There was no time to draw up a list of answers to probable questions, or to make up and rehearse a story; I was going to have to wing it in the interviews. The press secretary was concerned about that, but Victor knew that I had field experience in such matters.
After all, I had shed my old life and self like a snake does its skin when I went to Latveria, so a couple of interviews should not be able to faze me—especially when the first team of reporter and photographer were my own age or younger: Peter Parker and Betty Brant of the Daily Bugle. He was medium everything; medium height, medium build, medium brown hair and eyes. She was pretty, young, and chic, in a New York way—severely and cutely bobbed hair and black clothes. She was almost vibrating with excitement; this was one of her first big assignments.
The secretary performed the introductions, and took an unobtrusive seat to the side as Miss Brant set up her mini recorder and her notebook. Peter Parker did much the same by the window, leaving the reporter and me in possession of the sofa in the embassy's elegant morning room. Before she turned on the machine, she said, "That's a nice suit, and I'm not just saying that. That really is a sharp-looking suit."
"Thank you." I said. Bisitra had made it, and it was a pale apple green. I wore it with a black top and a print scarf. Before going to bed the night before, I had made two calls home to Latveria—the first to my mother, and the second, at Victor's suggestion, to Ulrike, my wardrobe/image assistant. She had packed about half my summer wardrobe up and flown over, just so I would have something to wear that fit right.
I was hesitant about asking her to do that, but Victor, with the casual attitude he took toward servants, had said that she was being paid to serve, and if I happened to be in New York, she had to come where I was.
Besides, at 5' 11", finding clothing off the rack was a problem. The majority of stores don't carry talls for women, and even on garments where the exact length didn't matter, the proportions were subtly wrong. That was why I relied on Bisitra so much—everything she made for me fit, looked good, and nobody snickered at me. Having exactly the right clothes on makes all the difference between my feeling confident and sharp, or feeling like an awkward, brainy freak.
I added, "There isn't any chance that you're going to ask me my opinions about the current war over oil or the mutant question, or the hostilities between Wakanda and the Sudan, is there?"
"Ah—my editor would probably just take them out if I put them in the article. Sorry. What he want are details about your engagement and the upcoming wedding—your dress, and things like that."
"That's quite all right. I was expecting that to be the case. All right—I'm ready."
It is amazing how fascinating a woman becomes once the world finds out that a rich and/or powerful man is interested in sticking his dick in her. That was the only thing that made Monica Lewinsky famous, and got her on televisions and magazine covers all over the world, and that was the only reason why people were interested in me now.
She asked questions and I answered, letting a hint of a Latverian accent color my speech. Of course my natural accent is entirely American, but Joviana Florescu was supposed to be Latverian born and bred. When she asked how Victor and I met, I made up a simple story about how I was educated at the state's expense—meaning, effectively, at his expense, in return for several years of service once I graduated. I had been pointed out to him as a particularly outstanding scholar.
It lacked something, as stories of a couple's first meeting went, but I could hardly tell the truth—just as I couldn't say, "Well, we had sex and then he told me we were married. I decided to hold still for it. That's how we got engaged." so I said that it came about quite naturally, as our conversations kept getting longer and deeper. I can't say I was at my most inspired, but everything I said would hold water.
Near the end of our interview, she commented, "Your English is very good, by the way."
"Thank you. So is yours." I replied, with a wink.
"I deserved that." she said. "You know, you aren't like what I thought you'd be."
There it was again. "What did you think I would be like?"
"Chilly and hard-edged—a real ice princess."
"I'm glad I'm not, then. It sounds most uncomfortable."
"I'm glad, too. So—off the record and just between ourselves—why are you marrying him?" Uh-huh. Like I was going to believe that.
"Because he's the only man in the world for me." I said, smiling.
"That's wonderful. I'm very happy for you."
Then it was time for the photographs. Peter Parker was just as I remembered him, slightly older, but essentially unchanged.
He had gotten his powers when a spider bit him—one that was either genetically engineered or irradiated, I was a little unclear as to which—and gained the proportionate strength, speed, and agility for his size, as well as the ability to cling to walls and ceilings and shoot webs. He was a struggling college student, with an aunt who scraped by on a tiny income, and an uncle who had been murdered by a man Parker could have stopped—thereby giving him the obligatory angst-ridden origin story.
