‘But if I’m a zero, and say you’re talented, what does that make you?’
‘Maybe you’re not a zero, and maybe even I’m not. I never was good at figures. Have another drink, Craig. It’s on me. I’m paying all the way.’
How Craig had arrived outside this large gymnasium, on Valhallavägen near the old Olympic Stadium, some time before 10.30 at night, was not clear to him.
He did not remember Gunnar Gottling dropping him off at the Grand Hotel, and driving away. Craig had stood swaying for some time before the entrance, wondering what he should do. The weather was freezing, and the area before the entrance was deserted—even the saluting doorman had taken cover inside—and the only signs of life were the two taxi drivers locked snugly in their vehicles and asleep.
At first, Craig had not minded the cold. Alcohol seemed to preserve him against it. He had stood there, rocking from leg to leg, and weighed his one problem and his three possible solutions.
His problem had been—emptiness. The brainchild, the child of hope, attended and nursed to life by Jacobsson at the Swedish Academy, by Emily, by the students in the morning and afternoon, had been delivered stillborn, after all. Gottling’s self-serving attack had shattered him. He was no more alive than he had been that late afternoon, in Miller’s Dam, that hour before the telegram, when Lucius Mack had put him to bed, and he had passed out. Yes—emptiness.
As he had stood there in the biting wind, the solutions were three. If the opera were over, there would be Emily, restorer of life, life giver. But to come to her this way, shorn of strength, weak of will, muddled and sottish, might repel her forever. And another thing, another thing, and this you felt at once in your head and your heart and between your thighs. You wanted the reviving clamp of woman love.
Craig desired this desperately, the potion of anti-emptiness, to prove his worth to himself and the earth’s worth to him. He wanted to put a needle in a doll, deeply, and incant the magic that would dissolve the big, bad Gottling. He wanted Emily, but she would be unprepared, unbriefed, without the knowledge necessary for understanding, and the force of his passion would start her running, and after that, he would never find her. No, it could not be Emily.
He had considered the second solution, which had a sanity and logic of its own this wintry night. Leah, the rigid Leah. His loss and drunken need would be familiar, understood, readily accepted. He thought of Leah, hair loosened to her shoulders, known Slavic features, sagging teats, and muscular thighs. There he would find easy admittance and comfort, and later he would sleep well, released of ambition and guilt, and the battle would be over, at last. For long moments, in the cold, the temptation of it, the simplicity of it, had almost drawn him inside. But then, in the clarity of the icy wind, the hotel became the house at Appomattox, and if he entered now, he would be Lee, when he really wanted to be Grant. No, this was not surrender day.
For, by then, he had pictured the third solution. Freya, Swedish goddess of carnal love. The solution was a night’s miracle, inviting no danger, demanding no surrender.
Immediately, Craig had gone to the nearest taxi, awakened the startled driver by rapping on the window, and asked to be taken to Polhemsgatan 172C.
When they had arrived at the apartment, the elderly portvakt had been in the entry hall, performing some repair. He had come to the door out of curiosity, and then recognized Craig from the other time. At once, he had hobbled outside, waving his hands, and making a long and negative speech to the taxi driver.
‘He is saying,’ the driver had told Craig, ‘your lady friend is not home tonight. Once a month, she goes to her club, and that is tonight.’ Craig had wanted to know when Lilly would be back. The portvakt could not say, although he thought it might be late, it was usually late. ‘Find out where she is,’ Craig had ordered the driver, ‘and then take me there.’ He had not thought it out. He had only considered his need, and her unselfish readiness to serve him. He had only known that he must rescue her from the banality of clubhood so that, in turn, she might save him.
And that was how, at this late hour, on this freezing night, he came to be standing unsteadily before the entrance of the square gymnasium on Valhallavägen.
He made his way, stumbling, across the walk to the green door, pulled it open with effort, and staggered inside. Despite the cement floor of the entry hall, the room was well heated by a pounding radiator. The room was barren of all furnishings, except for a table and a chair behind it, now filled by a masculine, middle-aged woman in a brown suit. She had a metal card file open before her, and was sorting cards and stacking them, and she looked up with a puzzled smile when Craig approached her.
