Irving Wallace - The Prize

He hardly heard her, so intent was he on her face. ‘I know who you look like,’ he said suddenly. ‘I knew I’d seen you before.’

‘Who?’

‘There was an oil painting by Anders Zorn. I saw it in Stockholm the last time. A young girl standing on a rocky ledge-she is nude-her golden hair, reddish actually, is blown from behind so that it is in her face-absolute repose as she stands looking over a blue river-’

‘Maybe I posed for it,’ she said teasingly.

‘I think you were only a gleam in your grandmother’s eye. Zorn painted it in 1904. Do you like Zorn?’

‘I have never heard of him,’ she said simply.

An earth nymph, he thought, an apparition of the present, no past, no burden of history and knowing, an unageing sprite. His own bondage to his history made him ache in envy of her.

He realized that the motor-coach had stopped, and that the passengers ahead were filing out of the doors.

‘Strøget,’ she said. ‘It is the main street. It is not a regular visit, but fifteen minutes to shop for souvenirs.’

She stood up, patting her pleated skirt. He rose above her.

‘Do you want souvenirs?’ he asked.

‘Not specially.’

‘Have a drink with me.’

She considered him, her expression solemn. ‘You will be drunk.’

‘Yes, I will.’

‘It is important to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why do you wish my company?’

There were several answers to this, several dishonest, and several honest and flattering. ‘I drink more slowly in company,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘It is the best reason you could give.’ She emerged from the seats, and smiled up at him. ‘Very well.’ She preceded him into Strøget.

They walked side by side through the busy street, bumping and pushing past shoppers, until they emerged into a vast, vehicle-crowded square, and this was Raadhuspladsen.

She pointed across his chest. ‘Over there is the Palace Hotel. It is where my friends and I had drinks the first night. It is comfortable.’

‘The Palace Hotel it is, then.’

They made their way slowly, for a block, and tehn went inside the Palace foyer. Craig had the impression of an old, aristocratic place, quiet and undemanding, and he was pleased with her taste.

‘There is the Winter Garden,’ she was saying, ‘or a nice friendly room in there to the left.’

‘What do you prefer?’

‘The friendly one.’

They passed through an outer room, and into the bar, staid, aged wood and grave, a retreat where you think of roaring fire-places, and they were led to a booth secreted behind a pillar, and there they sat across from each other.

She had what he had, except that she had one single and he had two doubles, and he had not failed his cycle, after all.

Half an hour had passed when he glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve missed the motor-coach, you know.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Won’t your friends be worried?’

‘Why? I am not a child.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-three.’

‘I don’t suppose you’re married?’

‘No. Are you?’

He saw her glass was empty, and summoned the waiter, ordering a single Scotch for her and a double for himself.

‘I was married,’ he said, finally. It was less difficult when he was becoming drunk. ‘She died-was killed-three years ago. It was a car accident. I was driving. I’d been drinking. I suppose you could say it was my fault.’

‘No one kills anyone like that. It was an accident.’

‘It was raining. I couldn’t control the car.’

‘It was an accident,’ she repeated.

He nodded, befuddled by the drinks. ‘Are you sure you won’t miss the sight-seeing tour?’

‘I told you I dislike cathedrals. I like to do things.’

‘This isn’t exactly winter sports.’

She smiled. ‘Just as exhilarating.’

The drinks were served, and when Craig took his, he ordered another double to follow quickly.

‘I’m almost forty,’ he said.

‘ “Almost” means you are thirty-nine. Why do you not say are thirty-nine?’

‘I feel like forty-fifty-sixty. All right, I’m thirty-nine. Why are you with someone who is thirty-nine? That’s like sight-seeing, visiting an old historic place.’

‘You are funny.’

‘Why did you come with me? Are you playing mother-sorry for me?’

‘Why should I be sorry for you?’

‘I dunno. Why’d you come?’

‘I find it is fun to be with you. I like fun, and so I am here.’

This evaluation of himself-fun giver-was beyond Craig’s power to grasp or believe.

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘Kidding? Oh-like joking? No. Why do you hold yourself so low?’

‘Do I? Yes, I do. You’re good for me. I should wear you like a charm.’ He held up the remnants of his drink, and the new drink arrived. ‘What do they say in your country-?’

‘ Skål .’

‘ Skål to you.’

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

‘What is the time?’ she asked.

‘Fourish.’

‘I must return to my hotel. I have not packed. I go back to Stockholm tonight.’

‘I will take you.’ He downed his drink, and paid the waiter, and held on to her arm as they made their way through the hotel and outdoors.

In the taxi, she said, ‘How do you feel?’

‘Drunk. Good. Drunk and good, and good and sleepy.’

‘I am happy. I will leave you at your hotel first. What is it?’

‘No, thass not right. Awright. Tre somethin’-Falke.’

The taxi was reckless, and fast, and in less than twenty minutes they drew up before the Tre Falke Hotel.

‘Won’ you come in?’ he asked thickly.

‘No. I want you to rest.’

‘Yes.’

He stepped out of the taxi, aided by the doorman, and then freed himself, and came back to the open door.

‘What is your name?’ he inquired meticulously.

‘Lilly Hedqvist.’

‘What?’

‘Lilly.’

‘I’m Andrews-Andrews-Andrew Craig-C, R, A, I, G-Craig.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr. Craig.’

‘Pleased, too.’

Only after she had been driven off did he remember that he had not paid for the taxi, for himself or for her, and he did not know her hotel and could not remember her name, except Lilly.

He walked stiffly to the elevator, and inside punched the sixth-floor button. When the elevator opened, he found the room, the key in his pocket, opened and closed the door. He pulled off his trench coat, and suit jacket, felt his way to the divan, yanked off his shoes, and dropped back on the bed into wondrous oblivion.

How long he slept he did not know-it was more than three and a half hours, he would later learn-but the first consciousness he had was that of being shaken by someone. He opened his eyes, and above him the face was Leah’s.

‘Are you all right?’ she was asking anxiously.

His mouth was dry again, and his eyes were being pinched by something behind them. He felt all right.

‘I’m fine,’ he said, and he sat up.

‘You’ve slept nine hours. Do you know where you are?’

‘Of course I know. I got up to go to the bathroom and found your note.’

‘It’s almost eight. The train leaves at seven minutes past nine. Mr. Gates is going to drive us. Do you want a sandwich?’

‘No.’

She looked at him wearily. ‘How you abuse yourself. I had to change the reservation, you know.’

‘Thank you, Leah. I’d better clean up.’

They arrived at the hangarlike Central Railway Station with fifteen minutes to spare. Trailing their porter to the Nord Express, Craig halted briefly at a vendor’s white wagon to buy some peanuts and an American digest magazine. At their wagon-lit, a short, affable conductor, holding a clipboard, checked their names and took their passports.