Princess Izzy and the E Street Shuffle (7 page)

Ethelbald, she was convinced, was like a cat batting around the mouse rather than biting its head off. She realized suddenly
that she hated Ethelbald. She hated his ugly mustache and she hated his sick grin and she hated the way he was looking up
from that column, smugly, as if to acknowledge that he was toying with her.

It was, she thought, quite apparent. For out of the whole column, one line stood out starkly: “I half expected before the
first year was out to find photos of her straddling a motorcycle and French-kissing a long-haired American auto mechanic with
a criminal record.”

Strictly speaking, Isabella knew that this warning, which she was certain it must be, was a bluff. After all, her one kiss
with Geoffrey had been leaning against a pickup, not straddling a motorcycle. Besides, it wasn’t a
French
kiss but a good wholesome Bisbanian kiss, she could assure you of that. Geoffrey didn’t have a criminal record. (That high
school marijuana charge would not have been considered criminal in most of Europe.) And she would have noticed if cameras
had been sported by any of the dozens of people who had passed them that evening in the dorm parking lot where she and Geoffrey
had lingered and talked and hugged and finally kissed. Wouldn’t she have noticed?

In fact, the only person she particularly remembered passing by that night was Jimmy Bennett, a classmate who was himself
leaving—unenthusiastically, it must be said—that same weekend for his home in Green Bay, Wisconsin. He had been entertaining
friends for months by loudly lamenting his return home, portraying it as a place so remote in location and so insular in attitude
that some of the more cynical townspeople claimed Elvis Presley was living out his waning days there, unnoticed by his neighbors.

“Trust me,” Jimmy would say, “it’s possible. Elvis could jog up and down the streets of Green Bay every day for years, and
no one would notice. They’re an unobservant lot.”

“Jog?” Isabella would ask. “Wouldn’t Elvis be rather old by now?”

“They also can’t count,” Jimmy would say.

Isabella thought Jimmy was a harmless, funny guy, and so she’d never thought much about how he’d seemed to linger longer than
strictly necessary that night when he came by to pick up something that Isabella’s roommate had left for him. But now that
Isabella was thinking about it, she was beginning to remember a few troubling details. For example, the “something” her roommate
had left for him was a camera. Also, the camera was one the roommate and Jimmy had used on a class project—a journalism class
project.

Jimmy had seen her in the parking lot with Geoffrey. Isabella remembered that he’d approached in a hesitant, curious way.
She had told him to go on up to the dorm room. She’d probably gestured to the window of her room, three flights up and with
a direct line of sight to where Geoffrey’s truck was parked. She’d said that the door was unlocked, that the camera was on
the desk. “Help yourself,” she said, and added with a giggle, “Have fun in Green Bay.”

Jimmy had rolled his eyes and grimaced a little and headed on up. A little later, she saw him leave. At least she thought
she remembered that, though she could not say for sure now if “a little later” had been minutes or hours. Time had seemed
to stand still that night. And so much had happened in the time since.

She’d never thought much about Jimmy’s visit before. But after Ethelbald’s column, it was the only thing she could think about.
And she didn’t at all like what she was thinking.

For while the details of the column—the motorcycle, the French kiss, the criminal record—were sufficiently wrong to give her
hope, they were sufficiently right to give her pause. It is hard for us to imagine now the terror this struck in poor Isabella’s
heart. To an objective observer, it would hardly seem that a photograph of a youthful passionate kiss, even if such a photo
suggested more of a relationship than actually existed, would have caused anything more than the slightest, most fleeting
embarrassment for the princess. After all, the time she had spent with Geoffrey was while she was single. She and Rafie had
not even dated. In fact, during that same time, the prince was often photographed with a bevy of beautiful women on his arm.

But Isabella’s fear was not the rational fear of a woman who was considering the possible existence of an embarrassing photograph.
Isabella’s fear was not that Ethelbald knew her secret actions, but something worse. She feared he knew the secrets of her
heart.

