‘Are you insane? Are both of you insane?’ Craig demanded.
‘He insulted me,’ said Farelli with bedraggled dignity. ‘He struck first.’
Garrett found his voice, which was broken. ‘He’s a liar—a hoax—he provoked—’
‘I don’t give a damn what happened, or who’s right, or who’s wrong,’ said Craig furiously. ‘For Chrissakes, you’re two adults—holies—the great Nobel winners—behaving down here like two saloon brawlers. Now, cut it out and forget it. What if this got out? What if someone found out?’
He turned to Farelli. ‘You go first. Better comb your hair and straighten your jacket. The lapel’s ripped. I think you can disguise it before you get inside.’
Craig turned back to Garrett. ‘I’ll try to put you in shape. Here’s my handkerchief. Wipe the blood. It’s only a lip cut. I’ll clean you up and sneak you into the bathroom.’
‘Benissimo,’ Farelli said to Craig. Then he studied Garrett with contempt. ‘Arrivederci, fratello mio.’ He started to go.
Garrett glared past Craig, making a ball of his fist and shaking it at the Italian. ‘I’m not through with you, you quack. I’ll fix you yet—I’ll fix you—you wait and see.’
And then Garrett turned back into the dark of the garden, crying and vomiting at once, not out of physical pain, but out of humiliation and loss and gross injustice and inadequacy, all in one, and all in his bursting heart.
There were six in this group now, near the improvised bar, Denise Marceau between Hammarlund and Evang, and then Leah Decker and Jacobsson and Mrs. Lagersen.
Hammarlund, to impress the Marceaus, had given the familiar cue to Mrs. Lagersen. He had mentioned, proudly, the latest original Monet and Sisley oils that he had acquired, through his agents, at a Paris auction, oils now on their way to Stockholm, and soon to enrich his living-room walls and gallery beside the other Impressionists. What he missed the most was a Gauguin. He had always desired a Gauguin. This was the cue, and Mrs. Lagersen was on.
She remembered Paul’s death in distant Dominica, and how she had been with Mette in Copenhagen the week the news came, and Mette’s resentment of a life so irresponsibly wasted. She remembered how Paul’s personal effects—furniture, paintings—had been auctioned off in Papeete to pay a court fine. There had been great fun, that day, over the effects of the demented and deceased French painter and when Paul’s last oil came up for bidding, the auctioneer had turned it upside down. ‘What will you give for Niagara Falls?’ he had called out, and someone gave seven francs, and that was the end of Paul Gauguin, they thought, even Mette in Copenhagen thought but now Ragnar Hammarlund, with all his fortune, could not find an available Gauguin.
Listening, Denise had become absorbed in Mrs. Lagersen, museum piece, living link to an immortal. The first-hand stories, along with the drink, and the music, had drawn off the poison of Denise’s anger somewhat. How much fun all this might have been, she thought, studying Claude’s profile. Another anecdote had begun, and Denise gave it her attention. It was near the end of this that Motta, the butler, materialized, and hovered behind Claude. He seemed anxious, but kept his distance with phlegmatic respect.
Then the anecdote was finished, and they all laughed. With this intermission, before a new story could begin, Motta quickly sidled up to Claude, and touched his arm. Claude leaned sideways, towards the butler, and Motta whispered in his ear. Evang was speaking, and no one took notice of Motta and Claude, no one except Denise. She saw her husband’s brow furrow, and his nod, heard him murmur an indistinct apology to no one in particular, and then watched him hastily leave, following the butler out of the room.
Denise lost her interest in Evang and Mrs. Lagersen and their anecdotes at once. Her mind was on Claude. What was the message? She pondered the mystery of where he had gone and what was happening.
Evang had been telling a long story, and this was followed by an interlude of broken chatter. Hammarlund bent towards Denise.
‘Do you like the music?’ he inquired politely.
‘Most enjoyable, both orchestra and vocalist,’ she said absently.
‘I flew them in from Paris for you. I thought they would make you feel at home.’
Denise cocked her head at Hammarlund with surprise. It would dismay him to learn that while she lived in Paris, she was not of Paris, not these last laborious years, no part of the city’s night life, its song, and that she could not tell a French orchestra from a Swedish one. But why had he done this? ‘You did it for me?’
