6

IT was early afternoon when Andrew Craig returned to the Grand Hotel.

His mood had improved over the previous day. Physically, he felt cleansed of old poisons, and consequently rested and at ease. For the first time in several years, he had slept without drink or drug, and the sleep had been dreamless and relaxed.

When he had awakened, in a natural way, he had found the place beside him in bed empty. Of Lilly there had been left only a note pinned to the pillow:

DEAR MR. CRAIG, the coffee is on the stove, and you can heat it. I am off to work. I hope we will meet again. LILLY HEDQVIST.

After dressing and coffee, he had added a line in reply to her note. ‘I’ll see you soon’, he had written-and then he had gone down into the street. Outside the entrance, the elderly portvakt, the Swedish doorkeeper of the apartment, had been kneeling, adjusting the Christmas lights. Craig had almost bowled him over. But the old man had not been annoyed, had even been friendly, as if Craig were one of his tenants, and Craig guessed that Lilly had spoken to the portvakt of him.

Daylight had come to the city, and the air was windless and surprisingly mild, almost balmy. The sun hung high and bright in the cobalt sky, and Swedish pedestrians appeared gay and appreciative of the spring interlude.

Carrying his overcoat on his arm, Craig had made his way leisurely to the nearest square, noticing that the colours everywhere, and of everything-the women’s clothes, the pottery on a sill, the yellow furniture in a store window, the red-ribboned holiday packaging in a Tobak shop-were more vivid than before, either because of the sun or because of his own sobriety.

At the square, he had hailed a taxi and been driven back to the hotel that he had not seen in seventeen hours. Only when he was in the elevator, ascending, did he suddenly remember Leah and the new day’s official programme. He could not recall what the Nobel people had scheduled for this day, but he hoped, for their sake, it was not important, yet, for his sake, sufficiently interesting to have removed Leah from the premises. If Leah was in, he would have to have an excuse, and a plausible one-the more difficult to conceive, he told himself wryly, because he had not written fiction for so long-or suffer her chastisement. What he needed was a respite, time to think of a likely story, and he prayed fervently that Leah was out.

When he entered the suite, his agnosticism was confirmed. His prayer had not been answered. Leah’s handbag stood unyielding and stern, like a motorist’s warning sign, on the hall table.

Leah sat stiffly on the maroon chair in the living-room, holding the telephone in her lap, her bunched features as reproachful as those of a young widow.

‘Well,’ she snapped, ‘I see that you’re alive anyway. I’ve called everywhere but the morgue.’

Craig had crossed the room and dropped his coat on the sofa. ‘I’m sorry, Lee. I suppose I should have phoned.’

‘Should have phoned?’ she echoed shrilly. ‘How inconsiderate can any human being be of another? Here I am, a foreigner, an absolute stranger a million miles from nowhere, without a friend, with no one except you-what am I to think? It was bad enough leaving me flat at the palace last night-absolutely humiliating-but knowing you had gone out drunk as a lord, I stayed up half the night, until I fell asleep right in this chair, and since then, worrying-Did a car run you over? Did you fall in a canal?-God knows what I imagined.’

‘I couldn’t find you after the dinner,’ he said lamely. ‘I needed some air. Didn’t the Count give you my message?’

‘He didn’t say you’d disappear until the next afternoon.’

‘I didn’t mean to-’

‘You’re impossible,’ she scolded. ‘It’ll be so embarrassing now. What will they think? I called Count Jacobsson at the Foundation-Mr. Manker at the Foreign Office-I even talked to Professor Stratman.’

Craig flushed. ‘Stratman? What’s he got to do with me?’

Leah was less certain now, and immediately less aggressive. ‘I don’t know. I was frantic. I-after all-you had been with his niece last night. And then after I got the message that you’d gone, I saw Professor Stratman leave early with the girl, and I thought-well, maybe that you were meeting them-’

‘Or meeting her? Isn’t that what you mean?’ Craig was suddenly infuriated. ‘What if I had met them or her? Wouldn’t it be my business? Don’t I have any private life?’

‘Andrew, it’s not right to talk like that. I was worried about you, in your condition. Besides-besides, you’d brought me and-I don’t want to be a wet blanket, but-it’s etiquette, decent, to at least escort me back first.’

‘I just don’t like your notifying the whole place of every movement I make. You were worried about how I’d behave-a scandal. Well, if there is one, you’ll be the one who’s inviting it, with your hysterical calls.’

He was headed for the bedroom, when the telephone in Leah’s lap emitted a muffled ring. Leah started, almost dropping it, and Craig halted.

She was on the phone. ‘Oh, you’re very kind, Count Jacobsson. He walked in this minute… He’s fine, yes. He’d gone to visit some old friends, people he’d known when he was here before… What? Oh yes, yes, certainly, we’ll be ready. We’ll be in the lobby.’

She hung up, and looked at Craig unhappily. He wanted no victory such as this, and his anger evaporated. This was Sweden. When in Sweden, do as the Swedes do, invoke the Middle Way. Pacifism at any price.

‘Look, Lee, let’s not fight-’

‘I don’t want to fight. I just want you to be safe and well. I keep thinking of poor Harriet-I can’t help it.’

Inwardly, he winced. He had defences for all but this: his debts. Leah had again sent him the remainder of payment overdue and ever-mounting interest.

‘Lee, we were both wrong. You were wrong to churn up such a storm. I was wrong to have let you worry. I was terribly drunk, last night, and I did want to walk it off, so I went out and walked. It was cold and I wound up in a hotel bar for coffee, and then felt ill, and the barman saw that, and saw I was an American, and he packed me off on a cot in his back room to sleep it off. I suppose I needed that, because I slept through the night and morning.’

She wanted to believe it, and she wanted peace, but she could not help but be herself. ‘Your clothes aren’t rumpled,’ she said.

‘I didn’t wear them to sleep,’ he said patiently. ‘The barman got me out of them and hung them up.’

‘What if someone had discovered who you were-a Nobel laureate without his clothes-passed out on a cot in the back room of a bar? It would be terrible.’

He agreed with a penitent nod, and thought of the sharp young lady at yesterday’s press conference, Sue Wiley of Consolidated Newspapers, and how she would savour such a story. But he reminded himself that the story was not true, and so Miss Wiley was no threat. Then he remembered what was true, and revived the fresh memory of Lilly Hedqvist, Nordic girl goddess, and her uncomplicated and lusty abandon, and he wondered what Miss Wiley would think of that, and, indeed, what Leah would think, also.

The full import of his position-he was in the international lime light this week and the big microscope of journalism waited to magnify and enlarge every move he made-meant that he would have to be cautious of his every action, if he cared about his future. Until this morning he had not cared at all, but now there was some self-concern, mysteriously motivated, and he determined to be discreet about public drinking and private fornication.

‘You’re right, Lee,’ he said. ‘We don’t want any headlines until the Ceremony is over, and we have the fifty thousand.’

‘It’s not just that.’

‘I’m kidding. I said you’re right, Lee. Now I’m sober and properly regretful, and I have vowed reform. Add to that a meteorological fact: the sun is shining-an exceptional thing for winter in Sweden, I’m told-and the day lies ahead. Let’s go out for lunch.’

‘I’ve had lunch, and we have a date. Don’t you know the programme, Andrew?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. We’ve been to the palace. What else is there?’

‘We’re doing Stockholm today. I haven’t seen a bit of the city yet. Mr. Manker and Count Jacobsson are taking us and one other couple, one of the other laureates. And, oh yes, your Swedish publisher is going to be along.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Mr. Flink. Don’t you remember? He had a funny first name. Let me see-margin-setback-Indent! I was associating. That’s how I remember. Mr. Indent Flink. I think that’s another reason Count Jacobsson phoned back. He wanted to be sure you’d be here for the tour-because he wanted you to meet your publisher.’

‘Lee, I’ve already seen Stockholm with Harriet-’

‘That was so long ago. Besides, you should meet your publisher. In a way, his editions helped you win the prize.’

‘I can meet him, and make some apologies, and just skip out. You go on the tour. I’d rather kind of browse through the city on my own-’

‘No, Andrew, it would be rude.’

‘You’re getting to sound more like Harriet every day.’

‘I hope so.’

It was a lie, he knew, and he did not know why he had said it. Harriet would have conspired with him to avoid a formal tour. Or at least he thought so, as best as he could remember her. Suddenly, he was unsure.

‘Okay, Lee, you win.’ He started for the bedroom to change. ‘HSB, here we come.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You’ll see,’ he said enigmatically, ‘you’ll see.’

‘Our first stop on this informal tour,’ said Mr. Manker, as he swung the Foreign Office limousine away from the kerb before the Grand Hotel, ‘will be the HSB co-operative housing units on Reimersholme island in the south section of the city. HSB, I am sorry to say, stands for Hyresg"asternas Sparkasse- och Byggnadsf"orening, which means Tenants’ Savings and Building Society, a title I shall not further burden you with. Henceforth, I shall refer to this co-operative company as HSB.’

Craig squirmed in the jump seat, and glanced at Leah in the rear, and she acknowledged the clarification of enigma with a satisfied smile.

Mr. Manker fingered the brim of his fedora with his free hand. ‘If the ladies do not mind, I shall remove my hat and enjoy the full benefit of the sun, which Herr Professor Stratman has so recently tamed.’

‘No objections from Miss Stratman or Miss Decker, I am sure,’ said Stratman pleasantly.

Mr. Manker deposited his hat on the front seat, between Count Jacobsson and himself, exposing with relish his high pompadour, meticulously waved, to the solar rays.

Craig wished that Emily had not been seated behind him. His long legs were cramped in the jump seat, and it would take the limbs of a contortionist to wind around and speak to her.

The knowledge, received when he had entered the limousine with Leah, that Stratman and Emily were the other guests on the tour, disconcerted Craig completely. Without meeting Leah’s eyes, he sensed, from her greeting to the Stratmans, her immediate wariness. His own accosting of Emily had been cordial but brisk, as if to prove to her that he was a new man, the soul of sobriety, and that this was a new day. Her acknowledgment of him, in turn, had been distinct but detached, with no intimation of forgiveness or approval.

Now they rode in silence between the canal and the buildings, Leah, Stratman, and Emily in the rear seat, and Indent Flink, the publisher, in one jump seat and Craig in the other. Flink proved to be more probable than his name, a prosperous, corpulent man in his late forties, conservatively tailored in dark grey, a businessman who smelt of Danish beer and Baltic herring and was proud of his colloquial command of the American language.

‘I guess you’ve seen today’s papers,’ Flink said to Craig. ‘You got considerable space in all of them, and so did Professor Stratman. Rave notices. Count Jacobsson has clippings for Professor Stratman, and I have five for you.’ He pulled the newspaper accounts from his pocket and handed them to Craig. ‘See for yourself.’

Courteously, Craig leafed through the clippings, and found them as baffling as the inscriptions on the Kensington stone. ‘I’m sorry I can’t read Swedish,’ he said.

As he handed them back to Flink, Leah leaned forward and protested. ‘Andrew, keep them for souvenirs.’

‘Okay,’ said Craig, ‘but I’d like to know what’s in them. Don’t read them, for heaven’s sake-I don’t want to bore the Professor or Miss Stratman.’

‘I’m interested.’ It was Emily. Craig twisted to thank her, and was again fascinated, as he had been the evening before. Her brunette hair glistened in the dusty sun, and the loveliness of her green eyes and tilted nose was heightened by carmine lipstick, still moist and fresh, and the only make-up she wore.

Disinclined as he was, for he felt Leah’s scrutiny, he faced the publisher once more. ‘Just give me the gist of the stories,’ he said.

‘The gist,’ said Flink, ‘is this.’ He reviewed the leads of the stories in a monotone. Two newspapers played up the fact that, although Mr. Craig was the youngest literary laureate ever to win the prize, he approved of the award’s going to established authors, no matter how elderly. One newspaper featured Mr. Craig’s remark that Gunnar Gottling, the controversial Swedish novelist, was a ‘major talent’ who had been overlooked by the Swedish Academy. Another newspaper devoted its first paragraphs to the things Mr. Craig admired about Sweden and the things he did not like.’

