The Prize (119 page)

‘But occasionally, rarely, but sometimes, an important case comes to me. Such was the one Lilly refers to—the Enbom case, in 1952. You have heard of it?’

‘I’m sure I read about it,’ said Craig, trying to remember.

‘It was the most important spy trial in our history,’ said Lilly. ‘And Daranyi played a role.’

‘Fritiof Enbom was a reporter for a Swedish Communist newspaper in Boden,’ Daranyi said to Craig. ‘That is our vital fortress in Lapp country, near Finland. He was a Swede, and one of those ideological spies I was telling you about. He was an agent for Soviet Russia. He started during the Second World War for Russia. He had secreted a radio transmitter. He came often to Stockholm. When he did, bringing with him reports of our fortifications, he would leave a twisted hairpin in the crevice of a house near the Russian Embassy, and then the Russians would call on him. All went well, until 1951. Then he had a falling out with the Communists, quit his newspaper in Boden, and moved down here to Stockholm. Since Enbom needed a job, he asked help of some of his old Swedish Communist comrades in the government. They refused him. Enbom was extremely put out. One night, complaining to a friend, he told what he had done for the Communists as a spy. The friend, a loyal Swede, went to the Ministry of Defence. Enbom was promptly arrested. So were his brother and mistress—here is where I came into the story, but I cannot yet reveal what I was hired to do or who hired me—and also arrested were four others. Enbom was charged with selling military secrets to Russia for ten thousand kronor. The others were charged the same. Enbom was convicted and given Sweden’s harshest penalty—life in prison at hard labour. Of the others, one was acquitted, and five also sent to prison, although for lighter sentences. But, you see, sometimes my life is not so drab. Perhaps some day you will want to write my story, Mr. Craig?’

Craig smiled. ‘Perhaps, some day.’

‘The real point,’ said Daranyi, ‘is that Stockholm deceives tourists. It is orderly, immaculate, prosperous, so much so that it seems hopelessly dull. But it is not as it looks. Neutralism makes this a free playground for conspiracy. The Enbom case was one that happened to be made public. You take my word, there are a hundred other intrigues, as varied as the
smorg
ه
sbord
, in this city.’

‘It’s hard to believe—like being told the Brontë sisters were really a spy ring,’ said Craig. He looked at Lilly, who was patting her mouth with a napkin. ‘I suppose Lilly is one of your agents?’

‘No, she is quite hopeless,’ said Daranyi. ‘She has no talent for the devious.’

‘I think,’ said Lilly, ‘my frankness upsets Mr. Craig. I tricked him into joining our nudist society last night.’

Daranyi shook his head. ‘Not for me. You have more courage than I have, Mr. Craig. Never in a million years would I expose my belly to that pack of health fiends.’

‘I don’t remember much about the experience,’ said Craig. ‘I’m afraid I was drunk.’

Lilly lifted her arms behind her head and stretched. Her breasts expanded outward against the cocoa blouse, but nothing was revealed, and Craig realized that, for the first time, she was wearing a brassière. Craig wondered why.

‘Well, whatever it was, the drinking or our nudist meeting, it agreed with you,’ said Lilly to Craig. ‘You were wonderful in bed last night.’

Craig felt his face redden. ‘So were you, Lilly.’

Daranyi coughed and spoke. ‘We used to have a Prime Minister in Sweden—Per Albin Hansson—who was a prohibitionist, and his favourite quotation was from Aristotle. It was, “Those who go to bed drunk beget only daughters.” A word to the wise.’

Lilly waved her hand at Daranyi. ‘Do not be an old father goat. Am I a child? When I was in school in Vadstena, and I was seven, I was taught about the fertilization of the ovum, and by the time I was twelve, I had learned in the classroom about contraceptives. You tell your Aristotle I will beget no daughters.’ She turned. ‘Are you relieved, Mr. Craig?’

‘Not if they’d look like you.’

‘American men make prettier speeches than Swedish men.’ She glanced at her wristwatch, and suddenly leaped to her feet. ‘We will be late. Hurry, Daranyi.’ She looked at Craig. ‘Are you busy at the hotel?’

‘Not especially.’

‘Then you must come along with us. There is someone I wish you to meet. It will delay you only an hour. After that, Daranyi will drop me off at NK and return you to the hotel. Is that all right?’

‘I’m with you,’ said Craig.

Lilly did not bother with the dishes, but hurriedly brought her coat, and the men’s coats, from the cupboard. She was all rush now, as they made their way into the hall, down the elevator, and outside.

‘Some of the canals are frozen over from last night,’ said Daranyi, as they walked to his car. ‘But today is not so cold. Gloomy, though. Yes, look at the clouds.’

‘Do not waste time,’ said Lilly. ‘You know it is bad if I am late.’

The car proved to be a black Citroën. Despite its age—it was at least ten years old—it gleamed with care and polish. There was not a nick, not a dent, and the chrome was shining. Craig helped Lilly into the front seat, and, himself, got into the rear, as Daranyi squeezed behind the wheel with an exhalation.

They started with a forward jerk, and then smoothed out. Daranyi drove stiffly, like all fat men, and correctly, like those on a temporary visa, and he drove not at excessive speeds but steadily.