‘I’m looking for Miss Lilly Hedqvist,’ said Craig, enunciating each word clearly. ‘I’m told she is a member here. I’m an American friend. I wonder if I could see her?’
‘Well—’ said the receptionist.
‘It’s very important that I see her.’
The woman rose. ‘If you will excuse me.’ She strode off vigorously, quickly opening and closing an inner door.
For Craig, the delay was tedious. There was no place to sit, so he tried to pace, but his gait was unsteady, and at last he resigned himself to immobility by leaning against the wall.
Suddenly, the inner door swung open, and the receptionist held it, while two people passed into the entry hall. One was a tall though stooped elderly gentleman with the face of a fox, wearing incongruous attire. He was clothed in a polka-dotted blue bathrobe and beach sandals. The other was Lilly Hedqvist, and she wore a white terry-cloth robe and was barefooted.
While the elderly gentleman hung behind at the table, with the receptionist, Lilly, her golden hair gathered up with a ribbon, her brow pinched with concern, padded quickly across the cement to Craig.
‘What is it, Mr. Craig?’ she asked in an undertone. ‘Are you well?’
He was fascinated by her terry-cloth robe and bare feet. ‘What kind of club is this, anyway?’
‘Our nudist society. I told you once, remember? In the winter, we meet once a month in this gymnasium, for sunbathing under lamps and for lectures. Tonight is a special meeting for the new membership. How did you know I was here?’
He told her, but he was still fascinated by the terry-cloth robe. ‘Is that what everyone wears—robes and swimsuits?’
‘No. You do not understand. This is my nudist society. I have nothing on underneath the robe. We are all free and open, for good health. New members sometimes wear these transition robes for a few minutes, until shyness is gone, and then they take them off. I borrowed this from the cupboard to come out. I could not dream who was here.’
‘Lilly, can you get away now? I’ve got to see you.’
‘It is impossible, Mr. Craig. I am secretary this year. I must make notes on the meeting. Then, I want to hear the lecture for the new members.’
‘How long will it be?’
‘One more hour.’
‘An hour? I can’t wait alone that long. What’ll I do?’
She was troubled by his mood, and she wanted to help, and at once her face brightened. ‘I know what. You can come inside and sit with me. It will be a good lesson for you, anyway. Maybe you will learn health.’
‘Sure, if I can be with you.’
‘Let me see. I will ask our director.’
Craig remained leaning against the wall, and watched and listened, as Lilly went to the elderly gentleman, with the polka-dotted robe, and began addressing him in rapid-fire Swedish. The gentleman replied, and then Lilly spoke some more, and the gentleman kept glancing across at Craig, as if evaluating him. At last the gentleman nodded, and left the room.
Lilly returned triumphantly to Craig. ‘It is all right,’ she said. ‘He was worried at first, because they have not interviewed you, but I said you were an old friend of my relatives in Minnesota—’
‘You have relatives in Minnesota?’
‘Of course not. I convinced him when I told him you belonged to the American Sunbathing As
sociation in New Jersey—I have read about it in our pamphlets—and I told him I had seen your card, and you were interested in our Swedish nudism and wanted to attend a meeting.’
‘Then it’s all right for me to be with you?’
‘It is all right.’
They started for the inner door. The receptionist, still standing, bowed her head in welcome, and then they went through the door. Craig followed Lilly, and wanted her more than ever, but restrained himself from touching her. They reached two more green doors.
Lilly pointed to the right-hand door. ‘That is to the gymnasium. When you are ready, come in. I will be waiting for you. Try to hurry. The lecture begins soon.’ She indicated the door to the left. ‘You go in there. That is the locker room for men and women. You will find an empty locker for your clothes.’
She started to leave, but Craig grabbed her shoulder.
‘What do you mean—locker for my clothes? What am I supposed to do?’
She seemed surprised. ‘Undress,’ she said simply. ‘This is the nudist society. I am nude. Everyone is.’
‘Lilly—for God’s sake—I’ve never done anything like that.’
‘I have seen you naked. You were not ashamed.’