‘What’s in that last clipping, Mr. Flink?’ Craig asked.

The publisher shrugged. ‘Nonsense. It speaks of an altercation between you and an American correspondent, Miss Wiley, which broke up the press conference.’

Craig scowled. ‘Does it say more?’

‘Well-’

Immediately, Craig realized that the article had sensationalized and gone into the argument about his alleged drinking habits. It was the last thing on earth he wanted brought up before Emily and Leah.

‘Never mind,’ he said curtly to Flink.

But Leah had pushed forward. ‘What’s this all about? What are they writing? What happened at the press conference, Andrew?’

Suavely, from the front seat, Jacobsson interceded on Craig’s behalf. ‘It was nothing at all, Miss Decker. We suffer at least one such incident annually.’

‘What incident?’ demanded Leah shrilly.

‘Miss Wiley writes for an American syndicate that lives by scandal,’ said Jacobsson, ‘and when there is no scandal, she must make it up for her bread and butter. She asked Mr. Craig some personal questions, and he felt-and correctly so-that his private life, his habits, his marriage, had no place in an interview. That was all. To prevent the woman from tormenting us, I called the interviews to a halt.’

‘The nerve of those reporters,’ said Leah, still confused.

‘And now, Professor Stratman, would you like to know about your clippings?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘A summary will do,’ said Stratman.

‘The emphasis,’ said Jacobsson, ‘was on the fact that the details of your discovery are being kept top-secret by the American government. Everyone quoted your predictions as to the future of solar energy. Two periodicals discussed your life in Germany and-’

Stratman, ever sensitive to Emily’s hatred of their homeland, held up his hand. ‘That is enough, Count Jacobsson. Who wants to relive the past when this day is so brilliant and Stockholm is before us?’ He called to Mr. Manker, ‘Where is your co-operative housing?’

‘Right ahead,’ said Mr. Manker.

The HSB co-operative housing village on Reimersholme consisted of nearly one thousand apartments that were occupied by three thousand middle-class Swedish citizens. The buildings were difficult to tell apart. All were clean and modern and seemed new, although they had been constructed in the latter years of World War II. All were set back from the canal, all were wood, concrete, and stucco, painted either white or beige, and all carried proud little balconies, most now filled with sun seekers.

Mr. Manker parked the limousine before one of the apartment buildings. For several minutes, he explained the nonprofit evolution of the communal housing unit beside them. When he finished, he inquired, ‘Would you like to visit inside?’

They all left the vehicle, and gathered on the pavement in the gentle sun.

Craig said to Mr. Manker, ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll stay out here and have a smoke. I’ve seen your co-ops before.’

‘As you wish,’ said Mr. Manker.

‘I think I’ll keep Mr. Craig company,’ said Indent Flink.

Mr. Manker herded the others towards the apartment building entrance. Craig watched Emily Stratman as she proceeded on beside her uncle. She was taller than her uncle, and she wore a grey suede jacket and tight blue skirt, cut short, revealing her long legs and the perfect curves of her calves filmed over by sheer nylon. As she walked, her ample buttocks and generous hips moved freely, and Craig realized that she wore no girdle. He had earlier been so absorbed in her virgin face that it now surprised him that her figure could be more feminine and provocative than Lilly’s figure.

Briefly, he made his mental apologies to Lilly, remembering her uninhibited giving, yet the difference was clear. You associated Lilly with health and nature and spontaneous animal sex. You put her against the background of a forest, with the forest sounds and the sky patch above, and you took her at once, without sparring, for carnal pleasure alone, on the earth and grass. But Emily Stratman-you imagined her, and you thought of unblemished maidenhood, reserved and withheld, tensely waiting on one desired, and you thought of love and romance and the long hungry building. You put her in the softly lighted boudoir, with the caressing breeze coming through the open French windows, and the wan moon and the faraway music, and you carried her from the chaise to the canopied bed, and you embraced her and kissed her and touched her unviolated flesh, until at last a low fire burned, and then you took her slowly, ever so slowly, with art and soothing, until the low fire grew to blaze.

Craig shook himself. The incongruity of his fancy, here on a Stockholm pavement, before a co-operative housing structure, struck him fully, and as being ridiculous, and he banished the daydream. Emily and the rest had disappeared into the building. Craig found his brier pipe, packed it, and Indent Flink was waiting with the match.

‘What do you think of our co-operatives?’ asked Flink.

‘I admire them,’ said Craig, drawing on his pipe, ‘as I admire a nation with no slums. I think it’s advanced and a great gift for the majority. But I’m a writer, an individualist, and I suppose I’d rather live in a tent, simply to be alone and not belong and be levelled off, because I prefer ups and downs.’

‘It will interest you that our co-operatives have even got into the writing game,’ said Flink.

‘In what way?’

‘The co-ops publish a magazine, and they publish books at lower cost. They even sponsor a yearly lottery to raise money for maybe three dozen deserving writers.’

‘You mean there’s that much interest in authors here?’

‘Enormous interest,’ said Flink. ‘There are seven million people in Sweden. Sixty-five per cent of all adults are regular book readers.’

‘Remarkable,’ said Craig.

‘Our problem here is the critics. Everything succeeds or fails on the reviews. If they are good, a book becomes a best seller. If they are bad, we can dump our stock in the canals. The Perfect State got unanimous raves. What irked me was that the raves were not only for its literary merit, but, I suspect, because a story of Plato gave the critics a chance, in their articles, to display their own erudition.’

Craig laughed. ‘I suppose that does happen.’

‘I am sure,’ said Flink seriously. ‘It happened with each of your books. The critics used them all to show off themselves. I believe this sometimes influences even the Nobel Committee. Jacobsson was telling me about the contest for the second Nobel literary award in 1902. There were many nominees considered behind closed doors-Anton Chekhov, Thomas Hardy, Henrik Ibsen-but who were the final contenders in the last ballot? Theodor Mommsen, eighty-five years old, with his five-volume History of Rome, and Herbert Spencer, eighty-two, with his ten-volume A System of Synthetic Philosophy. So there they were for the Nobel literary prize, a German historian and an English philosopher-and not Chekhov or Ibsen. Mommsen was elected and given the prize. Why? The Nobel Committee said for his artistry. Compared to Ibsen? For myself, I suspect a prize for Mommsen was an advertising for the Nobel judges, of their own erudition and scholarship. Possibly, this same egotism worked in your favour, too. I don’t know.’

Craig and Flink paced before the co-operative building, discussing publishing and books and public taste, discussing the cynical and morose outlook of Swedish writers (a rebellion against the idyllic welfare state), and the taste of Swedish writers for Faulkner and Kafka and Gottling and their distaste for the valentines of Ingrid Pahl, until, presently, Mr. Manker emerged with his conducted tour.

Leah burst forth towards Craig, taking his arm and attention possessively, and bubbling on about soundproof rooms and stainless steel and garbage-disposal equipment. Feigning a show of interest, Craig covertly sought out Emily Stratman. A quarter of an hour before, he had wished she would turn around so that he might enjoy her fully. Now she was turned around, in his direction, across the lawn. She wore a high-necked pale blue sweater beneath the suede jacket and over the tight skirt. Her bosom, rising and falling slightly-had they climbed stairs or was it the day?-was spectacularly abundant, and Craig was unaccountably pleased as he enjoyed it, and her, in the sun.

They drove on now, with Mr. Manker at his voluble best, fluently reciting capsule histories of this museum and that gallery and endless chapels of worship. On lovely Helgeandsholmen-Holy Ghost Island-he idled the car, and they considered the unlovely, Germanic Riksdagshuset or Parliament Building, and learned that it had been established in 1865, and that the aristocracy had been oppressive (did Count Jacobsson squirm ever so little?) and allowed only ten per cent of the population to vote until after the fall of the Hohenzollerns and Romanovs, so recently, when universal suffrage and true democracy finally came to backward Sweden.

They drove farther through Stockholm-‘a community of twelve islands connected by forty-two bridges’, recited Mr. Manker-until they reached an immense underground garage, known as Katarinaberget, and they were told that this had been specifically constructed as a shelter to protect 20,000 persons against nuclear explosions. Now, for the first time, Craig was fascinated by a projection of the future.

‘We hope that people will take the lesson of your book, Armageddon,’ said Indent Flink to Craig, ‘but if they don’t, you can see, we are ready to survive.’

‘How many of these have you got?’ asked Craig.

Mr. Manker replied. ‘We now have four of these huge atomic bombproof shelters in Stockholm, to save fifty thousand people, and, in all, nineteen such large ones throughout Sweden, and also thirty thousand small ones, to hold all together over two million people. The rest of the people we could evacuate in minutes from the cities to rural areas. The subterranean shelter you observe here has electricity, heat, water, and food, even preparations for schools. Much of our heavy industry-Bofors and Saab-make their anti-aircraft and jet aeroplanes in subterranean factories carved into granite hills. Other nations only speak of civil defence; we in Sweden have already acted on it.’

‘Perhaps you shall inherit the earth,’ said Stratman glumly, ‘and by then, you can have it.’

Emily stared at the cavernous underground garage. ‘It’s awful,’ she murmured.

‘But why?’ asked Mr. Manker. ‘We are so proud of this-’

‘I don’t mean what you think,’ said Emily quickly. ‘Of course, you’ve done the sensible thing. I mean’-she waved her hand toward the shelter-‘the completed cycle, the irony of going back to where we came from, Neanderthal man scooping out his pre-historic caves, except now, the caves are air-conditioned.’

Solemnity had settled on all of them, and Count Jacobsson was anxious not to have the afternoon spoiled. ‘Now you must see the lighter side of Stockholm,’ he announced. ‘Mr. Manker, will you kindly drive us to Djurgarden and Skansen?’

Concentrating on his new goal, the attach'e manoeuvred the large car through the busy mid-afternoon traffic, conforming to the left-lane drive that unnerved all but the Swedes. He continued eastward through the city, until gradually be began to shed the traffic, and they drew closer to the vast pastoral island known as Djurgarden.

Easing up the pressure of his foot on the accelerator, Mr. Manker slowly circled the vehicle around a clustering of odd and elaborate buildings. ‘We call this Diplomat’s City,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Here you will find most of the foreign embassies and legations. There, you see the Italian Embassy-’

As each was identified, it amused Craig to reflect on how each Embassy took on the character of its nationals abroad. The British Embassy was staid and sturdy brick, aloof, dignified, conservative and no-nonsense, like the majority of its nation’s travellers. The United States Embassy, across the way, squatted high on a small cliff. It was a modernistic horror, awkwardly trying to belong to the country it was visiting by imitating that country, and failing miserably, so that it was finally no more than a caricature of an American abroad trying desperately to be a part of Sweden.

With relief, Craig observed that they had crossed a bridge over a small canal and arrived at the winding road of the great island. To the left stretched acres of wood-fringed meadow, similar to the fields of Wisconsin and Minnesota, and to the right rose the stately villas of Sweden’s elite. ‘Djurgarden means Animal Park,’ explained Jacobsson. ‘In its early days, this was the King’s hunting preserve. Now the forests and clearings are a public pleasure park. As to the rest, the estates of our aristocrats and millionaires and artists, I think Mr. Manker is better qualified to point out things of interest.’

Enthusiastically, Mr. Manker resumed his recital. There was a series of villas, many hidden from view by foliage or sunk below road level, belonging to princes of the blood, but of the names of their owners, Craig recognized only that of Prince Bernadotte. And finally, on that portion of the Djurgardsbrunns Canal that resembled a lake tinted blue and green, stood Askslottet-Thunder Palace-a miniature but ominous version of the Taj Mahal and the home of Ragnar Hammarlund.

‘Pull up there before the manor gate,’ Jacobsson directed Mr. Manker. ‘Our guests have all met Mr. Hammarlund-in two days they will be enjoying his hospitality at dinner-and they may have special interest in his residence.’

‘You mean, someone actually lives in that place?’ asked Leah incredulously, as they drew up before the metal gate.

