‘By what standards do you pick the eight?’
‘When we watch a young girl, we think beauty is nice but only an extra asset. It is the least important factor. We do not watch for technique and tricks, either. We watch to see if the girl has emotional range, imagination, and courage. It will surprise you to know—I remember the very day—that when Garbo tried out, she was an extrovert, full of noisy confidence. The eight we select are given a three-year course here, tuition free, and the fifty teachers show them how to stand, sit, walk, move, train them in diction, Shakespeare, make-up, and the psychology of other peoples so that they will understand all roles, including those written by foreigners. For their third year, they each get a salary of two thousand kronor extra. After that, they are admitted to the Royal Theatre repertory, but the best of them go on to the cinema in London or Hollywood.’
‘What school of acting do you follow?’
‘We are still old-fashioned,’ said Cronsten. ‘We are still Stanislavsky. Norberg grew up with that method. I will never forget Norberg, when she came here over twenty years ago. She was gawky, strange, but she had inner beauty, burning ambition. Even then, we might have passed her over, except that Hammarlund had discovered her and recommended her, and he was already famous and one of the patrons of our Donor’s Fund for needy students.’
Craig swallowed the last of his drink. ‘How did Hammarlund find her?’
‘She was an usher in a cinema house, and Hammarlund saw her, and liked her voice and fire. He became interested in her. I suppose we can assume that he slept with her. As Ellen Terry used to say, “Men love unhealthy women.” When he found out that she wanted to become an actress, he arranged for some private coaching, and then entered her in our eliminations. Well, once she had the scholarship, she had her confidence, and she swept all before her. By her third year, she had the nerve to refuse to play the role of Queen Christina in a one-act play because—I remember her telling me—she felt that Christina was not a real woman. She would only play a real woman. You know what happened after that. We had her only one year on our big stage downstairs, and then she had that second lead on Broadway, and then Hollywood—and now, twenty years later, only one role is good enough for her—to play Märta Norberg.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘I would invite you for another drink, but you’ll be late.’
They slipped into their heavy coats, descended the stairs, and went into the chilled, foggy night. Once in the Saab, Cronsten drove slowly. Every corner was camouflaged by murky vapour, and when they entered Djurgården, the mist enveloped them, and Cronsten slowed the Saab to a crawl.
They spoke little. Once Craig thought that he recognized Hammarlund’s mansion. Five minutes later, Cronsten said, ‘Here we are.’
He turned into a long circular driveway, and stopped, idling his engine, before a white two-storey Georgian house.
‘You will have an interesting time,’ said Cronsten with a riddle of a smile. ‘Not many men are invited here.’
‘Really?’
‘Only the high and the mighty.’
‘I hardly think of myself—’
‘Do not think of yourself as you see yourself, but as Märta Norberg sees you. Did she tell you why she asked you out here?’
‘No. Only that it was business and imperative.’
Cronsten nodded as if he were knowledgeable of this and privy to some secret. ‘It was good to meet you, Mr. Craig. I wish you luck.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you.’ He opened the car door.
‘Do not thank me for the ride,’ said Cronsten, ‘but thank me for some advice I will give you, because you are a nice fellow.’
Craig had left the car, but now he waited at the open door.
‘Have you ever heard of the Coral Island clams found along Australia’s Great Barrier Reef? They are the greatest clams in the world. They sometimes weigh one ton each, and are ten feet long, and they consume living things. An unsuspecting swimmer, coming upon such a clam, could easily be caught in it, have the shells close over him, and be devoured. It is a bit of natural history you may find valuable to remember in the next hour or two. Good night, Mr. Craig.’
Craig remained standing in the driveway a few moments, until Cronsten’s Saab had disappeared behind a bank of fog, and then he went thoughtfully to the huge door, touched the bell, and was admitted by a short, unsmiling Filipino houseboy.
‘I’m Andrew Craig.’
Entering the high-ceilinged entrance hall, Craig gave his hat and overcoat to the houseboy.
‘Right this way,’ the Filipino said in stilted English. ‘Miss Norberg is having her swim.’
