Over and over again, he had asked himself—why? Objectivity about his own position was almost impossible, yet he had tried to analyze the results with an investigator’s dispassionate appraisal. First of all—an insight of candour injected, perhaps, by his analyst, Dr. L. D. Keller—he was physically less interesting than his rival. He was simply too conventional, too average, too close to the median in his appearance. His brown hair conspired with his rimless spectacles to create the illusion of Undramatic Man. On the other hand, as photographs gave ample evidence, Carlo Farelli appeared the representation of the eccentric genius. His pitch-black, curly, tangled hair hung down over his broad wise forehead. His piercing, fanatical eyes, classical Roman nose, carefree, white-toothed smile, Hapsburg jaw were all made more distinctive by the faintly pitted cheeks and olive complexion of his broad face.
In the second place, Garrett’s background had seemed too homegrown and too familiar. Born in Illinois, educated in Massachusetts, he had accomplished his researches in California. On the other hand, Farelli had been born in Milan, educated in Geneva, London, and Heidelberg, and had conducted the majority of his experiments in Rome. This background, Garrett had reasoned, was too cosmopolitan to resist. Finally, all of Garrett’s brilliant transplants had been made on unknown, middle-class patients. Almost half of Farelli’s twenty-one heart transplants had been successful on patients who were, in the vernacular of the day, ‘newsworthy’—one a cardinal of the Roman Church, one an Austrian statesman, one a French actress renowned at the turn of the century, one an elderly British playwright. If Garrett saw himself as William Harvey and Joseph Lister, or at least Ambroise Paré, he saw Farelli as only a pale carbon copy of himself made legible, even gaudy, by the methods of Phineas T. Barnum. The fact that the world, or the world’s press, at any rate, did not see this so clearly as he, made Garrett a study verging on the paranoiac.
Before his departure for Sweden, he had paid one more visit to his therapy group in Dr. Keller’s office on Wilshire Boulevard. What he sought, that day, was not illumination but corroboration of his own current beliefs. On this, his only visit after his Nobel Prize had been announced, his reception had been gratifying, to say the least. For once, Miss Dudzinski had left her mother in peace, and Mrs. Zane had confined her account of her gymnastics with Mr. Zane’s employer to ten heated minutes, and Adam Ring had been unnaturally mute and respectful (having decided, no doubt, that his one Academy Award nomination had finally been matched and surpassed by a member of the group).
Unusually agitated, Garrett had accused the Caroline Institute of Stockholm of bias in subtracting half of his honour and giving it to an Italian mountebank. He had railed on against Farelli’s self-serving publicity tactics, his unethical standards, his brazen egotism in agreeing to share a citation that was not rightly his to claim. Dr. Keller, so rarely vocal, had been superhuman in his effort to soothe Garrett with calm reason. The analyst had pointed out that if Farelli had drawn upon Garrett’s creative genius for his own discovery, he would one day be found out, and in the eyes of the world, Garrett would be properly credited. Meanwhile, he had gone on to say, the best experts of the Nobel Committee had made their studies and had determined Farelli’s worth. As a sensible man, it was Garrett’s duty to accept the verdict sensibly. This year, he had been honoured above all men of medicine on earth. Certainly, at this summit, there was room for another to stand beside him. The accomplishment was no less his, and he should be proud of a contribution to the betterment and longevity of the human race.
And Adam Ring, from deep in the easy chair, had capped it in his own terms: ‘When you take the Oscar, you don’t ask questions, Dr. Garrett. It’s the gold medal for life. For the rest of your days, you’re the Nobelman, like being knighted. Nobody’ll give a damn if there were two winners or ten. All they’ll know is you hit the jackpot. Better than an annuity. From now on, no waiting in line, no having your credit checked, no having to pay for it with hookers, no proving anything to anyone. You can’t go higher than up, and you’re up. Be happy. I’ll trade places with you, flat deal, no cash, no questions, right now.’
Garrett had departed from the session somewhat mollified.
By the time he and Saralee had entered the Scandinavian Airlines’ DC-8 jet at Los Angeles International Airport at 11.30 yesterday morning—despite the well-wishers from Pasadena who had come to see them off—Garrett’s temper had again settled into one of controlled resentment. The lulling monotony of the transpolar flight, as Saralee had hoped, had done much to pacify him. The thirteen hours over Canada, Labrador, Iceland, and Norway, broken by only one brief stop for refuelling, had been occupied with reading, conversation, lunch, dinner (roast lamb), supper, bourbon, and martinis.
