AH Vignette: Kingdom
Usually, in fiction, occasions like this are framed in terms of gloom, doom and ominous portents, the man thought as he walked the gangway to set his feet on terra firma again. He looked at the passenger harbour under the bright summer sun and listened to the birds singing up in the air. Skylarks, he thought. Flags of all the northern nations flew in the harbour, rippling gently in the warm summer breeze.
The man rather liked the nation's capital. An unassuming city by the seaside, in almost the same latitude as his own home town. It was lot smaller than the metropole he was from, granted. But on a bright June day like this, there was a certain charm to the capital of the Kingdom of Sweden.
The other members of the official delegation were disembarking all around him. Soon, a string of official cars would arrive to pick up the small group of men in dark suits. Which was kind of redundant, the man thought. The Royal Palace was but a stone's throw away from the harbour anyway. But in things like this – especially in things like this, the man reflected – looks were everything.
The world was watching.
There were journalists present at the harbour. But the police and the harbour officials, both in uniforms that now appeared quaint and old-fashioned, kept them away from the delegation quite efficiently. There would be time for the media, oh yes.
Later. After the deed was done.
The man sat down on the back seat of a black Volvo. It was meticulously maintained, but sweet Lenin's ghost if it wasn't ancient. This was the Kingdom all the way – tradition, appearances, dignity.
And nothing but. This day would prove it.
The man was not among the top officials in this little delegation. He rather suspected he was here for appearances as well, for the look of the thing. The international audience knew his face, by and by. And he was on his way up, at the moment, towards better things. So it had been thought that it would be in the interest of the Socialist Motherland that he would be present at the occasion. Some historic photos would be taken, and when, in a few years, a spot would again open up at the top through the inevitable grind of the gears of time, his name would be easier to put forward as a suitable replacement. He is an accomplished comrade, they would say, a steady, seasoned hand, just what the people need.
The man awoke from his reverie as his colleague tapped his arm lightly.
” - Comrade. The Palace.”
And so it was. It had in fact taken longer to get here than the man on the left side had expected. The motorcade must have gone around the block a couple of times, he thought as he stepped out of the sweltering heat in the old car to feel the slight summer breeze on his skin again.
It felt wonderful.
A small crowd of people had gathered in front of the Royal Palace, and was kept at bay by a line of unhappy-looking policemen. Some in the crowd held placards, some booed to the Communist officials stepping out of the vehicles. Most only stared at the delegation in a passive-aggressive way. It was very much at odds with the glorious weather, but the man felt a slight stir in his mind to see it.
It reminded him of the people back home.
The Kingdom's already changing, the man thought. He was not sure whether he should feel happy or sad for that thought.
In front of the Palace, a line of royal soldiers in the blue and yellow of Carolean uniforms made a show of presenting arms as the delegation passed. Sentimental, pompous and antiquated, the press back home would call this little display. The man looked at the line of soldiers standing in perfect attention as their officer barked orders to them. On one man's cheek he could see a bead of sweat, glistening in the sun.
Or was it a tear, maybe?
That thought only came to his mind several weeks later.
There were still some issues to do with protocol and such when the delegation entered the Palace proper, but as it had been made clear beforehand that such frivolities would have to be cut to a minimum, the journey they made inside the palace was probably the shortest way from the door to the presence of the Swedish monarch any foreign delegation had enjoyed in a long time.
The Kingdom of Sweden inhabited an unenvious location between East and West. Between Capitalism and Communism. And it was a small nation, in comparison to its big Socialist neighbour looking down at it from across the Sea of Åland. It had seemed obvious for some time now that sooner or later, the Kingdom's Capitalist allies would grow weary of sponsoring the nation that was increasingly becoming a burden to them rather than an asset.
And now the day of reckoning was at hand. The dialectic, it seemed, demanded it.
The delegation was shown to a room, a hall really, with a large table in it. Here again there were Carolean guards. On the wall, a score of Swedish kings looked down on the scene, their eyes colder than the summery weather would have led one to expect
The people the delegation had come to meet sat already at the long table. The leaders of the Kingdom of Sweden. The Prime Minister, the Speaker of the Parliament, the Commander of the Royal Swedish Armed Forces.
And the King.
The young man had been By the Grace of God King of the Swedes, the Goths and the the Wends for only three years now. They said he liked fast cars and gambling, and spent more time in the European casinos and high-class resorts than in his own kingdom. And yet... The only son of Prince Gustaf Adolf, this man was, to his subjects, the very embodiment of the Kingdom of Sweden and the tradition that ancient state rested on.
Carl XVI Gustaf did not look happy.
The leader of the delegation approached the table and then he stopped to look around him. No chairs had been set on this side of the table, and that was what made him lose his bearings for a while. At that moment, a royal official chose to announce the delegation to the king and the members of his cabinet and military leadership at the table.
” - If you expect me to stand up for you, you are sorely mistaken”, the king said in an acerbic tone.
