Below is a section of The Explosion of a Chandelier that I'd removed from the final version as it didn't quite fit with the existing text, consisting of a spurious letter written by three young men to an unknown person whose name and address are found in the registry of the Hotel Delicias. The letter, in the story, is signed with the name and imperial seal of Alfonso XIII, King of Spain.
It’s rarely said that I’m an amicable man. I’m known to be fervent in my convictions. It’s been noted, on more than one occasion, that I’m prone to delusions. It’s entirely possible that this is indeed the case. The pressures of my office are beyond the imaginings of the most fertile minds in the country—a country, mind you, that’s suffered countless indignities since the end of the war that ravaged most of Europe. Our cities are rife with strikes and bombs, our banks are indulging in wild speculation, the populace, for what little they’re worth, has grown increasingly divided and discontent—the soul of Spain has become a trembling leviathan that exceeds even the reach of the empire. It’s hard to believe, as I listen to my daily briefings, that I once held the reins of this intemperate beast. Whatever semblance of control once belonged to the sovereignty has withered like a moth in the mouth of a cannon.
But this is not what I intended to write about. This letter has started badly—let’s begin again. I wanted to inform you of a particular incident. The matter, I assure you, is a serious one. The incident took place in a modest hotel that you yourself spent a single night in during the autumn of last year. You slept in suite 201, if I’m not mistaken? The first door to the right on the second floor? There’s been a dreadful mix up, I’m afraid—that suite was supposed to be occupied by me. It’s only after reviewing the royal receipts that I’ve become aware of the mistake.
I often make use of the Hotel Delicias to conduct important affairs of state. It’s perfectly suited to the needs of my bureaucrats, with its inferior drapery and second-rate furnishings. Even the pitiable chandeliers are ideal—their light pervades the atmosphere like brandy into soil. The gleam of its rays on drying ink brings to mind the blood of an expiring diplomat. I sometimes lie supine before the heating vents in full uniform and regalia, the light setting flame to the currents of my breath and tainting my office with unspeakable sins. This gives rise to a feeling of utter debauchery which I must confess is not entirely displeasurable, comprising one of the many secret joys to be found in this derelict hotel. But, here again, this is far from what I wish to discuss with you. Let us return once more to the matter at hand.
On this particular occasion, I was to meet with one of my ministers—the Minister of Privation or perhaps the Minister of Abstinence. It’s not unusual for members of the ruling class to appear in a variety of unconventional forms—an unsightly crack in a porcelain vase, an off-color section of the wallpaper, the play of light upon a royal sash, or a flaw in the angle of a mirror’s reflection. This is partly done as a security measure and partly to uphold tradition. Recognizing this natural camouflage is part and parcel of my service to society, yet, after several hours’ waiting, detecting no sign of my contact, I felt I’d failed in my duties that night. Eventually, I fell asleep in my armchair and had the most remarkable dream about minotaurs and spy glasses—but then this is hardly pertinent to the subject of this letter.
Now that the error has come to light, it’s clear that our rooms were mis-assigned—while you slept in a bed that was intended for a king, I passed the night upon common upholstery. I was to meet with a man of exalted rank in order to secure the advance of our empire, yet I waited all night for my distinguished guest and was still a virgin, so to speak, when the sun came up. I take it you’re astute enough to know what this means—that it was you, not I, who had discourse with the minister. You probably mistook him for a faulty chandelier or some other such trivial inconvenience. Such is often the case when one of common sensibilities is brought into the presence of a genuine aristocrat.
The minister in question, you ought to be informed, has since abandoned his lofty position. We’ll make haste to have him executed if we ever track him down. You have no one but yourself to thank for such a miserable state of affairs—your grasp of royal protocol is nothing short of execrable. This matter is far from over. My cabinet is scrambling to recover from its consequences. There are rites of office that must be performed—the blackbirds have yet to be released from the inkwell, among other things. Naturally, you’ll have a hand in these proceedings. We’ll send a messenger along to notify you. In the meantime, I have a suggestion to leave you with—you really ought to try your utmost, despite your natural deficiencies, to avoid future meddling in regal affairs, whether intentional or otherwise.
May Heaven look with mercy on your lack of resolve, may the fruit of your endowments be refined in your abasement, may you never garroted for a clerical error, et cetera, et cetera.
Sincerely,
Alfonso XIII, King of Spain