They had slept fitfully, had enjoyed an early breakfast, and had made a roaring landing on the cement strip of the Kastrup Airport at 8.59 Copenhagen time. An undersecretary of the United States Embassy, a beaming, collegiate gentleman not yet middle-aged, had been on hand to welcome them. Since there remained a little over two hours before a Caravalle jet would take them the last lap to Stockholm, the Embassy had arranged an extremely brief tour of the city and environs for them. They had visited the Raadhuspladsen, and then, from the centre of the city, had driven through the crowded thoroughfare known as Strøget. They had seen the statue of Christian V in Kongens Nytorv, and later the Nyhavn canal, the Rigsdag, the Rosenborg Castle, and finally, at the end of the Langelinie promenade, rising from the water, the life-sized sculpture of Hans Christian Anderson’s ‘Little Mermaid’. The last treat, before returning to the airport, had been smørrebrød sandwiches in the festive terrace café of the d’Angleterre Hotel.
Garrett, a receptive sightseer, had been considerably soothed by his initial impression of bustling Copenhagen. For almost the first time, he seemed cognizant of the fact that he was on a journey and in a foreign place. When they had returned to the Kastrup Airport, ten minutes before takeoff, he had almost forgotten the existence of Carlo Farelli. But then, just as he was about to go through the door to the runway, passing a newsstand, Garrett’s eye was caught by the front page of the Danish morning newspaper, Politiken. The photograph, three columns wide, showed Farelli alighting from an airliner, his olive face wreathed in a smile, his right arm raised aloft in greeting.
The United States Embassy escort, over Saralee’s weak protests, purchased the newspaper for Garrett, and two others besides, both of which also featured the visage of Carlo Farelli on their front pages. As they strode to the waiting Caravelle, Garrett requested the Embassy man to translate the captions and stories, and, innocently, he did so. Listening to the language of the Danish correspondents in Stockholm—‘Italian Saviour of Human Hearts’, ‘The Genius Who Has a Heart’, ‘Nobel Laureate in Medicine Arrives in Stockholm in Triumph’—Garrett blanched, and Saralee suffered, seeing the wrath in his twitching features.
Before boarding the jet, Garrett snatched the newspapers from his host, barely remembering to thank him for his kindness, and soon lost himself in his seat. In the hour that they had been aloft since Copenhagen, Saralee observed, he had never once let the newspapers off his lap, and constantly he had returned to them and to Farelli’s hateful countenance.
Now Saralee determined to break the spell. ‘John, you haven’t looked around the plane once. Isn’t the décor divine? I adore pastel.’
Petulantly, Garrett did not lift his head. He had no interest in pastel at the moment.
Saralee would not be put off. ‘We’ve still got twenty-five minutes. Why don’t you have a drink? I’ll have one, if you will. Let’s have real French champagne.’
‘If you insist.’
‘I’m only thinking what’s good for you. Besides, this is an occasion. We’re almost there. You’re going to get the Nobel Prize.’
‘All right, Saralee, please. In fact, it’s a good idea.’
She rose from her chair. ‘You call the hostess. And no flirting when my back is turned. I’ve seen them. I’m going to
the washroom. I want to look fresh.’ She crossed into the aisle, bumping his knees, and knocking the newspapers to the floor. ‘Be right back.’
Garrett collected the newspapers, and folded them on his lap once more. He took a cigar from the inside of his coat—cigars were a recent habit, in keeping with his new station—moistened and bit off the tip, and applied his lighter. Puffing discontentedly, he stretched his neck to see what lay outside the window. Nothing met his sight but azure sky. They were at 28,000 feet, he remembered. It only proved that you could be as unhappy close to heaven as on the ground.
He thought that he had heard his name spoken, and rotated his body towards the aisle, past the ball of smoke he had exhaled. He found a serious young lady standing beside his seat, inspecting him. Except for her outlandish hairdo, severe bangs, too girlish, with the remainder of her auburn hair piled vertical in a manner indescribable, she was not unattractive. Her face was young, twenty-five to twenty-eight, he reckoned, and the immediate total impression was that of a hatchet. The bright brown eyes were narrow, the nose an instrument for pecking, the mouth thin and small. Her neck seemed inordinately long, and the effect, created perhaps by the cowl collar of her tweed suit, was that of a woman peeking out of a manhole. The thick suit hid her figure entirely.
