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| The Princess II | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||||||||||||
| 24 March 2007 | ||||||||||||||||
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I entered my modern fairy tale into a modern fairy tale competition. The critique I got back was interesting. They most liked the character I had just thrown in there because I didn't want the princess dining alone. Write it from his perspective, they suggested. So I have. I think I can see what they meant, but I'm not at all sure that this is it. Petros trailed after the princess. Well, physically, he was walking beside her. But in every other sense he was trailing after her. As she wafted through our dull universe time and space warped to accommodate her. A few, those lucky, lucky few, were allowed to orbit in her radiance for a few brief moments, before they burnt their wings or she forgot them. It wasn’t as though she was particularly cruel, but her world had always revolved around her, and no-one had ever been able to resist her. And though Petros’ family had ten times her wealth and business influence, she was The Princess, loved by the media, loved by the people, loved by everyone. Almost everyone. The one time she had apparently noticed someone on more than a superficial level was her well-publicised romance with Prince Heinrich. His disappearance was still a mystery. He might have been the victim of foul play from a jealous ex-lover (and there were plenty of them). The tabloids preferred that version. He may have just run away, suggested others. Petros could not believe that. He had been summoned to accompany her to dinner. Not asked to take her. If he had been in any doubt that he was anything more than a fashion accessory the two-hour wait at the hotel had removed that. And yet he still felt privileged to be in her presence. She cast her spell, and everyone fell under it. Surely Heinrich would not voluntarily have left. He could not have been able to resist her magic. Petros felt sure, deep inside, that she had rejected him, and the loss had driven him away. A small malicious pleasure surprised Petros, the knowledge that Heinrich was not here, but that Petros was. She sailed past the queue at the restaurant, an embarrassed Petros on her arm, and smiled at the Maitre d’ apologetically. “Marcel. I’m afraid I haven’t booked a table. Could you squeeze me in, just this once?” Marcel beamed at the princess. Petros wondered if she had ever booked a table. Had she ever been refused one? “Your highness, I had heard you were in town. We were hoping we would see you this evening. I have kept your table free for you.” Marcel completely ignored Petros. Petros didn’t have the paparazzi following him. The society pages would not be reporting his presence here tomorrow. Marcel guided them through the restaurant to the raised dining area against the far wall. The tables there were placed just so, so that the diners in this most privileged of positions could be seen by everyone else below them. She followed him, smiling, graceful, poised. The diners’ eyes were on her, bewitched. Petros was simply there because she couldn't possibly have been seen dining alone. Marcel pulled out her chair and fussed over her. Petros, of course, fended for himself. “What can I get your highness?” asked Marcel. “Would you like an aperitif, or should I bring the menu?” “I’d love a kir royale, Marcel.” She turned to Petros. “Would you like a kir as well, Pierre? Yes, you simply must. Two kir royales, please Marcel. “Isn’t he sweet?” she asked, after Marcel had backed away. “It’s Petros”, he answered. “Sorry?” “You called me ‘Pierre’ earlier. My name is Petros.” “Really? Are you sure?” She laughed her laugh that had made so many men before Petros forgive her. “Oh, I know you’re sure of your name, Pierre, I meant are you sure I called you Petros earlier?” Petros smiled, resigned to the knowledge that for the rest of the evening he was going to be Pierre. A middle-aged man in chef’s regalia, including a suspiciously clean white jacket, advanced on the table. When he was some 20 feet away he bellowed “Your Highness!” Those few diners that had not been aware of her presence turned to look. The princess rose at his approach. “Gustav!” The pair embraced, kissing the air next to each other’s cheeks in an exaggerated greeting. Petros wondered bitterly if Gustav’s name was really ‘Gustav’, and not ‘Gary’ or ‘Geoff’. She sat back down, and the chef pulled a chair from a neighbouring table for himself. “Your highness, it is such a delight to be able to cook for you again. I have been poised in the kitchen ever since your plane landed four days ago. ‘Where is she?’ I cried, night after night. ‘Has she found another chef? Has some other restaurateur stolen my beautiful princess?’” She laughed, though Petros was less than pleased at the outrageous flirting of the man old enough to be her father. “Oh Gustav. You know I cannot stay away from you. I cannot resist the temptation for long. I might dally with another’s food, but it’s really only your dishes I want.” Gustav looked at Pierre (formerly Petros) in mock despair. “See how she treats me? She is only after me for my recipies. I am heartbroken.” He turned back to the princess. “Have you seen the menu? What can I tempt you with tonight?” “No, I refuse to look. I shall put myself entirely at your mercy. Serve me what you will, Gustav. An artist such as you should not be restrained. I am your canvas tonight, your food is the paint. Fulfill me.” Gustav laughed and slapped his thighs. “Your highness, if I was ten years younger… well, I’d still be far too old for you, but there is nothing an artist loves more than an audience. I shall prepare for you my greatest dishes. I shall woo you with such food that you will stop tormenting me with these pretty young men and declare your undying love for me.” And he winked at Petros/Pierre. The wink was not returned. Gustav rose, took the princess’ hand and kissed it delicately. “Wait for me, my love. I shall return.” And he made his way back to the kitchen, nodding to diners as he went, a showman acknowledging his audience. Fifteen minutes later the first course arrived, delivered in perfect synchronisation by a squad of waiters. Marcel hovered over them like a sergeant major. Her Royal Highness looked at the plate before her. “Frogs’ legs?” “Yes, Your Highness. Locally caught, cooked in a lemon and garlic butter on a bed of crispy seaweed and watercress. Gustav’s signature first course. It is not normally on the menu, but he insisted that you try it.” “Well, it smells delicious.” Delicately she lifted a frog leg to her nose, breathing in the aroma. Then the princess pressed it to her lips… There was a flash and to Petros’ horror the frog’s leg transmuted into a human leg. Just above the knee there was a distinctive birthmark. “Heinrich!” screamed the princess. Princesses, Petros remembered, always had had certain magical gifts.
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