‘One world,’ said Craig grimly, but they both enjoyed the chicken, and the potatoes and green salad, because this was their first adventure shared in common.
Later, after Craig had his black coffee and Emily had her cigarette, and the tipping problem had been simply solved by leaving a handful of ore (because the coins were small, and as apologetic as centimes), they strolled leisurely, side by side and self-consciously, on broad Kungsgatan.
Sometimes, in the crush of the heavy foot traffic, especially at intersections, they were thrown against each other, their shoulders bumping, their arms rubbing, but this was their only physical contact. Craig was careful not to take either Emily’s elbow or her hand when they crossed a street. The walk on Kungsgatan was as unceremonious as any walk on a similar street in New York, Atlanta, Chicago, or Kansas City. There was a lack of foreignness about Kungsgatan. The business buildings and commercial stores, the women with packages and the men with briefcases, had all been seen before. Of course, the Swedes looked at you and somehow knew you were American, and you looked at them and knew they were Swedish, but the differences were small and subtle. Except for the street and store signs, which were foreign, and the persistent
‘The time I was here before,’ Craig said, ‘there was a record being played up and doyen this street. It’ was called, “There’s a Cowboy Rolling Down Kungsgatan”. I asked someone about it. Why a cowboy on Kungsgatan? Well, it turned out that some American flyers had come down over Sweden, during the war, and had to be interned. However, they were given the freedom of the city, and some of those big Texans loved to walk, in their rolling gaits, up and down Kungsgatan. So, after the war, it became a romantic song, very popular, to celebrate a moment of light excitement in a time of drab neutrality.’
‘Why did you come to Sweden at that time?’ Emily inquired.
‘I’m not sure. I think we kept hearing about the bad plumbing in Paris, and how the Italians rob you, and we wanted to start our honeymoon in a faultless and antiseptic place. It was fun, because it was our first country abroad, but frankly, Paris and Rome were better.’
‘Was the plumbing bad? Did they rob you?’
‘Of course. Two tenderfeet full of compassion for France and Italy after the war. But who needs plumbing, when you have the Tuileries? And who cares about overpaying when you get, in return, the Borghese Gardens?’ He pointed off. ‘Over there, you must see that. Let’s cross the street.’
They waited for the light to change, and then made their way, in the crowd, to Hortorget square.
‘That building to the left is Concert Hall,’ explained Craig. ‘In there is where your uncle and I will receive our Nobel Prizes on the afternoon of the tenth.’
Emily studied Concert Hall. It was an immense square building, seven stories high, fronted by ten pillars and nine latticed entries. On the expanse of stone steps, a dozen or more Swedes, mostly young people, sat basking in the last of the day’s sun. Emily followed Craig to the dark-green statue, so modern and fluid, of a godlike youth, airborne, playing a lyre, while four mortal youths and maidens gathered below.
‘Is that Carl Milles’s “Orpheus”?’ asked Emily.
‘Yes. What do you think?’
‘Incredible-to find that right off the business street. I’m not sure I like the representation, but I like the idea- this sort of thing here-instead of some granite general or obelisk to the war dead.’
Craig had been impressed with the ‘Orpheus’ work when he had first come upon it with Harriet, so long ago. It was still impressive, he found, but less so. What disconcerted him was not the art but the unreality of the art. The maidens were too much like the boys, their hips too narrow, their buttocks too flat, and now that he had known Lilly, he believed Milles less.
‘Let’s sit on the steps a minute,’ he said to Emily, ‘if it isn’t too cold.’
They climbed ten steps to the top and sat apart from the Swedish students and facing the square.
‘The square is quite a sight in the summer,’ said Craig. ‘It’s an open-air market jammed with flower stalls- marigolds, sweet peas, lilies-overwhelming in colour and fragrance. And across the way, the department store, that’s P.U.B. Do you know why it’s famous?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘A girl named Greta Gustafsson was a saleslady there. She sold hats. That was before she became Greta Garbo.’
‘Is that really so?’
‘Absolutely. When I was here the other time, P.U.B. used to advertise the fact. Remember how everyone talked about Greta Garbo’s big feet? Well, I went in there and asked someone in the shoe department her size. It was nine. Is that big?’
‘It’s not small.’
‘What’s your foot size?’
She held out a leg and wiggled her sandal. ‘Six. Why?’
‘Women’s sizes fascinate me.’
‘Well, don’t ask any of my other sizes. I’d be embarrassed. It’s like undressing in public.’
He moved back and eyed her with exaggerated lechery: ‘I’d say thirty-eight, twenty-four, thirty-six. Am I right?’
‘Never mind, Mr. Craig.’
‘I’ve been demoted.’
‘Banished.’
‘I’ll earn back my Andrew.’
‘You were doing as nicely as Mr. Manker. How do you remember all those things?’
‘You know, Emily, I haven’t thought of Sweden in all these years. When we sat down here, it all came flooding back. Lucius Mack always said my mind’s a repository of useless and footnote facts. I think that’s true of certain writers. When it comes to knowledge, there are three kinds of writers. First, the one who knows only one field- himself. Remember Flaubert’s admission? “
‘Who is Lucius Mack?’
‘Didn’t I introduce you? I’m sorry. He edits our weekly newspaper in Miller’s Dam. Our answer to William Allen White. My best friend. A wonderful old-young codger. You’d adore him.’
‘I like journalists.’
‘The trouble with newspapermen is that they think they want to be something else. That’s what corrodes television people, and dentists, and accountants. But not Lucius. He made his peace. Are you cold?’
‘A little. I guess the sun’s gone.’
‘Let’s walk.’
They descended the stairs and continued slowly along Kungsgatan, and then turned off on Birger Jarlsgatan, which had the expensive look of a smaller Fifth Avenue. Several times, shop windows caught Emily’s attention, and then they would go inside and poke about, and by the time they had reached Berzelii Park, she had purchased an Orrefors ashtray, a Jensen serving spoon and fork of silver, a miniature Viking made of wood, and a box of Vadestena lace handkerchiefs.
In Berzelii Park, they stood in the darkness, among the denuded trees.
‘I’d like to buy a Swedish language book,’ said Emily. ‘Do you think all the bookstores are closed?’
‘It’s not that late,’ Craig said. ‘It just gets dark early in winter. I know the bookstore for you. Fritzes. A wonderful old shop founded in the 1830’s. I think J. Pierpont Morgan used to buy there. It’s a medium-long walk. Are you up to it?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it.’
They crossed Gustav Adolfs Torg under the street-lamps and arrived at Fredsgatan 2, which was Fritzes. Inside, they browsed for a half an hour. Emily found a Svensk-Engelsk phrase book, and then also purchased a Stockholm edition of
