The Prize (69 page)

‘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 almost 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.

‘Strّget,’ 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 Strّget.

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 cathedrals. 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—?’

‘
Sk
ه
l
.’

‘
Sk
ه
l
to you.’

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

‘What is the time?’ she asked.

‘Fourish.’