“I’m trying to tell you that I’m sorry about last night. You could have been Rita Hayworth and I wouldn’t have touched you. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“You did not,” she lied, chin up. “I merely misunderstood the situation. If you will release me and allow me to dress, we can get started on my learning to be an American.”
“Sure,” he said with anger. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can get your kingdom and I can go back to controlling my own life.”
She did not slam the bathroom door; she was able to control herself that much. She looked at herself in the mirror. Was she so unattractive? Perhaps her nighttime braid was too tight, perhaps she didn’t look so young and carefree as the pretty American girls she saw, but was she really so undesirable?
She dressed in a simple little Mainbocher suit: slim skirt, padded shoulders, a little veiled hat perched over her left eye. She had a devil of a time with the seams in the hose but she managed at last.
Lieutenant Montgomery was lounging in a chair when she emerged. “Finally,” he muttered, barely looking at her before entering the bathroom.
He emerged shaved and showered, a towel around his waist. Aria left the room.
He started lecturing her the moment they left the suite. He showed her how to use the room key, and the elevator. He lectured her about menus and American waiters. They ate breakfast and he said nothing to her that wasn’t a criticism: she was holding her fork in the wrong hand, she was to use her hands to eat her bread and not cut it with a knife and fork, she was not allowed to return her eggs, which she had ordered soft-boiled and received scrambled. And in between his corrections he handed her change and told her how to count it, laying little piles of coins on the tablecloth and making her total the amounts in her head between bites. He was ready to leave when she was only half finished.
“We haven’t got all day,” he said, pulling back her chair. “Every American should know about the nation’s capital.”
He made a telephone call then half pulled her along to a waiting military car.
All day they went sightseeing. He dragged her through one building after another, lectured her on the history of the place, then impatiently waited while she got back into the car and they were off again. When they were in the car, he told her about glorious American women who had died for their country, women who were afraid of nothing, women who lived for their men. He seemed especially taken with someone named Dolley Madison.
“What’s that?” Aria asked just as he was shoving her back into the car after seeing a statue of someone named Lincoln.
“It’s a drugstore. Come on, let’s go. We still got the Smithsonian to go to and the Library of Congress.”
“What are they drinking?”
“Cokes. We don’t have time for lollygagging, let’s go.”
Aria watched the drugstore until it was out of sight. How she would like to do something pleasant.
At the Smithsonian, they met Heather. She was a plump little blonde who came hurrying around a corner and nearly ran into them.
“Excuse me,” she said, then the next moment she squealed and said, “J.T.!” She dropped the leather portfolio she was carrying, threw her arms around J.T., and kissed him passionately.
Aria stood by and watched without much interest except to note that Americans acted this way on public streets.
“J.T., honey, I’ve missed you so much. How long are you in town? Let’s do the town tonight. Then later we can go back to my place. My roommates can leave us alone for a few hours. What do you say?”
“Baby, there’s nothing I’d like better. You don’t know how good it is to see a woman smile at me. The last few days of my life have been sheer hell.”
Aria walked away at that. She didn’t halt when J.T. yelled, “Wait a minute!”
He caught up with her, holding Aria’s arm with one hand and the blonde’s with the other.
“J.T., who is this?” the blonde demanded.
“This is Prin…I mean—” He looked at Aria. “What is your name?”
“Victoria Jura Aria Cilean Xenita.”
After a moment’s pause, J.T. said, “Yeah, that’s right. Vicky. And this is Heather Addison.”
“Aria,” she corrected. “My family calls me Aria.”
Heather looked at J.T. suspiciously. “And what do you call her?”
Aria smiled sweetly. “Wife,” she said.