to drink. I lost my head. Can you forgive me-forget it? Please forget it. It was all the drinking-all day long-and now-and more than just that-’
A sudden, loud creak broke his plea, and a shaft of brighter light from the drawing-room laid them bare. As one, they whirled towards the doorway. It had been flung wide open, and in its frame stood Leah Decker, stern as conscience.
She advanced slowly, mouth compressed, looking from one to the other, until she was a few feet from them.
It was Craig whom she addressed coldly. ‘I saw you go in here. I thought I should tell you-you’ll be missed. The King is making his appearance.’
Craig inhaled, straining for composure. ‘This is Miss Emily Stratman-Professor Stratman’s niece-my sister-in- law, Miss Leah Decker.’
‘How do you do,’ said Emily, in a voice flat and dulled. She took several steps away. ‘If you’ll both excuse me-my uncle-’
She exited quickly, head high, not looking back.
Leah watched her speculatively, and then turned to Craig. ‘Well,’ she said.
‘Well what?’
‘Never mind… Good Lord, you’re a mess. Your eyes all bloodshot. Your tie. And you need a comb. Here’s mine.’
‘Don’t waste your time.’ He felt funereal, and wanted to chant a dirge. ‘ “All the King’s horses and all the King’s men-couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again.” Remember? Come on, let’s curtsy.’
As Count Bertil Jacobsson’s cane rapped three times on the floor, the occupants of the salon fell back against its walls, forming a long, irregular semi-circle, waiting. No sooner had the echo of Jacobsson’s cane ceased than the King of Sweden entered through the arch. Behind him came the elegant royal princesses and princes. While the retinue remained stationary, the King, in severe evening dress without ornament, moved ahead and surveyed the room with the briefest smile.
Jacobsson jumped forward, crossing the carpet towards his ruler. When he reached the King, he stamped to a halt, stood rigidly at attention. The King proffered his hand, and Jacobsson, inclining his head, took it-touched it, really, and no more.
Now the King moved towards the semi-circle of guests, with Jacobsson half a step behind, whispering introductions as His Royal Highness welcomed each guest, male and female, with a handshake, a nod, a muted word.
Andrew Craig, situated beside Leah in the first third of the semi-circle, had observed all of this through bleary eyes, steadying himself by leaning against the commode behind him. Just as the King had done, moments before, now Craig too surveyed the guests. The majority were counting the progress of His Royal Highness. The rest, mostly Scandinavians, stared straight ahead, as if soldiers at an inspection. Craig explored the visible faces of the women rising and falling from focus, seeking the one from which he wanted understanding and forgiveness. But Emily was nowhere in the range of his vision.
He was conscious of an extraordinary movement beside him. He investigated, and was amused to see his sister-in-law dipping and lowering herself, in what seemed jerky and convulsive motions made more awkward by the straight lines of her gown, and then he realized that this was her interpretation, recently acquired, of the curtsy. He saw her rise again, slowly, laboriously, like something reaching upward from a launching pad, and then she was once more perpendicular.
That moment, he heard his name distinctly spoken, and the words ‘literature’ and ‘laureate’, and like a Pavlov dog, without thought and by reflex, he pushed himself from the commode and straightened and faced the King of Sweden.
The King extended his hand. ‘Welcome to our country, Mr. Craig.’
Woodenly, Craig took the King’s hand and released it. ‘Thank you’-he was about to add the word ‘King’, banished it, sought frantically for the lesson of protocol, and found it-‘Your Majesty.’
The monarch lingered. ‘I enjoyed your novel,
‘I appreciate that, Your Majesty.’
‘I look forward to the completion of your next work.’
Supported by the battalion of bottles consumed, Craig felt as reckless as a young Socialist. ‘Is that a command, Your Majesty?’
The King was amused. ‘If you wish so to regard it, Mr. Craig.’
‘I am sincerely flattered and inspired. You shall have the first copy, Your Majesty.’
The monarch moved on, to the continuous hand shaking and curtsying, and Craig realized that he had, indeed, been flattered by the ruler’s interest, but not inspired, not inspired at all, for the King’s sovereignty was temporal and earth-bound to this land, and Craig paid obesiance only to the Muse-once Clio, now Calliope. With regret, he resigned from his promise to the King of Sweden.
He heard Leah’s troubled whisper. ‘How could you joke with His Royal Highness like that?’
‘He didn’t seem to mind.’
‘How do you know? Oh, Andrew, I’m so mortified-’
‘He enjoyed it,’ said Craig between his teeth.
‘Even if he did, you’re so irresponsible when you drink-what’ll you do next?’
‘For Chrissakes, Lee, we’re the hit of the evening. I won’t criticize your curtsy, and don’t you knock my dialogue. Now, please behave.’
‘Everyone saw you go in that corridor to the bedroom-’
‘What of it? It’s not a whorehouse.’
Leah gasped, blushing and pulling back. Her eyes darted around the room, seeking to learn if Craig had been overheard. She saw that he had not been, and she started to speak again, and then held her tongue, and settled into sullen taciturnity.
Across the salon, the King had finished his social duty, and now, at the entry to the Charles XI’s Gallery, he waited for his royal entourage. Followed by the royal princesses and princes, he went into the dining-room. At once, the semi-circle of guests broke forward, unevenly, falling into a column at the entry, and marching into the Royal Banquet.
Presently, Craig found himself seated, by place card, between Leah and Ingrid Pahl, and perhaps thirty feet from the King, who was at the head table, quite isolated except for two princesses to one side of him, a prince and another princess at his other side, and a private uniformed waiter hovering nearby.
Befuddled by drink, Craig squeezed his eyes to make out his surroundings. He owed this careful inspection not to his writer’s memory file, but to Lucius Mack, his favourite pallbearer, as a conversation piece. Craig’s eyes studied the Gallery hall, and sorted out busts of a King and Queen of long ago on a shelf-like cornice, and several cabinets containing silverwork and amber and porcelain. The painted ceiling above-as he would later learn- recorded events in the reign of Charles XI and Ulrika Eleonora. From the ceiling hung a glittering chandelier, and immediately beneath it, on the table, a magnificent elevated vase, and before him, lustrous silver service.
He peered to see if the King had the same silver service, but something else beside the King’s plate caught his eye. It was a proletarian egg, curiously majestic, in a brilliant golden egg cup.
He shook Ingrid Pahl’s flabby arm, and pointed. ‘What’s that?’
‘Where?’
‘Next to the King’s plate. Looks like a plain ol’ egg.’
‘But it is, Mr. Craig,’ said Ingrid Pahl gaily. ‘It is a tradition. A long time ago one of the earliest Swedish Christian rulers-possibly Olof Skotkonung or Erik Jedvardsson-sat down to dinner with a bellyache, and rejected his rich meal, and demanded one ordinary boiled egg. This was unheard of-the egg was fare of the peasantry-and for one hour, the kitchens of the palace were ransacked for the simple egg, while the King sat fuming with impatience. At last the egg was found and served, but by then the King was beside himself. He made a royal proclamation. From that day forward, there must always be one plain boiled egg beside the King’s plate, ready and waiting, should he ever desire it. For ten centuries the tradition has persisted. So now you see the royal egg.’
‘Charming,’ said Craig. ‘And over there, on the table behind him-?’