‘Dr. John Garrett?’ she repeated.
‘Yes,’ he replied, shifting, not sure if he was to rise or not.
‘I’m Sue Wiley of CN—Consolidated Newspapers, New York.’
‘How do you do?’ he said politely.
‘I came into Copenhagen this morning. I was in Berlin on the Spandau Prison story. I’d been assigned to head in your direction—’ She indicated Saralee’s empty seat. ‘May I sit down a second?’
‘Please do. Wait—’ He stood up and moved into Saralee’s chair, and allowed Sue Wiley to take his own place.
‘I’m doing the big CN Nobel series. I’m sure you’ve seen the exploitation.’
He had no idea what she was speaking about, but he nodded vague assent.
‘Fourteen articles, one thousand words apiece,’ she said. ‘It’ll run for two weeks in fifty-three papers. It’s a big one, breaking right after the ceremonies. You’re from L.A., aren’t you?’
‘Pasadena,’ he said correctly.
‘No difference. We’ll have outlets in L.A., Frisco, Chicago, New York, anywhere you turn your head. Anyhow, when I got on this plane, I figured a bunch of nothings and wasted the last hour manicuring my nails. But when the steward was getting me a drink a little while back, he tipped me that there was a Nobel winner on the plane. I could have fallen over. I thought all of you were in Stockholm already.’
‘No, not really, as you can see,’ he said cautiously. ‘As a matter of fact, it is my understanding we’re arriving early, as these things go. In past years, most winners came in a few days before the final ceremony. But I’m told, this year, they wanted us earlier. They have a big programme.’
She blinked her eyes, which he soon learned was with her an unconscious and disconcerting habit, and went on merrily. ‘My luck, is all I can say, having you cornered here. I wasn’t going to get out pencil and pad until tomorrow. But you can save me a lot of time.’
‘We’ve only fifteen minutes, Miss Wiley. Wouldn’t it be sounder to wait?’
‘Mr. Garrett—forgive me, Dr. Garrett—I don’t want to boast, but I can make fifteen minutes do like fifteen hours. And it’s painless, I assure you.’
‘What sort of thing do you want to know?’
‘From the day one. Not the usual hackneyed platitudes. My byline’s going to be on this one, and like I told you, it’s a biggie. I want to turn all of you inside out. After all, you’ve nothing to hide. You know the angle, the Gods as mere mortals. And I’m doing the same with the Nobel crowd. What gives in those smoke-filled rooms? I mean to find out.’ She unsnapped her handbag, preliminary to locating pencil and pad. ‘Let’s plunge.’
But, in his own mind, Garrett had made his decision. An unimaginative man outside the laboratory, he was not given to breaking rules. The long letter from the Nobel Foundation, signed by a Count Bertil Jacobsson, had listed precise instructions on handling of the press. While he could speak to the press freely in his native land, it was hoped that once on his way to Sweden, and while inside Sweden, he would avoid individual contact with the press as much as possible. If forced to reply to questions while unescorted in Copenhagen or Stockholm, it was hoped that he would make his comments noncommittal and brief. The reason for this advice was that, in past years, statements made carelessly, in unsupervised press interviews, had led to sensationalized stories. With these experiences fresh in mind, the Nobel Foundation had scheduled a series of formal press interviews, for the present winners, in Stockholm on the afternoon of December third. These would be supervised, and the results could be better guaranteed to be favourable.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Miss Wiley, but I’m afraid I’m not allowed to talk right now,’ he said.
Her head swivelled towards him. The eyes blinked furiously. ‘Are you kidding? Since when are scientists prima donnas?’
‘Don’t misunderstand me, Miss Wiley,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s just that I don’t want to break the rules.’
‘What rules?’ she challenged.
He tried to explain the strictures placed upon him and his colleagues by the Nobel Foundation.
