‘Andrew’s so easy. Try it.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Simply say it after me. Andrew.’
‘Andrew.’
‘There, you see. Was that so difficult?’
‘No-because I didn’t believe it, it didn’t connect with you.’
‘Well, when you’re by yourself, practise it, rehearse constantly. Andrew-Andrew-where is Andrew?’
She smiled. ‘All right, I’ll skip the Mr. Craig, I’ll use no name for the time and see what happens.’
‘The weekly news magazines refer to us as Nobelmen. I wouldn’t mind that.’
‘I’ll oblige you in my next incarnation-when I’m a weekly news magazine.’
She drew on her cigarette, and dropped her shoulders slightly, as if more at ease. ‘Back at Skansen,’ she said casually, ‘did you and my uncle really discuss physics and literature?’
‘Not a bit.’
‘I thought not. What did you talk about?’
‘You.’
She showed no surprise, and pretended no immediate curiosity. ‘That must have lasted a quick ten seconds.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Some people are conversation pieces, and some aren’t. I’m “aren’t”. I hate to admit this, Mr.-sorry, I promised transition-I hate to admit this, but I’m enormously unexciting.’
‘How would you know?’
‘Who else would know better? I’m cerebral and unadventurous. Not dull, mind you. I’m extremely clever in my head, and original, but there’s nothing for a biographer or novelist. Shouldn’t a good character provide conflict and excitement-action, eccentricity, passion-something?’
‘Not necessarily, but it helps. Most people are good characters, not from the skin out, but beneath the skin.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Emily. ‘Anyway, I can’t see two great Nobel brains discussing me at any length.’
‘I brought you up,’ said Craig, ‘because somehow it seemed to matter to me. I told your uncle how I’d behaved the night before, and that I owed you an apology, not only owed you but myself, because I wanted your good opinion.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I think he advised me to go find another girl and start from scratch.’
Emily laughed. ‘Oh, he couldn’t have-’
‘No, not in those words. But he made it clear that if I had offended you, I shouldn’t hold too much hope about unoffending you.’
‘Well-I’ve got to admit I have thought about last night-’
‘I was drunk, Emily, absolutely plastered. The way I behaved then has nothing to do with the way I am now or usually. I don’t ordinarily take pretty girls, whom I’ve just met, into private rooms and try to kiss them. I’m much too reticent. But my inhibitions had dissolved, and I was impelled to perform, in short minutes, as I normally might perform after long weeks. So, forgive me-and pretend I’ve found another girl, and I want to start from scratch.’
‘If you’d waited a moment, you wouldn’t have had to apologize at all,’ said Emily. ‘I was trying to say-I thought about last night, and there is simply nothing to forgive on your part. If there is to be an apology, it should come from me.’
Craig knitted his brow in bewilderment.
‘Yes,’ continued Emily, ‘from me. I’m not a child, but sometimes I behave like one. I knew you were-well, that you’d had some drinks-and so had I, and I was amused by you, and more awed than I let on. I went to that room with you because I wanted to. And as to your-your advances-I could have handled all that in good humour, or seriously but nicely, instead of playing the swooning nineteenth-century maiden. My behaviour was involuntary-that’s the best I can say for it-as I’m sure yours was, too. So, as you put it, let’s start from scratch, Andrew.’
‘There, you said it-Andrew.’
‘I did? I guess I did. Isn’t that strange?’
‘Now, then, I know the way to start from scratch,’ said Craig. ‘First, we must enlist you in Aimless Tours, Incorporated. The first tour is downtown-Kungsgatan. I haven’t had lunch-let’s get me a sandwich, and you something, a soft drink, and just walk and look or not look and do absolutely nothing.’
She hesitated, then nodded towards the rear. ‘What about all of them?’
‘I’ll run in and tell them we have to do some shopping.’
‘I actually do. I haven’t bought a thing.’
Craig jumped to his feet. ‘I’ll tell your uncle you’ll see him at the hotel a little later.’
‘You’re sure no one will mind?’
‘They may. But I’ll mind more if we don’t do this. Now, just sit and wait for me.’
He strode hurriedly across the court towards the building, just as Mr. Manker emerged and waved, and started towards them.
‘Miss Decker became worried,’ said Mr. Manker, ‘so I said I’d find you.’
