(1961) The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  In the bathroom, she discarded her négligé, and then, after giving the matter some thought, she decided on limited provocation. She unclasped her brassière, pulled it off, and allowed her full breasts to drop unhampered. With care, she washed and dried, improved her face bit by bit from eyebrow pencil and eye-shadow to powder and lipstick. Then she doused herself with Arpège, behind the ears and neck, across her shoulders and collarbone, under her armpits, between her breasts and beneath them.

  She had just pulled on her négligé, and was drawing it about the pink nylon pants, when she heard the door buzzer. Hastily, she secured the négligé, and went, in a trot, to the door.

  The minute that Lindblom came into the room, hair dishevelled and eyes too bright, and she closed the door and realized that he was staring at the movement of her breasts, she knew that she might not have everything her way.

  ‘Denise—’ he panted, and clutched at her, holding her so tightly to him that she could hardly breathe, pressing her bosom deep into his chest and running his hand down the arch of her back and across the curve of her buttocks.

  In their previous two assignations, he had shown none of this impulsive aggressiveness, and now she tried to fathom it. Either she had aroused him to this pitch with her telephonic promise, or the combination of her attire and the dangers inherent in his visit had stimulated him beyond reason. Whatever lay behind his excitement, there was going to be a bout.

  ‘Denise,’ he was whispering, ‘I could not come to you fast enough. I must have you at once.’

  She tried to push him away. ‘Oscar, what has got into you? Not so fast—’

  ‘I must—I must—immediately. You do not know how it is!’

  She was separated from him, and she saw his face and stance, that of an anæmic Mellors who was a keeper of white mice, not game.

  ‘Denise, you said you loved me.’

  ‘I do, silly boy, of course I do. It is just that I am no longer in the mood for—’

  ‘Denise, on the telephone—’

  ‘You have my affection, Oscar, but understand—I have been upset all day, so worried about you, what my husband might do to you—to you, my precious one, and no one else.’

  ‘Please, Denise—’

  You give a teetotaller his first two drinks, thought Denise, and look what happens. She must put a stop to this. It was Claude who was on her mind. She must know about Claude. ‘Oscar, listen. I want to hear—’

  ‘Jag vill att du skall ligga med mig—come to bed with me.’

  ‘I told you—I am not in the mood.’

  ‘A kiss at least—an embrace—’

  ‘Very well. But first you must tell me everything that passed between my husband and Hammarlund.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘All right. No, wait—not here where the chambermaid may—’ She squirmed out of his arms. ‘Come along. But remember—behave.’

  She went into the bedroom, and he hurried after her. She secured the door, wondering what he would have to say of Claude, but at once Lindblom was upon her, his hands on her négligé, his moist lips and short breath on her face. She favoured him with a single kiss, then pushed at his arms, and slipped free.

  ‘You must behave, Oscar—you promised,’ she said, distractedly. ‘Now, no more of this until you tell me what happened. Be a gentleman. Keep your distance.’ She began to pace the room, avoiding his hot eyes, his fervour, determined that he cool down, become rational, give her what information he could. She strode forth and back, still not looking at him. ‘Now, go ahead, Oscar,’ she said in her practical voice. ‘What did my husband say about me?’

  ‘Only what I told you.’ Tie.

  ‘Nothing more—you are certain?’

  ‘Only that he would break my neck if he found me with you. Not another word.’ Shirt.

  ‘I cannot believe it.’

  ‘I only tell you what Hammarlund told me. Dr. Marceau was there an hour and a half, and all he talked about was synthetic foods.’ Shoes.

  ‘He does not care a bit about synthetics. Why should he spend an hour and a half—?’

  ‘Because something Hammarlund was saying suddenly got him interested.’ Socks.

  ‘What do you mean? I do not understand. Be more explicit.’

  ‘Denise, I cannot think!’ Trousers.

  ‘You must think. I have to know.’

  ‘Hammarlund said your husband got an inspiration—’ Shorts.

  ‘Inspiration about what? Synthetics?’

  ‘What? I do not know. Yes. Please, Denise, stop running—stop ignoring—look at me.’ The compleat man.

  ‘Oscar!’

  ‘You see, Denise, I must—I am out of my mind.’ The compleat lover.

  ‘I will not have it. . . . No, stop—you promised. Now, please, stop. Put on your clothes. Oscar, take your hands off—you will tear my beautiful new—’ Sash.

  ‘I have never desired you more. I will devour you. I will not live without you.’

