Royal Wedding

I flung a hand over it. “Nothing.”

“Straighten up. You look like the Hunchback of Notre-Dame. And there was no happy ending for him, you know, like there was in the insipid Disney version, which I suppose you adore. Quasimodo lies down in the tomb with Esmeralda—who also dies—and perishes of a broken heart. That’s real literature, none of this maudlin pap you love so much. That’s the problem with your generation, Amelia. You all want happy endings.”

I was so stunned I think my eye stopped twitching momentarily.

“We don’t, actually,” I said. “We want endings that leave us with a sense of hope, possibly because the world we’re living in seems to be falling apart right now. People can’t find work to support their families in their own countries, but then when they try to immigrate to countries where they can, they’re either enslaved—like in Qalif—or stopped at the border and told they aren’t welcome, like in Genovia. And you’re inviting the people who are telling them that to dinner! What kind of message is that sending to the populace?”

Her drawn-on eyebrows shot up so high I thought they might cause her tiara to go flying off. Grandmère is old school and still believes in dressing in her evening best for dinner. It’s probably what makes her so popular (with the yacht-club and racehorse set).

“It’s not the message I care about,” she said dramatically, “it’s the populace itself. Ivan Renaldo is very likely going to be this country’s new prime minister, Amelia, thanks to your father’s most recent exploits, so we’d do well to position ourselves as his allies now. Although I do blame myself for all this . . . do you have any idea why he dislikes us—especially your poor father—so?”

“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“His grandfather—Count Igor—was very much in love with me, and took it very hard indeed when I chose to marry your grandfather instead.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course. Why didn’t I figure it out sooner?”

According to Grandmère, there are approximately three thousand men who were once very much in love with her, and took it very hard indeed when she chose to marry the Prince of Genovia, instead. They’ve all taken their revenge against her in various ways, including but not limited to:

1. Writing books about her.

You might be surprised to know that most major works in modern literature are thinly disguised tributes to my grandmother, including everything written by Mailer, Vidal, and of course J. D. Salinger, even works written before she was old enough to have possibly known the authors. Of course Fitzgerald modeled Daisy in The Great Gatsby after Clarisse Renaldo.

2. Competing against Genovia in every sport in every Olympics ever.

You probably haven’t heard this, but every single athlete who has ever beat Genovia in any Olympic category (especially sailing and dressage, pretty much the only sports in which any Genovian athletes ever qualify) did so out of romantic spite against my grandmother.

3. Sculpting or painting works of art featuring women.

According to Grandmère, she inspired Picasso’s Cubist period by saying to him, “Darling, I think you’re quite talented, but you really ought to develop your own style,” which actually isn’t possible because it would mean she is over 127 years old. But when I informed her of this, she told me “not to be so obtuse.”

“Really, Grandmère?” I said. “You think the reason Ivan Renaldo is campaigning against Dad is because he’s upset that you didn’t marry his grandfather?”

“I know so,” Grandmère said. “Though of course you must never mention this to your father.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.”

“Poor Igor spent night after night at Maxim’s, drinking Chambord out of one of my dancing slippers.”

“Eww.” I made a face, not just because the guy was drinking out of one of my grandmother’s shoes, but because Chambord is a raspberry liqueur, and only tastes good when poured over vanilla ice cream. “Was he before or after the married Texas oil baron?”

She ignored me. “Finally his parents had to come take him away. They tried to sober him up in time for his own wedding, but it was too late. Delirium tremens nearly took the poor boy off. But I’m sorry to be burdening you with all this, Amelia. This should be a very special time for you, so close to your birthday. You should be flitting from social engagement to social engagement and shopping for folderols, enjoying the companionship of your friends while you still can, before you have to settle down to the very hard work of providing the country with an heir. Let me worry about the governance of the monarchy. You worry about being young and having fun.”

It was amazing how she was able to say all this, considering how much she’d had to drink—really, it’s a miracle of science she’s lived this long. Every other week, it seems, they announce the results of some new study warning that women who consume more than one alcoholic beverage a day increase their risk of cancer by quite a few percentage points.

But Grandmère, who has at least six to eight drinks a day, plus smokes the equivalent of multiple packs of cigarettes (though it’s hard to tell with these new vapor ones), keeps going strong.

My mother says it’s because she’s pickled.

Still, Grandmère had a point about trying to get along with Cousin Ivan’s supporters instead of antagonizing them. It’s annoying how often my grandmother is right.