Craig and Flink paced before the co-operative building, discussing publishing and books and public taste, discussing the cynical and morose outlook of Swedish writers (a rebellion against the idyllic welfare state), and the taste of Swedish writers for Faulkner and Kafka and Gottling and their distaste for the valentines of Ingrid Påhl, until, presently, Mr. Manker emerged with his conducted tour.
Leah burst forth towards Craig, taking his arm and attention possessively, and bubbling on about soundproof rooms and stainless steel and garbage-disposal equipment. Feigning a show of interest, Craig covertly sought out Emily Stratman. A quarter of an hour before, he had wished she would turn around so that he might enjoy her fully. Now she was turned around, in his direction, across the lawn. She wore a high-necked pale blue sweater beneath the suede jacket and over the tight skirt. Her bosom, rising and falling slightly-had they climbed stairs or was it the day?-was spectacularly abundant, and Craig was unaccountably pleased as he enjoyed it, and her, in the sun.
They drove on now, with Mr. Manker at his voluble best, fluently reciting capsule histories of this museum and that gallery and endless chapels of worship. On lovely Helgeandsholmen-Holy Ghost Island-he idled the car, and they considered the unlovely, Germanic Riksdagshuset or Parliament Building, and learned that it had been established in 1865, and that the aristocracy had been oppressive (did Count Jacobsson squirm ever so little?) and allowed only ten per cent of the population to vote until after the fall of the Hohenzollerns and Romanovs, so recently, when universal suffrage and true democracy finally came to backward Sweden.
They drove farther through Stockholm-‘a community of twelve islands connected by forty-two bridges’, recited Mr. Manker-until they reached an immense underground garage, known as Katarinaberget, and they were told that this had been specifically constructed as a shelter to protect 20,000 persons against nuclear explosions. Now, for the first time, Craig was fascinated by a projection of the future.
‘We hope that people will take the lesson of your book, Armageddon,’ said Indent Flink to Craig, ‘but if they don’t, you can see, we are ready to survive.’
‘How many of these have you got?’ asked Craig.
Mr. Manker replied. ‘We now have four of these huge atomic bombproof shelters in Stockholm, to save fifty thousand people, and, in all, nineteen such large ones throughout Sweden, and also thirty thousand small ones, to hold all together over two million people. The rest of the people we could evacuate in minutes from the cities to rural areas. The subterranean shelter you observe here has electricity, heat, water, and food, even preparations for schools. Much of our heavy industry-Bofors and Saab-make their anti-aircraft and jet aeroplanes in subterranean factories carved into granite hills. Other nations only speak of civil defence; we in Sweden have already acted on it.’
‘Perhaps you shall inherit the earth,’ said Stratman glumly, ‘and by then, you can have it.’
Emily stared at the cavernous underground garage. ‘It’s awful,’ she murmured.
‘But why?’ asked Mr. Manker. ‘We are so proud of this-’
‘I don’t mean what you think,’ said Emily quickly. ‘Of course, you’ve done the sensible thing. I mean’-she waved her hand toward the shelter-‘the completed cycle, the irony of going back to where we came from, Neanderthal man scooping out his pre-historic caves, except now, the caves are air-conditioned.’
Solemnity had settled on all of them, and Count Jacobsson was anxious not to have the afternoon spoiled. ‘Now you must see the lighter side of Stockholm,’ he announced. ‘Mr. Manker, will you kindly drive us to Djurgården and Skansen?’
Concentrating on his new goal, the attaché manœuvred the large car through the busy mid-afternoon traffic, conforming to the left-lane drive that unnerved all but the Swedes. He continued eastward through the city, until gradually be began to shed the traffic, and they drew closer to the vast pastoral island known as Djurgården.
Easing up the pressure of his foot on the accelerator, Mr. Manker slowly circled the vehicle around a clustering of odd and elaborate buildings. ‘We call this Diplomat’s City,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Here you will find most of the foreign embassies and legations. There, you see the Italian Embassy-’
As each was identified, it amused Craig to reflect on how each Embassy took on the character of its nationals abroad. The British Embassy was staid and sturdy brick, aloof, dignified, conservative and no-nonsense, like the majority of its nation’s travellers. The United States Embassy, across the way, squatted high on a small cliff. It was a modernistic horror, awkwardly trying to belong to the country it was visiting by imitating that country, and failing miserably, so that it was finally no more than a caricature of an American abroad trying desperately to be a part of Sweden.
With relief, Craig observed that they had crossed a bridge over a small canal and arrived at the winding road of the great island. To the left stretched acres of wood-fringed meadow, similar to the fields of Wisconsin and Minnesota, and to the right rose the stately villas of Sweden’s elite. ‘Djurgården means Animal Park,’ explained Jacobsson. ‘In its early days, this was the King’s hunting preserve. Now the forests and clearings are a public pleasure park. As to the rest, the estates of our aristocrats and millionaires and artists, I think Mr. Manker is better qualified to point out things of interest.’
Enthusiastically, Mr. Manker resumed his recital. There was a series of villas, many hidden from view by foliage or sunk below road level, belonging to princes of the blood, but of the names of their owners, Craig recognized only that of Prince Bernadotte. And finally, on that portion of the Djurgårdsbrunns Canal that resembled a lake tinted blue and green, stood Åskslottet-Thunder Palace-a miniature but ominous version of the Taj Mahal and the home of Ragnar Hammarlund.
‘Pull up there before the manor gate,’ Jacobsson directed Mr. Manker. ‘Our guests have all met Mr. Hammarlund-in two days they will be enjoying his hospitality at dinner-and they may have special interest in his residence.’
‘You mean, someone actually lives in that place?’ asked Leah incredulously, as they drew up before the metal gate.
‘Indeed, yes,’ said Jacobsson, ‘and a bachelor, at that.’
A pure-white gravel walk led dramatically to the statue of a white sea nymph by Carl Milles. The nymph guarded a magnificent rectangular artificial lily pond. On either side were walks and gnarled oak trees, and at the far end, almost in replica of the marble Mogul tomb, was Åskslottet. The mansion was two stories in height, square and light grey, with a steep reddish roof. Four slim pillars, like minarets, towered before the entrance.
‘Of course, Hammarlund is not quite alone in there,’ Jacobsson was saying. ‘He has his staff of mysterious retainers. At any rate, it is all impressive to look at… Well, Mr. Manker, shall we go on?’
As the limousine started forward, everyone but Leah settled back for more of Djurgården. Leah craned her neck for a last sight of Hammarlund’s castle.