Jacobsson led the Marceaus around the room anti-clockwise. To the right, a long marble ledge ran along the wall, and on top of it were boxed red-bound albums. Jacobsson removed one album. ‘In each album, we keep photographs of our laureates, autographed whenever possible. The day after the final Ceremony, you will be asked to come here to receive your cheque and to sign your photographs.’ He opened the album. ‘Here you see signed photographs of two fellow chemistry winners. This is Professor Richard Kuhn, of the University of Heidelberg, who was voted the 1938 prize for his work in vitamins. And on this page is Professor Adolph Butenandt, of the University of Berlin, who shared the 1939 prize for his work on sex hormones. As you know, Hitler would not allow his subjects to accept the Nobel Prize. Both Kuhn and Butenandt were forced to refuse it. However, in 1948, after the war and Hitler’s death, these two wrote to thank us for the honour which they had wanted but not been permitted to accept. We gave them their gold medals and diplomas, but could no longer give them the prize money. By regulation, it had been held one year, and then returned to the main fund. Too bad, too bad.’
Jacobsson restored the album to its case, then indicated a lively portrait of a woman, hanging above the ledge.
‘Alfred Nobel’s mother painted by Anders Zorn,’ he said. ‘Nobel had tremendous affection for her. Even when he was travelling, he tried to come back to Stockholm annually for her birthday. She died six years before he did.’
They moved on to the far wall of the room. Jacobsson identified the paintings on either side of the oil of Nobel himself. ‘This is Bertha von Suttner, the most important woman in Nobel’s life besides his mother. She had been a titled governess in Austria, and was fired, when she read an advertisement in a Vienna newspaper—“Elderly, cultured gentleman, very wealthy, resident of Paris, seeks equally mature lady, linguist, as secretary and supervisor of household.” She answered the advertisement, and Nobel was the elderly, cultured gentleman, very wealthy. She became his secretary, and often his adviser. Later, she left him to marry a young baron and become one of the world’s foremost pacifists. It is possible that she influenced Nobel to create the Peace Prize. At any rate, we feel that she belongs beside him on this wall. The painting on the other side is of Ragnar Sohlman, an executive director of this Foundation, who died in 1948. He had been a personal friend of Nobel’s and one of the executors of the famous will.’
Jacobsson pointed out the three bronze busts in the room. ‘This one is of Nobel. We move it to Concert Hall on the tenth for the Ceremony, and then bring it back here. That one is Nobel’s father, and the other, one of his brothers. Now, perhaps, you are curious about what took place in the session hall the afternoon your names were presented?’
‘I am most curious,’ Denise admitted.
‘The four leading chemistry candidates were decided upon earlier in this room,’ said Jacobsson. ‘You yourselves were one. Two Americans, as another team. A Dane. And a candidate from Israel. Of the other candidates, one was considered for his pioneer work in the creation of life, of a living cell. But it was felt that his findings were not yet conclusive. Another had accomplished much in the dissolving of blood clots. Again, the work was considered in its primitive stage. The third, our American candidates, had made progress in new drugs for mental unbalance. In one case, I will admit, a certain prejudice was held against the candidate. He was wealthy and his work commercial, and certain judges were against him for no other reasons. You will understand the sensitivity of the judges when I explain that, although Nobel had once stated that he wanted to reward dreamers who found it hard to get on in life, in contradiction to this, the chemistry committee had given the 1931, award to Karl Bosch head of the I. G. Farben cartel, and to Friedrich Bergius, also of Farben, for making coal into oil. The committee was soundly criticized for its choice. At any rate, the current judges decided that both of you were dreamers, qualified in every way, and your discovery of sperm vitrification thoroughly proved. The debate lasted less than two hours. You were elected laureates by a vote of better than two to one.’
‘We are very humble,’ said Claude sincerely. ‘I thank you for the information.’
They had gone back into the hall as Jacobsson was talking, and now Jacobsson saw them to the exit at the end of the corridor. After shaking hands, Denise reminded him, ‘Count Jacobsson, you will not forget to fill our schedule. We want to be busy every minute.’
‘I shall be delighted to oblige,’ said Jacobsson.
As they went through the door, Jacobsson closed it and turned to find Mrs. Steen waiting directly behind him with some papers. Because he halted beside the door to consult with Mrs. Steen, he was able to hear what went on beyond the door.