‘Thanks, Mr. Manker. I was going in to find you. Will you tender our thanks and regrets to one and all, and explain to Professor Stratman and Miss Decker that Emily and I have to go into the city-some shopping, some errands-’
‘But our sightseeing, Mr. Craig, it is not done.’
‘Wonderful as you’ve been, Mr. Manker, I’ve decided to join another group for the rest of the day. Aimless Tours, Incorporated. I recommend them highly. They’re good for what ails you-myopia, bunions, buzzing in the head, and cathedralitis. See you later, Mr. Manker.’
After leaving the taxi, they had walked only a short distance on Stockholm’s main street before they had come upon the Triumf restaurant at Kungsgatan 40 and peered inside and decided that it might be a lunch-room.
They sat on high green stools behind one of the three horseshoe-shaped counters and consulted a menu relentlessly Swedish. Timidly, Emily suggested a translator, but Craig thought that would spoil the game. After considerable speculation, Craig settled upon Kyckling med grönsallad och brynt potatis at 5.25 kronor. Emily was amiable to his suggestion. Confidently, Craig put in the order, reassuring Emily that there would be little surprise since two of the Swedish words related to English words. The element of surprise and fun lay in ‘Kyckling’. Each of them had wild interpretations. Emily was sure that it meant pregnant herring. Craig voted for boiled Lapp.
When their dishes came, they were both dismayed. ‘Kyckling’ proved to be fried chicken.
‘One world,’ said Craig grimly, but they both enjoyed the chicken, and the potatoes and green salad, because this was their first adventure shared in common.
Later, after Craig had his black coffee and Emily had her cigarette, and the tipping problem had been simply solved by leaving a handful of öre (because the coins were small, and as apologetic as centimes), they strolled leisurely, side by side and self-consciously, on broad Kungsgatan.
Sometimes, in the crush of the heavy foot traffic, especially at intersections, they were thrown against each other, their shoulders bumping, their arms rubbing, but this was their only physical contact. Craig was careful not to take either Emily’s elbow or her hand when they crossed a street. The walk on Kungsgatan was as unceremonious as any walk on a similar street in New York, Atlanta, Chicago, or Kansas City. There was a lack of foreignness about Kungsgatan. The business buildings and commercial stores, the women with packages and the men with briefcases, had all been seen before. Of course, the Swedes looked at you and somehow knew you were American, and you looked at them and knew they were Swedish, but the differences were small and subtle. Except for the street and store signs, which were foreign, and the persistent tack, tack, tack of passers-by (which Craig knew to mean thank you-thank you-thank you), Craig and Emily felt that they could not be far from home.
‘The time I was here before,’ Craig said, ‘there was a record being played up and doyen this street. It’ was called, “There’s a Cowboy Rolling Down Kungsgatan”. I asked someone about it. Why a cowboy on Kungsgatan? Well, it turned out that some American flyers had come down over Sweden, during the war, and had to be interned. However, they were giv
en the freedom of the city, and some of those big Texans loved to walk, in their rolling gaits, up and down Kungsgatan. So, after the war, it became a romantic song, very popular, to celebrate a moment of light excitement in a time of drab neutrality.’
‘Why did you come to Sweden at that time?’ Emily inquired.
‘I’m not sure. I think we kept hearing about the bad plumbing in Paris, and how the Italians rob you, and we wanted to start our honeymoon in a faultless and antiseptic place. It was fun, because it was our first country abroad, but frankly, Paris and Rome were better.’
‘Was the plumbing bad? Did they rob you?’
‘Of course. Two tenderfeet full of compassion for France and Italy after the war. But who needs plumbing, when you have the Tuileries? And who cares about overpaying when you get, in return, the Borghese Gardens?’ He pointed off. ‘Over there, you must see that. Let’s cross the street.’
They waited for the light to change, and then made their way, in the crowd, to Hörtorget square.
‘That building to the left is Concert Hall,’ explained Craig. ‘In there is where your uncle and I will receive our Nobel Prizes on the afternoon of the tenth.’
Emily studied Concert Hall. It was an immense square building, seven stories high, fronted by ten pillars and nine latticed entries. On the expanse of stone steps, a dozen or more Swedes, mostly young people, sat basking in the last of the day’s sun. Emily followed Craig to the dark-green statue, so modern and fluid, of a godlike youth, airborne, playing a lyre, while four mortal youths and maidens gathered below.
