The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  In a few minutes, the bus engine sputtered and caught. The gears ground. The bus lumbered out of the driveway, wheeled right for two blocks, then wheeled left into a business thoroughfare, and moved forward.

  Craig had never seen Copenhagen before. When he and Harriet had taken their six-month honeymoon after the war, they had leisurely made their way to Göteburg by steamer, spent one week in Stockholm, flown to Amsterdam, and taken the train to Paris. They had not wanted to leave Paris, even after six weeks, but had finally rented a Citroën and driven to San Sebastián, down to Madrid, up to Barcelona, then to Nice, stopped at Spezia, defied the mountain paths, and made their way down the road to Rome. Later, they had driven north to Milan and Berne, and then released their Citroën in Paris. Sailing home, they had been full of the wonders of the Grand Tour, and nightly spoke of returning the following summer. But life had closed in on them, and they had never returned, not together, and here he was, in Copenhagen, alone, and he did not look out the window because he did not give a damn.

  He heard a crackle overhead, and then the driver’s voice on the loudspeaker. ‘Welcome, everyone, to our daily winter Copenhagen tour,’ the driver announced professionally. ‘It is one-thirty P.M. The tour is of three hours’ duration. It will end at City Hall Square -what we Danes call Raadhuspladsen-at four-thirty P.M. There will be five stops and visits on the tour, to accommodate camera fans. These will be at Grundtvig’s Church, Gefion Fountain, the Little Mermaid in Copenhagen harbour, the Langelinie, and Amalienborg Castle. Among the other highlights of historic interest-’

  Comprehending at last, Craig was appalled. He realized that he was not on an ordinary city bus. He had stupidly stumbled into a sight-seeing motor-coach. His first impulse was to pull the emergency cord, or accost the driver, explain his mistake, and request that he be dropped off at the next red light. But then he realized that there was no reason to create a disturbance. His destination was merely a bar, any bar anywhere, and this ridiculous conveyance could bring him to one as swiftly as any other.

  Despite his discomfort, and his thirst, he was still reasonable enough to be amused. He would soon establish, he decided, the world’s freestyle record for being the most briefly seated tourist in the annals of Danish sight-seeing.

  The ride seemed endless, but at last they braked to a halt. The loudspeaker announced, ‘ Amalienborg Castle, the eighteenth-century residence of the King and Queen. The passengers may step outside.’ There was a mass rising and crush to the front doors. The passengers spilled out. Hopefully, Craig followed them.

  Outside, the young ladies clustered about their driver-guide. Craig heard the introduction of the talk-‘The royal palaces are among the best representations, in Europe, of the rococo style’-and he drifted away. He searched about him. He was at the boundary of a great square, entirely hemmed in by four towering palaces, each looking exactly like the others. Royal guardsmen, bearskin hats perched on top of their heads, stood sentry duty. Nowhere in sight was there a building resembling a bar, a saloon, a tavern.

  Craig’s good humour crumbled. He felt as frustrated as any character that he had ever met in Kafka. Scanning the arid scene again, he became aware of someone else who had separated from the other tourists and was now crouched a few yards from him, focusing her camera-it resembled Leah’s Rolleiflex-on the royal guardsmen. Picture taken, she stood up and gravely concentrated on rolling the film.

  Hastily, Craig approached her. He could see, at once, that she was a young girl, looking no more than twenty-one. A white béret was tilted precariously on her head, her silken gold hair tumbling down to her shoulders. A thick, oversized, coral sweater, unbuttoned in front, covered her white blouse and the upper portion of her pleated navy-blue skirt. When Craig reached her, he saw that she was no higher than his chest.

  She looked up at him with surprise. Her face was broad and pretty. The eyes were light blue, with laugh wrinkles at the outer corners, the nose was straight and wide, the cheeks shaped high and bony (as Harriet’s had been), and the chapped lips full and crimson. The dark dot of a beauty mark, to the right of the upper lip, drew one to the partially open mouth and even white teeth.