He heard first Claude Marceau’s muffled voice and then Denise Marceau’s reply.
Claude had said, ‘Very clever with that schedule, but idiotic. Do you think that could keep me from Copenhagen if I wanted to go?’
Denise Marceau had said, ‘Go to hell.’
Embarrassed, Jacobsson stared down at the green carpeting, until the footsteps of the laureates had receded and were gone.
Jacobsson made no pretence of not having overheard the exchange. Lifting his head to meet Mrs. Steen’s phlegmatic gaze, he said, ‘What do you think, Mrs. Steen?’
Like her adding machine, Mrs. Steen was without deviousness. She replied, ‘If they should ever win a second prize, like the Curies, I am sure only one of them would return to Stockholm—the one who had murdered the other.’
‘Mmm. That is my thought, too, Mrs. Steen, And my prayer is—should homicide happen, let it not happen before the Ceremony.’
In the gloom of the cold winter morning, the three-cylinder Saab-93 sped over Solnavägen towards that area where the many buildings of the Caroline Medico-Chirurgical Institute were located.
At the wheel of the Saab was a young driver for the Institute. In the confined back seat, normally loose and removable because it covered the car trunk, the displacement was three-quarters Ingrid Påhl and one-quarter Dr. John Garrett. Wearing her enormous new hat banded with artificial roses and her heaviest woollen coat—she was sure the temperature was close to Celsius 0°, which would be Fahrenheit 32° and freezing—Ingrid Påhl had lost her earlier look of misgiving, and her puffy features were once more unburdened and even buoyant. When Krantz had pleaded emergency the night before, and backed out of taking Dr. Garrett to the Caroline Institute, and Jacobsson had telephoned her to replace Krantz, she had protested. She knew nothing of medicine. What would she have to say to Garrett? Nevertheless, as a duty, she had agreed to perform as hostess. But Garrett had proved to be a simple, friendly man, much engrossed in his own thoughts, and that had made her task easier.
For Garrett, pressed into the corner of the Saab, this was a crucial morning, and he was living inside himself. At his own request, the visit to Drottningholm Palace had been replaced by this appointment at the Caroline Institute. His protégé, Dr. Erik Öhman, was expecting him and waiting. Although Öhman could not know it, he was a vital weapon in the offensive Garrett was mounting against Carlo Farelli. This day, Garrett had determined, the counter-attack must begin.
There was nothing complex about Garrett’s battle plan. By his aggressiveness at the press conference, Farelli had claimed most of the space in the newspapers the following day. Garrett had been treated as an unwanted relative who had had to be introduced. He had been relegated to an occasional interjection or the spare room of last paragraphs or the graveyard of publicity that read, ‘Also present was—’. When Garrett, in his desperation, had attempted an impromptu guerrilla campaign against Farelli in the salon of the Royal Palace, he had been repulsed, and the defeat still rankled. Now he knew that his tactics must include, first, a carefully organized frontal assault on the battleground of the world’s front pages.
The meeting with Öhman would be Garrett’s first foray. He would learn of Öhman’s progress and future, all an extension of his own heart discovery. He would study Öhman’s three
successful transplantations, and the three additional patients he now had under observation. This done, Garrett would then telephone Sue Wiley. He would offer himself, this very afternoon, for an interview more spectacular than the one he had given her on the airliner. He would reveal colourful details of his meeting with Öhman, human interest facts about Öhman’s patients, and in praising Öhman’s accomplishments, he would be praising himself. He would give Miss Wiley some concrete predictions about the future of his work. Farelli would be out of it entirely. It would be as if he, alone, were in Stockholm, as indeed he should have been. The story for Consolidated Newspapers would be carried throughout the world. That would be the beginning. He would hurl the monarch of darkness from the dais and have his rightful seat of honour at last.
It was all so satisfying. Garrett sighed with pleasure at the justice of his plan. Outside the window, the bleak morning appeared less forbidding. Beside him, Ingrid Påhl, screwing a cigarette into an ebony holder, appeared more attractive.
Garrett decided that he owed her the courtesy of conversation. ‘Are we almost there?’ was all that he could muster up to ask.