Craig did not comprehend. ‘In this weather?’
‘The indoor pool in the lanai.’
Going through the vast living-room, across the muffling cropped-lambskin carpet, Craig took in the furniture. The pieces seemed definitely American and expensive, and Craig guessed that the actress had shipped her household effects from Bel Air or New York to this house in Stockholm. There was the flash of an elegant low sofa covered with yellow Venetian silk, fronted by a black lacquered table, and another sofa done in turquoise Thaibok, and scattered overstuffed chairs. On one wall, spotlighted from the ceiling, a towering, vivid oil of Norberg, full length, as Manon Lescaut. On a table, a piece of sculpture by Rodin, and another piece by Moore, and an eleven-by-fourteen Karsh photograph in a silver frame of Norberg as Héloïse, probably, but too resolute for that role.
The houseboy had pulled back a glass sliding-door, and Craig went into the lanai and thought that, through a trick of time and space, he had landed in some primitive corner of Tahiti. He wished Emily were beside him to marvel with him at the sight of it. Three glass walls were almost entirely hidden by growing tropical plants and greenery the colour of aquamarine. The swimming pool was not like any standard pool he had ever seen, but designed to resemble a South Sea water hole, clear as crystal except at the farthest end where an artificial waterfall cascaded into it.
And then he saw off to his right, lolling on a webbed lounge, wrapped in a silk Japanese kimono of Tyrian purple, Märta Norberg.
‘I’m here, Craig.’
He advanced towards her. She remained horizontal, not stirring, but arched a thin hand upward. Since the hand was not in a position to be shaken, but to be kissed in the Continental manner, Craig kissed the fingers somewhat self-consciously.
‘I’m glad you could come, dear man.’ Lazily, her hand indicated the makings on the rosewood table near her. ‘Mix yourself whatever will make you happiest.’ She lifted her own drink from the artificial grass beneath her lounge. ‘I’m staying with vodka plain. You might freshen me up, while you’re at it.’
As Craig took her glass, and made the drinks, Norberg called off to the houseboy immobilized at the door. ‘That’ll be all for tonight, Antonio. On the way, tell cook we’ll dine at eight-thirty.’ When the houseboy left, sliding the door shut after him, Märta Norberg said, ‘Isn’t Antonio a doll? Utterly unobtrusive and efficient. I brought him with me from Hollywood, brought most of them, Antonio, and my masseuse, and my secretary. The rest, the menials, are easy to find here. But Antonio’s the one. My countrymen stare at him as if he’s a zoo. A Filipino in Sweden. Well—why not?’
‘He told me you were swimming. Were you?’ Craig handed her the vodka, and sat sideways on the lounge beside her.
‘Not yet. I was waiting for you. You swim, of course?’
‘I used to. I haven’t for several years.’
‘It’s a must with me. Gives the muscles tone. I’m in the pool ten minutes every morning and for half an hour before dinner.’ She held up her drink. ‘I like vodka and water—separately.’
Craig scanned the lanai. ‘I’ve never seen a room quite like this.’
‘Anyone can have one—for an extra forty thousand dollars.’
‘That much?’
Norberg shrugged. ‘Why not? If Lollio Paulina could have an evening gown for two million dollars, and Cleopatra have a
goblet of vinegar wine worth a half-million—because she dissolved a pearl in it—surely Märta Norberg deserves this little bauble. Do you want to swim now?’
‘After I finish my drink.’
‘Good. We can talk.’ She kicked off her fuzzy sandals, wiggled the painted toes of her bare feet, and then tucked her feet comfortably beneath her.
‘Did you enjoy Ragnar’s party?’
‘It was an event. I’ll use it one day.’
‘I suppose you will,’ she said. And then, she added casually, ‘I suppose you’ll also use that ridiculous fight between Garrett and Farelli.’
Craig’s face did not betray his amazement, but he looked fixedly at Märta Norberg. ‘That’s uncanny,’ he said. ‘I thought there were no witnesses besides myself. Did you see it?’
