The Prize

Craig saw that Leah, flanked by the other two members of the reception committee, had preceded them, and he followed the old Count through the revolving doors and inside. Slowly, he ascended the eight stone stairs, the rubber matting muffling his shoes, and now he was in the lobby.

While Jacobsson continued after the others to the reception desk, Craig remained motionless at the top of the stairs.

Nothing had changed, nothing at all. The main lobby was as vast as ever, and between the two pillars, the sitting-room and on either side of the pillars, the elevators marked Hiss. Walking slowly to his right, he circled the main lobby. There was the smaller reading room, with its fat chairs, and glittering glass showcases featuring Guerlain perfumes, Silvanders’ ties, Kosta goblets, Sjogren jewellery. Next came the towering door with the sign ‘Grands Veranda’, and this was the Breakfast Room. Alongside were more showcases with Orrefors vases and Jensen silver, and then a chocolate kiosk, and suddenly he came upon the narrow news-stand with its assortment of foreign newspapers and magazines. Here it was that Harriet went daily, every afternoon before cocktails, for her day-old Paris edition of the New York Herald Tribune.

He was not moved. There was no nostalgia at all. No bittersweet memory ached inside. Yet nothing had changed, except himself.

When he reached the others at the portier’s desk, Leah was before him. ‘There’s no mail, except a funny cable from Lucius and something about the new omnibus edition from your publisher. Do you want to read them?’

‘Later.’

Her forehead creased. ‘You were looking around. Is it different?’

‘Oh, yes. I’d almost forgotten everything. After all, we were here only a week.’

‘I’m terribly excited, Andrew. I’ve never been in a place like this before.’

Jacobsson approached them from the reservation counter. ‘I am sorry holding you up,’ he said courteously, ‘but there was a blunder about your rooms. They gave you suite 225. That is one of the most desirable suites, looking down on the canal, but it has only one bedroom with twin beds. They thought you were married.’

Leah’s colour rose in her cheeks. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I explained. You will have the same suite, of course, but they are arranging to free an adjoining single bedroom. It will be ready in an hour. It can be made to connect with the drawing-room. Meanwhile, the original suite is ready.’

‘I can’t wait to unpack,’ said Leah. With Jacobsson and Krantz, she started for the elevator, then turned. ‘Aren’t you coming, Andrew?’

‘In a moment. I just want to pick up some reading.’

‘I’m afraid you won’t have much time for that,’ said Jacobsson with a chuckle.

They continued to the elevator. Ingrid Pahl, steadying her floral hat, hastened from the information counter to join them, but Craig intercepted her.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I thought you had already gone upstairs.’

‘Miss Pahl, I-where can I get a drink here?’

‘Do you mean coffee?’

‘I mean a highball.’

She did not disguise her confusion, and Craig understood this, knowing that it was only 9.40 in the morning.

‘Why, of course, Mr. Craig-’

‘It’s been a gruelling trip, and I’m still on Wisconsin time. I can’t think of anything more distasteful than Scotch before breakfast, but I’m afraid I need a bracer.’

The explanation was satisfactory. ‘Here, let me show you,’ said Ingrid Pahl, taking his arm. ‘Do you mind if I join you? I could stand a hot cocoa.’

They found a table next to the dance floor at one side of the Winter Garden. Except for a few other couples, the mammoth room-Craig had always thought that it looked like a college field house decorated for a prom-was devoid of life. At this hour, most guests were having breakfast in their rooms or off the lobby.

Ingrid Pahl fiddled inside her embroidered handbag, until the waiter materialized. Craig ordered a cocoa and buttered toast for her, and a double Scotch-and-water for himself.

‘It was more awkward getting a drink when I was here last time,’ he said for conversation.

‘When was that?’

‘Ten years ago.’

‘Yes, we had liquor control in those days and that horrible Bratt System. Well, there is no use lying about it, we are a nation of drunkards-well, heavy drinkers, anyway. It is the long winter nights, I think-the dampness, the gloom this time of the year-that makes men turn to strong brannvin. But Dr. Ivan Bratt- you know, his national law to control sales of alcohol went into effect way back in 1919-solved nothing, made matters even worse. To obtain a ration book for beverages, you had to tell the district system company your whole life story. It was a terrible, prying thing. And then you had to queue at the systemet, like sheep, to get three litres-less than a quart a month. Can you imagine that? And there were inequities. Married women were not permitted to have ration books at all. It created all sorts of evils. A black market in ration books. Bootlegging from Finland. Home distilleries. Evils Sweden had never known before. Having a drink in a restaurant was even worse. I am sure you remember, Mr. Craig.’

‘Vaguely. You couldn’t have a cocktail without ordering food, something like that.’

‘In the restaurants, wine and beer were unlimited, but did you ever try the beer in those days? Distilled water, I assure you. No drinks were served before noon. A woman could not really have a full drink of hard liquor until three o’clock. And then, as you point out, when you were served, you had to buy food with it, if you were hungry or not. No food, no spirits. Most restaurants became quite clever. They would serve you the drink with an old, old egg they used over and over again. And no matter what your needs, you were limited to what you might call four shots a day. It did not help a particle. In the ten years before the end of the war, there were a quarter of a million people here found guilty of misdemeanours induced by alcohol. Even the prohibitionists were against Bratt, though for different reasons. There was one temperance society, the Blue Band, that objected because the law made people waste valuable food to obtain drink, and this while half of Europe was starving. Well, we’re a rational country, and the people would not stand for it. It was our one national deformity. Bratt had been so personally abused that he had gone into exile in France. So, in 1955, the Riksdag abolished liquor control, overwhelmingly. And I am proud. You do not fetter an entire people’s thirst. I do not drink-oh, a medicinal sip or two at nights before bedtime, to keep me tuned-but I am proud. If you wish a bottle, you can now walk two or three blocks from here, to the first shop, and order whatever you like. No ration books, and no questions, although they will not sell to a customer who is obviously drunk. Of course, a new inequity has already arisen. The price of a bottle of alcohol, and the tax on it, makes it very dear. I do not believe that is fair, either. Pricing hard drink out of reach may be a means of creating a false temperance, but it only indulges the rich who can afford to drink as much as they please, and it deprives the labourer and the poor. Everyone who reads me thinks I am an eccentric old lady who lives in the country and thinks only of nature’s beauty and bird-watching, but I am more than that, Mr. Craig. I am concerned about all injustice. I abhor it on any level.’

‘I’m on your side,’ said Craig. He had read about Ingrid Pahl, but had never read her books, and had not known what to expect. Now, he liked her enormously.

‘Here is your drink,’ she said. ‘I am sure I have made you ravishingly thirsty.’

The waiter served them, and after a short argument, Craig won the right to sign the bill.

Ingrid Pahl lifted her cup of cocoa. ‘Down with Bratt and up with skal,’ she said.

‘Skal and down with Bratt,’ said Craig, and he drank.

‘I have your programme,’ she said, and touched the folded paper that she had found while fumbling around in her handbag, and had placed beside her saucer. ‘Do you want to see it now?’

‘I’ll read it later. What are the highlights?’

‘The first highlight is today, two o’clock, at the Swedish Press Club. You and the other winners will be formally interviewed by the world press. Tonight, at seven, cocktails and dinner in the Royal Palace with the King. It is full evening dress only for the nobility. Tomorrow, a grand tour of the city. Count Jacobsson and an attache will be your guides. The day after, a formal dinner in the country tendered by Ragnar Hammarlund, our billionaire industrialist. It is optional, but as an author, I would not miss it. After that, all sorts of small events, until the final