  Craig was conscious of the girl’s appeal, and impatient and annoyed with it, for his mind was on more important matters.

  ‘Pardon, Miss,’ he said. ‘I’m one of the passengers on the tour-’

  ‘I just wondered-I wonder if you could tell me-is there a bar anyplace in the vicinity?’

  ‘A bar? You mean, the self-service restaurant?’

  ‘No-no-a place to drink-have drinks-whisky.’

  ‘Oh.’ She waved at the palaces. ‘This is Amalienborg.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘There are no beverage places.’

  ‘But somewhere near?’

  She shrugged. ‘I am not familiar with this square. Maybe later.’ Suddenly, she smiled with a conspirator’s enthusiasm. ‘I will show you when I see one.’

  ‘I’d be much obliged.’

  He stuffed his chilled hands into the pockets of his trench coat, lifted his shoulders into a hunch, and trudged back to the bus. When he entered it, he observed that she was watching him. He hoped that she would keep her word.

  For Craig, the motor-coach tour proceeded from tedium to monotony to boredom. The driver’s soporific phrases flattened against his ears but did not penetrate. He sat cramped in his chair, waiting, as the Ny-Carlsberg Glyptotek (‘French and Danish paintings’), the Police Headquarters, Frederiksberg Castle (‘officers’ training school’), the Zoological Gardens, Nyboder (‘built three hundred years ago by King Christian IV’) came into his vision, registered dully, and passed away again.

  Once more they halted, and left the coach, and stood in a semicircle about the driver, at the edge of the harbour, facing the statue of a mermaid on a boulder. Craig, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, remained at the rear, huddled inside his trench coat, desperate for the one warmth that he desired.

  Someone tugged at his sleeve. He turned his head, and she was below him, white béret on golden tresses. Her broad smile was engaging, and her coral sweater was still unbuttoned in defiance of the low temperature. Hearty little mermaid, he told himself. But then he saw that she must feel the chill, for the nipples of her breasts had hardened and were now visibly outlined through her white blouse. For the first time, he noticed the size of her breasts, pressing her blouse outwards, so that the pearl buttons were strained to the breaking-point.

  She gestured off. ‘There.’

  His sight followed the direction of her finger, and he saw a cluster of shops.

  ‘You will find it cosy in the nearest one,’ she added.

  He started to touch his hat in thanks, but stopped when she winked, to remind him of conspiracy, and then he watched her return and join several girls in the crowd.

  Purposefully, he strode away, crossing the street, and entering the first shop. There was a bar, and there were several tables and chairs, and no more. A stout woman appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. He asked for a double Scotch in a hurry. She did not understand English. He surveyed the array of bottles behind her and jabbed his finger at a bottle. She beamed, brought down the bottle, and started to pour, when he held up his hand, and did a pantomime to indicate that he wished to pour himself and to have the bottle remain on the counter.

  He had three shots in a row, as the proprietress watched and counted from a dark recess, before he realized that there was no necessity for haste. He had all day. He filled the midget glass a fourth time, his muscles now eased by the liquor, and this drink he sipped slowly, pleasantly.

  He heard the door open, and the jangle of the bell above it, and twisted to greet a fellow member of the club. He knew at once that it was she, white béret still tilted on the golden head.

  ‘The coach is leaving,’ she called. ‘They are holding it up, waiting for you!’

  He knew, immediately, that he could not desert the foreign legion. It was alm
ost un-American. Bad propaganda. They were all waiting for him. If he refused to rejoin them, chose to remain in a tavern instead of continuing the tour, it would be a move calculatedly anti-Danish, and set back the work of the White House a decade of years. It distressed him to conform, but the obligations of an American abroad weighed heavily upon him. Also, he was a little drunk.

  ‘Coming,’ he said.

  He downed the fourth drink, splashed a fifth into the glass and took it in a big gulp, and then emptied his wallet. The stout woman separated her due. He pushed an extra note towards her-for hospitality-scooped up what remained, stuffed it in his coat pocket, and followed the golden blonde to the bus.