  ‘You must. We cannot do this. Please behave. You promised to tell me, tell me—is Claude actually contemplating the beginning of actual research in—’ Négligé.

  ‘Ah, Denise, what divinity—your breasts—no woman on earth—’

  ‘Oscar, wait. Oh, why did I let you in here? This is impossible. Let me off the bed. Will you stop? I refuse to let you take them off. No—no—’ Nylon panties.

  ‘Denise, my love—my only love—’

  ‘Let go. . . . Are you mad? . . . I cannot breathe.’

  ‘Denise, be mine forever—leave Claude—’

  ‘I will not leave Claude. I will not be so cruel. Oscar—Oscar—this is wrong.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is wrong.’

  ‘It was not wrong last night, my love—not wrong in the laboratory. Love is never wrong.’

  ‘But this is different. Poor Claude . . . I cannot . . . no, we will talk. You have not finished telling me. You implied he has some new project. Has he, Oscar? Has he something—?’

  ‘Something—what?’

  ‘Do you think he has found something at last?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course he has—oh, Denise, I must—it is too painful.’

  ‘Contain yourself, Oscar—stop it.’

  ‘Live with me, Denise—leave him—forever us—like this.’

  ‘You say a project—a discovery? Could it be that—has he an idea about a new discovery—a hypothesis—?’

  ‘What? I cannot hear you. Oh, Denise—’

  ‘Oscar, wait. Ralentiez—let go, you are hurting me.’

  ‘It is my love—I cannot control—’

  ‘I demand to know of my husband and his hypothesis.’

  ‘His hypothesis—?’

  ‘Go on—go on—tell me.’

  ‘He and Hammarlund argued—synthetics—possibilities—everything—oh, Denise—debated all the while—your husband—fascinated—suddenly inspired with a concept on synthesis of foods—then—oh, Denise, my love, my love—jag älskar dig—I love you.’

  ‘You are nice, Oscar, yes. But talk—only talk.’

  ‘He kept saying we are all wrong—imitating nature—copying—must strike out to create new foods—not make substitutes for—’

  ‘And you are sure he was sincere—completely absorbed—interested?’

  ‘Hammarlund said he has never—seen—a scientist more excited—is sure—is sure—is sure—’

  ‘What? What, my darling—?’

  ‘Oh, Denise—yes, is sure your husband will embark on the greatest exploration of synthetics yet—yet—yet—’

  ‘Go on, Oscar.’

  ‘—yet attempted by a science—scientist—in fact, he—Denise, I cannot—I must have you. Enough of this—’

  ‘No, stop it, Oscar. I will not permit this—you are simply over-sexed. You should be thinking of work, day and night, not this—’

  ‘But in the laboratory you said—Denise, Denise—’

  ‘Where is your honour? I am a married woman.’
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  ‘You are body-starved. You are withering for love.’

  ‘Respect—respect. Release me. I am a Nobel laureate.’

  ‘You are a woman—not embalmed in history books—not mummified by a prize. A woman—a woman.’

  ‘With a husband—with Claude.’

  ‘He is impotent—we are alive. He has his new inspiration. In fact, he—Denise, love me now—’

  ‘You must tell me, Oscar. You were saying that “In fact he”—’

  ‘He was late for wherever he was going—for his date—he was so filled with his inspiration—’

  ‘No? Is it true? Tell me—is it true?’

  ‘Yes, for heaven’s sake, Denise, I cannot talk. I cannot—’

  ‘But—’

  ‘He will explain it all—all to you—himself. He told Hammar—ah—lund he would discuss it with—’

  ‘With me? With me?’

  ‘Yesss—oh, Denise—’

  ‘I adore you, Oscar! You have said so much. I am happy—I have never been happier.’

  ‘At last, at last—’

  ‘Oscar! I only meant—’

  ‘At last, at last—’

  ‘Mon Dieu!’

  ‘At last, at last—’

  ‘Voila, c’est la guerre. . . . N’importe, Oscar, only be quick. I think my husband may be coming back earlier than I thought. I am not sure, but there is a chance.’

  The Hotel Malmen, an imposing white square building on busy Götgatan, proudly advertised that its 250 guest rooms, equipped with bathtubs or showers and four-station radios, were among the most modern in all Sweden. For many tourists, the only disadvantage to the hotel was that it was some distance removed from Stockholm’s centre. For Gisèle Jordan, out of consideration of her lover’s position, and her relationship with him, this isolation was a major advantage, and once she learned of it, she had reserved a double room on the second floor for the afternoon of December ninth.