‘Indeed, yes,’ said Jacobsson, ‘and a bachelor, at that.’

A pure-white gravel walk led dramatically to the statue of a white sea nymph by Carl Milles. The nymph guarded a magnificent rectangular artificial lily pond. On either side were walks and gnarled oak trees, and at the far end, almost in replica of the marble Mogul tomb, was Askslottet. The mansion was two stories in height, square and light grey, with a steep reddish roof. Four slim pillars, like minarets, towered before the entrance.

‘Of course, Hammarlund is not quite alone in there,’ Jacobsson was saying. ‘He has his staff of mysterious retainers. At any rate, it is all impressive to look at… Well, Mr. Manker, shall we go on?’

As the limousine started forward, everyone but Leah settled back for more of Djurgarden. Leah craned her neck for a last sight of Hammarlund’s castle.

‘It’s hard to believe that he’s a millionaire and owns that big place,’ she said. ‘I mean, when I met him, he seemed so ineffectual and ordinary.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Emily, ‘he was exactly what I had expected-type-cast for his role-right out of a hundred suspense novels about tycoons, munitions makers, merchants of death.’

Since Craig was interested, Leah could not allow herself to be contradicted by this young woman. ‘You’re being romantic,’ she said to Emily. ‘What’s so different about him?’

‘For one thing, he’s bizarre,’ said Emily. ‘For another, when I think of Hammarlund, I suffer astigmatism-I see him in plural-the limp personality we meet by day, and the other personality he keeps locked up until night.’

‘ “I want to write about a fellow who was two fellows,” ’ quoted Craig. ‘That’s what Robert Louis Stevenson once told Andrew Lang, and that’s how Jekyll’s Hyde was born.’

‘We’re all two fellows,’ said Stratman with a grunt.

Leah grasped for any ally. ‘I agree with Professor Stratman,’ she said vaguely.

‘So do I, Lee,’ said Craig. ‘However, I suspect Hammarlund’s two fellows are more interesting than mine or yours. And that’s where I side with Miss Stratman. I, too, think he’s bizarre, a cache of secrets, and that he only permits his second self out at night when there’s empire work to be done, and no one’s looking. That’s the self we never meet, the one who assembles cartels and makes millions. The self we see is simply too soft, too bland, too hairless and chinless, to be believed. There must be more.’

‘Oh, there is more, indeed there is,’ Jacobsson said from the front seat, ‘but perhaps not so exciting as you imagine. Hammarlund has his intrigues constantly, of course-is that not so of all big businessmen today, in a business world?-but he has no double life or private band of assassins, as far as I can ascertain. The Zaharoffs of private enterprise are dead in a world of expanding socialism.’

‘I can’t wait for his dinner party,’ said Leah.

‘It will be correct and lavish,’ Jacobsson promised, ‘but do not expect hidden doorways and secret passages and bodies that fall out of cupboards.’ He smiled indulgently, and one almost heard the facial parchment crackle. ‘Of course, for your sake, Miss Decker, I hope that I am wrong.’ Jacobsson peered through the windshield, and then said, ‘And now we approach an institution no less glamorous but far more innocent, one in which we Swedes take great pride. I refer to our celebrated Skansen park. Once more, Mr. Manker is the authority.’

Mr. Manker shifted into low gear, sending the limousine grinding up the rising highway, and then he spoke in his rehearsed Cook’s Tour monotone, the words floating forth too easily, as if lacking the ballast of thought. ‘Skansen is unique,’ said Mr. Manker. ‘It is not an amusement park like Disneyland or Tivoli. It is a museum in the open air, a condensation of Sweden’s past, presented visually in the present. It was opened in 1891, and in the decades since, it has become one of our foremost attractions. You will see our manor houses, centuries old, reconstructed…’

By the time Mr. Manker had finished his description, they had arrived at the foot of the final ascent, and entered the parking place reserved for them. Emerging from the car, after Emily had stepped down, Craig studied the main entrance gate of Skansen and remembered the humid summer’s day when Harriet and he, carrying cameras and ice-cream cones, had first walked through it. He remembered it as fun, that time, like discovering an old National Geographic in the dentist’s office. But he was in no mood for visual history today. The lack of a single drink, since the night before, had left him parched and restless. He required something to comfort him, either Emily to talk to or a whisky, preferably both and at the same time. If he went on this visit, he decided, it would only be to seek a moment with Emily.

Stratman had been conversing in an undertone with Emily, and now the physicist waddled over to Jacobsson and Mr. Manker.

‘If you will forgive me,’ said Stratman, ‘I think I will sit this one out. The spirit is willing, but the bones are weak.’ He looked off. ‘Your Skansen appears too formidable.’

‘There is a modern escalator,’ said Mr. Manker.

‘Thank you. I believe I will just sit in the car and doze. I am sure there is much more to see after this. I must conserve my strength.’

Emily had come up alongside her uncle, and her face showed concern. ‘I’ll stay with you, Uncle Max-’

‘Ach, no-no fuss, now-please go with the young ones.’

Some unconscious purpose, in Craig, made him speak. ‘I’ll be here, Miss Stratman, so you needn’t worry.’ He turned to Jacobsson and Mr. Manker. ‘I don’t want to be a spoilsport, but I’ve already been through Skansen, top to bottom. It’s worth another visit, but like Professor Stratman, I’d like to conserve my strength. I still haven’t got over the plane trip.’

Emily was not appeased. ‘Uncle Max, I prefer-’

‘No,’ said Stratman firmly, ‘I want you to go and tell me all about it. Mr. Craig and I have had no time together. I will teach him physics, and he will give me a course in literature appreciation. Please, mein Liebchen-’

Emily glanced worriedly from her uncle to Craig, and at last capitulated. She permitted Mr. Manker and Jacobsson to lead her to Leah and Indent Flink, and together the party started for the Skansen gate. Once, Emily looked back, and Stratman reassured her with an uplifted hand.

After they had gone, Stratman shook his head. ‘The child troubles too much about an old man. It is my fault.’

With a sigh, Stratman went into the limousine, loosened his collar, and laid his head back comfortably on the rear seat. Craig took out his pipe, and after lighting it, he sat down on the front seat.

‘I have my meerschaum, but I forgot my tobacco,’ said Stratman.

‘Have some of mine,’ said Craig, quickly passing his pouch.

When Stratman was puffing contentedly at last, he spoke again. ‘As you add years, your pleasures subtract. Once, my years were few, but my pleasures were many, many. Long ago, I would fish, play billiards, hold a Fr"aulein’s hand, stay up the entire night with my brother in card games, go to the opera, read for pleasure, stuff myself with schnitzel, smoke my pipe, and work-work was always pleasure.’ He held up the brown meerschaum. ‘Now only pipe remains, this and work. I do not complain. It is enough.’

‘I envy you,’ said Craig. ‘I have only the pipe.’

‘And not the work?’

‘No.’

Stratman was silent a moment. ‘Emily told me you lost your wife recently. Is that the reason?’

Separate emotions struggled inside Craig. One was of elation, that Emily had actually spoken to her uncle of him. The other was of shame, that he had indulged himself in prolonged self-commiseration. ‘When I lost my wife, there seemed no point any longer.’

‘Is not work itself, creation, solitary accomplishment, the real point?’

‘One would suppose so. I remember one of Mr. Maugham’s characters once saying that an artist should let his mother starve, if necessary, rather than turn out potboilers to save her. In short, the artist’s work, his devotion to it, was all that mattered. You know, Professor, that takes terrible strength.’

‘For strength, I would substitute something else-an unrealistic sense of divinity-that the Lord gave you, only you, the Golden Plates.’

‘I used to feel that.’

Stratman nodded. ‘I am sure you did. If you had not, you would not be in Stockholm today. Then, what has happened to you? I am no psychologist, but I can guess. The unrealistic sense of divinity was violated by a horrible accident of reality-your wife’s sudden death-and you have been brought down, and your faith shaken, and you are still in shock. It happens, young man, it happens.’

Craig tried to think about this, sort it out and spread it before him, but he was not ready to understand it, and finally he decided to defer analysis for another day. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said, and said no more.

Both men had lapsed into silence, puffing their pipes and listening to the remote sounds of Skansen and welcoming the winter sun as it filtered through the openings of the automobile.

‘Why did you remain behind?’ Stratman asked suddenly. ‘To keep an old man company?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘Then what? To speak of yourself?’

‘Not that either. Instinctively, I wanted to be near you, because you are close to Emily.’

‘Emily, eh?’ But there was no astonishment in the red face. Stratman emptied the bowl of his meerschaum, lifted his bifocals higher on the bridge of his nose, and peered at Craig uncritically, seeming to regard him for the first time not as a fellow laureate but as a human being. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what does Emily have to do with us?’

‘She told you that we met last night?’

‘She mentioned it. We reviewed the affair together, afterwards-we have often done that after social gatherings-and she told me a little about you-and, as a matter of fact, about some of the other guests, too, ones she had met.’

‘I see.’ Craig felt disappointed. He had hoped for more, some affirmation, some special interest. ‘Did she tell you what happened between us?’

‘What happened between you?’

‘I was drunk, and I offended her.’

‘Umm.’ Stratman digested this, perhaps tried to define it. ‘I am sorry to hear that. I could have told you-she is extremely sensitive and withdrawn about men. So-you made her angry?’

‘Yes, I did. I’ve been waiting for the moment to apologize. She won’t permit it.’

‘That is right. It is her way since childhood.’ He paused. ‘Why is this so important to you, Mr. Craig?’

‘I’m attracted to her. I want her good opinion.’

‘Then, you have an unenviable task-’

‘A hopeless one?’

Stratman shrugged. ‘I cannot think for her. I know her better than I know any person on earth. I have a father’s love for her. I raised her. I know her quirks and fancies and most of her reactions. But each day is a new creation of life, and to some minute degree, each person enters that day as a newborn. The brain, the nervous system, the muscles, the glands, the conditioned reflexes, all go through the life of the day responding in set and familiar ways-but then, there occurs one new accident or adventure or confrontation, one exceptional stimulus, and suddenly past performance means nothing-and the person’s brain or nervous system reacts differently, in a way previously unknown. So-how can anyone judge anyone else or speak for them? How can I know what Emily feels about you today?’

‘But you have an idea?’

‘Of course, I have an idea. I have past performance. After I brought my niece out of Germany, to England and then America, I saw her adhere to one pattern of behaviour, and this has remained remarkably unchanged. She does not trust men. She does without men. If by some voodooism you managed to make her lower her guard last night, and then took advantage of it, I would predict that her distrust would be stronger than ever-of men in general, of you in particular. So-you ask if it is hopeless to win her good opinion once more? As her relative, and a scientist, I would say the odds are against you, Mr. Craig. Certainly, I would not wager on your chances. But still, the imponderables-we have them in physics-a new day with a life cycle of its own, and possibly, somewhere between dawn and dusk, a new Emily. I am sorry, Mr. Craig, but this is the best I can offer. I am sorry to be so ponderous and long-winded. I am German born and raised. You are a product of optimism, a society of optimism, so your own decisions, for yourself, will be fairer than my own. And this, too-you are a spinner of tales, greatly honoured, so no doubt you have perceptions about people much keener than mine. Apply your optimism and your genius.’

Craig smiled. The old man was teasing him now, he was sure. He replied in kind. ‘My stories are of the past. I am a stranger to the present, and unarmed.’

‘There is no present,’ said Stratman. ‘One minute ago is the past.’ His eyes twinkled behind the thick lenses. ‘You are armed.’ He settled lower in the seat, and crossed his chunky legs. ‘I will have my beauty nap.’

Craig pushed himself off the front seat, stood up, and stretched. ‘And I’ll take a walk.’

Stratman’s eyelids had already drooped, but now they winked open. ‘Mr. Craig-’

Craig moved to the open rear door and leaned in. ‘Yes, Professor?’

‘I think you will try to win her good opinion.’

Craig said nothing.

Stratman sighed tiredly. ‘Should you succeed where others have failed, and make her lower her guard once more, do not disappoint her-or me.’