‘Is that Carl Milles’s “Orpheus”?’ asked Emily.
‘Yes. What do you think?’
‘Incredible-to find that right off the business street. I’m not sure I like the representation, but I like the idea-this sort of thing here-instead of some granite general or obelisk to the war dead.’
Craig had been impressed with the ‘Orpheus’ work when he had first come upon it with Harriet, so long ago. It was still impressive, he found, but less so. What disconcerted him was not the art but the unreality of the art. The maidens were too much like the boys, their hips too narrow, their buttocks too flat, and now that he had known Lilly, he believed Milles less.
‘Let’s sit on the steps a minute,’ he said to Emily, ‘if it isn’t too cold.’
They climbed ten steps to the top and sat apart from the Swedish students and facing the square.
‘The square is quite a sight in the summer,’ said Craig. ‘It’s an open-air market jammed with flower stalls-marigolds, sweet peas, lilies-overwhelming in colour and fragrance. And across the way, the department store, that’s P.U.B. Do you know why it’s famous?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘A girl named Greta Gustafsson was a saleslady there. She sold hats. That was before she became Greta Garbo.’
‘Is that really so?’
‘Absolutely. When I was here the other time, P.U.B. used to advertise the fact. Remember how everyone talked about Greta Garbo’s big feet? Well, I went in there and asked someone in the shoe department her size. It was nine. Is that big?’
‘It’s not small.’
‘What’s your foot size?’
She held out a leg and wiggled her sandal. ‘Six. Why?’
‘Women’s sizes fascinate me.’
‘Well, don’t ask any of my other sizes. I’d be embarrassed. It’s like undressing in public.’
He moved back and eyed her with exaggerated lechery: ‘I’d say thirty-eight, twenty-four, thirty-six. Am I right?’
‘Never mind, Mr. Craig.’
‘I’ve been demoted.’
‘Banished.’
‘I’ll earn back my Andrew.’
‘You were doing as nicely as Mr. Manker. How do you remember all those things?’
‘You know, Emily, I haven’t thought of Sweden in all these years. When we sat down here, it all came flooding back. Lucius Mack always said my mind’s a repository of useless and footnote facts. I think that’s true of certain writers. When it comes to knowledge, there are three kinds of writers. First, the one who knows only one field-himself. Remember Flaubert’s admission? “I am Madame Bovary”. Second, the writer who knows two or three fields in depth-the Civil War, Zen, and Palestrina-and nothing else. Third, there is the one who knows a little about very many things-from European rivers called Aa to the biological name for ovum which is zygote-and Lucius Mack puts me in that category.’
‘Who is Lucius Mack?’
‘Didn’t I introduce you? I’m sorry. He edits our weekly newspaper in Miller’s Dam. Our answer to William Allen White. My best friend. A wonderful old-young codger. You’d adore him.’
‘I like journalists.’
‘The trouble with newspapermen is that they think they want to be something else. That’s what corrodes television people, and dentists, and accountants. But not Lucius. He made his peace. Are you cold?’
‘A little. I guess the sun’s gone.’
‘Let’s walk.’
They descended the stairs and continued slowly along Kungsgatan, and then turned off on Birger Jarlsgatan, which had the expensive look of a smaller Fifth Avenue. Several times, shop windows caught Emily’s attention, and then they would go inside and poke about, and by the time they had reached Berzelii Park, she had purchased an Orrefors ashtray, a Jensen serving spoon and fork of silver, a miniature Viking made of wood, and a box of Vadestena lace handkerchiefs.
In Berzelii Park, they stood in the darkness, among the denuded trees.
‘I’d like to buy a Swedish language book,’ said Emily. ‘Do you think all the bookstores are closed?’
‘It’s not that late,’ Craig said. ‘It just gets dark early in winter. I know the bookstore for you. Fritzes. A wonderful old shop founded in the 1830’s. I think J. Pierpont Morgan used to buy there. It’s a medium-long walk. Are you up to it?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it.’