‘Any minute,’ said Ingrid Påhl. She held a lighter to her cigarette, and now exhaled a stream of smoke. ‘I have only seen the hospital twice myself. And my knowledge of medicine is limited to patented treatments of heartburn, upset stomach, and constipation. Lest you think it is odd that I—scientifically, the least qualified member of the reception committee—was assigned to escort you this morning, I had better explain.’
‘As a Nobel Prize winner yourself, I can think of no one more qualified,’ said Garrett with heavy gallantry.
‘You are a gentleman, Dr. Garrett, but it is no use flattering me.’ Her obese presence exuded cheer. ‘I am not a fit companion for you. I do not even know where the human kidney is located. And as to the heart, I never remember—is it on the right or the left?’
‘Left.’
‘There you are. The truth is, Dr. Krantz was to have been your escort this morning. You could have talked to him. I daresay he is a grouch, but a brilliant one. Unfortunately, for you, Dr. Krantz had to rush off to the Bromma Airport to receive an old friend and distinguished visitor from East Berlin.’
‘East Berlin? Are they allowed out?’
‘Of course, Dr. Garrett. Do not believe everything you read. Most Germans—while I do not have excessive affection for them—do not live and work there by choice. I have no idea about Dr. Krantz’s friend, but, at any rate, it was someone who had to be met personally. So the honour of taking you to the Caroline Institute fell upon me. I hope you are not too disappointed.’
‘Miss Påhl, I’ve told you—’
‘Actually, I suppose I do know a little about the Caroline Institute. Some years ago, an English periodical inquired if I would write a series of articles about Sweden. Journalism is not my cup of tea, but I needed the money, and I considered the offer. The first article was to be on the Caroline Institute, since it has some reputation as the source of the Nobel medical award. I did a week or two of preliminary research—took a tour of the hospitals, renewed acquaintance with their Nobel committee-men, asked questions, made notes—but when it came down to it, I could not write the article. Some writers are simply no good with facts, and I am one of them. Facts are like figures with me; they baffle me entirely. I never wrote the article, but I did not starve, either. A Swedish film company bought one of my old novels, and I was saved to write again, to the dismay of a majority of my critics. Anyway, all I have left of the experience are some unorganized facts about the Institute. You may have them as a gift, if you are interested.’
‘I certainly am interested,’ said Garrett, trying to hide his restlessness, for he wanted to be where he was going and get on with Öhman and begin the march against the enemy.
‘Fact one,’ said Ingrid Påhl. ‘The Caroline Institute was started in 1810, to supply military surgeons for the Swedish army, which was having one of its periodic wars with Denmark and Russia. Fact two. Alfred Nobel was fascinated by medicine. On different occasions, he had friends make blood transfusion and urine experiments under his guidance. It was natural that he would give a prize in medicine, and select the respected Caroline Institute to confer it. Fact three. The Caroline committee had to determine what Nobel had in mind when he wrote in his will that he wished “the most important discovery” in medicine or physiology honoured. Did he want to reward practical advances only? Or theoretical progress as well? The Caroline committee decided to reward both types of discovery. And they did not limit their prizes to doctors. Through the years, they also honoured biologists, chemists, zoologists, and once a biophysicist. Fact four. Nominations for the award that you won come from professors within the Caroline Institute, from members of the Swedish Academy of Science, from former Nobel medical winners, from faculties of all major universities in Scandinavia, and from faculties of outstanding universities in twenty foreign countries. There are about one thousand persons eligible to make nominations. Should I go on?’
‘Please,’ said Garrett, who involuntarily found himself absorbed.
Ingrid Påhl ejected her cigarette butt into the ash tray. ‘Fact five. There are three permanent members on the Nobel medical committee who advise and recommend. Usually, temporary members, experts in this or that, are added to the committee from the Caroline teaching body. The medical winners are elected each year in the session room on the ground floor of the Caroline Institute. It is a light airy room, with the longest modern table you have ever seen, and modern Swedish chairs for the judges. As I recall, there are sixteen or eighteen oil portraits of eminent Swedish physicians and Nobel personnel on the walls and two white marble statues between the windows. The final vote is made by forty-five physicians and instructors on the Caroline staff.’
The car slowed, and Ingrid Påhl gestured with her head. ‘And lo, there it is now—the Caroline Institute.’