‘Gestapo nonsense,’ she exploded, when he was through. ‘They just want to muzzle everyone so the Swede newspapers can get the big breaks. We’re Americans—you and I—and we have different principles, don’t we? I’ll be bending your ear a dozen times. Why not start now? Of course you will—’
Her persistence annoyed him. ‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘I’m afraid not. Tomorrow at the official conference—’
‘To hell with that circus.’ She stared at him. ‘You really won’t co-operate?’
‘You make it sound awful.’
‘It is awful. What happened to freedom of speech? Now, come on, Dr. Garrett, just conversation.’
‘No.’
She snapped her handbag shut, too loudly, and sat back, narrow eyes still levelled at him. ‘You’re sure you understand what you’re doing? I told you this wasn’t the usual handout story. This is a big one, important, personal, behind the scenes.’ She paused dangerously. ‘I’d hate to continue going to other sources, sources other than yourself, for information about you. I have already, you know. Our bureaus all over the country have pitched in. Quite an eyeful. But I don’t like to get it all like that, secondhand. I like to get it straight from the horse’s mouth. That’s good reporting. That’s the way Nellie Bly used to operate.’ She paused a second time. ‘You want me to keep getting my material from other sources?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know what more to say. I’ll co-operate when I can, but not now.’
‘Okay, Dr. Garrett,’ she said. She stood up. ‘But you know, I’ll bet Dr. Keller and your group therapy gang wouldn’t approve of your behaviour.’
She smiled a thin smile, wiggled into the aisle, and was gone.
Garrett sat with the disbelieving look of a man who has been handed a grenade two and a half seconds after the pin has been pulled, and has no place to throw it. His inability to function was total. His brain tried to unscramble the message it had just received. Dr. Keller was a secret. The group therapy sessions were a secret. Garrett had never been sufficiently liberated to discuss his treatment with a soul, except his wife. Who on earth knew of his group therapy? His physician, who had referred him to a psychiatrist, who had referred him to Dr. Keller. And Saralee, of course. But who else? Then he realized that the secret was shared by many: Mr. Lovato, Mrs. Perrin, Mr. Ring, Mrs. Zane, Mr. Armstrong, Miss Dudzinski. Which of them had talked? In what mysterious way had Sue Wiley, or her journalistic network, ferreted out this private information?
He tried to handle the predicament rationally. What did it matter if his group therapy attendance was published? Apparently it had mattered to
Sue Wiley and to himself. She had thrown it at him as a threat, a form of blackmail. And he had fielded it as something explosive and destructive. Was it destructive? How would the research staff in Pasadena regard their star, once they knew that he was in group therapy? What would the Nobel Committee think? And the public? Worst of all, what would his arch-enemy, Carlo Farelli, think? Somehow, it gave Farelli the upper hand by disqualifying Garrett’s competence through mental illness—it reduced Garrett’s infallibility—it made him less than genius. Would Paré or Harvey or Lister have been in group therapy along with an errant wife, a half-potent actor, and a suffering homosexual? Unthinkable.
He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes remained before Stockholm. He was craven now, and knew it, and did not care, and he was ready for surrender, if that was the price of discretion. He jumped to his feet, just as Saralee came down the aisle from the washroom.
‘Where are you going, John?’ she asked.
He had no patience for her. ‘There’s a reporter—I promised—I want to talk to her. Sit down and wait.’
He brushed past her, trod up the aisle, oblivious of the other passengers, and found Sue Wiley idly staring out of the window. She was in the last seat, and, not unexpectedly, as if reserved for him, the chair beside her was vacant. He took it, and she met him with the thin, reptilian smile.
‘How sweet of you to come,’ she said.
‘Where did you hear that thing about me?’ Garrett wanted to know.
‘Group therapy? Oh, we have our sources.’
‘But where?’
‘Now, that’s not fair, is it? You know the old adage—newspaper people never reveal the sources of their information. If they couldn’t be trusted by informants, they’d never learn half as much as they do. Matter of fact, Mr. Garrett—Dr. Garrett—I was once a cause célèbre in that respect. Right in your fair city. I went to a marijuana party, chock-full of movie stars, and reported it, no names. Your narcotics squad hauled me in and asked for names. I said I’d been invited under the condition no names, and I was sticking to it, and I did. The judge gave me a month, but Consolidated Newspapers and every sheet in the country were up in arms, and I was released after five days. There’s your answer.’
(1961) The Prize Page 17
