The Name He Never Gave Her
1169 Words
She puts the knife on the counter.
Not the drawer. The counter. Within reach. She is not done with it.
She leans against the sink with her arms folded and looks at the man sitting at her kitchen table, the Crown Prince of Spain, apparently, in her flat, on a Tuesday, explaining in a very level voice that her six-year-old son has palace enemies. She does the thing she always does when the information is too large: she strips it down. Facts only. No feeling yet. Feeling is for later, when she can afford it.
She says: How long have they known about him?
He says: approximately two years.
She says: he is six years old.
He says: I know.
She says: they have known him since he was four.
He says: yes.
The kitchen is very quiet.
She says: And you. How long have you known?
He says: fourteen months.
She says: fourteen months.
He says: I found out through an intelligence report. I spent fourteen months trying to find a way to come to you that would not make things worse than they already were.
She says: Worse how?" Because from where I'm standing —
He says: there are people who wanted Lucas managed. Who were considering options that go beyond money. I needed to come to you in a way that gave you the most protection, not the least.
She is very still.
She says: what kind of options.
He does not answer immediately. She watches him make the decision, how much truth to give, and she watches him arrive at the only answer that will work here.
He says: there was a journalist. Three years ago. She found records she should not have found, financial records connecting people inside the palace to arrangements that were not meant to be public. She was found before she could publish. She had an accident. She recovered, but she has not reported on the royal family since. New city. Different name.
She says: an accident.
He says: that is what it was called.
She turns to the counter. Fills the kettle because her hands need something to do. Puts it on.
She says: who. Who inside the palace.
He says: my uncle. Duke Rodrigo. My father's younger brother. Second in line his entire adult life. If I die without an acknowledged heir, Rodrigo becomes king. If Lucas is formally recognized,
She says: he drops to third.
He says: yes.
She says: and that is sufficient reason for a man to have a journalist run off a road.
He says: for some people, yes.
She says: For your uncle.
He says: I believe so. I do not yet have proof that satisfies a court. But the pattern of what he is willing to do is clear.
She pours water she does not want. Wraps both hands around the mug.
She says: So your uncle has known about my son for two years. And has had two years to decide what to do about him.
He says: yes.
She says: And you came here today.
He says: I came because the people I trust inside the institution told me his timeline has accelerated. My father is ill. When he dies, the succession moves to me, and the question of who comes after me becomes the most important question in the institution. He cannot afford to wait much longer.
The kettle boils. She does not move.
She says: before all of this. Before the uncle and the journalist and the succession, I need you to answer one question.
He says: all right.
She says: Did you know I was pregnant when you left.
The kitchen goes so quiet she can hear the refrigerator hum.
He says: no.
One word. No hesitation. No preamble. Just no, placed between them with the flatness of a fact.
She watches his face. She has been watching faces her whole life, her mother's when money was short, her first boss when he said one thing and meant another. His face says: no. Clean, uncomfortable, undecorated. A man not trying to make the facts look better than they are.
She files it.
She says: When you left, was there a point at which you considered not following that order.
He says: yes.
She says: what happened at that point?
He says: They showed me what would happen to you if I didn't comply. I am not calling it the right decision. I have not stopped questioning it since the day I made it.
She sits down across from him. Not because she is comfortable, because she needs to think clearly and fury can be managed from a chair just as well as anywhere else.
She says: I need you to understand something.
He says: tell me.
She says: The morning after you left, I got up. Made coffee. Went to work. I had a nine o'clock client and the client's hair still needed cutting. You do not know what the six weeks after looked like, or the six months, or the year. You do not know what it is to grieve someone who is not dead, just gone, with no explanation.
His jaw tightens. He says: no. You're right. I don't know that.
She says: And then I found out I was pregnant.
The word sits between them. Neither of them speaks.
She says: I raised him alone. I built everything alone. I do not tell you this for sympathy. I tell you so you are clear about who you are sitting across from and what she has had to carry.
He says: I am clear.
She says: good.
Her phone rings.
She picks up. Listens. Hangs up.
She says: that was my neighbor. She says there's been a car sitting at the end of our street for the last three hours. No plates. Different from yours. It arrived before you did.
Adrian is already on his phone, speaking in rapid Spanish. He listens. His face does the controlled compression she is learning to read, bad news, half expected.
He ends the call.
She says: well?
He says: the car is gone. Left twenty minutes ago. My team didn't flag it because it wasn't in the immediate vicinity when we arrived.
She says: So someone was already watching this building before you got here.
He says: yes.
She says: Your uncle.
He says: probably.
She says nothing. She looks at him across the kitchen table, the Crown Prince of Spain, with his three cars and his suited men and his uncle who makes journalists have accidents, and she thinks about Lucas at school right now with his bear and his three cars and his inside-out jumper, and she thinks about a car with no plates that was here before any of this morning had its shape.
She says: how long do we have?
He says: not long. That is why I need to ask you something.
She says: ask.
He says: I need you to come to Spain.
- Writer