‘To accommodate a great lady I admire.’
‘Well, I thank you, sir.’
‘Dr. Lindblom informs me that he had a most inspiring conversation with you.’
She found it difficult to recall Lindblom or the conversation. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, a promising young man.’ Her mind was gnawed by Claude’s sudden disappearance. What had taken him away? And then she was aware that Motta had reappeared, and was preparing to resume his duties.
She clutched her handbag. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ she said to Hammarlund.
She headed towards the butler, intercepting him before he could begin his inquiries of the guests about the next round of drinks.
‘I am Dr. Marceau’s wife. Is anything the matter?’
‘Nothing at all, Madame. It was merely the Grand Hotel. They had an urgent business call, long distance, for Dr. Marceau, and they wanted to speak with him, to know if he would take it. He is waiting for the call to be transferred.’
‘Long distance?’ said Denise mildly.
‘Copenhagen, Madame.’
Denise felt an immediate hot flash in her temples, and for a moment she was faint. ‘Where is Dr. Marceau taking the call? It may be of concern to me.’
‘In the rear library, Madame. If you will kindly follow—’
She followed the butler out of the living-room, along a corridor with several doors, and a turning, until they reached a rich oak door.
Motta put his hand to the brass knob. ‘Right in here, Madame.’
‘Never mind. I will let myself in. You can go back to the other guests. Thank you very much.’
Motta had already turned the knob, partially opening the door, but now he released his grip, bowed, and silently disappeared around the corridor corner.
Denise waited, frozen, for the servant to be gone, already hearing Claude’s voice. The second that she was safely alone, she turned back to the oak door. She wondered if it would squeak if she pushed it, and then she did not care. It opened a few inches and then a few inches more. Claude’s voice was low but distinct. She could not see him from this angle, but a trick of the subdued lamplight threw his shadow, elongated like a thief in the night, against the trophy-covered wall that was visible.
She stood hypnotized by his black silhouette on the wall, and clenching her dry hands together, she listened without shame. She felt dull and hollow, helpless and dreading, like an agent parachuted among the enemy for the first time, overhearing at some headquarters of a surprise attack, and girding herself with the advantage this knowledge gave her homeland, which was herself.
Her ear was sensitive, alive to every inflection, pause, remark.
‘I cannot hear you. Répétez, s’il vous plaît,’ Claude was saying, ‘Yes, yes, I am on the line. The connection is poor.’
Pause.
‘Yes, fine, Gisèle, fine. I am busy, but there is excitement. It is a great honour. And you, how are you, my dear? How was flight?’
Pause.
‘I am happy. You sound wonderful. It is rather difficult in this place. I will be missed.’
Pause.
‘Oh, it is a dinner party, formal. One of Sweden’s millionaires is giving it. But someone may come in. I am glad you called. But why the risk to call me here? Qu’est-ce que c’est?’
Pause.
‘You what? Here in Stockholm? When?’
Pause.
‘I know, I know, Gisèle. I miss you, too. But you do not understand. I am obligated—the sc
hedule—everything, every moment, planned—it would be most awkward—what?’
Pause.
‘Well, you know how I feel. Of course, I want to see you. When would it be? For how long?’
Pause.
‘The ninth, you say?’
Pause.
‘Only the afternoon? I understand. But you will get back for the evening show in time?’
Pause.
‘Of course I want to, Gisèle, you know that. It will work out. I shall see you somehow. Of course, I will not be able to take you to the airport, but—oh, another thing. Remember this. You are not to stay at the Grand. . . . What? What did you say?’
Pause.
‘You have? Excellent. Then wait there for my phone call after you arrive. It will be before one o’clock. I may be a few minutes late phoning, but I will, and I will see you, be sure—’
Pause.
‘What gives you such ideas, my darling? Je te trouve toujours ravissante! Nothing has changed.’
Denise pulled back from the door as if it were a guillotine, and from within, Dr. Guillotin’s dooming voice. Nothing has changed. Nothing, nothing. Denise’s eyes brimmed with tears, and she could hardly keep from audibly sobbing.
