The Prize (71 page)

Craig fell in behind the crowd, and climbed the metal steps to the top, where a door kept opening and closing. He went through it to find himself on the windy top deck of the ferry, a deck crowded with travellers, Danes and Swedes sitting on benches, standing in groups, walking, all giving off laughter and commotion.

The boat had begun to churn and creak, as he elbowed through the thickly packed deck. An illuminated sign ahead indicated the first-class restaurant, and Craig fought his way towards his goal. One glass door led into a vestibule, comforting as a decompression chamber after the force and stress of the outer cold and the milling passengers, and the second glass door led into an immense, newly decorated dining-hall. There were tables and chairs everywhere, but few of them occupied. Immediately to his left, Craig saw a circular counter, with a great array of
smorg
ه
sbord
sandwiches, and sweet cakes behind it. Waiting in attendance were a grey-haired Dane and a thin young woman, both in uniforms.

Craig went to the counter. ‘I was told I could get a drink here.’

‘Coffee or tea?’ the grey-haired man asked.

‘Scotch.’

‘Whisky?’

‘Yes. Make it a double—two shots—on ice. No soda. Better serve two drinks, both two shots.’ This needed an explanation. ‘I’m expecting someone,’ he added.

The ferry was rolling slightly, and he walked, legs apart for equilibrium, to a table beside a port window. Through it, he was unable to see Sweden, but saw only the prow of the boat beneath, and the reflection of the boat’s lights in the water.

Presently, both drinks were served, one before him, and one across from him. His need was terrible, and he emptied the first glass as if he were drinking water. He exchanged it for the glass across from him, and drank that one more slowly. When he was done, he felt in harmony with his surroundings, and he felt relaxed. The glow of the Scotch was high in his head, and, for the first time, Stockholm and what it held for him seemed more probable. Yet he was not sufficiently disarmed to forget the danger that lay ahead. The black night lay ahead, and he had no wish to think.

The grey-haired waiter was nearby, setting a table, and Craig signalled him. ‘Do you sell bottles on the ferry?’

‘Not as a practice, sir.’

‘I’m on the Nord Express. We’re having a little party. I wonder if you could accommodate me?’

‘I’d have to take it out of our stock. What do you prefer?’

He tapped his glass. ‘The same. Any brand.’

‘I’ll see what we can spare.’

Waiting, Craig stoked his pipe, and absently scanned the room. He saw her before she recognized him. She was still wearing the white béret on her golden hair, a white blouse strained by her bust, and the open coral sweater. The skirt was different. Navy blue had been replaced by something grey, woollen, and fuller. She stood inside the glass door, tentatively, impermanent, seeking someone.

He leaped to his feet and crossed the dining-hall towards her. Only when he was within a few yards of her did she recognize him.

‘Hello,’ he said with real pleasure. For the life of him, he could not recall her name.

‘I am surprised, Mr. Craig.’ She extended her hand formally, and he shook it. ‘I do not think you remember my name. I am Lilly Hedqvist.’

He grinned. ‘I don’t think I was in condition to remember your name. Now I won’t forget it.’

‘I’ve been looking for my friends. They must be downstairs in the second-class café.’

‘Won’t you have a drink with me first?’

As he spoke, his eyes had gone past her, through the glass door to the outer deck door, to fix on Leah Decker. She was holding the deck door open, standing half in the vestibule, half on the deck, searching behind her for some sign of her quarry.

The sight of her galvanized Craig. He gripped Lilly’s arm so firmly that she winced. ‘We can’t stay here. Come with me. I’m trying to get away from someone.’

Swiftly, he propelled her around the circular counter, and almost pushed her out the opposite door.

‘Where can we hide?’ he implored.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Follow me.’

He went out onto the deck, with Lilly behind him. Temporarily, the drinks fortified him against the icy air. He peered down the deck, apparently discovered something, grabbed Lilly’s arm, and guided her to the sign over the second-class lounge. They entered. All the chairs and sofas were taken. They stood against a darkened wall.

Lilly’s concern was in her eyes. ‘What is the matter? Are you a criminal?’

‘Nothing so romantic. I have a guardian.’

‘What is that?’

‘My sister-in-law. She’s on this trip to look after me. She disapproves of drunkards. She’s an amateur reformer. When we were standing back there, I saw her on the hunt. I don’t want her to find me.’

‘Why are you afraid of a relative?’

He tried to find an answer for her but could not. ‘Christ, I don’t know why I’m afraid.’ He glanced about. ‘This
is
second-class, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s too snooty to look here the first time around. But she will the second time. Look, honey, will you do me a favour?’

