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-?’
‘
‘
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.
Once in the carriage, Craig found their luggage divided between two adjoining rooms, compartments 16 and 17, and saw that the beds were made up, and that there was no place to sit.
Going into the aisle again, he pulled down a window for Leah and one for himself. Gates was below them, on the platform, a Foreign Service smile, like an Embassy pennant, flying from his face. Leah thanked him for lunch and dinner, and Elsinore, and Gates insisted that the pleasure was all his.
He seemed more eager to speak to Craig. ‘We’re all mighty proud of you, Mr. Craig. We’ll be looking for every word about the Nobel ceremonies.’
‘We appreciate all you’ve done,’ said Craig. ‘When I have time, I’ll write to the Ambassador and recommend a promotion.’
Gates depreciated his services with a modest shake of his head. ‘Don’t even think of it,’ he said. ‘One thing that would mean a lot, though-my wife, Esther, she’s a fan of yours like I am. We’d certainly treasure an autographed copy of your next novel.’
Brother, it’ll be done in time for your grandchildren, Craig wanted to tell him. But he was almost sober, and fixed on being gracious. ‘I’ll remember that,’ he said.
‘I’ll make a note of it, Mr. Gates,’ added Leah firmly.
Craig had already tired of leaning on the half-open window. ‘Is there a lounge or diner on this train?’ he inquired.
‘I’m sorry,’ Gates called up, ‘but European trains don’t have lounges. One of their major barbarisms. If your room is made up, you can pull down the little folding seat in the aisle and read-’
Craig had almost forgotten. The folding seat was at his knees.
‘-and as for a diner,’ Gates continued, ‘this train doesn’t carry one. They figure everyone has eaten, and you’ll be in Stockholm at a quarter to nine in the morning, in time for breakfast. But I’ll tell you what, Mr. Craig-if you’re hungry-in fifteen minutes, fifteen minutes after you leave here, they’ll be loading these cars on the Malmo ferry. It’s a seventeen-mile water crossing to Sweden and usually takes about two hours. You can get off this wagon-lit while you’re on the ferry, and if you poke around, you’ll find two or three places to eat. That should do it.’