He yawned and closed his eyes, and Craig remained standing, moved but unmoving, reflecting on how Victorian the scene had been and how Herr Professor Stratman, guardian of the sun, and of his brother’s daughter, had momentarily sounded like Edward Barrett, of 50 Wimpole Street, London, guardian of the invalided Elizabeth against the young Browning. Yet the comparison was odious and unfair. Stratman was no jealous tyrant of Wimpole Street, suppressing latent feelings of incest. Stratman was a rutted bachelor, who had come into unexpected fatherhood late, and who was burdened with a responsibility that exceeded normal parental obligation. His first thought was for Emily, and not for himself. All things considered, Craig knew, Stratman had been kind.

Craig ambled off, without destination, without curiosity, about the perimeter of Skansen, sometimes halting to watch children play, once stopping for a lemonade. He meandered on and on, letting fantasies slip in and out of mind, occasionally letting himself become absorbed in the new characters who peopled his life, and then Miller’s Dam and the house on Wheaton Road and Lucius Mack, and even Harriet-yes, Harriet in the ground-seemed far away and of another time.

Half an hour had elapsed before Craig returned to the limousine. He saw that the others were already in the car, and Mr. Manker was wandering nearby searching for him, and he quickened his step. Once inside, squeezed into the jump seat, he apologized, and could not, for the life of him, explain, in retort to Leah’s question, where he had been and what he had done.

Mr. Manker was behind the wheel, and they were on the road again.

Craig listened, as Emily behind him reported to her uncle, briefly but brightly, on some of the highlights of the Skansen visit. When she had concluded, she asked her uncle how he had occupied himself.

‘Mr. Craig and I had a long, long talk,’ said Stratman.

‘About what?’ Emily wanted to know.

‘Shop talk, mein Liebchen. He advised me how to put plot in my papers, and I advised him how to employ solar energy in his typewriter. After that I napped.’

‘How do you feel now?’

‘Refreshed and a tourist again… Count Jacobsson, what is your next propaganda to convert us all?’

‘The best we have to offer,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Mr. Manker is driving us to the Old Town-specifically, Stortorget-the Great Square-the original site of Stockholm seven centuries ago.’

Presently, going the long way around, they crossed the Norrbro bridge, swung past the Royal Palace, slowed before the Storkyrkan Cathedral, which had been built in 1260, proceeded up a narrow, ancient street that opened into the spacious square, and parked before the B"orssalen, which Mr. Manker identified as the Bourse or Stock Exchange Building.

After they had left the car, Mr. Manker guided them around the Stortorget. The square, paved with aged, uneven bricks, was dominated in its centre by a huge round ancient well. Surrounding the landmark, there were public benches, and because the day was mild, the benches were filled with old men reading newspapers and middle-aged lady shoppers resting and gossiping.

They strolled along the sides of the square, which were lined with severe stone buildings, four to five stories high, housing commercial shops on the ground floor level and apartments in the floors above. Following Mr. Manker, they visited the hoary alleys and side streets leading into Stortorget. These shadowed streets were twisting and dark, as in medieval times, walled in by antiquated gabled houses that seemed to have been designed by the brothers Grimm.

‘Today, almost everyone wishes to live here in the Old Town,’ Mr. Manker was saying. ‘To live here is what you call in America a status symbol-is that right? The exteriors of the apartments are the originals. They cannot be renovated. They are left as they were in the beginning, and are now beaten by weather and chipped and peeling, and that is their charm. However, inside the apartments, I assure you, most of the quarters are spotlessly modern, with all the latest appliances, including oil burners for these winter months.’

Slowly, Mr. Manker led them back to the ancient well in Stortorget’s centre. ‘This is a hallowed place,’ he announced, as the party gathered more closely about him, and several Swedes on the benches looked up curiously. ‘This is the very spot of the infamous Stockholm Massacre or Blood Bath. In 1520, a Danish king, who controlled all of Scandinavia, offered amnesty to eighty rebellious Swedish aristocrats, invited them to this square for a celebration, then betrayed them by beheading all eighty.’ Mr. Manker pointed off. ‘Now, there is a more pleasant object for sightseeing.’

The members of the party turned to examine, once more, the rococo Stock Exchange Building before which the limousine was parked. ‘That palace was built in 1773,’ said Mr. Manker. ‘On the ground floor is the Exchange, but upstairs are the offices and library of the Swedish Academy, where Andr'e Gide and T. S. Eliot and Andrew Craig were voted the Nobel Prize in literature.’

Leah took Craig’s arm. ‘Isn’t it exciting, Andrew?’ Craig grimaced at his sister-in-law’s display, and then, worried that his hosts would be offended, he summoned forth a slight smile of pleasure.

‘Alfred Nobel is not your only benefactor,’ Mr. Manker told Craig. ‘There is another, and he is King Gustavus III, who came to our throne in 1771 and fifteen years later founded the Swedish Academy. For all of his faults, and they were many, ranging from a disinterest in the poor to a lavish spending on himself, Gustavus III has our high regard because he gave us much of our culture before he was assassinated at a masquerade ball in 1792. He gave us our opera. He gave us works of art from every corner of the world. And finally, to promote literature, he imitated the French by establishing the Swedish Academy. Because he superstitiously favoured the number eighteen, he founded the Academy with eighteen members, taken from Sweden’s most respected authors and scholars. Gustavus III’s number has survived to this day. Eighteen members, Mr. Craig, voted you the Nobel Prize.’

Jacobsson came forward and touched Craig’s shoulder. ‘Perhaps it would interest you to see the place where you were elected?’

‘I’d enjoy it,’ said Craig sincerely, ‘but I’m afraid the others might be bored. Maybe one day I can come alone-’

‘Nonsense,’ interrupted Stratman. ‘All of us would like to see the inside of the Academy.’

The members of the party fell in behind Count Jacobsson, and with him crossed the square, and turned the corner into the side street. They followed Jacobsson up the street, until he came to a halt before two giant, timeworn doors at K"allargr"and 2. To the of the entrance, fastened to a granite block, was a plate bearing the legend: SVENSKA AKADEMIENS NOBEL-BIBLIOTEK.

They all went inside. Mr. Manker and Jacobsson led them through a gloomy hall, up wide stone steps to the first floor above the one at ground level, and then through a beige door into a long corridor, which was cheerfully lighted and awesomely scholastic. To their immediate right was a librarian’s desk, now unattended, and next to it the portal to the Nobel Library, whose stacks bulged with the literary produce, in almost every language, of the Nobel winners, contenders, as well as associated material.

With a possessiveness that came from familiarity, Jacobsson took them along the corridor, lined with shelves of books on either side, to another door that opened into a colossal auditorium. As they passed through the auditorium, Jacobsson said, ‘We are approaching our Kaaba, the holy place where the Academy members convene annually to elect a Nobel winner. The secret chamber is called the sessions room. And here we are.’

They entered one more door and found themselves in a bright, broad room, high-ceilinged, with tall windows looking down on the historic square below. Beneath a sparkling crystal chandelier rested a rectangular table, which seemed to fill the room, and drawn up neatly around the table were twelve ornate chairs, their seats, backs, and armrests covered with blue plush. The glossy table was bare, except for a wooden tray holding a pen set that had belonged to King Gustavus III almost two centuries before, and a pewter pitcher and a glass vase. Against the walls were a blue-covered sofa and additional easy chairs, and on one wall hung a gleaming gold medallion engraved with Gustavus III’s royal symbol, bound wheat stalks. At the head of the table, behind the Permanent Secretary’s chair, stood the Academy’s ever-present conscience-a marble bust of the founder, Gustavus III, perched on a circular stone pedestal.

‘Yes,’ Jacobsson was saying, as he patted the marble bust, ‘ever since 1914, when the Academy took over this room, His Majesty has sat here listening to secrets the entire world would like to know. Before that, the voting was held in the Permanent Secretary’s home on Skeppsbron, then in a rented apartment at Engelbrektsgatan, and then in the old Nobel Library at Norra Bantorget. But since Romain Rolland was selected in 1915, every literary laureate has been voted the prize right here.’

‘How often do the Academy members meet in this room?’ Emily inquired.

‘I will explain the modus operandi,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Let us take the case of our current winner-Mr. Andrew Craig. Nominations for the Nobel Prize in literature this year, as always, were closed this last February first. Nominations, usually in writing, were submitted to the Swedish Academy. There were forty-nine this year. Thirty came from properly accredited sources-previous winners in any category or recognized academies throughout the world-and nineteen came from unaccredited sources, such as authors’ publishers or wives or the authors themselves, and were thrown out. Mr. Craig’s name was formally submitted, not from a foreign source, but by eligible admirers in our own Swedish Academy, led by Miss Ingrid Pahl, a voting member. I think Mr. Flink can better tell you how that came about.’

Indent Flink addressed himself to Craig and Leah. ‘I claim no credit,’ he insisted with false modesty. ‘I am in the business of publishing, and I have a part-time book scout in New York, just as I have scouts in Paris and London. Mr. Craig’s last novel, which had been overlooked in Scandinavia, was sent to me with a bushel of other books. I was impressed-it’s a rattling good story-and I bought the Swedish rights on Armageddon for five hundred dollars. I believe that was the price?’

‘That was the price,’ said Leah.

‘I had the translation made, and brought the novel out in September of-let me see-four years ago. The reviews were so overwhelming that, I believe, many of the eighteen members of the Academy read it and became acquainted with Mr. Craig.’

‘Quite so,’ said Jacobsson.

‘Well, to make a long story short,’ Flink continued, ‘I bought up two more of Mr. Craig’s novels, the sales were gratifying, but the enthusiasm in literary circles was even greater. Then I acquired a copy of The Perfect State, and it was the best of the lot. I translated it myself, and published it early last year. This time, I had my cake and ate it, too. It was a runaway best seller, and it was a critical rave. Well, I think that did it. An Andrew Craig cult had sprung up in the Academy-not only Miss Pahl, but others-and he was nominated for the prize in February.’

Craig had listened attentively, detached, as if hearing another author being discussed. Then he realized that the others in the room were looking at him, and among them Emily, and almost for the first time he became aware that it was he himself who was the subject of Flink’s little reminiscence. He knew that something was expected of him. ‘My American publisher thanks you, my agent thanks you, the Miller’s Dam Security Bank thanks you, and I thank you, Mr. Flink.’

‘In turn, the world thanks you,’ Flink said grandly.

Embarrassed, Craig sought to change the subject. ‘Count Jacobsson, exactly what happened after the nominations last February-or is that secret?’

‘Not at all,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Four members of the Academy’s eighteen serve as a weeding-out board. The leading books, by the thirty official nominees, were turned over to them. Many of the works, like your own, were already in Swedish and easy to read. Others had never been translated, and so the four board members had to read them in their original languages. Besides Swedish, the board members read well in English, French, German and Spanish. Where a nominated work might be in an exotic language like Chinese or Hindu, it would be turned over to special consultants who are linguists. Language is a barrier, but I doubt if it has ever barred consideration of a work of real merit. I am thinking, at the moment, of 1913, when Rabindranath Tagore, of India, was nominated for his poetry. He had only one volume in English, when he was nominated. There were none in Swedish. The cream of his creativity was in his native Bengali. The four-man sifting board located a Swedish professor, an avid Orientalist, who could read Bengali. So charmed was he by Tagore that he tried to teach our Academy members Bengali that they might appreciate the poet in his own tongue. But the Academy members found Bengali too formidable, and awaited the professor’s translation. It was accurate enough, and beautiful enough, to convince all that Tagore must have the prize.’

‘Then the literary award is actually in the hands of four men,’ said Stratman.

‘By no means,’ replied Jacobsson. ‘The four-man board merely does the preliminary job. This year, they read the primary works of the thirty nominees, and eliminated twenty-four, and settled on six names as the final contenders. The best books of these six-Mr. Craig, another American author, two Germans, one English-man, and a Japanese-were sent to all the other Academy members, along with excerpts, translated into Swedish, of other writings of the nominees. All through this past summer, the eighteen members of the Academy read and read.

