A Hologram for a King
by Dominic Hilton
October 2022
Thunderstorms, tapping out, and The Crown. The Queen’s death hit different in Buenos Aires, writes Dominic Hilton.
When the BBC announced the death of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, the skies suddenly blackened over Buenos Aires, and a violent thunderstorm blew out my cable service. I was trying to record a podcast with a colleague, who told me the same thing had happened in Los Angeles.
“It’s eerie,” Phil said. “We haven’t seen rain here in like a year, but as soon as your Queen dies, we suffer an outbreak of characteristically British weather. It all seems a little too apropos, wouldn’t you say?”
I took a moment to think things over. “Weren’t these the exact weather conditions on the day Jesus Christ was crucified?”
“Talk to me when you’ve got some earthquakes going on,” Phil said.
According to my sister, it was also pissing down in England. “I know that sounds par for the course,” Sophie wrote in a WhatsApp message, “but we haven’t had any rain here for two months. There are hosepipe bans everywhere.”
I repeated her words on the podcast and all Phil said was, “What’s a “hosepipe”? Do you mean a “hose”? What is it with you Brits?”
I’d wondered the same thing about Americans a few hours earlier, when my friend Matt in Philadelphia alerted me to the breaking news. “The Queen Mother appears to be tapping out,” he wrote, which struck me as so wrong in so many ways. Matt defended himself by letting me know that he was an admirer of the Netflix series The Crown, as if that somehow meant something to me, his British pal.
I heard the same thing later that day, when I ventured outside into the throngs of TV crews and armed police gathered in my plaza around the British Embassy. I needed to change a slim wad of US dollars into giant bricks of Argentine pesos, so I went to see a guy I know who takes care of such things. “How do you feel about your Queen Isobel?” Javier asked me in his half-English as he stuffed a fistful of worthless cash into a counting machine. “It is coincidence, but my girlfriend and I, we start watching Netflix The Crown last night. We think Prince Felipe he is very good.”
“Right, yes,” I said, unsure what else to say. “Matt Smith.”
“¿Quién?”
“Matt Smith. He’s the actor who plays Prince Philip.”
“Ah, OK,” Javier said. “You know, Felipe, he came here, in Argentina. It is said that he had many mistresses. In the provinces.”
I stuffed another hundred thousand pesos into my rucksack. “I heard.”
“They leapt like ballet dancers around the flames, chanting about how much greater Diego Maradona was than Queen Elizabeth.”
The next morning, I took a taxi downtown. We were stuck in traffic on Avenida Corrientes, when the driver, an elderly, hunched gentleman in short sleeves and a flat cap, turned in his seat and said in Spanish, “Do you know Prince Philip?”
“He’s my father,” I deadpanned.
The driver stayed silent, blinking several times behind his glasses. Then, slowly, his tiny screwed-up eyes gave me the once over, taking their time to assess the validity of my claim.
“Normally, I don’t tell people,” I said, welcoming the opportunity to test my Spanish skills, “but now that the Queen is dead…”
“You are royal?”
I laughed. “I’m illegitimate. My mother was Argentine. She liked polo.”
“Of course,” said the driver with a beastly grin. “And your new King is a hologram.”
I edged closer towards the plastic partition. “What did you say?”
“Charles. He is not human. He is a hologram.”
Now I was the one staring. “Why do you think that?”
The driver pulled down his lower eyelid with an index finger, which in Argentina means, “Watch out.”
A few days before all of this happened, I happened upon an Ipsos survey about Queen Elizabeth’s favourability ratings around the world. Her Majesty received high favourability ratings in Romania, India and China, but got low favourability ratings in Spain. The country in which she was most disliked was Argentina. As I read the findings, my mind turned to an incident I’d witnessed from my balcony a couple of months ago. A noisy group of demonstrators had shown up to burn the Union Jack outside the decorative iron gates of the British Ambassador’s residence. I watched them from my vantage point on the eleventh floor, enjoying a glass of Malbec as they leapt like ballet dancers around the flames, chanting about how much greater Diego Maradona was than Queen Elizabeth. At one point, they turned to look up at my building, pointing fingers at me, shouting things I couldn’t hear. Instinctively, I gave them the royal wave.
