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That’s why they don’t want the Qalifi refugees to be given Genovian citizenship, even temporary Genovian citizenship. They barely think I’m good enough to have Genovian citizenship.
My eye was twitching like crazy the entire time (when my jaw wasn’t aching from fake smiling), but I don’t think anyone except Grandmère noticed.
Of course, even though I overheard half of them making catty remarks about the fact that I’m a “commoner” and, even worse, an American (but of course the other half of me is royal, so to them that makes up for it), they were falling over themselves in an effort to get selfies taken with me (and the portrait of my dad in the Grand Hallway, since he didn’t show up—probably a good thing, given his current state of near-constant inebriation).
Now they’ll be busy posting their pics to their social media accounts, saying what a fantastic time they had.
Since Michael wasn’t there, several of them asked me with fake concern if “everything is all right” between the two of us. I could tell they were hoping things were not all right and that we’d broken up, so then I could date one of their half-wit chinless sons (who would then become prince consort and father to the future heir to the throne).
“No,” I said, with my big fake smile. “Michael’s fine. Just working late tonight.”
“Oh,” they said, giving me smiles that were every bit as phony as mine. “He works? How wonderful.” (You could tell they didn’t think this was wonderful.)
But has Cousin Ivan (who insists on everyone calling him Count Renaldo, even though he isn’t a Renaldo and that isn’t even a correct title, which I can’t believe I know, but that is what over a decade of etiquette lessons from your grandmother, the dowager princess, will do to you) ever invented a robotic surgical arm that helped save the life of a suffering child?
No. No, he has not.
All Cousin Ivan does is manage the properties his father purchased ages ago, and by “manage” I mean raise the rents so ridiculously high that decent, hardworking Genovians can no longer afford them, which is why there is no longer a single bookstore in all of Genovia.
But when I pointed this out (politely) tonight to one of the count’s supporters, he said, “Books? No one reads books anymore! Look at all the tourism that guy’s bringing in with his T-shirt shops and bars. Have you ever been to Crazy Ivan’s? That place is the bomb. It has a bar that’s topless only! Everyone who comes in—male or female—has to take their top off. It’s mandatory!”
I said I have never been to Crazy Ivan’s, but I certainly do not want to go there now.
That’s when Grandmère took me aside and told me I was being rude.
“I’m being rude?” I demanded. “I’m an adult, for God’s sake—nearly twenty-six years old, the age at which neuroscientists have determined most people’s cognitive development is fully matured. I can say I do not want to go to a bar where shirtlessness is mandatory if I don’t want to, and I can especially say it while I’m standing here on American soil.”
(It’s a common misconception that consulates and embassies sit upon “the soil” of the country they represent. So in all those episodes of Law & Order where Detectives Briscoe et al arrest foreign diplomats who then claim immunity because they’re on “Flockistan soil”? They can’t.)
So then Grandmère dragged me into the drawing room—she has a pretty strong grip for such an old lady, although of course no one knows how old she is since she won’t tell anyone and she had all copies of her birth certificate destroyed, which you can do if you’re the dowager princess—and said, “You will be civil when speaking about your cousin Ivan and his businesses.”
I said, “I don’t see why, all the plans he has for Genovia are only going to ruin the place if he wins. Why are we even having these people to dinner? They’re obviously his friends. Or, I should say, spies.”
Then Grandmère leaned in and hissed, “They’re Genovian citizens, and this is the Genovian consulate, and it will always be open to them. Besides, keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.”
I was appalled. “Are you actually quoting from The Godfather?”
“What if I am?” She exhaled a plume of vapor from her e-cigarette—which, thank God, she’s switched to, none of us could take the Gitanes anymore. “Really, Amelia, you’re slipping. And after everything I taught you, too. I suppose you’re letting this nonsense about your father’s arrest get to you. What is wrong with your eye?”
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?”