‘And now to reply to your earlier question, Miss Stratman-in the middle of September they all met formally, for the first time, in this room, to discuss what they had read, to sound out one another, to speak for their favourite works. One morning last month, in November, they met in this room a second time-gathered about the table here, the door locked, visitors not admitted-and they prepared to select the year’s winner. The chairman of the four-person sifting board rose to his feet, right over there, and he said, “We have reduced the thirty nominations to six, and of these six, we wish to recommend two names in particular.” He then offered Mr. Craig’s name as a first choice, and an English author’s name-I am not at liberty to identify him-as a second choice. He then read biographies of Mr. Craig and the five other nominees. After that, he read both favourable and unfavourable critiques of each man’s literary work. Then the debate began. It lasted six hours. If you think Swedes are calm and pacific, I wish that you could attend one such wrangle. There was much passion, for and against-not only you, Mr. Craig, but every nominee. At last, ballots were passed down the table. Sixteen voted and two abstained. I am happy to say, Mr. Craig, you won by a creditable majority. Immediately, I was informed. I prepared the notification cable that same evening, and it went out to you directly. Shortly after that, the press was given the news by the Foreign Ministry.’

Stratman advanced to a chair, and held it for support. ‘This wrangling, Count Jacobsson, this passionate debate you speak of-can you give any other specific instances?’

‘To discuss this year’s or last year’s closed meetings might be improper,’ said Jacobsson, ‘but I suppose there is nothing wrong with relating a few historic disagreements. I relish them, and do not mind sharing them.’ He noticed the physicist’s weariness, and said suddenly, ‘Please, Herr Professor-in fact, everyone-sit down for a few minutes while we talk. Take the chairs. This is not a museum-the chairs are for use.’

Quickly, he helped Stratman off his feet, while Craig held a seat for Emily, and Mr. Manker and Flink vied to assist Leah. Soon, everyone was at rest around the long table. Jacobsson settled himself at the head, before the bust of Gustavus III.

‘You know,’ said Jacobsson, ‘on many days every November and December, people all over the world pick up their newspapers and read of Nobel Prize winners. They come to believe, without thinking, that the laureates are demigods, and that the award is divinely ordained, but I am the first to admit that the winners, often geniuses and saints, are not demigods but human beings. At the same time, I am also the first to admit that the awards are neither divinely ordained nor decided by judges endowed with superior wisdom, but rather they are voted upon by ordinary men, of fine intellect, but of human frailty. I make these preliminary remarks because you wish to know what has gone on in this room, in secret sessions behind locked doors-and to appreciate what I will tell you, you must understand that our eighteen, like members of the other prize-giving committees, are merely mortals, after all. Most are experienced and knowledgeable men and women of scholarship and objectivity and great integrity. But, I repeat, they are mortals-they have personal prejudices, likes and dislikes, neuroses, vanities. They can be influenced by others, and influence one another. They can be bold, and they can be frightened. They can be cosmopolitan, and they can be provincial. They can be overspecialized in one area, and completely ignorant in another. But all of this considered, they are the best eighteen minds in this field that we have to offer. Once appointed, they serve for life, and to a man, they are the dedicated servants of Alfred Nobel’s will. They are the judges of an Academy which has honoured Rudyard Kipling, Gerhart Hauptmann, Romain Rolland, Anatole France, George Bernard Shaw, Sigrid Undset, Thomas Mann, Bertrand Russell, and Boris Pasternak. They are also the judges of an Academy which has ignored or rejected 'Emile Zola, Leo Tolstoy, Henrik Ibsen, Marcel Proust, Mark Twain, Joseph Conrad, Maxim Gorki, Theodore Dreiser, and August Strindberg. You see, they are wise, and they are f oolish, but no wiser and no more foolish than other men.’

Craig caught Jacobsson’s attention. ‘Your selections I understand,’ said Craig, ‘and for the most, I heartily approve-my own included.’

Leah, Flink, and Stratman laughed appreciatively, and Jacobsson permitted a flitting smile to cross his wrinkled features.

‘But I still don’t understand your omissions,’ Craig went on. ‘Some of them were brought up at the press conference yesterday. They seem to be brought up everywhere, and often, and never answered. Why didn’t Zola and Tolstoy win one of the early prizes? Why weren’t Ibsen and Strindberg, two of your own, ever honoured? Was it that the judges, at the time, were dunderheads? Or were actual pride and prejudice involved?’

‘Ah, I was coming to that,’ said Jacobsson, ‘I was leading up to that. Yes, generally it was prejudice-sometimes pride-often politics and weakness. Let us consider the specific names you have mentioned. 'Emile Zola was alive until 1902, and therefore twice eligible for the Nobel Prize. It is a fact that he was officially nominated for the first award by Pierre Berthelot, the celebrated French chemist. But, you see, Alfred Nobel had died only five years before, and his powerful ghost cast a long and influential shadow over the Academy members. In his lifetime, Nobel had detested Zola’s Nana and the rest of his naturalist novels. Nobel considered them too-how shall I put it?-too earthy, coarse, realistic. Do not forget, in his will Nobel offered the literary prize for “the most oustanding work of an idealistic tendency”. In Nobel’s opinion, Zola had been anything but an idealist, and the Nobel judges knew this, and they had to consider the benefactor’s tastes in disposing of his money.’

‘That I can understand,’ agreed Craig. ‘For the first time, the omission makes sense.’

‘You spoke of Tolstoy, Ibsen, Strindberg,’ continued Jacobsson. ‘Here, it was largely the strong prejudices of one man-one judge-who kept all of them out.’

Craig did not hide his surprise. ‘Actually?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Certainly, there were other factors. Not only were the Academy members handicapped by the idealism edict, but they were conservative and poorly read. That was long ago, and I think we can admit it today. The majority of the judges were limited in their literary outlook. They were historians, religionists, philologists. Only three of them, I believe, knew anything of literature. One of these, a remarkable man, a poet and a critic, was Dr. Carl David af Wirs'en. When the Academy took over the Nobel awards, Wirs'en was its chairman, its most powerful figure. He was about fifty-eight at the time, wise and learned, but a person of strong personal prejudices. As an example of his control of the Academy, I need only cite what occurred in 1907. When the Academy loses one of its eighteen, and elects a replacement for life, the King must give his routine approval. In 1907, a new member, an eminent literary historian, was elected over Wirs'en’s objection that the new member had once committed l`ese-majest'e by publishing a volume critical of Gustavus III, the Academy’s founder. When Wirs'en found that he had been overruled, he went to King Oscar II and persuaded him to veto the new member-and the new member did not get in until Gustaf V was on the throne. That was the power of Wirs'en. And it was he who kept out Tolstoy.’

‘How could he do it?’ asked Emily.

‘It is not easy to explain, Miss Stratman, but let me see if I can,’ said Jacobsson. ‘The French Academy had nominated a relatively unknown poet, Sully Prudhomme, for the first award. The Swedish Academy was impressed by its French counterpart. Furthermore, our judges wanted a safe, uncontroversial choice. So they gave Prudhomme the first prize. The literary world was shocked. Even here in Sweden. Forty or fifty Swedish writers and artists castigated the Academy and offered a petition favouring Tolstoy. As a matter of fact, Tolstoy could not have been elected that first year, because no one had officially nominated him. This oversight was repaired the second year. Tolstoy was, indeed, nominated in 1902. But now Wirs'en, the chairman of the Academy, came into the picture. I have seen the minutes of the stormy meeting when the judges had to select a laureate from among Mommsen, Spencer, and Tolstoy. It was Wirs'en, almost single-handed, who struck down Tolstoy. Wirs'en admitted that War and Peace was an immortal work. But he charged that Tolstoy’s later writings were sensational and stupid, that Tolstoy condemned civilization, that he advocated anarchism, that he had the effrontery to rewrite the New Testament, and, greatest crime of all, that he had denounced all money prizes as harmful to artists. Wirs'en’s fiery diatribe carried the day, and the great Russian was defeated, and although he lived through eight more awards, he was never again a serious candidate.’

‘And Ibsen and Strindberg?’ asked Craig.

‘Again, as I have said, Dr. Wirs'en’s was the decisive veto. Ibsen’s name was offered in 1903. Wirs'en argued that to honour Ibsen then was, in effect, to honour a dead monument. Wirs'en seemed to be saying that Ibsen’s best plays had been done between Peer Gynt in 1867 and The Master Builder in 1892, and that in the eleven years after, his talent had declined. On the other hand, one of Ibsen’s fellow Norwegians, Bj"ornstjerne Bj"ornson, a writer Nobel himself had admired, was still at the height of his powers. The argument carried the day. Ibsen was voted down and Bj"ornson elected.’ Jacobsson paused, lost in thought a moment, and then resumed. ‘The opposition to August Strindberg was unfortunate, but even more bitter. Wirs'en judged Strindberg’s plays as “old-fashioned”. That may have decided the matter. On the other hand, I sometimes think Strindberg was his own worst enemy. Wirs'en and the majority of the Academy, and the King of Sweden, too, were appalled by the dramatist’s private life. Strindberg had been thrown out of school for low grades. He had been fired from every job he had undertaken. He had been married and divorced three times. He had been sentenced to jail for blasphemy. He was a drunkard, an anti-Semite, and an advocate of black magic. And if there was ever any hope for him, he destroyed it by ridiculing the Swedish Academy in print. I believe it was in Aftontidningen that he wrote, “The anti-Nobel Prize is the only one I would accept!” No men enjoy honouring someone who persistently insults them, and so Wirs'en and the Academy had little difficulty in keeping the prize from Strindberg. Of course, for accuracy, I must add that Wirs'en did not always have his way. There was an awful fight in 1908. Wirs'en and the board were behind Algernon Swinburne, and half the Academy was behind Selma Lagerl"of. A deadlock resulted, and a poor co mpromise candidate, Rudolf Eucken, a German, was elected laureate. After a year of politicking, however, the Lagerl"of adherents managed to acquire a majority vote, and in 1909, over Wirs'en’s opposition, they gave her the prize. With that defeat, I believe, Wirs'en lost his power over his colleagues.’

‘The Strindberg veto still fascinates me,’ said Craig. ‘Have many authors been deprived of the prize because of their personal lives?’ Shortly before, Craig’s mind had gone back over his last three years, his alcoholic bouts, and he had wondered if the Academy would have elected him had they known the truth. Now, he was curious.

‘Unfortunately, a writer’s behaviour is often an issue,’ confessed Jacobsson, ‘but, aside from Strindberg and D’Annunzio, I cannot think of a single case where it has been the determining factor. Although, now that you bring it up, I do recall one laureate who was almost passed over because of his private life. If the ladies will forgive me, I must mention the example of Andr'e Gide. Year after year, he was a contender, and year after year, he was voted down because of his homosexuality, which he had admitted and defended in public. In 1947, Gide’s name came up again. By this time, many members of the Academy had become more tolerant of him. His perversion was still an issue, but there was an odd switch in the balloting. One of Gide’s most ardent supporters suddenly became prudish and turned against him, while at the same time, several members of the conservative bloc suddenly favoured him. As you know, he was finally elected and, because he was ailing, had the French Ambassador to Sweden pick up his prize.’

‘You’ve been speaking of personal behaviour,’ said Emily. ‘What about personal beliefs? Do the ideas an author stands for ever affect the voting?’