‘Where are we headed?’ Craig once asked.

‘Near V
ن
llingby section,’ said Lilly. ‘You will see. No more questions.’

Craig settled back, and smoked contentedly, as Daranyi related anecdotes of the life of a Hungarian in Sweden, and Lilly was quiet, lost in her own thoughts.

In a short time, on a wide street of apartment buildings and modern shops, Daranyi slowed the vehicle, and edged into a parking space against the kerb. They left the Citroën and made their way, with Lilly several strides ahead, to a two-storey stone building. Craig could not make out the Swedish lettering above the door, as he dutifully followed the other two inside.

They were in a hall, and then in a reception room. The room was neatly furnished with an oak sofa that had a wickerwork back and four chairs featuring cowhide seats and a large centre table holding two rows of Swedish magazines.

‘You sit and be comfortable,’ said Lilly. ‘I will be right out.’

She disappeared through a glazed door. Daranyi sat and picked at a magazine, Craig hunted about.

‘What is it?’ inquired Duranyi.

‘I’m trying to find an ashtray.’

‘They always forget. Mostly women come here, and rarely do they smoke in public.’ He pointed off. ‘There is one, on the window ledge.’

Craig crossed, mystified by their locale, emptied his pipe of ashes into the ceramic tray, filled the bowl again, lit up, and found a chair.

‘Why all the mystery?’ Craig demanded to know.

‘Sometimes Lilly likes her fun,’ said Daranyi.

They waited five minutes, neither speaking, when suddenly the glazed door opened, and Lilly appeared. She was carrying a straw-haired boy in blue jeans, a little over a year old, and she was cooing at him and rubbing his nose with her own, and he was giggling.

She turned him around in her arms, handling him as she would a puppet, and she bowed him towards Craig.

‘Arne, I want you to meet a friend of ours from far away—Mr. Craig.’ She smiled across the room at Craig, who half rose, blinking in stupefaction. ‘Mr. Craig,’ continued Lilly, ‘I want you to meet my son.’

Then, without waiting for Craig’s reaction, she pointed the boy toward Daranyi and lowered him to the floor. ‘There is Uncle Daranyi. You may kiss him.’

The little boy waddled, unsteadily, but with secure familiarity, to Daranyi’s outstretched arms. Daranyi engulfed him in a hug, and then worked through his coat pocket and produced a grape lollipop, and handed it to the boy, who took it and kissed him. The little boy turned, saw Craig’s strange and amazed countenance so high above, backed off in fright, and trying to run, fell down. Lilly was on her knees at once. She scooped him up, cuddling him. ‘Did Arne hurt himself?’ she whispered. ‘Mommy loves Arne.’

Standing with the boy in her arms, Lilly faced Craig. ‘What do you think of him? Does he look like me? He is so smart for fourteen months, but he is shy.’

‘He’s beautiful,’ said Craig, and he meant it. ‘I didn’t know you’d ever been married, Lilly.’

‘But I have not ever been married,’ Lilly answered cheerfully. ‘I am still an old maid. . . . Excuse us now. Arne and I must meet the guardian. See you later.’

Craig considered himself sophisticated in many respects, and Stockholm had made him more so, but his amazement had turned to undisguised shock. Dazed, he watched Lilly leave the room with her son.

He felt Daranyi beside him and looked down. ‘You are startled, yes?’ the Hungarian asked.

‘I’m stunned.’

‘But not appalled?’

‘Nooo. Not appalled.’

‘I am pleased with you,’ said Daranyi. ‘Lilly would not want your disapproval. She did not tell you before, because she feared that you would not understand with words. She is a woman who lives by instinct. Her instinct was to let you see her son first. When you saw him with her, you would understand better.’

‘I’m not sure I understand anything,’ said Craig, ‘but I’m not appalled.’

‘Exactly,’ said Daranyi. ‘Perhaps I can make you understand. Come with me. There is a restaurant on the corner. Lilly will meet us there soon. We can have coffee, and I can make you understand.’

They walked outside, and the short distance to the corner, and in the restaurant they took the counter seats at the far end, apart from the other morning customers.

After Daranyi had ordered coffee for Craig, and coffee and a sweet roll for himself, he spun on his counter stool towards Craig.

‘To make you understand,’ he said seriously, ‘I must request a trick of magic. Presto, you are no longer in your Wisconsin or on America’s Main Street or anywhere in your United States. You are in Scandinavia, in a different moral climate, a more unusual and progressive moral climate. Is that something you can do?’

‘I can try. She called him her son. You can’t have a son by yourself. Was it an accident?’

‘Not at all an accident, Mr. Craig. Arne’s conception and birth were planned.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Mr. Craig, divest yourself of the old shibboleths. One out of every ten children born in Sweden is illegitimate.’

‘I’m not a puritan, whatever Lilly says. Far from it. But somehow, you don’t expect this of someone you know—know intimately—or thought you knew.’

‘But it always has to be
someone
. Why not someone you know? People become millionaires, and sometimes it has to be someone you know. People murder and are victims, and sometimes it is someone you know. People divorce, and they commit suicide, and sometimes it is someone you know. Little Arne is the one out of ten in Sweden.’