‘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? “I am Madame Bovary”. Second, the writer who knows two or three fields in depth-the Civil War, Zen, and Palestrina-and nothing else. Third, there is the one who knows a little about very many things-from European rivers called Aa to the biological name for ovum which is zygote-and Lucius Mack puts me in that category.’
‘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 Alice in Wonderland and three copies of an enchanting and sophisticated juvenile cartoon book, Mumintrollen by Tove Jansson, to be given as gifts. In turn, Craig purchased a copy of Indent Flink’s Swedish version of The Perfect State and gave it to Emily as a supplement to her language booklet.
After they had left Fritzes and gone several blocks along the canal, Craig suddenly stopped. ‘Why are we going all the way back to the hotel to join that mob for dinner? Why don’t we eat out alone, together? I know exactly the place. It’ll charm you.’
‘How can we after walking out on them this afternoon? The Nobel committee might consider it rude-’
‘But nothing formal’s been planned. There’s nothing special on the programme.’
‘And my uncle-’
‘I’ll phone him. I’ll tell him I’m taking you to dinner, and I’ll have you back safe and sound in a few hours. How’s that?’
‘I’m not sure-’
‘I am. Let me ring him.’
‘All right.’
They walked another block, until they found an outdoor public telephone booth. Emily gave Craig two ten-öre pieces, and he closed himself inside the booth while she waited beyond the glass pane, smoking.
Craig got the operator, and she put him through to the Grand Hotel, and the Grand Hotel connected him with Professor Stratman’s suite.
Craig identified himself, and Stratman asked immediately, ‘How is Emily?’
‘Never better. I’m looking at her right now through a window of the booth. She was worried that you might be concerned, so I offered to ring.’
‘You are thoughtful. So-you gave us the slip today.’
‘I’d seen it all, and Emily wanted to shop. She just bought a copy of Alice in Wonderland in Swedish.’
‘For me, you do not have to make up stories, my laureate friend.’ Stratman’s chuckle came over the wire. ‘I see I would have lost my bet. Your case was not hopeless. She accepted your apology.’
‘Yes, Professor.’
‘And now you are-how do they say?-on the wagon.’
‘Definitely.’
‘I wish you luck.’
‘I’ll need it. I was really calling because I want to take Emily to dinner, and she wondered-’
‘You tell her Uncle Max is all right. The Count is coming over to take me, with the Farellis and Garretts-and also your sister-in-law-to eat in the Winter Garden. You go and have your good time.’
‘How was my sister-in-law?’
‘Like the Queen of Hearts,’ said Stratman.
It was not until Craig had hung up, and was leaving the booth, that he understood Stratman’s allusion. Stratman had meant Lewis Carroll’s Queen of Hearts, who had been furious, and who had ordered that Alice ’s head be cut off.
They had gone down the steep stone staircase, through the winding narrow passageway, until they emerged into the long cellar grotto, hewn out of rock. This was the Old Town ’s most renowned and beloved ancient restaurant, known to Swedish bohemians as Den Gyldene Freden and to visitors as The Golden Peace.
Now they sat at a tiny table against the rock, across from each other, while an attractive waitress in a white-and-coral apron took their order for dry martinis. After the waitress left, Emily looked about, filled with wonder. At this early evening hour, the quaint restaurant was only half filled with customers, informally dressed, but already gay and noisy. The room quietened somewhat when a respectable-looking troubadour, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and dark suit, appeared at the cellar entrance and began to play the lute and sing the old songs of Carl Mikael Bellman.
‘Well,’ said Craig, ‘what do you think?’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Emily. ‘I’m glad you brought me here. Is it as old as it looks?’
‘Older. Remember when we were driving through what used to be the King’s hunting-grounds today, and Mr. Manker pointed out the place where Carl Mikael Bellman lived? Well, Bellman made Den Gyldene Freden. He was its leading customer. He came here every night and wrote his lyrics, and sang them, and got drunk and wild. They say he used to dance on the tables. That was back in the 1770’s, so it’s old enough. In modern times, Anders Zorn, the painter, bought the restaurant and restored it as a sort of artists’ hangout, which it is now. Notice how wide these chairs are? Zorn’s doing. He was fat, and used to get caught in the old chairs, so he had these made to his specifications and installed. Eventually, Zorn turned the restaurant over to the Swedish Academy, and I think they still get part or all of the profits. The first time I came here, after the lute player and orchestra were through, some customer pulled his guitar out from under the table and began to strum, and everyone in the place joined in a community sing.’