‘Definitely,’ said Jacobsson. ‘In 1916, the Academy board recommended Zenito P'erez Galdos, a Spaniard. But a majority of the actual Academy was impressed by Romain Rolland’s pacifism, his unpopular stand against World War I, which caused his self-imposed exile, and his leaving belligerent France for neutral Sweden. As a result, Rolland won the prize. In 1928, Archbishop Nathan S"oderblom, although not exactly a literary figure, was a member of the Swedish Academy. He was an ecclesiastic of considerable prestige-a few years later, he would win the Peace Prize-and when he backed Henri Bergson for the literary award, because he venerated the Frenchman’s philosophic beliefs, all opposition to Bergson fell aside. However, Miss Stratman, sometimes an author’s beliefs will act against him. In 1934, Benedetto Croce, of Italy, was the favourite to win. It was a time, in Italy, when Benito Mussolini and his Fascist blackshirts were on the rise. Croce was anti-Fascist and outspoken in his hatred of Mussolini. A Nobel award to Croce would have been a slap in the face to Mussolini, and the Italian dictator knew it. I cannot substantiate what happened next-some say that Mussolini got in touch with his Ambassador in Sweden, and the Ambassador got in touch with the Swedish Academy-but, at any rate, Croce was voted down for his beliefs, and his relatively harmless countryman, Luigi Pirandello, was given the prize. I know that this sounds weak-kneed, but you must remember it in the context of the time, a time when Fascism was a fearful threat. Anyway, I believe our Academy members made up for it in 1958, when they courageously gave Boris Pasternak the prize for his beliefs, despite the Communists holding a gun to our heads.’

‘But you can be pressured and bullied?’ said Stratman.

Jacobsson lifted his palms upward and shrugged. ‘I have told you, Herr Professor, we are only men. More often than not, the pressures are lesser ones, and they come not from without but from within this room. There is always what you Americans call lobbying.’

Jacobsson paused. He had something on the tip of his tongue, and hesitated, as if to reconsider it, but then spoke again. ‘There is one notorious case-an American author-I do not think I should mention the name. This author had produced several novels that, for reasons of personal taste, had impressed two senior members of the Academy, Dr. Sven Hedin, the explorer, and Selma Lagerl"of. These two tried to convince their colleagues that the American must have the prize. The majority of the Academy considered the works of this American potboilers and, as the chairman put it, “mediocre”. Nevertheless, Hedin and Lagerl"of persisted, dramatizing the polemic value of the American’s books, and finally invoking their seniority as judges until the Academy capitulated. The American won the prize, although originally opposed by the majority of members.’

‘I wonder who it was,’ said Leah.

Jacobsson waved his finger. ‘Not important. The American was certainly as deserving as many laureates before or since.’ Jacobsson looked across the table at Stratman. ‘Have you had enough of our little bouts in this sacred room, or do you have an appetite for more?’

‘The entr'ee was excellent,’ said Stratman with a smile. ‘I still have room for a dessert.’

‘Very well,’ Jacobsson thought a moment, reliving his precious Notes in his mind, reviewing this story and then that, censoring some and considering others, and when he was ready, he leaned his elbows on the table, and resumed. ‘In 1921, the two leading candidates were John Galsworthy and Anatole France. The board recommended Galsworthy, considering France’s output as “a dainty hothouse”, but the majority of the Academy favoured France for injecting a new romanticism into literature. Anatole France was elected. It was eleven years before Galsworthy was offered as a serious candidate again. This time, his opponents were Paul Ernst, the German poet, and H. G. Wells. The argument for Ernst was that he was not only gifted and uncommercial in his creativity, but that he needed the money more than Galsworthy. Nevertheless, the final vote was in Galsworthy’s favour.

‘As to the argument that a candidate’s financial straits be considered, that may have been an influential factor when William Butler Yeats defeated Thomas Hardy in 1923. That, and also the fact that Yeat’s advocates inveighed against Hardy’s pessimism, which they felt did not meet the specifications of Nobel’s will.’

‘Were there ever such intense debates over an American laureate?’ Craig wanted to know.

‘Several times,’ admitted Jacobsson. ‘Perhaps the meeting in this room in 1930 was the strongest. For three decades, the Academy had passed over American candidates, men such as Mark Twain, Edwin Markham, Stephen Crane. But in 1930, both Sinclair Lewis and Theodore Dreiser were leading rivals for the prize. To be perfectly honest, not much enthusiasm was generated over either candidate. Lewis was considered too prolific and popular, and only one of his novels, Babbitt, was held in high esteem. Dreiser was criticized for being too ponderous. In the end, Sinclair Lewis was chosen. I remember him well, all arms and legs, studying Swedish on Linguaphone records. He was most gracious. He was proud of his honour, but he told us all that many others deserved the prize before him.’ Jacobsson looked down the table. ‘I see Mr. Manker is signalling me. I am afraid I have talked too much, when there is more of the city you must see before the sun sets.’ He pushed his chair from the table and rose to his feet. ‘We have had enough of the sessions room.’

Fascinated by the Count’s recollections, Craig felt for the first time since his arrival in Stockholm a glimmer of gratification in his own triumph. He felt undeserving, yet reassured. He had courted extinction for many months, and feared it, and now there was relief in knowing that, despite himself, he would never die as long as the Nobel pantheon of accomplishment meant something to the civilized world. In many ways, the conversation in this room had been his best moment in Sweden, this and Lilly’s love and the hibernating emotions that had awakened in Emily Stratman’s presence. It was as if his dark soul was admitting its first shafts of light since mourning and guilt had drawn the shutters against life.

Rising, he murmured his thanks to the old Count.

‘For what?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘For pride,’ he said, and knew that Jacobsson had not heard him, and that if he had, neither he nor anyone on earth would understand what he really meant.

The sun was lower, but still warming, when they arrived at the Town Hall, and clustered together on the open terrace, beneath the arches of colonnades, to listen to Mr. Manker.

The Town Hall, their guide had promised, would be the most inspiring building that they would visit in Stockholm. They were not disappointed. They had driven north-west of the Old Town to Kungsholmen island, and here, set sturdily on a small peninsula that crept into Lake M"alaren, between the Lake and the Klarasj"o inlet, they found Stockholm’s rare municipal structure.

They saw first the stark square tower of Town Hall, climbing 350 feet into the sky. They saw that it was russet red, as indeed was the entire building, with three crowns adorning its summit. They saw, also, that the red was brick, each and every brick lovingly set by hand. The roof of Town Hall was burnished copper, the gates of oak, and, below the arches and thick columns of the terrace, the balustrade that stretched over the water was of marble.

As Mr. Manker explained the history of the Town Hall, Craig noticed that Emily Stratman had drifted away from the gathering, and was now seated on a marble bench in the garden nearby, half listening and smoking a cigarette. Craig tried to concentrate on Mr. Manker’s history, but his attention continued to be diverted by Emily, so trim and still with her legs crossed, so withdrawn and preoccupied.

‘Now as to the magnificent interior of Town Hall,’ Mr. Manker was saying, ‘I will let you go inside and see for yourselves. We shall visit first the gold banquet hall, and I will direct your attention to the gold mosaic mural, made of one million pieces of coloured stone, which depicts the story of Stockholm. Please, if you will follow me-?’

They had started off then, following the Foreign Office attach'e into the courtyard, with Craig alone in the rear. As they filed past Emily, she quickly dropped her cigarette, ground it out, took her handbag, and prepared to rise. Craig reached her at that moment, with the others continuing ahead, and he halted between her and the others, and smiled nervously down at her.

‘Miss Stratman, if you don’t mind, I’d like a word with you.’ He had not meant it to come out so formally, but it had because his instinct told him that too familiar or abrupt an approach might frighten her away.

She remained sitting, but uncertain. ‘They’re expecting us.’

‘There’s plenty of time for that,’ he said. He sat down on the marble bench, a few feet from her. ‘I think people absolutely ruin their travel by compulsively trying to see everything, grinding through city after city, trying to store up more see-manship than the next fellow. I’m for unplanned travel, with an occasional art gallery or historic site thrown in. If I ever give up writing, I’ll start Aimless Tours, Incorporated-and I’ll advertise, “We Take You Nowhere, but You’ll Find Yourself or Money Back.” ’

She smiled. ‘Where do I make a reservation?’

He pointed off. ‘Look at that. Don’t tell me what’s inside can be better for the soul than that.’

Staring out at the lazy blue waters of Lake M"alaren, they both watched the graceful gliding sea gulls, and the hazy fairyland outlines of Riddarholmen island beyond.

‘Peace, it’s wonderful,’ she said softly. She opened her bag, found the packet of cigarettes, and took one, and he lit it. He filled his pipe and lit that, too. They smoked in silence for a while.

‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

‘As a matter of fact, I was thinking of you. That visit to the Swedish Academy-all that insider talk by Count Jacobsson about such legendary names-it made a deep impression on me. And I was thinking now-imagine, Emily, you are sitting here on a stone bench in Stockholm with a man-with one whose name, in later years, will be discussed exactly as you heard Anatole France and John Galsworthy discussed today.’

‘Well, hardly-it’s flattering, but not the same.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘I may be the Eucken or Bunin of the Nobel roll call. Just as all our Presidents were not Lincoln. Some were Polk and Pierce.’

‘I think not.’

‘You don’t know a thing about me, Miss Stratman.’

She swerved towards him on the bench. ‘How is one transformed from Emily to Miss Stratman overnight?’

‘By the wondrous sorcery of sobriety.’

‘I see. Well, wet or dry, I’m still Emily.’

‘In that case-I’m Andrew.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘That’s hard for me. It would have to be Mr. Craig for quite a while. After that, the next step would be-well, dropping Mr. Craig, and not using your name at all-the transition-and then long after, maybe your first name. But we have only a week.’

‘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 gr"onsallad 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 "ore (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 given 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 H"ortorget 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-"ore 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 waitress set the martinis before them, and Craig said, ‘Skal,’ and sipped the drink slowly, determined to have no more than one.

‘Did your wife come here with you?’ Emily asked.

‘Oh, yes. She loved it, naturally. But one visit was enough. She wasn’t an on-the-town type. Are you?’

‘Heavens, no.’

‘I didn’t think so. I’m not, either. But Harriet liked to collect quaint restaurants. She liked to go once, and that was it. When she was a student at Columbia, she lived in Greenwich Village a while. I don’t believe she ever got over it. Whenever we went into a city, she would try to find its Greenwich Village.’

‘How did she like living in a small town?’

‘Very much. But had she lived, I don’t think we would have stayed there. She was a homebody, but always at civil war with her arty side. She was satisfied to stay inside, if she knew Greenwich Village was available somewhere outside.’

‘And you?’ asked Emily.

‘I’m not Greenwich Village at all. I was headed in that direction once- Taos, I thought, or Monterey -but I was saved in the nick of time. In those days, I wanted to write, not talk about it. No, I’m not Bohemia. I’m grass roots. What are you, Emily?’

She revolved her drink slowly in her hand. ‘I’m wherever I am. I merge with the landscape. What is outside doesn’t matter, because I live inside myself.’

‘Are you satisfied?’

‘Who is ever satisfied? I’m content. I manage.’

‘That’s a big thing,’ said Craig. ‘That’s a kind of peace.’

‘So is dying, I suppose. Don’t envy me. I’m a vegetable. Can you envy a vegetable?’

He smiled. ‘Yes, I can.’ Suddenly, he could not allow last night’s lie about his way of life remain a deceit. ‘You see, I don’t even have a vegetable’s peace. At least, not recently. Last night, before the banquet, you wanted to know how I lived, and I wanted to impress you. I gave you the country squire routine. Not true, I’m afraid.’

‘What is true, Andrew?’

‘Well, no laments, no dirges, on a night like this, in a happy place with a pretty girl. But-’

He hesitated and then was silent.

‘I want to know,’ she said.

‘For three years, I haven’t worked and haven’t lived. Until this trip, I haven’t been fifty miles out of Miller’s Dam. I haven’t gone back to recreations, haven’t had a date, haven’t written so much as a letter.’ As he spoke, he automatically expurgated the drinking and the suicidal guilts. ‘I wake up and don’t know the day or the weather or if there is a bird or flower left alive. I go through each day eating Leah’s cooking, and holding books I don’t read, and playing cards with Lucius Mack, and falling asleep. At least, a vegetable grows. I’m a fossil.’

‘Is it all your wife?’

‘It used to be. I’m not so sure of that any more. I haven’t thought of her too much in the last year. But the inertia remains. Well, at least until today. I felt alive, today, and growing again. I think I mean that as a compliment to you.’

Emily was shy, but not coy, and she said simply, ‘Thank you, Andrew.’