It seems crazy. But from Isabella’s perspective, it was the only possible explanation. A man who openly admitted to loathing
her writes a column praising her and dangles in it a sentence that describes her one secret almost perfectly. Was it a warning?
A public bid for a photo that he knew must exist? Could it be just coincidence?

Isabella excused herself, went into her largest closet, and pulled from her safe the only thing of Geoffrey’s she had dared
to keep—his first letter. She read it again, closed her eyes, and repeated it, convincing herself that she had memorized it.
Then she shredded it. The letter, even if printed in full in Ethelbald’s column, would not have created the faintest stir.
No one could have imagined that it meant anything to anyone. It was all froth and bubble. The notion that it had somehow converted
the unsuccessful Princess Isabella into the “I’m Dizzy for Izzy” phenomenon would seem preposterous. But Isabella had to do
something, and it was the only thing she could think to do: destroy her one physical link to Geoffrey.

That is the reason the letter does not exist. But I read it a time or two before it was destroyed. So I know what it said:

Dear Belle,

Glad to hear from you. Don’t worry about losing touch. I’ve been pretty busy myself, so I know the score. We’ll just do better
from now on.

Dreadfully dull, eh? I know how that is. Same old, same old. Easy or hard, life gets dull if it’s too predictable. That’s
when you should kick back, listen to some good tunes, and remember that life is what you make of it. Remember, the Boss will
never let you down.

Will write more later,

Jeffrey

P.S. I got married myself. My wife told me to tell you, “Keep your chin up.”

T
he ramifications of Ethelbald’s column did not end with the torn-up letter. Outside the castle, the column unleashed a frenzy
that never really died. You can hear echoes of it still, all these years later, in the commentary about Isabella being one
of the “faces of the century.”

When a longtime royal watcher like Ethelbald writes a column like that, it gets picked up everywhere. The theme was beaten
into the ground, and suddenly, there were little feature stories on the news, even in America. The Yale gift shop, I’m told,
started selling T-shirts that said,
FROM
PRESIDENTS TO PRINCESSES, WE PREPARE YOU FOR LIFE.
(I
think
it was some sort of American joke. But you know the way they are. You never can be sure.)

You’d think it would have become boring—and if there were any complaints, they were from people like my old hot-tub friends,
casual, unprofessional royal watchers who rather liked a good scandal now and then. Too much flawless pizzazz gets boring
so quickly. “Well, she’s a bit much,” such people would say with a sniff. But then, just in time to save the tabloids, Isabella
would manage to stir something up to sell a few more papers. There was the way she proclaimed often enough and loudly enough
that it was sure to be leaked that she wouldn’t be producing grandchildren until King Philippe agreed that her firstborn,
be it a boy
or
a girl, would be next in line to the throne. (The king finally agreed, officially changing the line of royal succession to
treat male and female offspring equally.)

And there was the time when Isabella nearly caused that poor reporter to faint by volunteering during a gardening interview
what she thought of the parliament’s move to repeal a long-standing ban on the once traditional Bisbanian “sport” of urban
bunny trapping. The sport had become distasteful to almost all the nation’s citizens, and not only because the phrase “bunny
trapping” looked so bad in tourism brochures. Let’s just say the traditional traps were about as efficient as the nation’s
signature motor cars and thus were considered cruel. Not to mention the unpleasantness of encountering, during a stroll in
the park, a not quite successful trapping.

Still, it was unprecedented for a member of the monarch’s family to take a stand on even such a clear-cut issue. Yet Isabella
did so, almost nonchalantly.

“I know my responsibilities as princess require me to remain removed from politics,” she said, sounding a little sad. “But
surely my responsibilities as a person, and a citizen and a Christian, are more important. They require me to speak out on
matters that are as simple as right and wrong. And this is wrong for our country on so many different levels.”

The majority leader, a member of a trap-building family, nearly wept, he was so livid at her statement. He demanded an apology
and hinted vaguely that Isabella was not fit to be queen. But his words backfired, as more and more people demanded to know
why, exactly, he believed that a person, a citizen, a Christian should
not
speak about what she believed.

