Louis Collins: A Post-American Odyssey

Louis arrived at the University of Sacramento just after ten. The driver took him in through a side approach near the university’s east quad and stopped at a service curb beside a broad set of concrete steps. Event banners hung from the building’s facade. One of them carried Maria’s face.

Louis stepped out into bright daylight and the noise of campus. The university gave him three seconds of anonymity. Then the first student recognized him and raised a phone. Within seconds, heads turned across the plaza and more phones came up. Louis stopped for two photographs, then kept moving toward the lecture hall. Inside, the air turned cooler. Posters lined the walls for faculty lectures, visiting scholars, student panels, and the morning’s event.

MARIA BOURBON

History, Legitimacy, and Survival in Modern Europe

The doors at the far end were open. Louis entered quietly. The lecture hall was full of students, faculty and journalists. Late arrivals stood along the back wall. Maria stood at the podium beneath the spotlights, dressed in blue. The light caught her face and dark hair. Behind her, the screen showed Navarre’s old parliamentary square before the Revolution of 2003. Her voice carried clearly through the room.

“It is comforting,” she said, “to imagine that crowns disappear cleanly. That history ends where constitutions say it does. That once a monarchy is voted out, denounced, or broken apart, it simply becomes costume.”

Louis stayed at the back, arms folded, and searched the room. Maria continued her speech. He listened long enough to know the speech mattered, then found Angelique near the aisle and lost the thread. Jacques sat beside her with a notebook open on his knee, his pen idle between his fingers. Malcolm sat on her other side, leaning forward slightly, hands folded, eyes on the podium.

Louis stayed where he was and watched Angelique instead of Maria. Angelique lifted her fingers to the side of her neck, touched the loose strand of hair there, and tucked it back without looking away from the podium. It slid free again within seconds. He shifted his weight. Two people near the back glanced over. Louis went still.

Maria continued at the podium. Louis stayed at the back and waited for the lecture to end. His gaze kept returning to Malcolm’s chair beside Angelique. Maria spoke for another twenty minutes. She knew how to hold a room and make the crowd feel intelligent for following her. Louis caught pieces: old identities in modern language, royal names still attached to cities and institutions, public reverence surviving long after the revolution.

When Maria finished, applause filled the hall. She thanked the audience and opened the floor for questions. The moderator stepped forward with a microphone, and a hand went up near the front. Along the back wall, people shifted, checked their phones, and murmured to one another. Beside Angelique, Jacques leaned toward her and said something. She bent her head to listen, then gave the smallest nod. A moment later, he stood and muttered apologies as he squeezed toward the exit.

The seat beside her was empty. Louis went down the side steps and walked toward it. Angelique turned before he sat. Up close, she looked calm, dryly amused, and not very surprised.

“You’re very bold in daylight,” she murmured.

Louis slid into the empty chair. His knee angled toward hers in the narrow space. “I figured if I kept waiting for a formal invitation, we’d be well into the next century before I showed up.”

The corner of Angelique’s mouth lifted.

Malcolm turned from her other side, smiling faintly.

“Louis,” he said with a nod. “I didn’t realize you were interested in modern European history.”

“I’m interested in a lot of things,” Louis said, not looking at him.

Onstage, the moderator called on another questioner.

Angelique kept her gaze on the front. “That seat belongs to my brother.”

“Oh, I thought he left.”

“He went to the bathroom.”

“Then I’m borrowing it.”

Angelique pressed her lips together and kept her eyes on the stage. Malcolm cleared his throat.

“Perhaps you should join us more often, Louis,” he said in a low voice. “These talks are quite illuminating.”

Louis glanced at him. “I have no doubt.”

The moderator pointed toward a student in the second row. He launched into a question that became two questions and half a dissertation. Maria did not interrupt. Her hands rested loosely on the podium.

Louis kept his voice low.

“Your mother is good at this.”

Angelique gave the smallest shrug. “She’s been doing it since before I was born.” Her eyes stayed forward. “It’s less performance now. More instinct.” She turned slightly toward him. “Why are you here?”

