‘It’s hard to believe that he’s a millionaire and owns that big place,’ she said. ‘I mean, when I met him, he seemed so ineffectual and ordinary.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Emily, ‘he was exactly what I had expected-type-cast for his role-right out of a hundred suspense novels about tycoons, munitions makers, merchants of death.’
Since Craig was interested, Leah could not allow herself to be contradicted by this young woman. ‘You’re being romantic,’ she said to Emily. ‘What’s so different about him?’
‘For one thing, he’s bizarre,’ said Emily. ‘For another, when I think of Hammarlund, I suffer astigmatism-I see him in plural-the limp personality we meet by day, and the other personality he keeps locked up until night.’
‘ “I want to write about a fellow who was two fellows,” ’ quoted Craig. ‘That’s what Robert Louis Stevenson once told Andrew Lang, and that’s how Jekyll’s Hyde was born.’
‘We’re all two fellows,’ said Stratman with a grunt.
Leah grasped for any ally. ‘I agree with Professor Stratman,’ she said vaguely.
‘So do I, Lee,’ said Craig. ‘However, I suspect Hammarlund’s two fellows are more interesting than mine or yours. And that’s where I side with Miss Stratman. I, too, think he’s bizarre, a cache of secrets, and that he only permits his second self out at night when there’s empire work to be done, and no one’s looking. That’s the self we never meet, the one who assembles cartels and makes millions. The self we see is simply too soft, too bland, too hairless and chinless, to be believed. There must be more.’
‘Oh, there is more, indeed there is,’ Jacobsson said from the front seat, ‘but perhaps not so exciting as you imagine. Hammarlund has his intrigues constantly, of course-is that not so of all big businessmen today, in a business world?-but he has no double life or private band of assassins, as far as I can ascertain. The Zaharoffs of private enterprise are dead in a world of expanding socialism.’
‘I can’t wait for his dinner party,’ said Leah.
‘It will be correct and lavish,’ Jacobsson promised, ‘but do not expect hidden doorways and secret passages and bodies that fall out of cupboards.’ He smiled indulgently, and one almost heard the facial parchment crackle. ‘Of course, for your sake, Miss Decker, I hope that I am wrong.’ Jacobsson peered through the windshield, and then said, ‘And now we approach an institution no less glamorous but far more innocent, one in which we Swedes take great pride. I refer to our celebrated Skansen park. Once more, Mr. Manker is the authority.’
Mr. Manker shifted into low gear, sending the limousine grinding up the rising highway, and then he spoke in his rehearsed Cook’s Tour monotone, the words floating forth too easily, as if lacking the ballast of thought. ‘Skansen is unique,’ said Mr. Manker. ‘It is not an amusement park like Disneyland or Tivoli. It is a museum in the open air, a condensation of Sweden’s past, presented visually in the present. It was opened in 1891, and in the decades since, it has become one of our foremost attractions. You will see our manor houses, centuries old, reconstructed…’
By the time Mr. Manker had finished his description, they had arrived at the foot of the final ascent, and entered the parking place reserved for them. Emerging from the car, after Emily had stepped down, Craig studied the main entrance gate of Skansen and remembered the humid summer’s day when Harriet and he, carrying cameras and ice-cream cones, had first walked through it. He remembered it as fun, that time, like discovering an old National Geographic in the dentist’s office. But he was in no mood for visual history today. The lack of a single drink, since the night before, had left him parched and restless. He required something to comfort him, either Emily to talk to or a whisky, preferably both and at the same time. If he went on this visit, he decided, it would only be to seek a moment with Emily.
Stratman had been conversing in an undertone with Emily, and now the physicist waddled over to Jacobsson and Mr. Manker.
‘If you will forgive me,’ said Stratman, ‘I think I will sit this one out. The spirit is willing, but the bones are weak.’ He looked off. ‘Your Skansen appears too formidable.’
‘There is a modern escalator,’ said Mr. Manker.
‘Thank you. I believe I will just sit in the car and doze. I am sure there is much more to see after this. I must conserve my strength.’
Emily had come up alongside her uncle, and her face showed concern. ‘I’ll stay with you, Uncle Max-’
‘Ach, no-no fuss, now-please go with the young ones.’
Some unconscious purpose, in Craig, made him speak. ‘I’ll be here, Miss Stratman, so you needn’t worry.’ He turned to Jacobsson and Mr. Manker. ‘I don’t want to be a spoilsport, but I’ve already been through Skansen, top to bottom. It’s worth another visit, but like Professor Stratman, I’d like to conserve my strength. I still haven’t got over the plane trip.’
Emily was not appeased. ‘Uncle Max, I prefer-’
‘No,’ said Stratman firmly, ‘I want you to go and tell me all about it. Mr. Craig and I have had no time together. I will teach him physics, and he will give me a course in literature appreciation. Please, mein Liebchen-’
Emily glanced worriedly from her uncle to Craig, and at last capitulated. She permitted Mr. Manker and Jacobsson to lead her to Leah and Indent Flink, and together the party started for the Skansen gate. Once, Emily looked back, and Stratman reassured her with an uplifted hand.
After they had gone, Stratman shook his head. ‘The child troubles too much about an old man. It is my fault.’
With a sigh, Stratman went into the limousine, loosened his collar, and laid his head back comfortably on the rear seat. Craig took out his pipe, and after lighting it, he sat down on the front seat.
‘I have my meerschaum, but I forgot my tobacco,’ said Stratman.
‘Have some of mine,’ said Craig, quickly passing his pouch.
When Stratman was puffing contentedly at last, he spoke again. ‘As you add years, your pleasures subtract. Once, my years were few, but my pleasures were many, many. Long ago, I would fish, play billiards, hold a Fräulein’s hand, stay up the entire night with my brother in card games, go to the opera, read for pleasure, stuff myself with schnitzel, smoke my pipe, and work-work was always pleasure.’ He held up the brown meerschaum. ‘Now only pipe remains, this and work. I do not complain. It is enough.’
‘I envy you,’ said Craig. ‘I have only the pipe.’
‘And not the work?’
‘No.’
Stratman was silent a moment. ‘Emily told me you lost your wife recently. Is that the reason?’
Separate emotions struggled inside Craig. One was of elation, that Emily had actually spoken to her uncle of him. The other was of shame, that he had indulged himself in prolonged self-commiseration. ‘When I lost my wife, there seemed no point any longer.’
‘Is not work itself, creation, solitary accomplishment, the real point?’
‘One would suppose so. I remember one of Mr. Maugham’s characters once saying that an artist should let his mother starve, if necessary, rather than turn out potboilers to save her. In short, the artist’s work, his devotion to it, was all that mattered. You know, Professor, that takes terrible strength.’
‘For strength, I would substitute something else-an unrealistic sense of divinity-that the Lord gave you, only you, the Golden Plates.’
‘I used to feel that.’
Stratman nodded. ‘I am sure you did. If you had not, you would not be in Stockholm today. Then, what has happened to you? I am no psychologist, but I can guess. The unrealistic sense of divinity was violated by a horrible accident of reality-your wife’s sudden death-and you have been brought down, and your faith shaken, and you are still in shock. It happens, young man, it happens.’
Craig tried to think about this, sort it out and spread it before him, but he was not ready to understand it, and finally he decided to defer analysis for another day. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said, and said no more.