driveway, wheeled right for two blocks, then wheeled left into a business thoroughfare, and moved forward.
Craig had never seen Copenhagen before. When he and Harriet had taken their six-month honeymoon after the war, they had leisurely made their way to Goteburg by steamer, spent one week in Stockholm, flown to Amsterdam, and taken the train to Paris. They had not wanted to leave Paris, even after six weeks, but had finally rented a Citroen and driven to San Sebastian, down to Madrid, up to Barcelona, then to Nice, stopped at Spezia, defied the mountain paths, and made their way down the road to Rome. Later, they had driven north to Milan and Berne, and then released their Citroen in Paris. Sailing home, they had been full of the wonders of the Grand Tour, and nightly spoke of returning the following summer. But life had closed in on them, and they had never returned, not together, and here he was, in Copenhagen, alone, and he did not look out the window because he did not give a damn.
He heard a crackle overhead, and then the driver’s voice on the loudspeaker. ‘Welcome, everyone, to our daily winter Copenhagen tour,’ the driver announced professionally. ‘It is one-thirty P.M. The tour is of three hours’ duration. It will end at City Hall Square -what we Danes call Raadhuspladsen-at four-thirty P.M. There will be five stops and visits on the tour, to accommodate camera fans. These will be at Grundtvig’s Church, Gefion Fountain, the Little Mermaid in Copenhagen harbour, the Langelinie, and Amalienborg Castle. Among the other highlights of historic interest-’
Comprehending at last, Craig was appalled. He realized that he was not on an ordinary city bus. He had stupidly stumbled into a sight-seeing motor-coach. His first impulse was to pull the emergency cord, or accost the driver, explain his mistake, and request that he be dropped off at the next red light. But then he realized that there was no reason to create a disturbance. His destination was merely a bar, any bar anywhere, and this ridiculous conveyance could bring him to one as swiftly as any other.
Despite his discomfort, and his thirst, he was still reasonable enough to be amused. He would soon establish, he decided, the world’s freestyle record for being the most briefly seated tourist in the annals of Danish sight- seeing.
The ride seemed endless, but at last they braked to a halt. The loudspeaker announced, ‘ Amalienborg Castle, the eighteenth-century residence of the King and Queen. The passengers may step outside.’ There was a mass rising and crush to the front doors. The passengers spilled out. Hopefully, Craig followed them.
Outside, the young ladies clustered about their driver-guide. Craig heard the introduction of the talk-‘The royal palaces are among the best representations, in Europe, of the rococo style’-and he drifted away. He searched about him. He was at the boundary of a great square, entirely hemmed in by four towering palaces, each looking exactly like the others. Royal guardsmen, bearskin hats perched on top of their heads, stood sentry duty. Nowhere in sight was there a building resembling a bar, a saloon, a tavern.
Craig’s good humour crumbled. He felt as frustrated as any character that he had ever met in Kafka. Scanning the arid scene again, he became aware of someone else who had separated from the other tourists and was now crouched a few yards from him, focusing her camera-it resembled Leah’s Rolleiflex-on the royal guardsmen. Picture taken, she stood up and gravely concentrated on rolling the film.
Hastily, Craig approached her. He could see, at once, that she was a young girl, looking no more than twenty-one. A white beret was tilted precariously on her head, her silken gold hair tumbling down to her shoulders. A thick, oversized, coral sweater, unbuttoned in front, covered her white blouse and the upper portion of her pleated navy-blue skirt. When Craig reached her, he saw that she was no higher than his chest.
She looked up at him with surprise. Her face was broad and pretty. The eyes were light blue, with laugh wrinkles at the outer corners, the nose was straight and wide, the cheeks shaped high and bony (as Harriet’s had been), and the chapped lips full and crimson. The dark dot of a beauty mark, to the right of the upper lip, drew one to the partially open mouth and even white teeth.
Craig was conscious of the girl’s appeal, and impatient and annoyed with it, for his mind was on more important matters.
‘Pardon, Miss,’ he said. ‘I’m one of the passengers on the tour-’
‘I just wondered-I wonder if you could tell me-is there a bar anyplace in the vicinity?’
‘A bar? You mean, the self-service restaurant?’
‘No-no-a place to drink-have drinks-whisky.’
‘Oh.’ She waved at the palaces. ‘This is Amalienborg.’
‘I
‘There are no beverage places.’
‘But somewhere near?’
She shrugged. ‘I am not familiar with this square. Maybe later.’ Suddenly, she smiled with a conspirator’s enthusiasm. ‘I will show you when I see one.’
‘I’d be much obliged.’
He stuffed his chilled hands into the pockets of his trench coat, lifted his shoulders into a hunch, and trudged back to the bus. When he entered it, he observed that she was watching him. He hoped that she would keep her word.
For Craig, the motor-coach tour proceeded from tedium to monotony to boredom. The driver’s soporific phrases flattened against his ears but did not penetrate. He sat cramped in his chair, waiting, as the Ny-Carlsberg Glyptotek (‘French and Danish paintings’), the Police Headquarters, Frederiksberg Castle (‘officers’ training school’), the Zoological Gardens, Nyboder (‘built three hundred years ago by King Christian IV’) came into his vision, registered dully, and passed away again.
Once more they halted, and left the coach, and stood in a semicircle about the driver, at the edge of the harbour, facing the statue of a mermaid on a boulder. Craig, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, remained at the rear, huddled inside his trench coat, desperate for the one warmth that he desired.
Someone tugged at his sleeve. He turned his head, and she was below him, white beret on golden tresses. Her broad smile was engaging, and her coral sweater was still unbuttoned in defiance of the low temperature. Hearty little mermaid, he told himself. But then he saw that she must feel the chill, for the nipples of her breasts had hardened and were now visibly outlined through her white blouse. For the first time, he noticed the size of her breasts, pressing her blouse outwards, so that the pearl buttons were strained to the breaking-point.
She gestured off. ‘There.’
His sight followed the direction of her finger, and he saw a cluster of shops.
‘You will find it cosy in the nearest one,’ she added.
He started to touch his hat in thanks, but stopped when she winked, to remind him of conspiracy, and then he watched her return and join several girls in the crowd.
Purposefully, he strode away, crossing the street, and entering the first shop. There was a bar, and there were several tables and chairs, and no more. A stout woman appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. He asked for a double Scotch in a hurry. She did not understand English. He surveyed the array of bottles behind her and jabbed his finger at a bottle. She beamed, brought down the bottle, and started to pour, when he held up his hand, and did a pantomime to indicate that he wished to pour himself and to have the bottle remain on the counter.
He had three shots in a row, as the proprietress watched and counted from a dark recess, before he realized that there was no necessity for haste. He had all day. He filled the midget glass a fourth time, his muscles now eased by the liquor, and this drink he sipped slowly, pleasantly.
He heard the door open, and the jangle of the bell above it, and twisted to greet a fellow member of the club. He knew at once that it was she, white beret still tilted on the golden head.
‘The coach is leaving,’ she called. ‘They are holding it up, waiting for you!’
He knew, immediately, that he could not desert the foreign legion. It was almost un-American. Bad propaganda. They were
‘Coming,’ he said.
He downed the fourth drink, splashed a fifth into the glass and took it in a big gulp, and then emptied his wallet. The stout woman separated her due. He pushed an extra note towards her-for hospitality-scooped up what remained, stuffed it in his coat pocket, and followed the golden blonde to the bus.
