a license to wed
NICOLAI ROMANOV
My bride staredup at me, her hands on her hips, her dark eyes fathomless and unknown like the universe swirling around me.
And the universe was swirlinga lot.I could hardly keep my feet.
“I’m glad you approve of the municipal building,” she said, squinting at the parking meter while poking her hand in her purse, then straightening to look at me. “Hey, Nico, I was thinking. You need an official government ID to get a marriage license. I, um, not to mean anything by it, but, um?—”
“Yes?”
“You don’t sound like you’re American. What’re you, like, British or something?”
British? My high school English teacher would have been pleased. “Swedish. Born in Stockholm, and I carry a Swedish EU passport.”
Now her squint was directed at me. “I thought all Swedish people were blondes. And deathly pale. And you’re not.”
“My mother was Swedish. My father was mostly of Germanic descent, some Prussian, some English, even. Definitely some Italian in there from back in the days when the Hannovers were Guelphs. A few Russian ancestors.”
“Okay, if you say so, but you don’t sound Swedishat all.I mean, I’ve only seen the puppet chef on TV, but youreallydon’t sound Swedish.”
Good.“I grew up around Anglophones at boarding school, but I’ve lived in Paris since college. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’d picked up a bit of French accent.”
“Not that I can hear, but I wouldn’t know. I can tell if someone’s from Minnesota versus Michigan but can’t clock anything European.”
“How clever of you.”
Her wary frown spoke volumes that she wasn’t sure if I was making fun of her, but I wasn’t. She said, “The problem is that you’ll need a valid ID to get a marriage license.” And then her sheepish smile was adorable. “You probably don’t have your passport on you, do you?”
My passport, which was with my luggage, had been delivered to the hotel suite in the Sanctuary club after we’d landed. “No, I don’t.”
Crestfallen.That’s how I would describe the emotion that swamped my mind and overturned my happiness at my impending marriage. I wascrestfallen.
Her smile was overly bright, like she had a secret. “Yeah, so we can go back to your hotel to get it, and maybe talktoyourfriends thereabout your plan?”
Somewhere along these bizarre antics that I knew were foreign to me, my desire had warped from merely escaping Volkov’s clutches to having a real wedding ceremony with this pretty little woman because it was fun.
Because it was a signpost in the roads of my life.
Because my life must be changed from its current trajectory.
Because otherwise, I might step off a balcony someday.
Because I didn’t want to meet a Russian intelligence service’s bullet without havinglived.
And loved.
And because the vodka whisperingfunin my head must be obeyed.
My friends would try to talk me out of this foolhardy endeavor.
I didn’t want them to.
Descendants of the tsars of Russia were not to betalked out ofanything. “I have my driver’s license. Surely, that will suffice.”
“You have a driver’s license? From the US?” She didn’t sound excited.
“From Sweden.”