She shook her head, pleased with herself. ‘No, I did not see it. I heard it.’
‘Heard it?’
‘That’s right. Do you want to know more that I heard? Dr. Claude Marceau is having an affair with a French mannequin named Gisèle Jordan. How’s that? How am I doing?’
‘You’ve got me baffled.’
‘More? The celebrated author, Andrew Craig, kissed someone’s niece and whispered endearments—’
‘Where in the hell did you hear that?’
Norberg teased him. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’
Craig glowered at her and said nothing.
She threw back her head and laughed, and for a moment the bottom folds of her kimono separated, revealing her naked legs, and she primly covered them again. ‘Now you have something more to write about, don’t you, Craig? Well, I’ll relieve your mind. No sleight-of-hand, see, no mystic powers, no black magic. Ragnar Hammarlund has that Elysium of his bugged and tapped from top to bottom. Flush a toilet, and it goes on tape. Cough in the garden, and it’s on tape. Kiss on the terrace, and it’s for the ages.’
‘I never heard of anything more corrupt. The immoral son of a bitch.’
Norberg laughed again. ‘That’s what I said the first time I heard of it. But you know, from his point of view, it makes good sense and has a morality of its own. He’s in business, and this is the age of communications. So why not go modern?’
‘Recording the private conversations of guests isn’t my idea of business.’
‘You’d be surprised, Craig. I’ll give you an example so that you’ll come off your high horse. Why do you think Ragnar gave that party last night? I’ll tell you. He has his eye on the Marceaus. That’s all he cares about. The rest of you were only window-dressing. The Marceaus are the goods he is after. He once read an early paper of theirs on some synthetic food. He got the idea—and when he gets an idea, nothing can pry him loose from it—he got the idea that if he could lick the synthetic food problem, he could be the first to market it internationally, and treble his fortune. Don’t ask why he’d want to do that. Empire builders are in the business of building empires. He’s had this young Lindblom on the problem for several years, others too, but he wants the best. He figures if he can interest the Marceaus in it, the big minds, the Nobel winners, progress will be accelerated, and he’ll see practical results in his life-time. So he keeps plotting to see the Marceaus, propagandize them, use them. Well, now, give the devil his due, he’s actually making inroads. He knows about Claude Marceau’s affair. All to the good. He won’t blackmail him, nothing so crude, but it gives him some advantage. I don’t have his mind, so I don’t know how he thinks. And he believes he’s actually got Denise Marceau interested in Lindblom’s work.’
‘I hope you don’t condone that kind of thing?’
‘Craig, I couldn’t give less of a damn. The world is full of all sorts of people, and they include the warp-heads like Ragnar, and let them go merrily to Hades in their own ways. I’m interested in One World—mine.’
‘Why have you been telling me all this?’
‘Because I’ve decided to double the population of my One World. I’ve given you an entry visa. Behave, my good man, and you may become a naturalized citizen.’
Craig considered her with wonder. There was some quality of unreality about her person. He could not divine it. His life, once, had been frequented by the self-absorbed and the egotistical, but never had he encountered another human being narcissistic to the point of total disinterest in general right or wrong.
‘I would be flattered to be a citizen of Norberg,’ he said, to say something, ‘but I’m not exactly sure I know what you’re driving at.’
‘Time will tell,’ she said cryptically. She squinted at his empty glass. ‘Now, what will it be—whisky or water?’
‘Hard to decide. I could use another drink. Hammarlund has left a bad taste in my mouth. At the same time, I’d like to cleanse myself entirely. I’d say water.’
She pointed a limpid hand off. ‘Door behind the diving-board. Built-in cabaña. There are drawers full of swim trunks. Take your choice.’
‘What’ll you be doing?’
‘Keeping the water warm for you.’
He stood up and strode to the cabaña door, conscious of her wide, grey, amoral eyes upon his back, and then he went into the cabaña. He stripped down quickly, opened several wall drawers, tried various swimming shorts against his angular frame, and then pulled on a white jersey pair that appeared to have elasticity. They were cut high, and they were tight, and he still felt naked but did not care much. He wanted the water’s refreshment—and to discover what business Märta Norberg had been withholding from him.
