Some day my prince will come

SOMETIMES, ripe fruits drop unbidden into a writer’s lap.

In my case, such plums usually come from American publicists. Born to coat the universe in the treacle of positive spin, these professional enthusiasts will someday learn not to send their hyper-inflated balloons over my automatic nail-gun.

Until that happens, however, I will continue to receive tantalizing tidbits like this, which arrived via email last week. “Prince Selim Emerald’s new book is as intriguing as the author himself and will enthrall your audience with its story, the subject of which has been of interest to billions for centuries – our souls. If you are interested in interviewing this fascinating guest … please contact me directly.”

Needless to say, I was instantly intrigued. “Who doesn’t like soulful princes from exotic lands?” I asked myself. “Who better to save me from Blue Monday, my incipient wattle and other depressing developments than a potentate whose golden shoes undoubtedly curl up at the ends?”

So, skirting the publicist, I called up the Prince myself and, getting his answering machine, left a message asking him to pop by on his magic carpet for an interview. I was determined to winkle out some spiritual advice.

This, I thought, would be just the thing for readers of my blog, who – like me -- are virtually obsessed with their souls. Oddly, he didn’t return my call, but nevertheless, as I’d expected, a few hours later the Prince showed up.

He arrived as princes do in fairy tales, in the guise of a serf, a clipboard in hand and a tool-kit at his side. It was disappointing for me to realize that he had struggled out of his majestic silken pajamas and feather-topped turban and climbed into a humble coverall before knocking, but the ways of princes should not be known to us.

I executed a magnificent bow, which seemed to please “Bruce,” the alias embroidered on his coverall. “Where’s your magic carpet?” I asked.

“Parked down the street because I couldn’t see your address,” he said haughtily. Well, princes are used to treating others as underlings. It’s bred in the bone.

“Ah,” I said, laughing that tinkling laugh I use whenever I’m trying to impress -- which, admittedly, is rarely. “Please have a seat. I’ll get you some mint tea.”

The Prince seemed wary. “I got a phone message from someone. Where exactly is the leak?” he asked, perched in an uncomfortable fashion on the edge of the couch. I suppose he was used to harem-style seating, pillows heaped everywhere with buxom women in filmy pants strewn about.

“You can sit on the floor, if you like,” I said, making quite a production of pouring the tea into a tumbler from a great height. Unfortunately, I’d just learned to do this from the Internet and hadn’t quite mastered the “time-tested art.” I wound up splashing a great deal of tea onto the floor.

The Prince looked surprised. “I’m fine right here, if you’d stop pouring tea on my shoes,” he replied.

“Whatever you’re used to,” I said, handing him the glass. Soaking wet, it slipped through his masterful fingers and crashed onto the floor, startling him.

“Never fear, Prince, I have another,” I said graciously, filling my own tumbler and handing it to him. Did I mention I was sporting my finest dressing gown? I had no idea how to adorn myself when entertaining princes and thought a robe of some sort was preferable. Worn backward, it gave me a sort of dignity I otherwise infrequently achieve.

“Uh, the leak?” said the Prince, sipping his tea tentatively. I realized his façade of awkwardness simply reflected being brought up in the best schools of whatever apricot-scented, pomegranate-riddled country he was from.

“Ah, yes, the leak,” I said, settling myself back in my chair, hoping he’d take the hint and relax. This was going to be a long discussion, what with the sorry state of my soul. “It is very much a leak -- a leak of the spirit.”

“Say what?” said the Prince, which I found endearing. I suppose they do get reruns of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air in his homeland. It’s everywhere.

“For some time now,” I said, gazing at him intently, “I’ve been experiencing a slow leak of the soul, as if, at a glacial pace, my spirit were seeping out.”

“Sorry?” said the Prince. He had a rather desperate look on his face. It occurred to me that he was probably used to figs with his tea, or nuts. Well, there was nothing I could do about that.

“Friends say it’s just my age,” I continued, with a coy glance at him to see if he realized I really wasn’t that old in the great scheme of Civilization. “I seem to have lost my joie de vivre.”

“What is that, some kind of putty?” asked the Prince. The way he had of putting things!

“Why, yes, I suppose joie de vivre is a sort of putty,” I mused in a fluttery way, like a Southern belle in a Tennessee Williams play. “It keeps one’s spirit robust, inside one’s psyche -- or wherever spirits ordinarily reside. Where do you think the spirit spends its days, Prince?”

“Damned if I know, lady,” he said.

 (“Lady!” Gadzooks. I guess he thought I had a regal bearing.)

“Yet apparently, that is what your book is all about,” I noted kindly.

“My book?” said the Prince.

“Or should I call it a masterpiece? I haven’t read the reviews,” I teased him, laughing sweetly. “At any rate, it’s my own leak that I’m concerned about.”

“That makes two of us,” said the Prince firmly, setting down his almost-untouched glass of tea. And then, would you believe, he marched right to my bathroom and literally repaired the spot where the rain had been dribbling in for a week despite my complaints to Stanley. 

Before I knew it, my dark mood had cleared and my soul felt renewed.

“I owe you so much,” I said, tears in my eyes, as the Prince dashed for the door.

“I know. I’ll bill you,” he replied. And before I remembered to follow him outside and see his enchanted carpet and his magical change into his royal finery, Prince Emerald was gone.