‘If you’d waited a moment, you wouldn’t have had to apologize at all,’ said Emily. ‘I was trying to say-I thought about last night, and there is simply nothing to forgive on your part. If there is to be an apology, it should come from me.’
Craig knitted his brow in bewilderment.
‘Yes,’ continued Emily, ‘from me. I’m not a child, but sometimes I behave like one. I knew you were-well, that you’d had some drinks-and so had I, and I was amused by you, and more awed than I let on. I went to that room with you because I wanted to. And as to your-your advances-I could have handled all that in good humour, or seriously but nicely, instead of playing the swooning nineteenth-century maiden. My behaviour was involuntary-that’s the best I can say for it-as I’m sure yours was, too. So, as you put it, let’s start from scratch, Andrew.’
‘There, you said it-Andrew.’
‘I did? I guess I did. Isn’t that strange?’
‘Now, then, I know the way to start from scratch,’ said Craig. ‘First, we must enlist you in Aimless Tours, Incorporated. The first tour is downtown-Kungsgatan. I haven’t had lunch-let’s get me a sandwich, and you something, a soft drink, and just walk and look or not look and do absolutely nothing.’
She hesitated, then nodded towards the rear. ‘What about all of them?’
‘I’ll run in and tell them we have to do some shopping.’
‘I actually do. I haven’t bought a thing.’
Craig jumped to his feet. ‘I’ll tell your uncle you’ll see him at the hotel a little later.’
‘You’re sure no one will mind?’
‘They may. But I’ll mind more if we don’t do this. Now, just sit and wait for me.’
He strode hurriedly across the court towards the building, just as Mr. Manker emerged and waved, and started towards them.
‘Miss Decker became worried,’ said Mr. Manker, ‘so I said I’d find you.’
‘Thanks, Mr. Manker. I was going in to find you. Will you tender our thanks and regrets to one and all, and explain to Professor Stratman and Miss Decker that Emily and I have to go into the city-some shopping, some errands-’
‘But our sightseeing, Mr. Craig, it is not done.’
‘Wonderful as you’ve been, Mr. Manker, I’ve decided to join another group for the rest of the day. Aimless Tours, Incorporated. I recommend them highly. They’re good for what ails you-myopia, bunions, buzzing in the head, and cathedralitis. See you later, Mr. Manker.’
After leaving the taxi, they had walked only a short distance on Stockholm’s main street before they had come upon the Triumf restaurant at Kungsgatan 40 and peered inside and decided that it might be a lunch-room.
They sat on high green stools behind one of the three horseshoe-shaped counters and consulted a menu relentlessly Swedish. Timidly, Emily suggested a translator, but Craig thought that would spoil the game. After considerable speculation, Craig settled upon Kyckling med grönsallad och brynt potatis at 5.25 kronor. Emily was amiable to his suggestion. Confidently, Craig put in the order, reassuring Emily that there would be little surprise since two of the Swedish words related to English words. The element of surprise and fun lay in ‘Kyckling’. Each of them had wild interpretations. Emily was sure that it meant pregnant herring. Craig voted for boiled Lapp.
When their dishes came, they were both dismayed. ‘Kyckling’ proved to be fried chicken.
‘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 öre (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 tack, tack, tack of passers-by (which Craig knew to mean thank you-thank you-thank you), Craig and Emily felt that they could not be far from home.
‘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 Hörtorget 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?’