” - We all know why you are here. Just get on with it.”
Weeks later, back at his office, the man decided that he had liked the king's reaction to the situation. It showed that he had some character, despite everything. Some backbone. Maybe it was just the impetuousness of youth, maybe it was a sense of duty or honor that made him pull an attempt to humiliate the delegation.
What ever it was, it was... a breath of fresh air, the man decided, looking out over the grey city by the water, with a cigarette in his fingers. The stuff of legend. The last stand of a monarch.
For that is what it was – the last act of defiance by the last King of Sweden. The official documents were produced from a black leather case and set on the table. And then the king and his officials signed them, giving away the independence of their nation.
The former monarch and his now-unemployed retainers still sat at the table when the delegation unceremoniously left some moments later. The man looked around him in the former Royal Palace and realized how unimposing, how small and provincial the building looked now as the mystique of royalty had been stripped off it. How it now became just another old building in a Communist state. For as soon as the delegation exited the building – now the yellow-blue guards were nowhere to be seen – the man knew that military vessels that had waited just outside the erstwhile territorial waters of the Kingdom would be now in the process of crossing them.
It would take no longer than 15 minutes before the first soldiers carrying the red insignia of the People's Armed Forces would make landfall also here in the capital, to take control of the town and what paltry military installations the Royal Swedish military had in this little former operetta kingdom.
As the delegation arrived at the harbour, went past the sullen port officials that just stared at them without comment, and started climbing back to the waiting ship flying a red and yellow flag, the man could feel a sudden chill in the air. It was something unexpected in the summer day, like a gust of wind from the North Pole.
Change is coming.
The ship started receding from the harbour. The man looked at the dark-suited colleague next to him and took a pack of smokes from his pocket, offering them to the man who took one, nodded and smiled encouragingly.
” - That went surprisingly well”, he said, lighting a cigarette thoughtfully.
” - Parts of history now, we are, Comrade Palme.”
That is true, the man though to himself. For this was how history was made, not by men with guns fighting wars or killing men in secret on dark alleys. No, history was made by people signing away their nation and their legacy due to the threat of violence and overwhelming force.
History is made by the masses, not by individuals, the man admitted to himself and took a slow drag from his cigarette. A little ways away west, he could see a People's Navy destroyer closing in, escorting the first troop transport towards the port of Mariehamn. And the ship he was on, in turn, started to make its way back to the capital of the Swedish People's Republic, just a small sea voyage away due west.
Usually, in fiction, occasions like this are framed in terms of gloom, doom and ominous portents, the man thought as he walked the gangway to set his feet on terra firma again. He looked at the passenger harbour under the bright summer sun and listened to the birds singing up in the air. Skylarks, he thought. Flags of all the northern nations flew in the harbour, rippling gently in the warm summer breeze.
The man rather liked the nation's capital. An unassuming city by the seaside, in almost the same latitude as his own home town. It was lot smaller than the metropole he was from, granted. But on a bright June day like this, there was a certain charm to the capital of the Kingdom of Sweden.
The other members of the official delegation were disembarking all around him. Soon, a string of official cars would arrive to pick up the small group of men in dark suits. Which was kind of redundant, the man thought. The Royal Palace was but a stone's throw away from the harbour anyway. But in things like this – especially in things like this, the man reflected – looks were everything.
The world was watching.
There were journalists present at the harbour. But the police and the harbour officials, both in uniforms that now appeared quaint and old-fashioned, kept them away from the delegation quite efficiently. There would be time for the media, oh yes.
Later. After the deed was done.
The man sat down on the back seat of a black Volvo. It was meticulously maintained, but sweet Lenin's ghost if it wasn't ancient. This was the Kingdom all the way – tradition, appearances, dignity.
And nothing but. This day would prove it.
The man was not among the top officials in this little delegation. He rather suspected he was here for appearances as well, for the look of the thing. The international audience knew his face, by and by. And he was on his way up, at the moment, towards better things. So it had been thought that it would be in the interest of the Socialist Motherland that he would be present at the occasion. Some historic photos would be taken, and when, in a few years, a spot would again open up at the top through the inevitable grind of the gears of time, his name would be easier to put forward as a suitable replacement. He is an accomplished comrade, they would say, a steady, seasoned hand, just what the people need.
The man awoke from his reverie as his colleague tapped his arm lightly.
” - Comrade. The Palace.”
And so it was. It had in fact taken longer to get here than the man on the left side had expected. The motorcade must have gone around the block a couple of times, he thought as he stepped out of the sweltering heat in the old car to feel the slight summer breeze on his skin again.
It felt wonderful.
A small crowd of people had gathered in front of the Royal Palace, and was kept at bay by a line of unhappy-looking policemen. Some in the crowd held placards, some booed to the Communist officials stepping out of the vehicles. Most only stared at the delegation in a passive-aggressive way. It was very much at odds with the glorious weather, but the man felt a slight stir in his mind to see it.
