up speaking both Ukrainian and the language of my mother’s family. But,” she shoots a glance across me to where Melwas and Ash are talking in a mix of Ukrainian and English, “my husband does not like for me to speak in German because he doesn’t understand it.”

“Will it bother him to know we’re speaking in it now?” I ask as gently as I can.

She gives a small nod, swallowing. The action looks almost painful given how slender her neck is.

“But surely he would be proud to know that his wife was performing her diplomatic duties so well,” I say.

She looks confused.

“Think of it. Here you are, charming the soon-to-be First Lady, who will go back to the President of the United States tonight and tell him how kind and intelligent the Carpathians are,” I explain. “You are proving what an asset you are, what special gifts you bring to his position.”

“I did not think of it like that.” She chews her lip for a moment. “But perhaps my husband would not like you to be charmed. He might think that I have undercut his power, his wish to make the Americans afraid of him.”

“Do you want me to act intimidated instead?” I ask honestly. “I can. No one will know but you and I.”

“You’d do that for me?” she asks, those doll-blue eyes disbelieving. “But why?”

“Even if our countries are barely at peace, I think loving a president puts us in a very small club. I think that makes us friends. Don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” she says uncertainly. “I don’t have very many friends.”

I reach under the table and squeeze her small hand. “You have one more tonight.”

And for the first time, I see a tentative smile on her face. It’s gone almost immediately, but it was most definitely there and I reward myself with more wine.

After dinner, there are a few requisite speeches and polite applause, and then the dancing is set to begin. I’m to dance with Melwas and Lenka with Ash, and she’s shaking as we stand up.

“I’m not sure what you’ve heard about my husband,” I tell her in German, “but he is very kind. Unfortunately he is a miserable dancer and you will have to protect your feet.”

This wins me another smile. “I will try.” But the smile quickly fades. “My husband…he can be unkind. I am sorry in advance if he’s unkind to you.”

“It’s not your fault if he’s unkind. Nothing he does is your responsibility,” I tell her seriously, searching for precisely the right words in German to tell her this. “And I promise when it comes to your husband, I can take care of myself.”

“You may think that now,” she says sadly, “but he has a way of getting what he wants when it comes to hurting people.”

And at first, I think she’s wrong. Melwas leads me out on the floor as Ash and Lenka take their positions, and there’s nothing but charm on his face as he takes me in his arms and we begin dancing. In fact, he’s a very good dancer, and for a minute or two, we are so focused on dancing and maintaining smiles for the photographers that we don’t converse. But just as I’m beginning to relax, he speaks.

“You are a very beautiful woman,” he remarks. His English is remarkably clear. “Your President Colchester is a very lucky man.”

“Thank you,” I answer politely. “But I consider myself equally lucky.”

“Do you now?” His wide forehead wrinkles in mock-puzzlement. “But of course! The great American hero, the soldier no one could defeat. They say that America never lost a battle when he was there on the battlefield. Is that true?”

I don’t like where this conversation is going. “You tell me if it’s true,” I say, pleasantly enough to mask the challenge in the words.

“You know, he and I once fought face to face,” Melwas says, steering me expertly into an elaborate spin. There’s impressed applause around us as he guides me back into place. “A small village called Glein. And he was willing to let a church full of civilians burn that day. That doesn’t sound very heroic to me, but then again, maybe you Americans care more about winning than how you win.”

I can’t help the itchy hot indignation that prickles my skin, and frankly, I don’t want to help it. “Are you saying their deaths are on President Colchester’s hands and not on the men who shot them? On the men who lit a boat full of children on fire?”