Princessa, a story of love and war

 Chapter Two - Dinner and Bullets

There are people who decide things in the world, or try to anyway. General Petros is one of them, the king's advisor, next in line for the crown. Sitting at the end of the bar now, in the ritzy hotel, waiting. Angry at the man for being late, making him wait around for him. Who the hell does he think he is, anyway. 

And of course, the general had gotten there way early, like always. Be able to size things up ahead of time, make sure there’re no surprises. Now he’s getting bored, sitting there, the bright lights flooding the room. Wanting but not going to have, that second drink. Hoping none of the well-dressed businessmen will have the gall to come up and talk to him. Ask him about politics as it relates to their business deals. Ask him...whether he’s going to start a war or not.

They’re all piling in here now, under the glistening chandeliers, on the soft warm carpeting, after their days work. Coming in out of the cold dark evening, filling up the room with their boisterous noise and cigar smoke, their camaraderie and success stories.

The general looks at their fat happy smiles and fancy tailored clothes, and feels all out of place here. He doesn’t like civilian dress, doesn’t much like civilians. What a waste, that this is what we fight for. He gives in and orders another drink, double scotch, and thinks about the long-brief history of his little country. They’d been free from the Russians for less than two decades. Before that, it had been the Turks who’d occupied the country, enslaved the people. And in between, it was the Nazi’s turn to run roughshod over their land.

But that was the time the general remembered best, even fondly, when he was a boy; and the crazy Prince Leomont had ridden his gallant white horse throughout the countryside, rallying the farmers and peasants to go with him, to fight with him, and die with him. The old king had been massacred along with the entire army in the first and only battle against the mighty Germans. But his son, the young prince had refused to surrender. Had insisted that they would fight on forever if need be, in the mountains and forests, and farmlands and vineyards; from behind every rock and every tree… Well, that didn’t last long; the Nazi’s didn’t think much of a poorly equipped peasant resistance, no matter how zealous they were. But it was a time when every young boy in the country dreamed of riding alongside the fearless prince and fighting to the death like brave gallant fools.

And now the way things are going there’s that same feeling again. But he’s not young anymore; just a tired old soldier, more concerned with politics now. And there’s nothing gallant or brave about that. His country, his poor little country hasn’t been involved in any of the recent wars that have been going on all around them. It was the one thing they’d done, this neutrality, this struggle to stay out of all the foreign entanglements, that he and the king could point to with pride and…dignity even.

And all that’s crashing down on them now, falling apart like broken glass. And what could you do, but just watch it fall and break. They’d tried to be smart about it, clever even. Sent more troops than anyone, for their size anyway, to all the UN peacekeeping missions, in every part of the globe; anytime, anyplace, without hesitation; just go and fight, do your job. Hopefully be able to stay on the cutting edge of all the new armaments and gear and technologies they could no way afford back here at home.

And everyone would know, or should know at least, and appreciate that they’re willing to do that; even eager to. Isn’t that enough…what more could you ask of them. And their soldiers. Often distinguished themselves, made a name for themselves as the toughest, meanest, bravest fighters anywhere. Always ready to be sent in first, in the riskiest missions, the deadliest fights. And at what a cost…these men, these boys, my boys, he thinks…all the lives, the heartaches, and funerals of the gallant fallen young men you send out there to die. But it’s how they survive; on a shoestring budget anyway.

He finishes his drink and finally sees his late-arriving guest, gracefully pushing through the crowd; dapper, smiling, right at home here in the fancy hotel. To the general, he looks so young so self-assured so friendly; and he hates him even more. Taller than the general, broader, and good looking too; a real charmer, thinks Petros. But just look at those clothes, tailored-Italian. Some kind of silvery-green silky material with the shiny white lining showing from underneath that flashy suit and cape-like overcoat.

Goddamn it, aren’t we supposed to be discreet, in the service; low-keyed, not standing out like some kind of goddamned count making a grand entrance. And those shoes, Italian shoes! My God, he wants to tell the boy, we make shoes right here in our own country; shoes good enough for anyone. He squeezes hard on his empty glass, but like it or not, Andre Korzene is the best they have.

He expects the young man to be ever so gracious and grand with a well rehearsed apology for arriving late, but instead he signals to a waiter and orders a drink. “Can I get you something” he says to the general. Petros isn’t easily caught off guard; but he too was expecting himself to be so gracious and eloquent at this first meeting, make that good first impression, you see. Smet had told him that the kid was genuine warm real; fuck Smet, he thinks.

“Let’s eat” he says gruffly. Korzene follows him into a simple elegant dining room and they sit at a white-clothed table in the corner, away from everyone else. “I’m Andy” he says shaking the general’s hand “pleased to meet you.” “Bruno” replies Petros. He wants to get a feel for the young man’s grip, see what he’s made of. But he instantly lets go, drops the hand and jerks back his own, trying not to look startled. It’s magnetic, like feeling you’re meeting your long lost son or your brother back from the grave, someone who knows you inside and out.