Spinning away, she ran to the turning, and then up the corridor. Approaching the bright lights from the living-room entrance, she slowed, then halted, shaken, trying to collect her poise. She found a handkerchief in her bag, and carefully picked at her eyes, drying them without disturbing the make-up. Next, she found her compact, snapped it open and studied her reflection—so worn, so defeated, too old—in the circular mirror. Stalling for time, she touched powder to her pale cheeks and then added the slightest edge of rouge.
She had lost, she knew. The final débâcle was in the making. Three days from this night, less than three days, Gisèle Jordan would land from Copenhagen for an afternoon’s assignation in a hotel room, hidden and secure. And with some lie, carefully invented, Claude would leave her to carry out alone the hateful schedule she had wished upon them. He would leave her, the used, tiresome person known too long, leave her, the forty-two-year-old dowdy who smelled not of perfume but of chemical compounds, leave her with her unforgiving, curdled hostility; and he would go to the other one, so fresh, so unencumbered, so blonde and tall and perfect, so exciting with the fragrance of youth, flesh and high fashion and murmuring approval and secret skills; and after this exchange, Denise would suffer total obliteration.
Despite the headache, her mind ranged for some hope of survival. How could she contest this superior opponent, survive this uneven match? Continuing anger would only drive Claude away, for as it was, she had become for him the embodiment of guilty conscience. What if she thwarted his rendezvous on the ninth, followed him, exposed him, or, less crudely, revealed to him what she had just learned? Impossible, her intuition warned her. It would enforce upon him the ultimate decision, and she dreaded an ultimate decision now. Inevitably, she believed, proceedings for divorce would follow. If it must be black or white, she was lost. Yet she could not go on in this directionless fog of grey. More important now was the impact of one decision made, or made for her by some second self: Claude must not be lost to her; she must not be deserted, condemned to embittered and solitary confinement. The question mark remained, but what preceded it now was different. No longer how to punish him—now how to hold him?
At once, Denise remembered where she was. She could not remain rooted in the corridor another instant, brooding, for Claude would appear and find her. Not only her location, but her face, might give her away. That could drive him to the choice too fast. Or worse, might induce pity in him. She shuddered, dropped her compact into the bag, and then returned to the masquerade in her guise of imperturbability.
Scanning the room, seeking for someone, anyone, to attach herself to, and to be busy and vivacious with when Claude came back, her eyes came to rest on Lindblom, that ridiculous, sallow chemist—whatever was his first name?—standing off to one side, nearby, shyly isolated and sipping a drink.
While she studied him, unseen by him, something clicked in Denise’s head. No hypothesis, and experiments, and trying and discarding, and formulating, and deducing. Simply—click—a find—idea—discovery. But she was scientist still. She never leaped. Always the magnifying microscope first. She put her mind’s eye to the invisible microscope and enlarged the image of Dr. Lindblom—Oscar Lindblom—Dr. Oscar Lindblom, boy chemist. She enlarged and enlarged and studied the validity of the idea.
As specimen for use, he was not her ideal. Quite the opposite. Too weak, yet there was strength in this, for he would bend with her strength, he would comply. Also, another fault, too lacking in distinction. He had definitely taken on Hammarlund’s absence of coloration, the pallor of the face chalky, and all else, features and frame and personality tentative, inconclusive. For such an experiment, one wanted strength, caring, dash, masculinity. Still, the microscope was unerring, the virtues were evident, also. His face, for all its monotony, was well made, even pleasing, the features regular. Despite his thinness, there must be six feet of him, with the limbs finely proportioned if not muscular. He was single, she remembered, and unattached. And most favourable quality of all—potentially troublesome, but now favourable, nonetheless—he worshipped her.
With an incisiveness that she had not known since her laboratory period, she made her decision. It was this or nothing. In less than three days, Claude would be beyond retrieving. She must stake all on this, trusting her suspicions of Claude’s vulnerability and knowledge of the power of her own sudden ingenuity.
Boldly, she advanced on Lindblom. ‘Well, hello,’ she said cheerfully. ‘A handsome young bachelor like you all alone?’