  This time they sat together, she at the window and he with his lank legs in the aisle, in the last two seats.

  The major need of his body had temporarily been fulfilled, and now he was able to study her with detached clarity. The broad face had large spaces of open beauty. Every feature was set apart from the others, without crowding, like well-placed works of art in a superior gallery. Yet the final effect was a blending to achieve a single effect-Nordic perfection, yet curiously un-Nordic in its softness and lack of aloofness and easy smile. Nothing artificial marred the face, except fresh lipstick to hide the chapped lips, and possibly the beauty mark above the corner of the mouth.

  ‘Is that beauty mark real?’ he asked.

  They had been driving half an hour, and for most of the time, she had gazed out the window to match sights to the loudspeaker’s captions, and only occasionally had she smiled at him. Now she turned from the window.

  ‘Of course it is real. What do you think?’

  ‘Sometimes women wear them for effect.’

  ‘I do not need such effects.’ There was no arrogance in her speech, only practicality.

  ‘I don’t think so either,’ he hastily agreed. ‘You’re very pretty.’ Then he added, ‘And-you’re very kind.’

  She did not acknowledge this, but stared at his eyes until he blinked. ‘Why did you need to drink?’ she asked.

  The directness of the question startled him. He had never been asked that before. ‘I’ve been ill,’ he said. There were a hundred answers, and digressions, and involutions, but in the end they came to that anyway.

  She nodded, satisfied. ‘That is what I thought,’ she said. ‘Are you happy now?’

  ‘Better.’

  ‘I am glad for you.’

  Craig was enchanted. For the first time in months, he was interested in someone outside himself. ‘I was going to apologize,’ he said, ‘but maybe now you understand. You see, I had nothing against seeing this city-nothing against your country-’

  ‘This is not my country,’ she said. ‘I am Swedish.’

  ‘I didn’t know-’

  She smiled. ‘All Scandinavian girls look the same in the dark. It is a naughty expression I once heard from an English boy. You are not English? American?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What place?’

  ‘ Wisconsin.’

  ‘Is that near California?’

  ‘Far from it. It is between California and New York, a state-a province, you could call it-on the Great Lakes.’

  ‘Ah, Chicago.’

  ‘Nearby.’

  ‘There are not really gangsters there?’

  ‘Not like in the movies, no. But there are some. And cowboys and Indians, too, but only some. Mostly there are people, just like in Sweden. Where are you from in Sweden?’

  ‘ Stockholm. It is lovely.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You have been to Sweden?’

  Craig nodded. ‘Yes, long ago.’ He wanted to change the subject. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Winter holiday for one week,’ she said. ‘Last year, my girl friends and I went to Dalarna for the sports.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Skate, ski, bobsled. This year, they wanted to see Denmark. It is fine, but I prefer Sweden. I like sports more than cathedrals and palaces and statues. I like to do things more than to see.’

  He hardly heard her, so intent was he on her face. ‘I know who you look like,’ he said suddenly. ‘I knew I’d seen you before.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘There was an oil painting by Anders Zorn. I saw it in Stockholm the last time. A young girl standing on a rocky ledge-she is nude-her golden hair, reddish actually, is blown from behind so that it is in her face-absolute repose as she stands looking over a blue river-’

  ‘Maybe I posed for it,’ she said teasingly.

  ‘I think you were only a gleam in your grandmother’s eye. Zorn painted it in 1904. Do you like Zorn?’

  ‘I have never heard of him,’ she said simply.

  An earth nymph, he thought, an apparition of the present, no past, no burden of history and knowing, an unageing sprite. His own bondage to his history made him ache in envy of her.

  He realized that the motor-coach had stopped, and that the passengers ahead were filing out of the doors.

  ‘Strøget,’ she said. ‘It is the main street. It is not a regular visit, but fifteen minutes to shop for souvenirs.’

  She stood up, patting her pleated skirt. He rose above her.

  ‘Do you want souvenirs?’ he asked.

  ‘Not specially.’