‘Of course not. But this is in public—men and women—’
‘Mr. Craig, you will find it is easier than you think, and normal. There is nothing indecent about human anatomy. Clothes, even a little clothes, that is what makes people curious and lascivious. When everyone is unclad, there is nothing to it. It is so natural, you will see. You will not be curious and think evil thoughts, and you will feel different. Now, quickly undress, and come so we do not miss the lecture.’
Craig knew, as Lilly spoke to him, that some of her phrases had the quality of pamphlet phrases being recited. But her face was earnest, with a kind of religious fervour, and Craig did not dispute what she had to say.
Having finished her sermon, Lilly hastily opened the gymnasium door and was gone. Craig stood drunkenly by himself, trying to make sense of this comedy. Then he remembered that Lilly, in all solemnity, was waiting, and that he could not disappoint her. My God, he thought, do all drunks have these strange adventures, all drunks and rudderless people? And then he thought, what the hell, they’re here for kicks, so give them some and have a few yourself, and get it over with. With that resolve, he went into the locker room.
Inside the narrow locker room, that resembled all the locker rooms he had known in boyhood and in the army years, and that smelled of wet shower floors and slippery soap, he removed his overcoat and jacket. Seeking an empty grey locker, he opened three that held garments, two that were filled with men’s suits and one that held a woman’s skirt, blouse, and underthings, and for another moment he hesitated, wondering if he dared give in to Lilly’s caprice.
The fourth locker was vacant, and in it he hung his overcoat and jacket. As he sat on the bench to remove shoes and socks, he tried to articulate to himself what bothered him. Despite Gottling he was a man of importance, in a time of importance. What if Sue Wiley or some other member of the press, or even Jacobsson, should learn he had been here? It would prove the suspicion, held by some, that he was a hopeless alcoholic. He could see the headlines in the American papers: DRUNKEN NOBEL WINNER GOES NUDIST. No honour would counteract this damage. Decidedly, Alex Inglis and Joliet College would not have him on their staff.
Once he was barefooted and shirtless, he knew that his fear was not of scandal but of something else, and that, as ever, he had been rationalizing his hesitation. He unbuckled, and unbuttoned, and unzipped his trousers and stepped out of them. What remained was his blue shorts, and what remained was his real fear. Mentally, the evening had depressed him, but physically, drink and despair had stimulated him. He had wanted Lilly’s body, in nudity, and he had wanted it savagely, and he wanted it still. Now he would face her disrobed, and see her stark naked, and the emotional charge would be uncontrollable. And there would be other girls, perhaps as beautiful as Lilly, and he would see their private parts, and be a slave to wild imaginings, and would react sexually. Would it happen to him? Did this happen to men at nudist gatherings? If it did, God help him. What a spectacle he would present.
He took off his shorts, threw them into a locker, and now he was a nudist, the nudist laureate.
He strode into the corridor, looked off to see if the receptionist was watching for him, but no one was there. At the gymnasium door, he wavered a last time. He stood straight and unclad and wondered what you did with your hands. Where were modesty’s pockets? He would keep his arms dangling straight down at his sides. Well, the hell with it. He yanked at the door and went into the gymnasium.
The lights—not the overhead lights, but the banked sunlamps across the floor—blinded him, and he shaded his eyes. Before he could adjust himself to the vast hall, or to who or what was in it, he saw Lilly. She was advancing towards him, carrying a pad and pencil in one hand, and she was smiling. He had not seen her completely naked in the light before, and now there was nothing to conjure up in passion’s mind. It was all there before him, revealed, obvious, matter-of-fact, and natural. The two young-blown fleshy breasts bobbed as she walked, and the nipples were not points, as he had remembered them, but circular crimson stains, flat and soft and the texture of velvet. Below the navel fold, the body rose and fell and swelled in perfect lines of classical Hellenic female maturity.
Craig was moved that this was his, and yet, to his relief, he was not moved with desire. It was as if, with many others, he was sharing enjoyment of a wonder of nature. There was detached, objective pleasure, but there was no sexual involvement.
‘Now, do you not feel better?’ Lilly was asking.
‘I’m still a little drunk.’
‘I know. But it is good to have your clothes off and be like God made you and be healthy, is it not?’
