‘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, ‘Skål,’ 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 wak
ing 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 th
ing, 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—’
(1961) The Prize Page 43