  ‘Have a drink with me.’

  She considered him, her expression solemn. ‘You will be drunk.’

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  ‘It is important to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why do you wish my company?’

  There were several answers to this, several dishonest, and several honest and flattering. ‘I drink more slowly in company,’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘It is the best reason you could give.’ She emerged from the seats, and smiled up at him. ‘Very well.’ She preceded him into Strøget.

  They walked side by side through the busy street, bumping and pushing past shoppers, until they emerged into a vast, vehicle-crowded square, and this was Raadhuspladsen.

  She pointed across his chest. ‘Over there is the Palace Hotel. It is where my friends and I had drinks the first night. It is comfortable.’

  ‘The Palace Hotel it is, then.’

  They made their way slowly, for a block, and tehn went inside the Palace foyer. Craig had the impression of an old, aristocratic place, quiet and undemanding, and he was pleased with her taste.

  ‘There is the Winter Garden,’ she was saying, ‘or a nice friendly room in there to the left.’

  ‘What do you prefer?’

  ‘The friendly one.’

  They passed through an outer room, and into the bar, staid, aged wood and grave, a retreat where you think of roaring fire-places, and they were led to a booth secreted behind a pillar, and there they sat across from each other.

  She had what he had, except that she had one single and he had two doubles, and he had not failed his cycle, after all.

  Half an hour had passed when he glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve missed the motor-coach, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Won’t your friends be worried?’

  ‘Why? I am not a child.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’re married?’

  ‘No. Are you?’

  He saw her glass was empty, and summoned the waiter, ordering a single Scotch for her and a double for himself.

  ‘I was married,’ he said, finally. It was less difficult when he was becoming drunk. ‘She died-was killed-three years ago. It was a car accident. I was driving. I’d been drinking. I suppose you could say it was my fault.’

  ‘No one kills anyone like that. It was an accident.’

  ‘It was raining. I couldn’t control the car.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ she repeated.

  He nodded, befuddled by the drinks. ‘Are you sure you won’t miss the sight-seeing tour?’

  ‘I told you I dislike cathedra
ls. I like to do things.’

  ‘This isn’t exactly winter sports.’

  She smiled. ‘Just as exhilarating.’

  The drinks were served, and when Craig took his, he ordered another double to follow quickly.

  ‘I’m almost forty,’ he said.

  ‘ “Almost” means you are thirty-nine. Why do you not say are thirty-nine?’

  ‘I feel like forty-fifty-sixty. All right, I’m thirty-nine. Why are you with someone who is thirty-nine? That’s like sight-seeing, visiting an old historic place.’

  ‘You are funny.’

  ‘Why did you come with me? Are you playing mother-sorry for me?’

  ‘Why should I be sorry for you?’

  ‘I dunno. Why’d you come?’

  ‘I find it is fun to be with you. I like fun, and so I am here.’

  This evaluation of himself-fun giver-was beyond Craig’s power to grasp or believe.

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘Kidding? Oh-like joking? No. Why do you hold yourself so low?’

  ‘Do I? Yes, I do. You’re good for me. I should wear you like a charm.’ He held up the remnants of his drink, and the new drink arrived. ‘What do they say in your country-?’

  ‘Skål.’

  ‘Skål to you.’

  He finished the drink, and went immediately to the fresh glass.

  ‘What is the time?’ she asked.

  ‘Fourish.’

  ‘I must return to my hotel. I have not packed. I go back to Stockholm tonight.’

  ‘I will take you.’ He downed his drink, and paid the waiter, and held on to her arm as they made their way through the hotel and outdoors.

  In the taxi, she said, ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Drunk. Good. Drunk and good, and good and sleepy.’

  ‘I am happy. I will leave you at your hotel first. What is it?’

  ‘No, thass not right. Awright. Tre somethin’-Falke.’

  The taxi was reckless, and fast, and in less than twenty minutes they drew up before the Tre Falke Hotel.

  ‘Won’ you come in?’ he asked thickly.

  ‘No. I want you to rest.’