“Is your niece as beautiful as they say” asks the youth. “You should meet her sometime” says the general in all sincerity, though taken aback by such an arrogant question and at the same time reminded of the captivating charm and loveliness of the sweet young Maria.

A waiter comes to their table handing them finely decorate menus, burgundy-leather, hand-written calligraphy on fine woven paper. They’re very proud of these here. Proud to be the country’s finest hotel and restaurant; as good as you’d find anywhere in this part of the world. “I’ll have the stuffed goose” says Andy waving him off.

The general takes the menu, opens it and looks up with a relaxed smile “give me a moment” he says. But his mind isn’t on the food. The menu items all look the same, each more inviting than the last, and he doesn’t have time for all that. He looks back up at the waiter “so… what, do you suggest.” “Uh…the stuffed goose is today’s specialty” he says, all apologetically for sort of sticking it to the old aristocrat. “Fine” says the general, having survived a lot more over the years than a little awkwardness in a fancy restaurant.

As they eat, and talk about the food, politics, the world situation, Petros tries his best to find everything wrong with the guy. He’s way too young of course, that’s obvious. Anyone can see that. What is he, thinks the general, a couple of years out of boot camp, or what. And he’s just a bit too charming too engaging almost to a fault; like a peasant boy who’s got some education now, some refinement, and wants to impress you with that, make you and even himself forget all about where he comes from.

To Petros it’s like an act he can see through. And even at that, there’s something so likeable about this fellow, so genuine, as Smet had said; it’s sad cruel unpleasant, to be sending him off to die on this suicide mission; unavoidable though. “You know our country” says the general “and our people…maybe you even know a little bit about our history.”

Yeah, Andy’s thinking, been there done that, read all the books, fought for you guys, and even made a few daughters’ fathers mad at me. But old people…always think they know everything. Always think you know nothing. “There are two things” says Petros “that our country has always stood for; that we’re known for. We never involve ourselves in all the little wars and conflicts that our neighbors always get themselves tangled up in.

“We maintain absolute strict neutrality, always; we don’t interfere…ever. And secondly, if anyone ever…ever invades our soil, we fight them to the death, with all our blood and passion and…strength. We never, never surrender. You know that of course.” Of course he does, they tell you that in first grade history class and everyday throughout your schooling, again at military basic, and before every mission you go out on. It’s like a mantra, like our national anthem; so what.

“Of course, I know that” says Andy “it’s…our national pride.” “Yeah” says Petros, reflectively “it’s who we are.” How callous thinks the general, how brave and noble and shallow these gallant young boys are. So eager and anxious to die for king and country without hesitation without thought without even knowing why, or anything else you might learn over the course of a long life.

He’d hoped to…make things clear for the kid; that what he was saying would be more than just words, those same old words you hear all the time and don’t even hear what they mean. The young man seems to sense the general’s uneasiness and almost imperceptibly changes to reflect the older man’s demeanor, serious businesslike precise.

“So…what can I do for you” he asks with a drink of the strong flavorful wine. “You know” says Petros, like mulling ideas over in his head “we’ve never taken a penny, not one penny of foreign aid; not from the Russians, or the Europeans, or even the Americans.”

The young man knew that of course, it’s reflected in his meager salary, in the meager budget of his country’s defense forces, in fact in just about everything throughout the whole country. “And the reason for that is” continues the general “that these generous, generous offerings always come, with strings attached, like that of a puppet. Sooner or later, they always call in their marker, and jerk you into dancing to their dance.”

The old general takes a drink and then continues “do you know how much…you can’t imagine how much, they offered us, to join with them, to side with them in this war. And…just for show, if nothing else; a show of support.” Yeah, thinks the young man, millions the papers had said, maybe even a billion…and, well, why not, why not take some…the country’s almost broke, always has been, just surviving on a shoestring, almost literally.

But then, like the old man says, maybe better to be poor and free than chained to the demands of international debts and obligations, who knows. The old general rambles on, like he’s talking to himself, or thinking out loud “well, sooner or later, you know, they’re going to want things from you; payback. Maybe a little base, here or there, out in the hill country, maybe…or, an airstrip, small, hidden away. And then of course a staging area on the border, for deploying troops; and…well, there’s never, never any end to it.”

He pauses, and then looks into the young man’s eyes “we can’t go down that path, and survive; we simply can’t, okay. And they haven’t given us any choice, in the matter. So…we’d like…to be rid of Mr. Tomkin. He’s…troublesome.”

Korzene shows no emotion, as he’d trained himself to do, no matter what; but even so he can’t help but smile a little, with a dancing gleam suddenly in his eyes. But inside he feels so wildly excited elated and at the same time amazingly calm serene, giddy almost, like being high. The minister of defense has just asked him to remove the most powerful leader in the world. “Okay” he says savoring his last bit of supper.