Lindblom came around startled, recognized her and beamed, heard her and blushed. ‘I—I get this way sometimes at parties. Not exactly unsocial, but—’
‘I understand,’ said Denise softly, searching his eyes, which he quickly cast downward. ‘May I stay with you?’ she inquired.
‘May you? Why, Dr. Marceau—I cannot tell you—this I esteem. It is a glory for me.’
She decided not to waste time. Elaborations and seductive dances were not necessary to win over this callow youth. ‘Dr. Lindblom, do I remember correctly—did you invite me to inspect your laboratory?’
‘Yes, I did. It is what I wish more than anything. You said that you and your husband might someday—’
‘I am a woman. Do I possess a woman’s privilege—?’
‘Privilege?’
‘—to change my mind?’
Lindblom’s grey eyes were wide with revival of a lost hope. ‘Would you? It it possible?’
‘My husband and I have another Nobel function in the morning. But it is unimportant. He can manage it himself. I have had enough of those formal duties. I plan to have a migraine headache tomorrow morning. Once I have got out of the engagement, my headache will vanish. And I will be quite free to do as I please. And you? Will you be free, Dr. Lindblom?’
‘I will see that I am free,’ said Lindblom with rising enthusiasm. ‘I have nothing but my work. Besides, Hammarlund will be so pleased.’
‘Forget Hammarlund,’ she said curtly. ‘I find him tiresome and opportunistic. No, not Hammarlund or anyone, for that matter. If I am to have a busman’s holiday, I wish to have it on my terms. It is you I want to see, quite alone, undisturbed by others. You will show me your experiments, charts. We will go over them together in peaceful quiet—’
‘Oh, Dr. Marceau, I cannot express to you my joy!’
‘Perhaps we shall find ways to be useful to one another.’
‘For me, it will be memorable—’
‘Yes,’ said Denise with a faint smile, ‘I expect so.’ Then she added in a crisper tone, ‘Let us say eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Where will I find you?’
‘The private laboratory is a half kilometre from the house, back in the small forest. I will tell you what I can do. I shall send a car for you, with instructions
, and I will wait for you at the forest path.’
‘At eleven?’
‘I could not forget in a million years.’
From the corner of an eye, Denise observed Claude re-enter the living-room with studied casualness. She pretended not to see him. With an elaborate show of gaiety, she slipped an arm inside Lindblom’s arm.
‘Now we must celebrate,’ she said. ‘Take me to the bar. We shall toast our—scientific assignation.’
Waiting for one more drink before dinner, Andrew Craig greeted Denise Marceau and Lindblom with a noncommittal smile, and gave his attention once more to the troublesome seating-plan placard on the easel at the end of the table. He had promised to look in, once more, on John Garrett in the bathroom, but he was sure that the ammonia and cold water had been sufficient to repair the medical researcher and revive his sense of propriety.
Since he had been separated from Emily for more than an hour, the prominent seating-plan took on even greater importance for Craig.
Nonchalantly, he drifted to the end of the table, pretending to have just noticed the placard bearing the legend Placering, scrutinized it closely, and then picked it off the easel and took it to the carved mahogany armchair against the wall.
Sitting, Craig held the placard before him as a shield. His pose was of absorption, but looking past it, he could see that no one in the room was paying attention to him. Quickly, he pulled the gold pencil from inside his jacket, uncapped the top with his thumb, and made two erasures and revisions. Now, no longer did Jacobsson and Vasilkov enjoy Emily Stratman between them. Instead, they had the pleasure of Leah Decker’s companionship. And Craig, now deprived of Leah, was soothed by the presence of Emily on one side and Margherita Farelli at the other. Craig was pleased with his handiwork. Signora Farelli was not meddlesome, not demanding, and Craig would have Emily at his elbow the entire dinner.
Getting to his feet, he brought the improved seating-plan back to the easel.
As he left it, Craig saw Märta Norberg step away from Leah, excusing herself, stare across the room, and then start directly for him. With Emily taken care of, Craig did not mind. He braced himself, and swallowed Scotch, and waited.
(1961) The Prize Page 59