It reminded him of the people back home.
The Kingdom's already changing, the man thought. He was not sure whether he should feel happy or sad for that thought.
In front of the Palace, a line of royal soldiers in the blue and yellow of Carolean uniforms made a show of presenting arms as the delegation passed. Sentimental, pompous and antiquated, the press back home would call this little display. The man looked at the line of soldiers standing in perfect attention as their officer barked orders to them. On one man's cheek he could see a bead of sweat, glistening in the sun.
Or was it a tear, maybe?
That thought only came to his mind several weeks later.
There were still some issues to do with protocol and such when the delegation entered the Palace proper, but as it had been made clear beforehand that such frivolities would have to be cut to a minimum, the journey they made inside the palace was probably the shortest way from the door to the presence of the Swedish monarch any foreign delegation had enjoyed in a long time.
The Kingdom of Sweden inhabited an unenvious location between East and West. Between Capitalism and Communism. And it was a small nation, in comparison to its big Socialist neighbour looking down at it from across the Sea of Åland. It had seemed obvious for some time now that sooner or later, the Kingdom's Capitalist allies would grow weary of sponsoring the nation that was increasingly becoming a burden to them rather than an asset.
And now the day of reckoning was at hand. The dialectic, it seemed, demanded it.
The delegation was shown to a room, a hall really, with a large table in it. Here again there were Carolean guards. On the wall, a score of Swedish kings looked down on the scene, their eyes colder than the summery weather would have led one to expect
The people the delegation had come to meet sat already at the long table. The leaders of the Kingdom of Sweden. The Prime Minister, the Speaker of the Parliament, the Commander of the Royal Swedish Armed Forces.
And the King.
The young man had been By the Grace of God King of the Swedes, the Goths and the the Wends for only three years now. They said he liked fast cars and gambling, and spent more time in the European casinos and high-class resorts than in his own kingdom. And yet... The only son of Prince Gustaf Adolf, this man was, to his subjects, the very embodiment of the Kingdom of Sweden and the tradition that ancient state rested on.
Carl XVI Gustaf did not look happy.
The leader of the delegation approached the table and then he stopped to look around him. No chairs had been set on this side of the table, and that was what made him lose his bearings for a while. At that moment, a royal official chose to announce the delegation to the king and the members of his cabinet and military leadership at the table.
” - If you expect me to stand up for you, you are sorely mistaken”, the king said in an acerbic tone.
” - We all know why you are here. Just get on with it.”
Weeks later, back at his office, the man decided that he had liked the king's reaction to the situation. It showed that he had some character, despite everything. Some backbone. Maybe it was just the impetuousness of youth, maybe it was a sense of duty or honor that made him pull an attempt to humiliate the delegation.
What ever it was, it was... a breath of fresh air, the man decided, looking out over the grey city by the water, with a cigarette in his fingers. The stuff of legend. The last stand of a monarch.
For that is what it was – the last act of defiance by the last King of Sweden. The official documents were produced from a black leather case and set on the table. And then the king and his officials signed them, giving away the independence of their nation.
The former monarch and his now-unemployed retainers still sat at the table when the delegation unceremoniously left some moments later. The man looked around him in the former Royal Palace and realized how unimposing, how small and provincial the building looked now as the mystique of royalty had been stripped off it. How it now became just another old building in a Communist state. For as soon as the delegation exited the building – now the yellow-blue guards were nowhere to be seen – the man knew that military vessels that had waited just outside the erstwhile territorial waters of the Kingdom would be now in the process of crossing them.
It would take no longer than 15 minutes before the first soldiers carrying the red insignia of the People's Armed Forces would make landfall also here in the capital, to take control of the town and what paltry military installations the Royal Swedish military had in this little former operetta kingdom.
As the delegation arrived at the harbour, went past the sullen port officials that just stared at them without comment, and started climbing back to the waiting ship flying a red and yellow flag, the man could feel a sudden chill in the air. It was something unexpected in the summer day, like a gust of wind from the North Pole.
Change is coming.
The ship started receding from the harbour. The man looked at the dark-suited colleague next to him and took a pack of smokes from his pocket, offering them to the man who took one, nodded and smiled encouragingly.
” - That went surprisingly well”, he said, lighting a cigarette thoughtfully.
” - Parts of history now, we are, Comrade Palme.”
That is true, the man though to himself. For this was how history was made, not by men with guns fighting wars or killing men in secret on dark alleys. No, history was made by people signing away their nation and their legacy due to the threat of violence and overwhelming force.
History is made by the masses, not by individuals, the man admitted to himself and took a slow drag from his cigarette. A little ways away west, he could see a People's Navy destroyer closing in, escorting the first troop transport towards the port of Mariehamn. And the ship he was on, in turn, started to make its way back to the capital of the Swedish People's Republic, just a small sea voyage away due west.
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