there was no picnic, especially if the Chinese decided to cut up rough. If he were to meet his Maker, Mike Thompson’s main reaction would be polite curiosity. Until then, he professed the religion of his forefathers. Especially just before his second posting to Outer Mongolia.
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me …
The television studio was, to Princess Io’s surprise, no more than a black-painted box hardly large enough for herself, the interviewer and the paraphernalia of camera, video and sound equipment. In deference to her royal status and her age, the lights had been dimmed slightly but still they burned and made her skin itch. Maybe her son Marius had been right: he had recommended refusing this interview. But it was her favourite fibre optic channel and her favourite star, ‘Flash’ Harry Docherty. And she was flattered to have been asked. So why not? Why shouldn’t an elderly Princess, who passed far too many days bored to stupefaction, have her moment on the airwaves?
A flicker of disappointment nagged at her. Flash Harry was shorter and portlier than she had imagined and far less respectful of her than he should have been. He sat hunched, drumming his fingers, eyes half closed while his face was powdered. He was taking no notice of her whatsoever, despite her foray at a few words of genteel conversation. When the makeup girl had finished he began tapping buttons on his powerbook, presumably to check his notes.
A voice in the darkness called out that they were ready. The Princess smoothed her cream silk-and-linen tunic with the tiny pearl embroidery, and tweaked her skirt. Her legswere still shapely and she crossed them neatly at the ankles, before realising that the camera would show only her head and shoulders. She sat up, hands folded in her lap, and allowed that enigmatic little smile her friends said was her hallmark to play about her exquisitely crimsoned lips.
‘Well, hi to you all!’ Flash Harry leaned roguishly into the camera. To the Princess it was disconcerting: she half expected a cheering audience somewhere to shout ‘HI, HARRY!’ back. They did, when the programme was broadcast.
‘Today we gotta special guest. Princess Io.’ He pronounced it with emphasis –’I-O’ to rhyme with Hi-ho, as if she had been named for a song in an ancient Disney cartoon. ‘Born in Japan, the great-granddaughter of the last Japanese Emperor. When the Chinese invaded, she fled with her parents. Picture if you will, leddies and gennlemen, this tiny child – nine years old, terrified and clinging to her mother – brought out of the land of her fathers to an alien world. Ours.’
That was not quite accurate: Io sniffed impatiently. The invasion had certainly taken place in 2022 when she was young, and, temporarily, the family had thought it wise to move. But they had returned. It was not until her twenties that she had left for good. And then it had been for freedom from her family, and for romance.
Flash Harry turned to her. ‘Princess, welcome.’ His eyes burned with sincerity. They were so blue they must be coloured contact lenses. He didn’t look like an NT. ‘It must have been a very traumatic event for you, Princess, to see your country overrun in that way? You, a small girl, forced to leave your homeland?’
The Princess inclined her head with the utmost delicacy. ‘Indeed it was. Dreadful. And to know that we could never go back …’ She sighed and lowered her eyes. It was a supremely Japanese gesture, so much in contrast to the arrogant glares of China’s leaders to which news-watching westerners were accustomed.
‘Right. You must feel anxious still for your own country, Princess. Japanese culture is in danger of disappearing altogether, isn’t it?’
‘One country, two systems, they say.’ The Princess gave a diplomatic flutter of the eyelids. ‘One does not know how far to trust their intentions. The Chinese are remarkable people. They say they are keen to
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me …
The television studio was, to Princess Io’s surprise, no more than a black-painted box hardly large enough for herself, the interviewer and the paraphernalia of camera, video and sound equipment. In deference to her royal status and her age, the lights had been dimmed slightly but still they burned and made her skin itch. Maybe her son Marius had been right: he had recommended refusing this interview. But it was her favourite fibre optic channel and her favourite star, ‘Flash’ Harry Docherty. And she was flattered to have been asked. So why not? Why shouldn’t an elderly Princess, who passed far too many days bored to stupefaction, have her moment on the airwaves?
A flicker of disappointment nagged at her. Flash Harry was shorter and portlier than she had imagined and far less respectful of her than he should have been. He sat hunched, drumming his fingers, eyes half closed while his face was powdered. He was taking no notice of her whatsoever, despite her foray at a few words of genteel conversation. When the makeup girl had finished he began tapping buttons on his powerbook, presumably to check his notes.
A voice in the darkness called out that they were ready. The Princess smoothed her cream silk-and-linen tunic with the tiny pearl embroidery, and tweaked her skirt. Her legswere still shapely and she crossed them neatly at the ankles, before realising that the camera would show only her head and shoulders. She sat up, hands folded in her lap, and allowed that enigmatic little smile her friends said was her hallmark to play about her exquisitely crimsoned lips.
‘Well, hi to you all!’ Flash Harry leaned roguishly into the camera. To the Princess it was disconcerting: she half expected a cheering audience somewhere to shout ‘HI, HARRY!’ back. They did, when the programme was broadcast.
‘Today we gotta special guest. Princess Io.’ He pronounced it with emphasis –’I-O’ to rhyme with Hi-ho, as if she had been named for a song in an ancient Disney cartoon. ‘Born in Japan, the great-granddaughter of the last Japanese Emperor. When the Chinese invaded, she fled with her parents. Picture if you will, leddies and gennlemen, this tiny child – nine years old, terrified and clinging to her mother – brought out of the land of her fathers to an alien world. Ours.’
That was not quite accurate: Io sniffed impatiently. The invasion had certainly taken place in 2022 when she was young, and, temporarily, the family had thought it wise to move. But they had returned. It was not until her twenties that she had left for good. And then it had been for freedom from her family, and for romance.
Flash Harry turned to her. ‘Princess, welcome.’ His eyes burned with sincerity. They were so blue they must be coloured contact lenses. He didn’t look like an NT. ‘It must have been a very traumatic event for you, Princess, to see your country overrun in that way? You, a small girl, forced to leave your homeland?’
The Princess inclined her head with the utmost delicacy. ‘Indeed it was. Dreadful. And to know that we could never go back …’ She sighed and lowered her eyes. It was a supremely Japanese gesture, so much in contrast to the arrogant glares of China’s leaders to which news-watching westerners were accustomed.
‘Right. You must feel anxious still for your own country, Princess. Japanese culture is in danger of disappearing altogether, isn’t it?’
‘One country, two systems, they say.’ The Princess gave a diplomatic flutter of the eyelids. ‘One does not know how far to trust their intentions. The Chinese are remarkable people. They say they are keen to
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