‘I know I chattered on a good deal about her and us and our honeymoon today. But it wasn’t longing that inspired my monologue. It was being alive, in the streets, with a woman again, someone before whom I wanted to perform as a man, and I found I could discuss the past quite naturally. What started all this outpouring?’

‘You envied a vegetable.’ She paused and examined her drink. ‘Don’t. Because I lied to you, too, last night, with my usual surface fairy tale. All the big people coming and going, myself the ravishing hostess, the glamorous dates in Atlanta. None of that is true. All that exists to be had, but I don’t have it. I exile myself to my bedroom. I drug myself with my books. Except for Uncle Max, I’m alone.’

‘How can that be? A girl like you-I would imagine a hundred suitors beating a path to your door.’

‘Not a hundred, but some. I won’t deny that. I’ve let them know I’m not available. I do not choose to run.’

‘Don’t you want a husband, children, a home of your own?’

‘I want children and a home of my own.’

‘I see.’ He finished his drink and regarded her thoughtfully. ‘You let me speak of my loss. What about yours?’

‘You mean my mother and father? That’s so long ago-’

‘Is it?’

She stared at him. ‘No, it isn’t. My mother was wearing a faded green cotton dress that day. It had been mended a hundred times. And she always kept it clean. I was asleep in the barracks-it was dawn-and she leaned over and kissed me, and I saw she was wearing the green dress. “Emmy,” she said, “the Commandant wants to see me. Maybe it will be good news. I will wake you when I come back.” She never came back. They put her on the cattle car for Auschwitz. My father was in Berlin with Uncle Max. I’d forgotten his face by then-except his funny nose-he and Uncle Max had twin noses, like two tulip bulbs-but aside from that, I could remember nothing but the smell of the lotion he wore after shaving and an expression of endearment he had always used when we played together-and so, after my mother went, I was alone. It was like being a child and waking up suddenly to find the house empty and dark.’

Craig was silent, for there was nothing to say.

She glanced about the room absently and then looked at Craig. ‘When Uncle Max brought me to America,’ she said, ‘I made up my mind that I was just born and had come from nowhere. I never spoke German again, or read it, or even thought in German. I extinguished it through sheer willpower from my life. To this day, I won’t read a book by a German author or buy a product made in Germany. If this award had not been so important to Uncle Max, I would not have made this trip with him-because Sweden is so near to Germany. Being here, a few hours away, I can’t tell you how it makes me feel. It makes me vengeful-and it makes me afraid-both, at the same time. Why am I vengeful? Who is there any longer to punish? Why am I afraid? Don’t I have a United States passport? But anyway, there it is. And now, I have talked too much. Let us put away the past and speak of the present.’ She tried to smile. ‘I had a happy day today, Andrew. I’m grateful. I don’t think I’ll ever forget Stockholm.’

‘I don’t think I will, either,’ he said. ‘Let’s wait and see.’

It was almost eleven o’clock in the evening when Craig returned to his Grand Hotel suite.

The spell of the evening, of Emily’s allurement, was still upon him. Their dinner at Den Gyldene Freden had stretched lazily over three hours. There had been comfortable talk and comfortable silences. They had discussed the better parts of their pasts, and dreams and desires half forgotten, and, several times, they had timorously made mention of their separate futures. All through dinner, the cellar had filled with customers, and when dinner was over, encouraged by the lute player, they had blended their voices with a hundred others, humming melodies that were international.

Afterwards, they had promenaded through the Old Town, and when it became too cold, they had made their way more quickly over the bridge that led them to the Grand Hotel. Although they had been close all the evening, Craig deliberately took no advantage of it when they reached the door of the Stratman suite. He was not sure what Emily expected, but the first experience with her and a sure instinct told him that she would be apprehensive. As she put the key in the door and opened it, his demeanour changed to one of friendly formality. He had said that he hoped he could see her tomorrow, and she had replied that she hoped so, too, although she did not know what her uncle’s schedule would be. She had extended her hand, thanking him for their sightseeing and the dinner, and he had taken her cool fingers and palm, thanking her for her company. And then, swiftly, he had departed.

Now, entering his suite-their suite, he remembered, and this brought Leah back into his life-he saw that the entry hall was lit, but the sitting-room darkened except for a single lamp. Leah was nowhere to be seen, and he guessed that she had retired. He went to her bedroom door, to observe if the crack below showed light, but he could not tell. He was tempted to knock, to reassure her that he was home safe and proudly sober. But he resisted the temptation. He was no little boy who must parade virtue and observance of curfew before Mother. He owed Leah none of this. Moreover, his appearance at this hour-had not Stratman warned him that Leah had been irritated by his flight with Emily?-might only bring on a scene. He wanted no scene. He wanted no defect in an almost perfect day.

Stealthily, he tiptoed across the carpeted sitting-room, held aside the drawn drapes, and entered his bedroom alcove. The soothing yellow light on the bedstand showed the bed neatly turned down, and his pyjamas folded and lying across the blanket. He wondered, briefly, if the floor maid or Leah had prepared this.

He was as peacefully tired as he had been in the long-ago morning, after he had left Lilly’s apartment. The bed would be welcome. He would lie in it, and review the day, not his past but the day, and eventually, he would rest without a drop of Scotch. He considered writing a short victory note to Lucius, but realized that he would be home almost as soon as the note, and he decided that he would relax in a warm bath instead.

After undressing, he took up his pyjamas, turned off the bedroom lamp, and went into the bathroom. He closed the door softly, and then drew the water, adjusting the taps until the water was exactly right. At last, he immersed himself in the water, not washing, merely soaking, sometimes splashing and rubbing the water over his face, shoulders, and chest.

His writer’s mind fastened on the day, and outlined its wonders in specific categories. The major elements of the day had been Lilly Hedqvist, the Swedish Academy, Emily Stratman. Each had served him with the stuff of life. His writer’s mind went on-the anatomical categories-Lilly had served his torso below the waist, the Academy had served his head, Emily had served his heart-but that wasn’t quite it, and he continued to refine the categories. Lilly had given him sexual release and comfort, and knowledge that he was worthy of love and was not alone. Jacobsson had restored his pride in his work and past, and had given him a solid sense of achievement. Emily had offered him a romantic hope for the future, a vision of normality, a goal for living. And together, unwittingly, all had combined to prove to him that he might survive a day unaided by drink or drug.

After he had dried himself, and pulled on the bottom half of his pyjamas, he was ready for sleep.

He opened the bathroom door, flipping off the bathroom light, padded into the bedroom, sat on the bed, and stretched his bare arms, yawning.

In the dark, he lifted the blanket, and eased himself under it, and then squirmed to the centre of the bed. Suddenly, as he moved, his leg and hand touched a solid object. At once, he knew that it was heated flesh and bone-a human body.

His heart leaped to his throat, throbbing uncontrollably at the surprise and shock of this presence.

‘Who is it?’ he gasped in a strangled voice.

There was no reply, and then there was a reply, almost inaudible. ‘It’s me.’

The voice was Leah Decker’s voice.

He lifted himself to an elbow, waiting for the thump of his heart to lessen and his incredulity to recede.

‘Lee?’ he whispered.

‘It’s me,’ she repeated.

‘What in the devil are you doing here?’ He had recovered his wits. ‘Let me put on the light.’

He sat up in the bed to grope for the lamp, but quickly she rose in the darkness beside him and fell across his chest, fumbling for his outstretched arm. ‘No, Andrew!’ she cried. ‘Don’t, please don’t-’

He was pressed back against the headboard by her body, and felt the weight of her loose pendulous breasts, flaccid and milky, against his eyes and mouth. Their enormousness and sag confounded him, for they had always been bound tight and flat, in the Japanese manner, inside her dresses, and he had never imagined them released. Her hair was undone, he knew, for he felt its mass brushing his forehead as she tried to recover balance. For a moment, she tottered over him, and he smelt the whisky on her breath. Before she could fall on top of him, he reached up in the darkness to help her, gripping her ribs so that his hands were enfolded beneath the swinging breasts. He pushed her across to her side of the bed, and felt her convulsive movement as she slid beneath the blanket.

‘Lee, for Chrissakes, are you drunk or what?’

‘I am not drunk,’ she replied in a shaking voice. ‘I-I had some drinks, because I needed courage, but I am not drunk.’ She paused. ‘Andrew, I have nothing on. I’m naked.’

‘I know you’re naked,’ he said with distress.

‘Andrew, don’t talk, please don’t talk, don’t say a word. Let’s not spoil it. Listen to me. Are you listening?’ She went on breathlessly. ‘You know how hard this is for me. It’s taken me three years to get up the nerve. I know it was wrong of me to be so prim. I couldn’t change my nature, much as I knew you needed me. But since we got here-seeing what’s happening to you, knowing the crisis you face-I made up my mind-I made up my mind tonight-I must think of you-it’s the right thing-’

‘Lee-’

‘Don’t worry about me, Andrew. It’s the right thing, I’m positive now. It’s what Harriet would have wanted. You’re the important one. I’ve found my role in life-it’s to make you happy.’

‘Lee, I’m-I don’t know what to say-’

She was not listening, so intent was she. ‘I’m throwing off the blanket, Andrew. I’m naked. You can come here. You can do it. You can show me what to do. I’ve never done it in my life, Andrew. You won’t believe it, but you’re the first. No man’s ever touched me that way. But you can. Now I’m ready.’

He lay back against the headboard, dazed. The darkness had dissipated, now that he was used to it, and the lone sitting-room lamp behind the drapes lightened the room enough, so that he could distinguish the lines of her, the silhouette of her body, on the bed.

He sat up again to speak to her, but she mistook his rise for the complementing passion, and immediately, she extended her legs so that one touched his own.

‘Lee, wait,’ he said. And then he said, ‘Tell me why you’re doing this. In bed, there’s no dishonesty. Be truthful. Do you need it? Is that what you want?’

He heard the intake of her breath, and the horrified tone of her reply. ‘What a thing to say, Andrew! What do you think I am-a nymphomaniac? Of course, I don’t need it. You know better. Women don’t need it. But I know about men, and you’re a man. I came here to make you happy the best way a woman can.’

‘Lee, you’ve got it all mixed up. I am happy. You don’t have to be a sacrificial lamb. You don’t have to offer your body to make me happy. I wouldn’t do that to you.’

‘Let’s not talk, Andrew. I know you’re embarrassed. You don’t want to feel you’re taking advantage of our relationship. I promise you, I won’t think so. But I’ve seen you drinking yourself to death. I’ve seen your misery. No one has seen it as I have seen it. And, here, you seem to be worse than ever-doing strange things-going off by yourself-and starting to look at women-I can see the way you look at them-and then it all came to me-that I’d been a fool-that you were too sensitive to tell me your need. And I thought-I kept thinking-what would Harriet want of me-and I knew that she would approve, she would be the first to call down and say help him, Leah, save him, make him happy and normal. And that’s all I want to do, Andrew. It’s no sacrifice for me. You know how I feel about you. It would be good. And I’m glad, I’m really glad I saved it for you. And tonight won’t be the only night, so don’t worry about that. This is not an impulse. I’ve thought it out. We’ll be gone from here soon, and you’ll have me always there, and you don’t have to worry and have tensions. I’ll be there, and you don’t have to drink any more or be a celibate. You can have pleasure again and be your old self again. Don’t make me talk any more, Andrew, please-’

‘Oh, Christ, Lee, listen.’

‘-because that’s not the way I planned it. I only had the drinks to get up my nerve, and because I was worried I wouldn’t please you, because I’m not Harriet, and I’ve never slept with a man. But I’ll be good, you’ll see. Just have patience, and show me, and don’t hurt me-but even if you do-I don’t care.’ Her voice became smaller, and now it caught. ‘You can take me now, Andrew.’

‘Goddamit, Lee, no. Goddamit, I won’t take you, I can’t.’ He was furious with the predicament in which she had placed him. ‘I don’t want intercourse with you-or maybe I do, I don’t know-but even if I did, I wouldn’t.’

Agitated, he swung off the bed, felt under the lamp, and turned on the light. He stood beside the bed, in his rumpled pyjama trousers, hitching them up, ashamed to have to see her here. Her head, her free hair matted, was on the pillow, and now averted from the light. Her hands knotted tightly on the blanket top, pulling it to her neck.