‘What?’

‘It’s a long night ahead on that train—I’m on the Nord Express—’

‘So am I.’

‘What room?’

‘No, it is the second-class compartment in front, for six. We sit up.’

‘You can use my bed. I’ll find somewhere—’

‘No. I am with my friends. I can sleep anyplace. What is the favour?’

‘Just before you came, I ordered a bottle of Scotch—whisky—in the restaurant. I need it. I thought—’

‘I’ll get it for you.’

He handed her the last of his kroner. ‘Go with God.’

After she had gone, he leaned against the wall, smoking nervously, waiting, and ever watchful for the appearance of Leah. After five minutes, Lilly returned. She was holding a parcel that made no pretence of being anything but a bottle.

He accepted it from her, with the change. ‘I could kiss you,’ he said. ‘Do you still want to look for your friends?’

‘You offered me a drink,’ she said.

‘Offer still stands. But where?’

Her smooth brow furrowed, and then cleared. She smiled, pleased with herself. ‘I know where to hide.’

‘You’ve been on this boat?’

‘No, but my friends have. Follow me. It is a strange place.’

He followed her from the lounge to the windy deck. She waited, while he examined the area for Leah. He nodded. She took his hand, and skilfully guided him through the groups of passengers, and then led him down the metal steps to the lower deck. The wagons-lit stood high and immobile. The place was dank and raw and desolate of life. She released his hand and hurried ahead. He strode behind her. They emerged fully into the dark, open prow of the ferry. Parked in front of the train were two rows of four automobiles each.

They stood, shivering, and she waved gaily at the vehicles. ‘Which will you have?’

‘I don’t get you.’

‘The business people drive and take their cars on the ferry. It is too cold to remain in their cars for two hours. The owners go upstairs. The cars are empty. Pick one. It is a perfect place to hide.’

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he said. He joined the fun. ‘What is my lady’s preference?’

‘The Volvo.’

It was a Swedish runt of a sedan in the middle of the first row, concealed by the darkness and the other vehicles, but nonetheless exposed to the wind. He preceded her, tugged open the front door, and assisted her inside. His teeth chattering, he hugged his parcel, circled the car, and got in behind the wheel. Only one window was open, on the driver’s side, and he rolled it up.

‘Sealed tight,’ he said. ‘I wonder if it has a heater.’

It had none that he could discover. He unwrapped the bottle of Scotch, ripped the seal off with his thumbnail, and removed the cork.

‘After you,’ he said. She took the bottle. His eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and he could see her plainly. She had been huddled against the cold, but now she straightened, and lifted the bottle to her lips, her head thrown back. Her coral sweater fell away from her breasts, and he could not help but see what had arrested his attention in the early afternoon—her prominent nipples, stiffened to points by the icy air, protruding through the white blouse.

She had finished her drink, and she saw where his eyes were.

‘I do not wear brassières,’ she said. ‘Is that wrong?’

He was taken aback by her unembarrassed frankness. ‘Wrong? It’s beautiful.’ For want of something else to say, he took refuge in intellectualism. ‘In the Restoration, the great ladies understood this. Sometimes, in the bodices of their gowns, there were holes, for the—the breasts to show through. And in France, under Napoleon, the bosom was exposed for admiration, whenever possible. Marie Antoinette had a drinking cup made from a plaster cast of one of her breasts. It’s on display in Sèvres.’

She listened, perplexed, then handed him the bottle. ‘It is not for such display, or to provoke men, that I do not wear the brassière,’ she said seriously. ‘It is for reasons of health only.’ She patted her hip. ‘I do not wear the girdle either, because of health.’

‘What’s health got to do with it?’

‘I belong to a nudist society, like my friends. Health comes from the sun outdoors and not binding the body with artificial garments.’

‘You mean you actually go around with nothing on?’

‘Twice a month, for a full Sunday each time, in the summer. The colony is on a tiny island in Lake M
ن
laren.’

‘Well, I must say, it agrees with you.’ He hesitated. ‘Aren’t you embarrassed?’

‘For what? I have a body. Others have bodies. We are interested in our health. Nudism is very popular in Sweden. It is one reason we are strong when we are old.’

‘Well, I can’t say I disapprove.’

‘You do not?’

‘Not at all. I think it’s fine.’

‘I had heard all Americans were prudes. Even the men.’

‘Some. Not all.’

‘Your country is obsessed with sex, like the English country, because you are ashamed of it and afraid of it. An American professor of psychology once visited the German and Swedish nudist camps and said if even one little part of the body is covered for concealment—not protection—it makes bad sex thoughts in everyone’s head.’