“I was curious.” Louis looked at Maria on stage.

“About my mother’s lecture?”

“About whether your family always starts the day by unsettling a republic before lunch.” He turned to meet Angelique’s eyes.

Angelique’s mouth pulled wide despite herself. She raised her fingers to her lips, hiding most of it. Her elbow brushed his and did not move away.

“Only on weekdays,” she murmured.

On her other side, Malcolm shifted in his chair. His back stayed straight while he adjusted his cuff.

Louis leaned closer to Angelique. “I read the coverage.”

“Which part?”

“All of it. Some of it twice.”

She held his gaze. “And?”

“And apparently one dance has become an affair of state.” He let out a short breath. “I’m just trying to figure out whether that’s my fault.”

Angelique looked at him for a second, then back toward the stage. “You know. The worst diplomatic crises are always the fault of attractive young people.” She paused. “It’s in the history books.”

Louis almost laughed. “I’ll be sure to check.”

Angelique settled back in her seat. Her shoulder was still close to his. On her other side, Malcolm shifted again, one shoulder pressing closer to Angelique, his hand closing over the armrest. Angelique shifted slightly toward Louis.

Louis kept his eyes on the podium and let the corner of his mouth lift.

Onstage, Maria was saying something about symbols surviving governments and the bad habit states have of confusing silence with consent. Angelique lowered her eyes to her nails, turning one hand slightly to catch the light.

“Does it bother you?” he asked.

She glanced at him. “The dance?”

“The fact that they’re using it to talk about my father and Navarre.” He paused. “About your family.”

Angelique brushed a loose strand of hair back from her cheek. “I’m used to my family being talked about.” Her voice dropped. “And you’re not the first person to make it more interesting.”

Louis nodded slightly. Angelique’s eyes stayed on the stage. Malcolm glanced between them, then leaned forward slightly.

“Have you read the foreign policy paper on Navarre’s diplomatic relevance?” he asked, low enough for both of them. “It’s quite thorough.”

Louis looked at him for the first time in several minutes. “No, Malcolm,” he said. “I haven’t. But I’m glad someone has.”

Malcolm kept smiling. He was about to speak again when Jacques reappeared at the end of the row. He looked up, stopped, and glanced first at his sister, then at Louis. After a second, he leaned down slightly.

“You’re in my chair,” he whispered.

Angelique looked at him. “He’s borrowing it.”

“Jacques.” Louis nodded to him. “Good lecture, isn’t it?”

Jacques frowned. “We’re being stared at.”

Angelique glanced toward the back of the hall. Heads turned away.

“Then they should mind their own business,” she said.

Louis did not look around. He rose from the seat and looked only at Angelique. “I should probably let you sit with your family.”

She lifted her chin. “So polite.”

Jacques took the seat without another word. Louis stepped back into the aisle as the next question began and took a place by the side wall. He kept his eyes on the stage and his attention on her. Malcolm leaned in to ask her something. She answered without turning her head.

When the moderator announced the final question, Maria turned dynastic memory into a question of power and survival. Louis held his place until the room broke into applause. Then he moved quickly, stepping into the aisle before the crowd could thicken. By the time Louis reached them, Jacques had bent to pick up a fallen pen. Malcolm was watching Angelique, his mouth open to say something. Angelique looked up as Louis stopped beside her.

“Are you leaving now?” she asked.

“I have a flight at one.”

She gave him a dry look. “I thought you didn’t do schedules.” Before he could answer, she lifted her chin toward the front. “My mother will be here for a while. People want to shake her hand.” She smiled. “I’m going to slip out before the queue forms.” She turned slightly toward Jacques. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

Jacques straightened with a sharp breath. “I’m not done here.”

“Then wait.” Her voice stayed mild. Then, to Louis, “Walk with me.”

“How about our lunch?” Malcolm asked.

Angelique glanced at him. “Maybe next time, Malcolm.” She gave him a polite smile and turned away.

Louis nodded once, and she stepped out of the row, leading him toward the side door without looking back.