‘What are you doing?’ she groaned. ‘Turn off the light.’

‘I won’t. I don’t trust myself in the dark. I am a human being.’

She kept her face averted. ‘Then why are you scared?’

He knew that this rejection was terrible, and so he softened towards her, made the fault his own. ‘I don’t want your pity, Lee. This-it’s not good for us. Can’t you understand, Lee? It’s nothing for a man. It’s easy for a man. It would have been pleasurable for me. You’re an attractive woman. I mean that. I think you may even be a passionate woman. But what would be the point? You’re not on earth to accommodate me-to be my bondmaid. I’m not that selfish. That’s all it would be. I could never promise you more or offer you more. So it would be wrong for me to be the first, unless you needed it. That would be another matter. But you don’t. You say you don’t. And if you haven’t up to now, I think you should wait until it means something more, until you have someone. There’s that nice fellow in Chicago-Beazley-Harry Beazley-it would mean something with him. It would mean a whole life for you. But you know me. I can promise you nothing-not love-not even affection. And marriage-I can’t think of marriage. I just won’t have it with you this way. Now, let’s not think of it or speak of it again. Let’s just go on as we have.’

For the first time, she turned her face to him. Her thin lips quivered. ‘Go into the other room,’ she said in a cold, expressionless voice, ‘until I’m decent.’

He retreated awkwardly through the drapes, and then pulled them chastely across so that they covered every inch of the bedroom entrance. Moving to the coffee table, he found a packet of Leah’s cigarettes and took one and lit it. His hand shook, as he held the cigarette, and he could not remember when, since Harriet’s death, he had been more dismayed.

He listened to the creaking of the bed, as she got up to dress, and he paced back and forth across the sitting-room.

Presently, the drape was flung aside, and Leah appeared. She wore a flannel bathrobe over her nightgown, and slippers. Her hair was long, but combed. Her face was composed, but glacial.

She advanced towards him without shame or timidity. He read her attitude at once. Her every movement spoke her thought. She was saying: I am blameless, the fault is your fault. She was saying: I offered, in all charity and kindness, to save you from yourself, and you rebuffed me. She was saying: the Lord will punish you, not me, for I am the handmaid whose name is Hagar.

Against fanatic righteousness, Craig knew that he was helpless.

‘I’ve listened to your pack of lies,’ Leah began stridently, ‘and I just want you to know you’re not pulling the wool over my eyes.’

‘Now, what does that mean?’

‘It means I see through you, better than anyone on earth. All that holy talk about thinking of me, about saving me for someone else, about not wanting to hurt me. I know the truth. I suspected it, but now I know it.’

‘Maybe you’ll let me in on your secret.’

‘You didn’t need my love, which is clean and decent, because you’ve been getting too much these last couple of days from that little Nazi whore-bitch from Atlanta!’

‘Leah!’

‘I could see it from the first minute she set eyes on you. She put her hooks in you fast. She gave you what you needed fast. She’s got one Nobel winner in the family, but that’s not enough. Now, she wants two. She saw you were weak-any experienced woman could tell that-and she played on your weakness, and now she’s got you, and that’s what is wrong. Andrew, Andrew, you’re such a guileless fool!’

He tried to repress his anger, for he knew her hurt, but it was impossible. ‘You’re the fool, Lee, if that’s what you believe,’ he said quietly. ‘Emily Stratman is as much a virgin as you are.’

‘I see, you know that. You found out?’

‘Dammit, Lee, shut up. She’s attractive, of course, and I’m not a eunuch. You bet your life I tried to make time with her. I didn’t get to first base. I haven’t touched her. I haven’t even kissed her.’

‘You were with her all day.’

‘So I was with her. So what? I was sick of the tour, and I wanted to be on my own-I told you that this noon-and she had some shopping to do, and I wanted companionship, and we went walking. That’s all. Is that wrong?’

Leah had listened, and her outrage was spent and her jealousy relieved and she saw a new hope. ‘If it’s true, it’s not wrong, and I’m sorry.’

‘It’s true, and I swear it. And everything I told you in the bedroom is true, also.’

‘You said we wouldn’t discuss that.’

‘All right.’

There was nothing more to argue about, but Leah was not ready to go. ‘I-I suppose you have to know other women besides me. Especially now that you’re famous. But what you see in a German foreigner-’

‘She’s an American, Lee.’

‘Whatever she is, I don’t care. What you can find in common with a perfect stranger-’

‘Harriet was a stranger before I met her. And so were you. And so is everyone to everyone, until they communicate. Miss Stratman and I simply walked and talked about nothing important-I showed her some of the places in Stockholm where Harriet and I had been-’

‘You did that?’ It was as if he had been an infidel who had violated Mecca. Again, Leah’s displeasure was evident. ‘You mentioned Harriet to her?’

‘Of course. Why not? I told her about Harriet and our life, certainly.’

‘How could you? It’s improper. You never talk to me about Harriet and you. How can you do that with someone you’ve only known for two days?’

‘Maybe because I only knew her two days. You’re Harriet’s sister. That makes it difficult.’

Leah pursed her lips tightly. ‘I don’t know what’s going to become of you, I really don’t. You’re simply acting without restraint in every way. You’re getting worse all the time. I can see what’s ahead for us. Drinking and more drinking, and now, added to that, strange women, with all your pitiful confessions, embarrassing both of us by pouring all your troubles into everyone’s ears. You can’t do that, Andrew, not now-now that the entire world knows you-now that you’re a Nobel winner. What would people think if they knew you killed your wife? What if it got out? I suppose you got drunk and told that to the Stratman girl? Did you?’

It was almost as if Craig had known from the beginning, from the moment of his rejection of Leah, that the blow would fall again, as it always had when he displeased her. It was the one blow that could bring him to his knees. Against it he had no shield. And now, inevitable as death, it had fallen, and he was once more defeated. He hated the past, that had provided her with the ultimate weapon and had left him disarmed.

‘You don’t have to worry,’ he said, suddenly tired. ‘I didn’t tell her about the accident.’

‘Thank God for that much restraint,’ she said. ‘The accident-as you call it-is in the family. That’s what worries me about your drinking. And seeing strange women. If you need the company of women, and you-you have too much respect for me-I wouldn’t care if you went to a prostitute once in a while. At least, you wouldn’t talk too much to them. It’s the ordinary girls that I worry about, the ambitious ones who worm their way into your confidence. Keep that in mind the next time you see the Stratman girl. In the end, I trust your commonsense, Andrew. You have a new position to maintain now, and a new future, and if you think of Harriet once in a while, and remember that I’m your best friend in the world, you won’t ruin it or yourself. I think we understand each other, don’t we?’

‘Yes, Lee.’

‘I was upset by your behaviour in the bedroom,’ she said briskly, again self-assured and in full control. ‘I was going to move out of this suite, even go home, and just leave you. Now I see that would be wrong of me. You need me for a rudder. So you needn’t worry. I’ll stay. You can depend on me. Good night, Andrew.’

‘Good night, Lee.’

She went into her bedroom, and he shuffled slowly into his. With distaste, he viewed the mauled bed, the heavy impressions on both pillows. He knelt beside the overnight case, unlocked it, and removed a bottle of Scotch. In the bathroom, he took one of the two empty glasses, then came back into the bedroom, filling the glass as he walked.

He settled into the easy chair, and he drank deeply, and when the glass was empty, he immediately filled it a second time, and drank again.

The almost perfect day had become one more day of disaster, and Leah, in her misguided, stupid desire to help him, had been the instigator of the calamity. Yet he was uncertain of one point. He asked himself a question: had Leah, with her rigid naked body, sincerely set out to help him? He asked another question: or had Leah, consciously or unconsciously set out to help herself, herself alone? Now, Hamlet, Horatio, whoever, that was the question-or, rather, the questions.

Craig gulped down the liquid, which no longer stung, and relaxed in the chair as the saviour fluid coursed through his veins and numbered his tormented brain.

The questions and now the answers. His writer’s mind wrote the story, the deductive story, on paperless air. The words floated…

Under the influence of whisky, an author accidentally kills his wife. Unofficial manslaughter. The wife’s sister comes into the house to care for the widower. The sister has a fianc'e, but her obligation to her adored relative’s memory makes her sacrifice her own life plan. Then, overnight, the author is catapulted into renown and invited to make a trip, and the sister accompanies him. To her dismay, her ward, the author, is exposed to the outer world and the charms of a beautiful, chaste girl of German descent. The sister sees her selfless good works threatened by another. She must protect her ailing author for the one he had sent to the grave. It is her sacred duty. She must accomplish this at any cost, in a single stroke, a stroke that will bind his guilts to her forgiveness forever. She offers her body-so na"ively, so rooted in the old belief that sexual intercourse must lead to marriage (for Harriet, for Harriet)-and she is sure this will carry the day, and she will possess him and hold him in thraldom (for Harriet, for Harriet). But he has come alive, and is alert, and retreats from the tendrils and palpi of the Madagascar man-eating plant and is saved from the past. The end.

Was it the end? Or was it To Be Continued?

Craig finished the drink, and as he poured one more, his writer’s mind knew that his story was incomplete. Too many loose ends and no denouement. There would have to be another instalment, and perhaps even a rewrite of the first instalment. After all, was his story accurate? Had that been Leah’s hope and her plan? Suppose his perception was correct, and it was her plan. What then? The loose ends: the author was not yet saved, for if he had repulsed the sister once, he was still the slave of their secret and the ugly guilt. The loose ends, add: the sister was still an unpredictable threat, for she was a woman scorned. Didn’t women scorned always do something? They surely did, for if they didn’t, half the libraries of the earth would be devoid of novels. And the denouement? Craig could not imagine it. His writer’s mind had fogged. The future was impenetrable.

A sense of uneasiness pervaded Craig, overcoming even the settling effects of the alcohol.

Perhaps he had Leah all wrong, and he was at fault. Maybe he did owe Harriet’s memory, and his debt to her, a final payment through her younger sister. She had wanted that payment in bed, in bed without end, and if he made it, he might be free inside. His thick logic dissolved into fantasy. What would the payment be like? He had felt the contact of those ample breasts, and observed the mound under the blanket, and he wondered. And then he knew, he was positive that he knew, and that he could write it as D. H. Lawrence might write it or Henry Miller or John Cleland. His writer’s mind tried and tried but couldn’t rise above the layer of intoxication. But Craig knew, nevertheless. If he came out of his chair now, and crossed the sitting-room, and rapped on her door, and went inside her bedroom, she would be waiting and as ready as before. He would kiss her lips, and she would respond, and she would yield to him fully. It would be onerous, and she would be lifeless as a marble statue, with no resilience, with no rhythm, with no giving, and yet it would be physically pleasurable for him and mentally pleasurable for her. And that would create the mould into which they would both be locked for life. Later, she would be more mechanically giving, and with security, more doughy in her flesh offering, and she would perform as dutifully on the mattress as over the stove, in return for his name on their mail and her name in the dedications of his books. They could live forever, thus, the three of them-he, and Leah, and Harriet. His body would be fettered, but his conscience would be clear. That was the dismal payment.

Should he make it?

He finished his drink, and this was the moment. He had but to rise and go to her, and the battles were done. With wavering aim, he poured whisky into the glass until it came to the top.

Unexpectedly, his almost perfect day floated before him. Lilly. The Swedish Academy. Emily.

Suddenly, he thought, to hell with conscience, and the consequences of a woman scorned. He could always cross the sitting-room to that other bed. He would have another day, another day or two, without commitment. He would take his chances. He would see what the second instalment brought.

He was drunk, and the room was a ferris wheel. He lowered the glass to the floor, and slumped back into the chair.

Jesus, what confusion.

He let his drowning brain have a life of its own. Go ahead, brain. His brain offered him an Irish gravestone epitaph, somewhere read, somewhere seen. He accepted it with cynical joy. It would be Andrew Craig’s epitaph this night of reburial:

Here lies the body of John Mound

Lost at sea and never found.