Even the nation’s by then quite large Islamic population was utterly delighted by Isabella’s invocation of her religion, for
they thought that she used it in a humble, charming way. “It’s hardly a matter of introducing a royal religion,” explained
one religious leader. “She didn’t say trapping should be banned because it’s unchristian. She said being a Christian requires
her to speak out, something that a member of any principled religion can agree with.”

By week’s end, the majority leader had done a complete reversal, holding a press conference to announce he’d vote no on his
own bill. He wore a button that said
I’M DIZZY FOR IZZY.

On the street, the rusty bumpers of the Bisbas driven by many young people sported stickers that said
IZZY FOR PRIME MINISTER.

Back at the castle?

Sir Hubert retreated to his chambers and cursed for hours. “Sell shoes? Sell shoes?” he said to his wife. “Did I say
sell
shoes? Harrumph. I’d
make
shoes, I tell you, if it weren’t for that pension fund.”

Queen Regina seemed to be considering a cobbling career herself about then. She kept watching the clip over and over, fixating
on the stunning line about Isabella’s responsibilities as a citizen being more important than those of a princess.

Her Majesty was aghast, muttering repeatedly, “Well I never.”

And King Philippe would reply, “Neither have I.”

It was clear what the people thought, however. Isabella’s public career, right up until that awful day when it all fell apart,
was unparalleled. Sometimes, even all these years later, I wish she could have kept it up. I still feel robbed that it was
cut short. Part of me agrees with the conventional wisdom of the time, which was that something had to give. She couldn’t
keep going that way forever. It was just a matter of time before she got fat or, at least, pregnant. Soon enough, she would
have gotten old and inflexible and would have started muttering about teenagers needing to have more respect or about good
help being hard to find anymore. It was only a matter of time before some other new, young, mysterious princess in some other
small, glamorous country pushed her aside on the global stage. Or, you know, some television starlet.

But part of me believes Isabella could have done it. And oh, wouldn’t it have been something to see!

But alas, I’m getting ahead of myself again. The important thing to note about the royal family during those wonderful Isabella
years was that gradually, a certain giddy, reckless atmosphere developed. Steeped in tradition, ruled by decorum, frightened
by change, the rest of the royal family did not come close to emulating the princess, but they did slowly begin to exercise
a bit of self-will and ambition.

Queen Regina boxed up her royal furs and sent them to a museum. “I think fur’s ghastly,” she told Hubert. “I don’t care what
the furriers think.”

His Majesty took to wearing imported suits and watching American football, even though his advisers thought it would unsettle
the country.

And Prince Raphael? Well, Rafie did several things. Most notably, he began to admit to himself that he was in love.

T
his love he admitted surprised Rafie, because he had convinced himself that his marriage was one of conve-nience. And it was
convenient. Because, despite Ethelbald Candeloro’s initial private cynicism, Raphael and Isabella’s marriage was one of the
soundest royal matches of the last two centuries. They were, even at their worst, an extraordinary public team. Whenever they
stood before the people, they played off each other and supported each other and bucked each other up in ways that only those
who were close to them could appreciate.

Being a royal, after all, is very much a lifelong performance art piece. And Rafie and Isabella, for the most part, ad-libbed
with ease and flair. Rafie would somehow call attention to himself just when Isabella was becoming a bit weary of all eyes
being on her. She would dress most attractively on the days when he felt his small speeches were the weakest. She would snort
water out of her nose, and he’d come up with the line “At least they got my good side.”

The Prince and Princess of Gallagher were quite rare in that they genuinely liked each other. Modern royal couplings are usually
either strictly practical or wildly romantic. The idea of a comfortable companionship was almost unheard of and usually came
only by accident and after a good many years.

But it came immediately to Raphael and Isabella. So they did not engage in the competition and petty jealousies that unravel
the marriages of many young heirs. It was unremarkable to them. That was part of being a team.