The Prize (68 page)

As Craig approached, he saw the bartender watching him closely. He lifted himself onto a stool.

‘Double Scotch-on-the-rocks.’

The bartender hesitated. ‘Pardon, sir. Are you Mr. Craig, Rooms 607 and 608?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m terribly sorry, sir. I have strict orders not to serve you.’

Craig was more surprised than angry. ‘How did you know me?’

‘Your wife described you, sir.’

‘She’s not my wife.’

‘The lady, then. She said you were seriously ill—beg your pardon—and the physician’s orders were—no drinks.’

‘Are you out of your mind? This is a public bar. I’m a public customer. I want a drink. Now, please oblige me.’

The chinless bartender wavered, but stood fast. ‘We could be sued, sir, If you fell ill. The hotel rules allow us to serve guests at our discretion. It’s posted in your room, sir.’

Craig’s fury was not with this fool but with Leah. He wanted no argument. He wanted a drink. ‘Okay, buddy. I’m sick, and she was kidding you, but we’ll let it go.’ He stood up. ‘Make it one, then—one shot—for the road. No one’ll see.’

The bartender hesitated. His only desire, obvious in his expression, was that his customer leave quietly. He nodded, pulled a bottle and a glass from under the bar, and filled the glass. ‘I shouldn’t,’ he said, and pushed the glass at his customer.

Craig downed it in a single swallow. The fluid, moistening his mouth, burning his throat, heating his chest, revived him. ‘What do I owe you?’

‘Nothing, sir.’ He made his solemn joke. ‘Remember, you didn’t have a drink.’

Craig smiled bitterly. ‘Best drink I never had.’ He slipped off the stool. ‘Where’s downtown?’

‘Twenty minutes away, sir. It’s called Raadhusplads. The middle of everything. You can’t miss it. You’ll find taxis in front here, or you can take the regular buses. Don’t forget to change dollars into kroner.’

‘Thanks, pal.’

In the lobby, adjacent to the reception desk, he found the female money-changer with her adding machine. He gave her a twenty-dollar note, received a handful of kroner, stuffed the Danish money into his wallet as he studied the American, English, German, and French newspapers and magazines at the news-stand, and then went outside.

The day had brightened, but the air was cold. He saw several parked cars in the area ahead, but not a single taxi. He waited, and then approached the doorman, who was busy conversing with a drably clothed porter.

‘Where’s the bus?’ Craig inquired.

‘Bus?’ echoed the doorman. ‘Ah yes, yes, the motor-coach.’ He pointed off. ‘There. It is soon to leave.’

Craig thanked him and strode hurriedly to the large blue-and-white bus that stood in the driveway before a cavernous cinema. He climbed into the bus.

The squat, bespectacled driver, polishing the huge wheel with a lint cloth, greeted him with a nod. ‘Ticket, please.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘It is all right to pay—’

Craig extracted his wallet, pulled free a wad of Danish notes, and offered them trustingly. The driver selected several, and handed Craig his change.

Turning to the interior of the bus, Craig saw that it was almost filled, preponderantly with young Scandinavian women. He made his way to the rear, and eased into a tight seat that left little room for his legs.

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 Gِteburg 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 Sebasti
ل
n, 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-thirtyP.M. The tour is of three hours’ duration. It will end at City Hall Square—what we Danes call Raadhuspladsen—at four-thirtyP.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.