He was also the only superhero I could think of who I could tolerate, because he was utterly unpretentious about it. He wasn't cocky and brash like the Human Torch, stuck in mutant gloom like the X-men, a Batman-wanna-be like Iron Man—he was just a genuinely good and very young man with an untarnished heart who thought having his powers was just the biggest thrill in the world, and who liked to keep people from getting hurt.
"I hope these turn out well." I said, a little nervously. "In most photographs, I look as though I am deeply suspicious of the camera."
"I think these'll turn out great." he said. "You have good bone structure, and an interesting face."
An interesting face. That's what they say when a girl isn't pretty. I tried to be free of my crippling lack of self-esteem about my looks, but I was told, over and over, that I was an ugly girl, odd-looking, or, most painful of all, 'lovely in your own way.' It left scars.
Something of that must have shown in my face, because Parker lowered the camera and said, "Here—have a look."
It was a digital camera, of course, and he let me review the shots. He was a good photographer.
"In some of these, you've made me look like I've got a private joke, or that I'm up to some kind of mischief." I said.
"I didn't do that, I just caught it. It's your eyes and your smile. I mean, why is the Mona Lisa fascinating and beautiful? Because she's mysterious. With most women, you get everything there is to know about them all at once, just in how they look. With you, there's so much to discover."
He wasn't saying it because he had any romantic interest in me, but because he saw my moment of insecurity. He was uncomplicated and sincere and good, as well as being very attractive. His eyes, like his heart, were limpid and pure as a glass of spring water, unsullied by hatred, anger, or vanity. He was a much nicer, much better person than Victor—.
—and if I were to spend any length of time with him, I'd be as bored as if I were stuck on an airplane on the runway that was delayed for take-off, without a book and with a howling baby. Like an apple, Peter Parker was wholesome, tasty and appealing, but it's chocolate that drives the taste-buds insane with delight. Victor was my particular chocolate…
"With a line like that, you missed your calling. You should be doing portrait photography."
"No, no. I like what I do," he said, modestly.
He lagged behind after the interview on purpose. "Ms. Florescu—"(I had not mentioned that I was already Mrs.—Lady—Ms.—whatever Doom.) "I admit I'm curious—and grateful, and flattered, too!—that you asked for me specifically. But why did you?"
"I was wondering if you'd remember." I smiled. "In my first year of service, I was here in New York in early December. One night, just after dark, as I was coming back from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a van stopped right beside me, and the side slid open. There were several men inside, and they pulled me in." It had been horrible—the fear, their eyes, their hands—but mercifully brief.
"The driver stepped on the gas. I might have ended up as another corpse in the East River, but suddenly their van stopped when it hit a street-light. There was webbing clogging up the axels. The next thing I knew, Spider-man had all four of them trussed up for the police, and I was free." I paused, as panic flickered in his eyes. He was wondering if I had guessed, if I had told—and if I had told Victor, which I hadn't.
I was not out to tease or torture him. "You were somewhere near by, with your girlfriend, Mary-Jane. She took me to a coffee-shop and sat with me while you called the police and took some photos. You were both very kind to me when I needed help the most. Maybe I can't show my appreciation to Spider-man, but I wanted to do something for you." I did not specify who the 'both' referred to.
"That was really nice of you." he said warmly, relieved. "Thanks."
"I was glad I could do it." I replied.
Silly boy! As if anyone—that is, anyone who wasn't blinded by superhero mania—couldn't put two and two together when she was rescued by a young man with a light tenor voice, of medium height and build, wearing a particular cologne, and not recognize him ten minutes later when she met him again, just because he happened to be wearing a costume the first time!
That wasn't how I happened to find out, but still…
A/N: Hiya, Madripoor Rose! I'm not sure what Doom's ruling title is either. Nor are the writers of the F4, because some of them refer to him as 'Baron' while others say he is the King of Latveria. As for Germanic vs. Russian, I'm taking elements of both. Like Aral and Cordelia, you say? I wasn't doing that on purpose...All right, I must be sure not to include any severed heads, although Victor might be asdelighted as Aral was, depending on whose head it was...
Hello, GothikStrawberry! Wait and see, wait and see--it WILL come out eventually!
Thornwitch! Glad you stopped by. Yes, Jovi does tell him, humorously and tactfully, what he needs to hear, you're right, and I was thinking of her in the way you spotted. Good call. I am honored to hear you say the fruitbasket was worthy of Granny Weatherwax. (and I recently got to see/hear Terry and get his latest book signed! Squee!)
Uh-oh...detention! Chantrea Savann, I suppose I could try being less funny, if it'll keep you out of trouble--but do you want that?