Donald Hamilton - The Wrecking Crew

She sounded enthusiastic and full of energy, as if she'd just got out of bed. She sounded as if this article really meant something to her. She was a hard kid to figure out.

"Yes," I said, "it was fine." We were outside my door now. I opened up and shoved the stuff I was carrying inside, and relieved her of her burdens. "Well, thanks for the helping hand. How about a drink?"

She shook her head. "No, thanks, and if you don't mind a little advice, you'd better not have one, either. We're due out for dinner in-" she glanced at her watch-"in twenty minutes, and unless you know your capacity and Swedish dinners better than I think you do, you won't want to get a head start. They won't serve us much in the way of cocktails, but that's about the only alcoholic beverage they'll skimp on in any way. So brace yourself, man, brace yourself."

"Yes, ma'am," I said meekly, and went in to clean myself up for the ordeal.

TIrE HOUSE was a large one, and looked pleasantly old-fashioned-two stories and a big attic, at a guess; no ranch houses or split levels here, thank you. We shook hands with the host and hostess, with a small son and daughter who bowed and curtsied prettily, and with a visiting fireman with the title of Direktцr, a title that was shared by our host, a lean man in his forties. In Sweden, I was catching on, everybody has a title, and if your name is Jones and you're in charge of the city pound, you'll be introduced everywhere as Chief Dogcatcher Jones. Women are, on the whole, exempt from this formality, so Lou remained Mrs. Taylor, but I became Journalist Helm.

"There is someone here who wishes much to meet you," said our hostess, a slender, gray-haired woman who had a little trouble with her English. "A guest from Stockholm. She was much interested when she heard we were entertaining a gentleman named Helm from America. She thinks you may be distantly related. Ah, here she comes now."

I looked around and saw a girl in a shiny blue dress coming down the stairs. My first impression was that she must have borrowed the dress from a very rich old maiden aunt. It had that look of magnificent quality and complete lack of style and suitability… As I say, the first thing I noticed was the frumpy, shiny dress. Then I saw that the kid was beautiful.

It's not a word I use lightly. It hasn't got anything to do with big bosoms and sexy rear ends, in my interpretation, nor even with pretty faces. Hollywood, for instance, is full of women you can bear to look at and wouldn't mind going to bed with. They even photograph fairly well. But they're not beautiful, and the very few who are spoil it by working too hard at it.

This girl wasn't working at all. She didn't do anything as she came down the stairs, she just came down the damn stairs. She hadn't put anything on her face you could notice except some lipstick, and that was the wrong color- that ghastly pale morgue-pink stuff-and it didn't make a damn bit of difference. She was beautiful, and that was all there was to it. It made you want to cry for all the women in the world who were striving so hard for it and would never achieve it.

She was in her early twenties, rather tall and by no means fragile: she had a nice, durable, well-put-together look. She wasn't even the kind of spectacular blonde you often get in that country. She had straight, light-brown hair that she didn't, apparently, pay much attention to except to brush it hard morning and night. It was long enough to reach her shoulders. She had blue eyes. What difference does it make? You can't add it up or analyze it. It's just there. I will admit that I might be slightly prejudiced. I'm a sucker for that heartbreaking young-and-innocent look, particularly in combination with a fair complexion, after all the years I've spent in a land of dark and sultry Spanish-American beauties who knew everything before they were born.

I had a chance to watch her a little longer as she was first introduced to Lou, three or four years older, and then had the visiting Director, a pompous middle-aged man-I never did learn what he was Director of-introduced to her. Then it was my turn.

"Elin, this is Journalist Helm, from America," our hostess said. "Herr Helm, FrOken von Hoffman." Frцken, as Lou would have hastened to explain, merely means "Miss" in Swedish.

The girl held out her hand. "Yes," she said, "I have been hoping to meet you, Herr Helm, since I learned in Stockholm you were in this country. We are related, you know. Very, very distant cousins, I think."

My parents had often talked about coming back here to visit relatives. I did have some, somewhere. This girl could be one. I wasn't going to disown her, that was for sure.

"I didn't know," I said, "but I certainly won't argue the point, Cousin Ellen."

"Elin," she said, smiling. "Ay-linn. I always have that difficulty with Englishmen and Americans. They always want to christen me Ellen or Elaine, but it really is Elin."

Then some more people came in, and she was borne away on a new tide of introductions and handshaking. There was none of the pre-food dawdling here that you get at home. Everybody being present at the appointed hour, our hostess barely gave us time to absorb the cocktails, so-called, that had been put into our hands-I think they were supposed to be Manhattans, God help them-then the dining-room doors were thrown open and we were introduced to the main business of the evening. It seemed on the whole like an improvement over spending two hours getting blotto while waiting for latecomers to make dramatic, breathless entrances with phony excuses.

Any previous liquor shortage was more than made up during the meal, as Lou had warned me it would be. There were beer and two different kinds of wine, and a promise of cognac to come. The table settings were awe-inspiring to a simple New Mexico boy, and for a while I was kept busy noticing who was eating what with what. It was quite a layout to have to tackle without a manual of instructions. My conversation therefore consisted of letting my hostess explain to me the Swedish art of toast-drinking: you look firmly into the eyes of the person you wish to honor, both parties drink, and then you look again before putting your glass down.

You're not, it seems, supposed to skдl your host and hostess, and you're supposed to wait for an older or more important man to take the initiative, after which you must soon return the courtesy, but any lady at the table except your hostess is fair game. In the old days, I was told, a lady could not propose a skdl-it would have been considered very forward of her-nor was it considered proper for her to drink without a social excuse, so an unpopular girl could perish of thirst with a full glass of wine in front of her.

Having learned all this, I put it to use. I picked up my glass and saluted the kid on the other side of me.

"Skdl, Cousin Elin," I said.

She looked me in the eyes, as custom demanded, and smiled. "Skdl, Cousin… Matthew? That is the same as our Matthias, is it not? Do you speak any Swedish at all?"

I shook my head. "I knew a few words when I was a boy, but I've forgotten most of them."

"That is too bad," she said. "I speak English very badly."

"Uhuh," I said. "Half the population of America should speak it as badly as you do. How did you happen to hear of me in Stockholm?"

She said, "It is very simple. You like to hunt, do you not? A man in Stockholm whose business is arranging hunts for foreigners called up old Overste Stjernhjelm at TorsAter-Overste means Colonel, you know. There is an Aighunt at TorsAter in a week or two. Torsдter is the family estate near Uppsala, one of our two big University towns, sixty kilometers north of Stockholm, about forty of your English miles. Aig, that is our Swedish moose, not as big as your Canadian variety-"