I felt sure John was also familiar with that gem of American literature. A plane ticket doesn’t measure up to a limousine, but Dorothy would have preferred it to a rose.
Rain sloshed at the window. I sneezed.
Sweden. The land of my ancestors. (Some of them, anyway.) Roots. Stockholm, the Venice of the North, its canals gleaming under a warm spring sun . . . No, there was too much water in that image. The stately palaces and quaint old streets of Stockholm shining in the warm spring sun . . . As I contemplated the mental picture, the sun shone brighter and brighter. I would use that ticket. And when John showed up, I would spit right in his baby-blue eyes. The Paris hotel bill had set me back almost two hundred bucks.
I looked into the bottom of the box, hoping for something else that had actual cash value – a cheque (though it would probably bounce) or some trinket stolen from a museum, such as a diamond necklace (though it would undoubtedly be a fake). There was something else in the box – a single sheet of paper. Printed on it, in the same hand as the address on the package, were two words. And these were they: WIELANDIA FABRICA.
I sat staring at the paper for so long that Caesar thought I had passed out and began nervously licking my feet to restore me to consciousness. The only thing that will distract Caesar from this activity, which he enjoys for its own sake, is a bone. I went and got him one, blundering into doorframes and furniture because my eyes were glued to that exasperating message.
I knew what it meant, of course. In case you don’t, I will tell you, because it isn’t fair to plant clues based on esoteric knowledge. The explicit translation of the phrase should be obvious to anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of Latin – ‘Wayland’s work.’ But, you ask, who was Wayland?
I first encountered him as Wayland the Smith, in
Scandinavia, fabled goldsmith, jewel thief . . . It made an odorous little syllogism, as neat and as crazy as one of Lewis Carroll’s exercises in logic. John was on the track of a Viking treasure. Or rather, that is what John wanted me to believe. I didn’t believe it. If he really intended to commit grand theft, I was the last person to whom he would broadcast his intentions. The message was just a lure, a juicy chunk of bait – and a fairly ingenious one. My interest was definitely aroused.
I checked the travel folder again. The plane ticket was one-way, the cheapest tourist class. The hotel room had not been paid for in advance, only confirmed. Now I knew I was going to Stockholm, if only for the pleasure of telling that skinflint what I thought of him and his cut-rate romantic gestures.
Schmidt protested volubly when I told him I was taking my vacation. He didn’t object to the short notice, like any normal boss. The thing that bothered him was that he would miss his weekly instalment of the dirty book I was writing. I had been working on the damned thing for three years. It began as a semi-serious attempt to make some money, but it had become a joke; the manuscript already filled two big cartons, and no end was in sight. I could have wound it up at any point; one merely needs to decide how many times the heroine has to be abducted and assaulted before satiety sets in. But Schmidt was hopelessly hooked on Rosanna’s adventures. I kept feeding him chapters like Scheherazade with the sultan.
‘But she is hiding in the broom closet while the Huns search the house,’ he exclaimed. ‘How will she escape? Did not Attila remark, at the end of chapter four hundred and twenty, “We have not looked in the broom closet”? This time, surely . . .’
‘She won’t be raped,’ I said. ‘It’s against my principles to allow a heroine to be raped.’
‘What of that night in the perfumed, silk-swathed tent of the Emir Ahmed?’
‘That was not rape.’
‘Ah, so,’ said Schmidt, like Fu Manchu.
‘You’ll just have to wait, Schmidt. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks.’
‘Could you not give me a small hint?’
I couldn’t. I never know myself what Rosanna is going to do until I sit down at the typewriter. ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘The new Valerie Valentine is out – it’s called
‘She is good, but not as good as you,’ Schmidt said. ‘She has not your imagination.’
He gave me one of his pouts – an elderly baby yearning for his bottle. I shook my head. Schmidt sighed.
‘Oh, very well. I hope you enjoy yourself.’
‘So do I,’ I said grimly.
‘The land of your ancestors,’ Schmidt mused. ‘Seeking out your roots – yes, it is very romantic. You will stay at the Grand?’
‘Fat chance. It’s too expensive.’
‘But you must stay there. It is very romantic. And very convenient.’
He meant it was convenient for him. He’d know how to find me if he started to suffer from withdrawal symptoms. It was a tempting idea, though. The Grand is almost as romantic as Schmidt thinks it is, one of the famous old hotels of Europe. And – needless to say – it was not the hotel where John had booked a room for me.
‘Yes,’ Schmidt insisted. ‘You will stay at the Grand. The manager is an acquaintance of mine. I will telephone at once.’
Oh, well, I thought. Why not? In for a penny, in for a few thousand kronor. I could always move to a cheaper place if I ran short of cash.
It was raining what else? – the day I left, after depositing Caesar at a hideously expensive kennel. It was – of course – also raining in Stockholm. The plane glided down through soupy grey clouds into a landscape so shrouded in mist I couldn’t see a thing. Resignedly I struggled into the raincoat I had brought in the hope that I wouldn’t need it.
I had decided to use the plane reservation. I doubted that John would meet me at the airport; he was conceited enough to assume I would trot obediently to the hotel he had selected and sit with folded hands until he condescended to get in touch with me. But with John I would never be certain. I came out of customs in a wary crouch, looking for trouble in the form of a dapper blond crook.
There were a good many fair heads visible, but none had the silver-gilt glimmer of John’s. Reassured, I straightened up and went looking for the currency exchange.
I love airports – the bustle and excitement, the air of expectation – people beginning or ending adventures of their own – tearful farewells, smiling reunions. The well-dressed balding man with the expensive briefcase and the frown of concentration – he might be a diplomat on a secret mission to an eastern trouble spot, or a businessman, brooding on the complexities of a billion-dollar deal, or a nervous husband meeting a lady friend in Copenhagen for the weekend and hoping to God his wife wouldn’t call the office. (Don’t worry about the well-dressed man, you’ll never see him again. He’s just an example of my imagination at work.)
Nobody was paying any attention to me. You have no idea how great that made me feel. Bavarians are short and stocky and brown-haired. Usually I’m a head taller than any woman in a Munich crowd, taller than most of the men, and my yellow head glares like a beacon. But this place was filled with Swedes wonderful, tall, blond Swedes. There were at least three females in the vicinity who were my height. I knew then that the trip was going to be a success. Wonderful country! Wonderful people! Roots!
I was so dazzled by this discovery that I didn’t mind the fact that I had, as usual, selected the slowest moving of the lines at the currency exchange. Some poor idiot with no idea of what he wanted or how to ask for it was at the counter arguing with the teller; the people ahead of me in line grimaced, muttered, or left to try their luck in another queue. I just stood there admiring the view. Tall, blond people – people like me. I knew how Gulliver felt when he got back from Lilliput.
One man caught my eye, and not only because he was inches taller than his tall countrymen. He had to be a Swede. With a horned helmet on that magnificent thatch of flaxen hair, and a coat of chain mail covering those