The Saab turned off the main thoroughfare, and drove through a gate and across a private road that wound through a landscape of icy trim lawns, clipped hedges, and many clusters of aged trees. Again, the Saab slowed, and wheeled left through an opening between two rows of frozen foliage.
The car drew to a stop on a paved site. The young driver tumbled quickly out of the front, trotted around, and opened the rear door. With some difficulty, fighting gravity and density, he freed Ingrid Påhl from her place and helped her out of the sedan. Then he gave Garrett a hand.
Before them stretched a squat three-storey oblong building of red brick. Its rows of windows peered down at them like a montage of square eyes. Three cement stairs led to two heavy doors, and above the entrance were projected letters that read, MEDICINSKA NOBELINSTITUTET. Garrett glanced off to his right. A bench rested in the open, on the pavement, before a miniature park of withered plants and barren trees. Behind the bench, on a high stone pedestal, stood a weather-beaten black bronze bust of Alfred Nobel. There were touches of frost around Nobel’s eyes and his set mouth.
Garrett brought his overcoat collar around his neck.
‘You would not believe how lovely this is in the summer,’ said Ingrid Påhl. ‘Now it is impossible. Either we build a fire, or we go inside.’
The two of them hurried inside.
Dr. Erik Öhman, sitting with one knee propped up against his desk, a cigar between his teeth, was scanning a newspaper held wide open. The moment that Öhman saw them, he leaped to his feet, almost upending the chair, and pounded around the desk. Ignoring Ingrid Påhl’s formal introduction, he grabbed Garrett’s hand and pumped it with unrestrained enthusiasm.
‘Dr. Garrett,’ he said, ‘Dr. Garrett—what a pleasure this is for me. How I have looked forward to it—’
Somewhat taken aback, for he was not a demonstrative man, and (despite the prize) he had never valued himself highly in his secret heart, Dr. Garrett tried to return his host’s ardent and worshipful greeting. ‘Believe me, it’s good to meet you at last, Dr. Öhman.’
‘Sit down, both of you—please sit down,’ said Öhman, herding them to the chairs. ‘There will be hot coffee in a moment.’ He looked at Garrett with bright eyes of disbelief, as lowly subject to his sovereign. He tried to speak, but no sound came forth except a drawn-out rumble, which Garrett would learn was a speech impediment. ‘Uhhh,’ was the embryonic sound seeking the birth of vocabulary, ‘uhhh—Dr. Garrett, I am so privileged.’ He ran behind his desk, and brought forth the chair, so that he could sit directly opposite Garrett and Ingrid Påhl.
Garrett was surprised by the appearance of the man with whom he had so long corresponded. He was unable to define to himself what kind of person he had actually expected to find. Possibly someone more Swedish, more genteel, more dignified. Instead, Öhman, his reddish hair cropped short, resembled, for all his agility, a European middleweight prizefighter, who had fought several years too many. The face, the cauliflower ears, and gross features above a thick neck were not Garrett’s conception of a doctor’s head. And the hands, like blunt instruments, stubby fingers round as sausages, were not a heart surgeon’s hands. Yet Garrett saw at once the face’s kindness, the admiration it now reflected, and from Öhman’s letters he knew the man’s scientific soundness and learning.
‘Uhhh, Dr. Garrett—uhhh, tell me, you must tell me what you think of our Sweden. How thrilled I was when your prize was announced. You had my cable? Uhhh—you must tell me what you have seen here, and wish to see, and what I can do for you. Your wife is with you? You must dine with my wife and me. Uhhh—my patients, they are as much your patients as mine, and you must see them and tell me what you think. And questions, I have a hundred questions.’
He went on and on, punctuating his excitement with his stammer and asking questions that he did not wait to have answered, but when his boyish exhilaration had finally run down, he was ready to listen. He begged Garrett to speak of this and that, and Garrett spoke. Ingrid Påhl was interested and receptive, and Öhman worshipful and memorizing every word for the long winter ahead, and Garrett revelled in the attention. Before Dr. Keller and the therapy group, he had always felt inadequate to hold centre stage. What was the old psychiatrist joke—who listens? But group therapy had given Garrett experience in monologue, and this experience, combined with an attentive audience, now gave Garrett licence to discourse freely and at length.
(1961) The Prize Page 46