Now here we were in a new world, with no Diego and no Elizabeth, and I couldn’t help feeling a little unsettled. But then I received a voice message from a Geordie who has lived in Argentina for donkey’s years. “You really couldn’t make this shit up,” Alan’s message began. “I popped by the British Embassy this morning to sign the book of condolence. On my way, I visited the flower kiosk on Avenida Pueyrredón. I asked the seller for an arrangement in red, white and blue, explaining that it was for the Queen, and our conversation was overheard by the bearded, toothless bag lady who was slumped in a nearby doorway. She’s a destitute old hag, and I often give her money because she never asks for any and talks to me about her faith. This time, I handed her the change I had from the flowers—three hundred pesos—and she started speaking in pretty decent English, which astonished me, as we’ve only ever communicated in Spanish before. She said, “Along with a lot of people in this country, I really respected your Queen.” And I thought, Yeah, she might say that: she’s just had a couple of quid off me. But then she passed the three hundred pesos I’d just given her to the flower seller, asking if she could buy a plant arrangement for me to present at the Embassy on her behalf for our departed Queen. I don’t mind admitting, I was flabbergasted. It really was one of the most emotional experiences I’ve ever had. Given the hostility that still reigns in this country against the UK, I thought it was a marvellous gesture. Then when I arrived at the Embassy to pay my respects, the six people in line ahead of me were Argentines.”
Swallowing the mysterious new lump in my throat, I decided it was time to call my parents in England, who I’d been avoiding. Within minutes, my mother started weeping as she recalled how the Queen was once a Girl Scout. “Well,” I reminded her, “so were lots of other little girls.” But it was no use. “You know, the Queen was a terrific driver,” mum insisted. “She had a real human side.” Then, on the subject of Princess Anne: “She’s a tough girl, that one. She’s willing to walk, if she needs to.”
Dad piped up. “For the first twenty-three years of my life, I sang “God Save the King”. Then for the next seventy, I sang “God Save the Queen”. I’d only just got used to that, and now it’s the bloody King again.”
“Well,” I said, “these things happen.”
“I’d paid so little attention to it of late that I’d almost forgotten what my native country was really like.”
The day before the state funeral, at 8:30am, half an hour after I’d stumbled home from a nightclub and faceplanted on my bed, a pipe burst in my building, flooding all eighteen floors. Rivers of filthy water cascaded down the elevator shafts, down the service stairwell, and over three sides of the building. The water blew out the power and several apartments were destroyed. Firemen evacuated the building, rescuing a few of my elderly neighbours, along with armfuls of dogs. I took shelter under the car port. My eyes weren’t working very well, and I could barely remember my name, but I managed to give my details to a cluster of police officers wearing sky blue rain ponchos. As I was doing so, one of the firemen overheard me explaining that I was English. He stopped to offer his sympathies, saying in Spanish, “What a culture! All those people queuing patiently to see their Queen’s coffin. My God! Compared to what happened in Argentina when Maradona died! We Argentines stormed our Presidential Palace to try to steal Diego’s body and bathe in the fountains… Sir, I commend you and your people.” Then he switched on his torch and stomped back into the building’s water-logged lobby, while I nursed my thumping head underneath the rubbery leaves of an exotic pot plant.
Thanks to the power outage in my building, I watched the funeral in a café, where Latin trap music boomed from speakers mounted on exposed brick walls and tattooed waitresses shot me leery glances. “Soy inglés,” I told one of them as she watched the committal service from St. George’s Chapel over my shoulder.
“Obvio,” she replied, which really got my goat for some reason.
Later that same week, I rewatched the entire faultlessly choreographed event again on catch-up. The BBC coverage was plagued with generalisations (“The British people loved having her as their Queen.”; “Elizabeth signified a country unwavering in its commitment to duty and to decency.”; “She had the best skin I have ever seen. She was lit from within.”; “This was history – solemn, spectacular and intense.”; “No one wanted this moment to end.”; “Never was a person truer to her word.”) and yet, sitting alone on my sofa, half a world away, I couldn’t help feeling strangely stirred. Not only because Queen Elizabeth was gone, but because I’d paid so little attention to it of late that I’d almost forgotten what my native country was really like. All those tired-looking families in cagoules with their folding picnic chairs, Marks and Spencer picky bits and Paddington teddy bears, holding the latest plus-size model smartphones above their heads as history passed them by, journeying towards its final resting place.