When he went out into the lanai, he saw that she was already in the pool, wearing a lemon-coloured bathing cap and scant bikini, backstroking with the grace of a sea nymph across the pool. She bobbed up straight at the deep end, treading near the waterfall, and shouted deeply, ‘Come in, Craig, it’s delicious.’
He was inspired to do a dramatic jack-knife off the short board, but knew that he was out of shape and would certainly strain muscles or break his neck, so he elected conservatism and went off the side in a flat shallow, splashing dive. The water was tepid on his body, and as soothing as the lining of his old sheepskin coat left behind in Miller’s Dam. Stroking and kicking in a modified crawl, he traversed the pool to Märta Norberg’s side.
‘You look mighty smart in those trunks, young man,’ she said, her long Swedish face sparkling with beads of water. ‘Like a tall Jantzen ad. What was your sport in school? Basketball?’
‘Football. Left end.’
‘I never went to school—at least not much,’ she said. ‘My family was too poor. I had to drop out at the end of realskola—grammar school. I had my schooling later, when I could afford tutors. That’s when I took up sports. Ski-ing for winter. Tennis for summer. And this all the time.’ She was almost girlish, and Craig liked her more. ‘Want to race?’ she said.
‘One, two, three—go,’ he said.
They went off churning to the opposite end, then touching and rolling, kicked off to reverse their course. She came in three yards ahead of him.
‘You didn’t tell me you were Gertrude Ederle,’ he said, gulping for air.
‘Who she? Look, Craig, I’m not all that old.’
After that they swam leisurely, no games, the backstroke, the Australian crawl, the breast stroke, a good deal of floating, and no conversation at all. After twenty minutes of this they found themselves facing each other, breathless, holding the rim of the pool at the shallow end alongside the metal ladder.
‘You had enough, Craig?’
‘Just about.’
‘So much for pleasure. You want to talk business?’
‘I don’t know what business—but you said there was some.’
‘Important business, important for both of us.’
He held the rim of the pool, and splashed water on his chest. ‘Shoot.’
‘I won’t waste words,’ said Märta Norberg. ‘I called my agent in New York. He called yours. My agent then called a studio in Hollywood. And minutes before you came, he called me.’
‘
Alexander Graham Bell is the man in your life.’
She ignored this. Her face was concentrated. All humour had fled, and even some femininity with it. ‘We have a deal to offer you, a firm deal, no ifs, no maybes. I want your new novel, Return to Ithaca, for a picture in which I’ll star. Since you’re still writing it, the studio has agreed I can offer you twenty thousand dollars down against two hundred thousand when the novel is finished. That’s fat, Craig, when your bank account is thin, and yours is, I know—I know from your sister-in-law and I know from your agent. I also know after you’ve paid up debts with your Nobel money, and lived it up a bit, you’ll be lean again, scratching. What do you say?’
Craig was too taken aback by this news, and her offer, to say anything at first. His head spun. ‘How can you spend so much on a book that’s hardly written and that you haven’t read?’
‘I know what it’s about. Miss Decker told me the whole story last night. It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for—for years—and, as you know, from the studio angle anyway, the fact that you’ve won the Nobel Prize enhances the property.’
‘You mean, Leah told you the whole story?’ Inwardly, he cursed Leah and thanked her, simultaneously. Leah had typed and retyped those early pages, and outline notes, and knew the characters and plot as well as he. But she had no right to broadcast it, peddle it so naïvely, without his knowledge or approval. At the same time, it was a miracle that she had been so indiscreet. The timing was perfect. He could use the money. It was a windfall. He hardly bothered to consider if he was capable of finishing the book. Somehow, the freedom that the money would buy him made the creativity seem possible. That is, if he would not drink, if he would not flagellate himself with Harriet, if he could leave Stockholm an integrated man with a will for life.
(1961) The Prize Page 65
