Irving Wallace - The Prize

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 grönsallad 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 öre (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.