somewhere early over the Atlantic Ocean. She had taken it and immediately gone off to sleep in her reclining chair, and Craig was saved.
Craig’s renown and his mission had preceded him to the aeroplane, and when he made his way to the lounge to converse and joke with the hostess, the
The fullness of the new day, ashen and remorseful outside the fogged window, found him in his seat, blinds successfully drawn against Harriet and his art, ready for the welcoming oblivion of sleep. The intercom brought the plane, and Leah, awake. Leah hurried to the washroom, and returned with her hair combed back in place, her face stencilled in, and her jersey suit unwrinkled.
When she sank down beside him, restored, she asked, ‘Did you sleep?’
‘Won’erfully,’ he mumbled.
She stretched her neck to the window. ‘That must be Denmark down there, through the clouds.’ Without turning from her country watching, she asked, ‘Isn’t it thrilling?’
‘Won’erfully.’
When the stewardess announced that there would be no more smoking and that seat belts would be fastened, Craig lighted his pipe and forgot to lock his belt. No one noticed.
They had landed-Leah congratulating herself that they were safe on earth again-and he was shuffling behind her to the plane’s exit. As he stepped out on the mobile platform, and tried to find the first step in descent, his jellied knees collapsed. He pitched against the rail, saved from a critical fall by Leah, blocking the way ahead of him, and the strong arms of two passengers.
As she and another assisted him down the stairs, Leah smelt his breath. Her face hardened; the armistice was over.
The rest was sketchy in Craig’s memory. Someone, dressed like a butcher on Sunday, had been there to meet them. Black coffee at a counter in the airport. A snatch of Leah’s dialogue to their host. ‘He never drinks. He’s not used to it. Everyone’s driving him crazy, wanting to treat, celebrating, he doesn’t know how to say no. It was too much.’ And again, at the cash register. ‘We can’t take off in two hours. I can’t let them see him in Stockholm this way. He’s not like this at all. It would be a disgrace.’ Then the phone booths, and the host emerging. He had found hotel rooms for them. They had ridden endlessly in someone’s automobile. A glossy hotel, with a curved driveway that took them to an entrance that resembled a carpark. A busy lobby reservation counter to the left, elevators to the right. Sixth floor. Right this way, please.
All else, details, were bottled in alcohol. High spirits equal low recall, he told himself. Simple equation.
He sat up on the divan. More than twenty minutes had elapsed since Leah had left him. He slipped on his shoes and tied them. He found the bathroom and doused his face with cold water, and wet his hair and combed it. He undid his tie and made it over again. He pulled on his dark grey suit coat and went into Leah’s room. It was an identical twin to his own. One suitcase was open and the rest, still strapped, on the floor.
He returned to his room for his trench coat, and then realized that there was a note pinned to the chair beside the divan. He yanked it free and read it:
ANDREW. In case you should wake up before I return, I have gone out for lunch with a man from the American Embassy. We had to cancel the aeroplane to Stockholm because you were drunk. We rented rooms in this hotel for you to rest, and are taking a train to Sweden tonight for the same reason. I’ll be back by five. Do behave. LEAH.
He studied the letterhead. He was a guest of the Tre Falke Hotel, 9 Falkoner Alle, Copenhagen.
He crumpled the note into a ball, dropped it into the wicker waste-paper basket, and went out to the elevator. After pressing the button, the wait was interminable. He took out his briar, and by the time it was smoking, the elevator door had opened. It was self-service and carried him downwards without a stop.
He inquired of a page for the bar, and the beardless young man led him through the lobby, bearing left, and pointed. The curved horseshoe of a counter, before the dining-room, was uninhabited except for the blond, chinless young man, in black suit and white apron, behind it.
As Craig approached, he saw the bartender watching him closely. He lifted himself onto a stool.
‘Double Scotch-on-the-rocks.’
The bartender hesitated. ‘Pardon, sir. Are you Mr. Craig, Rooms 607 and 608?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m terribly sorry, sir. I have strict orders not to serve you.’
Craig was more surprised than angry. ‘How did you know me?’
‘Your wife described you, sir.’
‘She’s not my wife.’
‘The lady, then. She said you were seriously ill-beg your pardon-and the physician’s orders were-no drinks.’
‘Are you out of your mind? This is a public bar. I’m a public customer. I want a drink. Now, please oblige me.’
The chinless bartender wavered, but stood fast. ‘We could be sued, sir, If you fell ill. The hotel rules allow us to serve guests at our discretion. It’s posted in your room, sir.’
Craig’s fury was not with this fool but with Leah. He wanted no argument. He wanted a drink. ‘Okay, buddy. I’m sick, and she was kidding you, but we’ll let it go.’ He stood up. ‘Make it one, then-one shot-for the road. No one’ll see.’
The bartender hesitated. His only desire, obvious in his expression, was that his customer leave quietly. He nodded, pulled a bottle and a glass from under the bar, and filled the glass. ‘I shouldn’t,’ he said, and pushed the glass at his customer.
Craig downed it in a single swallow. The fluid, moistening his mouth, burning his throat, heating his chest, revived him. ‘What do I owe you?’
‘Nothing, sir.’ He made his solemn joke. ‘Remember, you didn’t have a drink.’
Craig smiled bitterly. ‘Best drink I never had.’ He slipped off the stool. ‘Where’s downtown?’
‘Twenty minutes away, sir. It’s called Raadhusplads. The middle of everything. You can’t miss it. You’ll find taxis in front here, or you can take the regular buses. Don’t forget to change dollars into kroner.’
‘Thanks, pal.’
In the lobby, adjacent to the reception desk, he found the female money-changer with her adding machine. He gave her a twenty-dollar note, received a handful of kroner, stuffed the Danish money into his wallet as he studied the American, English, German, and French newspapers and magazines at the news-stand, and then went outside.
The day had brightened, but the air was cold. He saw several parked cars in the area ahead, but not a single taxi. He waited, and then approached the doorman, who was busy conversing with a drably clothed porter.
‘Where’s the bus?’ Craig inquired.
‘Bus?’ echoed the doorman. ‘Ah yes, yes, the motor-coach.’ He pointed off. ‘There. It is soon to leave.’
Craig thanked him and strode hurriedly to the large blue-and-white bus that stood in the driveway before a cavernous cinema. He climbed into the bus.
The squat, bespectacled driver, polishing the huge wheel with a lint cloth, greeted him with a nod. ‘Ticket, please.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘It is all right to pay-’
Craig extracted his wallet, pulled free a wad of Danish notes, and offered them trustingly. The driver selected several, and handed Craig his change.
Turning to the interior of the bus, Craig saw that it was almost filled, preponderantly with young Scandinavian women. He made his way to the rear, and eased into a tight seat that left little room for his legs.
In a few minutes, the bus engine sputtered and caught. The gears ground. The bus lumbered out of the
