We used to spend so much time together. Whenever I came to Italia for the summer, it was with him that I found solace, happiness. He was my favorite person to be with – with the exception of my father and Giorgio- in the palace that felt more like a prison. He taught me so much, with his never wavering smile, dancing eyes and flamboyant, constant laughter.
The gardens were our favorite place. When we weren’t in the vast, echoing library reading books, or in the tapestry corridor playing chess, or in the kitchens sneaking sandwiches and sweets before dinner, we were out in the gardens. During the day, we would go around to each of the different flowers and see who could correctly give their Latin names the fastest. I always won; he laughed his bubbling laugh at that. At night, we would lie down on the plush grass of our favorite garden and gaze up at the stars. Sometimes we would talk about the universe, philosophy, and religion. He liked me for that, me being so young but knowing so much. Sometimes we would just lay there in silence, with no need for words, just each other’s presence.
The naïve child I was, I thought that he would live until the end of time. That he could never be wiped from the face of the Earth. That this incredible man with his timeless wisdom could never pass to nothingness. That we would be together forever…
That was then…
…And now, I stand here with a hardness in my heart, looking with disdain upon the man grandly leading the procession into the Duomo di Milano. My grinning, waving uncle who seems to not even remember that his father is now dead, six feet underground. I shouldn’t expect any remorse from him anyway, he, who has had his greedy eyes on the crown ever since he was old enough to know what he was and what he would become. He could easily get over the fact that his father was dead, but I couldn’t. And neither could my cousin Giorgio – who had slowed down his pace to walk beside me- though he was better at hiding it than I was.
“Good Lord, Isabel,” Giorgio said through his well-constructed fake smile he had plastered on his face for the many cameras flashing around us, “take that hangdog look off your face, you look as if you have been sentenced to the block.
“I do not,” I said defensively, although I knew that I did.
“Yes, you do. You are a princess of Italy for Goodness sake. Raise your head, walk with some grace, and for the love of God put a smile on your face!” George said with authority, though he was only seven months older that I.
I did what he told me however, though it took some effort that I barely had. I rolled back my shoulders and lifted my head until I had a ballerina’s posture and grace. I inhaled deeply and at the end of the breath I put on the widest, brightest, fakest smile known to man, and held it there until I was safely across the threshold to the Duomo di Milano, where no newscasters or flash photography was allowed. I exhaled the breath that I had been holding and my fake smile melted with it, leaving the bitter mask that had glued itself to my face for the past three weeks.
For two hours I sat frozen and stiff in my seat in one of the few balconies on the uppermost level of the cathedral, reserved for the royal family. I did not here any words that were said as the Pope of Rome conducted the coronation ceremony. I merely looked at my father who sat to the left of me, whose expression was blank and staring as he watched his brother being crowned with the Iron Crown of Lombardy, being appointed to the office that was once his father’s. I took his hand as I looked towards my uncle James and my aunt Maria, dressed in the finest robes of red velvet and ermine and gold thread, becoming the monarchs they were destined to be.
The only words that unfroze me came at the end of the coronation. I noticed the people around me rising to their feet to bow and curtsy accordingly in the direction of James and Maria, chanting words that made my face fall even further. I reluctantly rose to my feet as well, with the help of my father’s supporting hand. I curtsied slightly and my father bowed beside me as the voices of the people standing within and outside the cathedral and throughout all of Italy continued to call out the same chant:
“Viva il Re! Viva la Regina!”
I repeated after them, though only in a whisper, “Long live the King. Long live the Queen.”
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