They crossed Gustav Adolfs Torg under the street-lamps and arrived at Fredsgatan 2, which was Fritzes. Inside, they browsed for a half an hour. Emily found a Svensk-Engelsk phrase book, and then also purchased a Stockholm edition of Alice in Wonderland and three copies of an enchanting and sophisticated juvenile cartoon book, Mumintrollen by Tove Jansson, to be given as gifts. In turn, Craig purchased a copy of Indent Flink’s Swedish version of The Perfect State and gave it to Emily as a supplement to her language booklet.
After they had left Fritzes and gone several blocks along the canal, Craig suddenly stopped. ‘Why are we going all the way back to the hotel to join that mob for dinner? Why don’t we eat out alone, together? I know exactly the place. It’ll charm you.’
‘How can we after walking out on them this afternoon? The Nobel committee might consider it rude-’
‘But nothing formal’s been planned. There’s nothing special on the programme.’
‘And my uncle-’
‘I’ll phone him. I’ll tell him I’m taking you to dinner, and I’ll have you back safe and sound in a few hours. How’s that?’
‘I’m not sure-’
‘I am. Let me ring him.’
‘All right.’
They walked another block, until they found an outdoor public telephone booth. Emily gave Craig two ten-öre pieces, and he closed himself inside the booth while she waited beyond the glass pane, smoking.
Craig got the operator, and she put him through to the Grand Hotel, and the Grand Hotel connected him with Professor Stratman’s suite.
Craig identified himself, and Stratman asked immediately, ‘How is Emily?’
‘Never better. I’m looking at her right now through a window of the booth. She was worried that you might be concerned, so I offered to ring.’
‘You are thoughtful. So-you gave us the slip today.’
‘I’d seen it all, and Emily wanted to shop. She just bought a copy of Alice in Wonderland in Swedish.’
‘For me, you do not have to make up stories, my laureate friend.�
� Stratman’s chuckle came over the wire. ‘I see I would have lost my bet. Your case was not hopeless. She accepted your apology.’
‘Yes, Professor.’
‘And now you are-how do they say?-on the wagon.’
‘Definitely.’
‘I wish you luck.’
‘I’ll need it. I was really calling because I want to take Emily to dinner, and she wondered-’
‘You tell her Uncle Max is all right. The Count is coming over to take me, with the Farellis and Garretts-and also your sister-in-law-to eat in the Winter Garden. You go and have your good time.’
‘How was my sister-in-law?’
‘Like the Queen of Hearts,’ said Stratman.
It was not until Craig had hung up, and was leaving the booth, that he understood Stratman’s allusion. Stratman had meant Lewis Carroll’s Queen of Hearts, who had been furious, and who had ordered that Alice ’s head be cut off.
They had gone down the steep stone staircase, through the winding narrow passageway, until they emerged into the long cellar grotto, hewn out of rock. This was the Old Town ’s most renowned and beloved ancient restaurant, known to Swedish bohemians as Den Gyldene Freden and to visitors as The Golden Peace.
Now they sat at a tiny table against the rock, across from each other, while an attractive waitress in a white-and-coral apron took their order for dry martinis. After the waitress left, Emily looked about, filled with wonder. At this early evening hour, the quaint restaurant was only half filled with customers, informally dressed, but already gay and noisy. The room quietened somewhat when a respectable-looking troubadour, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and dark suit, appeared at the cellar entrance and began to play the lute and sing the old songs of Carl Mikael Bellman.
‘Well,’ said Craig, ‘what do you think?’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Emily. ‘I’m glad you brought me here. Is it as old as it looks?’
‘Older. Remember when we were driving through what used to be the King’s hunting-grounds today, and Mr. Manker pointed out the place where Carl Mikael Bellman lived? Well, Bellman made Den Gyldene Freden. He was its leading customer. He came here every night and wrote his lyrics, and sang them, and got drunk and wild. They say he used to dance on the tables. That was back in the 1770’s, so it’s old enough. In modern times, Anders Zorn, the painter, bought the restaurant and restored it as a sort of artists’ hangout, which it is now. Notice how wide these chairs are? Zorn’s doing. He was fat, and used to get caught in the old chairs, so he had these made to his specifications and installed. Eventually, Zorn turned the restaurant over to the Swedish Academy, and I think they still get part or all of the profits. The first time I came here, after the lute player and orchestra were through, some customer pulled his guitar out from under the table and began to strum, and everyone in the place joined in a community sing.’
The Prize Page 42