‘I suppose so. . . . You’re incredibly lovely, Lilly.’
‘We do not speak or think of such things here,’ she said, but enjoyed the compliment. ‘All nudists are lovely in one way or another.’
‘What’s going on here?’ he asked, looking off. His eyes had become accustomed to the glare, and now, for the first time, he could make out the nudists in the gymnasium.
There were bodies everywhere, and of every description, at least two hundred men and women, young and old, some lying on mats beneath the sun-lamps, some sitting on the rows of wooden benches communing with one another, some standing about in conversational groups, and a dozen or more playing volleyball. There were lanky men and chunky men and skinny men and fat men. There were middle-aged women and young women, and small immature breasts and mountainous breasts and some as perfect as Lilly’s own. There was no self-consciousness, no inquisitiveness, no atmosphere of sexuality. Almost no one looked at Craig, as he moved towards the front of the row of benches with Lilly, and soon he found that there was no need to study or stare at anyone else.
Lilly indicated the third bench, and they seated themselves, and she crossed her bare legs to support her pad.
‘Well, what do you think, Mr. Craig?’
‘I’d never have believed it possible,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘To see so many females in a state of undress and not be a bit aroused.’
‘I told you it would be so,’ she said. ‘It is clothing that arouses. If a woman wears a dress, there is always a man who thinks of what is beneath it. And little pieces of clothes are the worst, like the low-cut gown or bathing-suit or bikini, because they put your eyes and attention on certain places of the body. But if you are nude and see those places of the body revealed on everyone else, there is no mystery or stimulation, and you take it for granted, and you are healthy. Mr. Tapper—he is our director you saw in the entrance—he has said it is suggestion that makes all the trouble. He has said millions of dollars are made through suggestion of sex, because people are curious about the mystery. The burlesque in the night-club, the fadeout in the cinema, t
he asterisks in the book—they are to tease you about the anatomy. But if you are a nudist, you are not teased, and it is open and better.’
‘I never knew you were a student of morals, Lilly,’ said Craig with a smile. ‘But yes, Mr. Tapper is right, and you are right. All I’ve got against public nudism is that it would do away with sex.’
‘Oh, Mr. Craig, you are joking.’
‘Yes, I am joking,’ he said.
Mr. Tapper, divested of his polka-dotted bathrobe, proved to be all ribs and knobbly knees, and looked oddly incongruous behind a public address microphone. He was calling the meeting to order in Swedish. Men and women lifted their bodies from the mats, and the conversational groups broke up, and the volleyball game ceased. Everyone was being seated, row upon row of shoulder blades, spines, and buttocks against wood.
‘He will speak in Swedish,’ Lilly told Craig. ‘I will translate for you.’
In a dry monotone, Mr. Tapper began his address. While she was making her jottings, Lilly interpreted the address for Craig. Mr. Tapper was tracing the history of the nudist movement. It had begun, in theory, in Germany during 1903, with the publication of a book entitled Die Nacktheit by Richard Ungewitter, the son of a watchmaker. The author had advocated a nude society, to relieve men and women of constricting attire, to give them freedom of movement and enjoyment of air and sun, and to make all parts of their anatomies commonplace so that seduction and adultery and perversion would be reduced. Shortly afterwards, perhaps inspired by Ungewitter’s proposal, another young German, Paul Zimmerman—a schoolteacher turned farmer, who had raised his four daughters to disdain clothes—opened the world’s first nudist camp, called Freilichtpark, in Klingberg am See. To enter the park, one had to give up alcohol, tobacco, meat-eating—and all garments. The nudist park was a success, and within twenty years, there were 50,000 nudists in Germany alone. The idea spread quickly, to Switzerland, to Scandinavia, to England, and finally, by 1929, to the United States. The same year that nudism reached America, it had its mightiest triumph in Germany. For, that year, in Berlin’s Volksbühne Theatre, a nudist troupe staged a vaudeville show. This show, composed of dances and acrobatics, was open to the public, although every performer was naked. Today, said Mr. Tapper, nudism had spread to nearly every nation on earth, and was universally accepted.
(1961) The Prize Page 53