  Now, in that double room on the second floor, Claude Marceau sat lost in thought, sipping an Armagnac that Gisèle had so considerately brought for him, and listening to the distant splash of the water from the tap in the bathroom to which Gisèle had just retired.

  Except for the first few minutes after his tardy arrival, Gisèle had been, he had to admit, admirable. In the first few minutes, when he had entered her room in a trance, after the mechanical embrace and kiss, she had pouted and shown dissatisfaction, rare in one so even-tempered.

  ‘But so late?’ she had said. ‘I did not fly all the way up here to the North Pole simply to sit for hours alone in some dreary hotel room. You had promised—the least you could have done was to call me, explain, I did not know what to think.’

  ‘I was tied up,’ Claude had said.

  ‘With what? What could be more important than us?’

  To explain to her what could be more important, or at least as important, was plainly an impossibility. Could he convince her that his brain, stultified, almost atrophied, these last months, had begun to grow, to burst forth with life this day? Could he tell her that until this afternoon he had been alive only from the neck down, and that this afternoon he had found his head? Could he tell her that one of the next great miracles of the chemistry laboratory would not be found in trying to synthesize carbohydrates through imitation of nature’s sunlight, but by developing the photosynthesis process in glass tubes? Would his mannequin consider glucose molecules as more important than himself or herself?

  It was no use, for this was the part of him that she had never known or even met, ‘Gisèle,’ he said instead, ‘nothing is more important than we are, and I apologize once more. I tried to warn you on the long-distance call—this is Nobel Week, and people throughout Stockholm, from all over the world, are tearing at me, demanding my time, my opinion, my attention, and I—’

  This had seemed to touch her, his fame and her petty demands, and she had immediately become contrite and gone into his arms. ‘Claude, I am the one who is sorry. I know how important you are, and how proud I am of it. I know you cannot belong to me alone. That is what bothers me always, I think, the realization that you are not all mine. I suppose that is part of what worries a woman when a man is late—that she does not matter enough—and so she becomes insecure.’ She had kissed him. ‘It is only that I have missed you so and looked forward to every minute of this. Do you still love me, Claude?’

  He had kissed her gently, in return, and then had held her off, studying her, and for a moment the glucose molecules, the chain of them, had disintegrated before her beauty. Yes, he had almost forgotten her beauty—the beauty that had made him lose his head—in the finding of his head this afternoon. She had stood so tall and chic before him, pleased with this attention, her crocheted brown wool tweed displaying her lissom and supple showcase figure at its best.

  She had taken his hand. ‘Come, Claude, let us sit and talk. You must tell me everything.’

  They had settled side by side, on the two-cushioned love seat, holding hands, fingers intertwined, and she had spoken of Paris, and of the preparations for Copenhagen, and of Copenhagen itself. And then she had asked him about the week in Stockholm, carefully avoiding any mention of his wife, and he had spoken of Stockholm, the officials that he had met, the other laureates, the sights he had visited, the appearances he had made, the dinner at the Royal Palace and the dinner at Ragnar Hammarlund’s mansion, and he, too, had carefully avoided any mention of his wife.

  As he spoke, he had retreated from her. It was as if he had addressed the room, and not her. Except for the play of her slender fingers between his own, he might have been unaware of her presence. And even when he had related an anecdote about Max Stratman, he had done so inattentively, with no conscious effort to please her and keep her by this sharing, so that their histories might become one. His deeper mind had churned with the entire protein question, the necessity of proteins at all in synthetics, the probability that development of chemically produced amino acids might be sufficient. Was this possible?

  His consciousness of her presence had returned when he realized that his hand was empty, and he looked down and saw that she had removed her hand and was twisting the ruby on one finger. He had looked up, sheepishly, knowing her sensitivity to his every mood and to any withdrawal, and her pale blue eyes and usually emotionless mouth had offered him the briefest smile of understanding.

  ‘You look so far away, Claude,’ she had said. ‘Let me change into something more comfortable. Maybe I can find a way to bring you back to me.’

  She had slid out of the seat with fluidity, and then, with her erect carriage, her lazy, teasing mannequin walk that had always aroused him, she had made her way to the bathroom and out of his sight.

  Now he had finished two Armagnacs in his waiting, and poured a third, and wondered where they would begin—the experiments, that is—and had almost decided that, perhaps to avoid discouragement, they should begin where advances had already been substantial—with fat acids, employing petroleum to develop a stearic acid that might be wedded to already synthesized glycerol.

  He heard the bathroom door open, and when he lifted his head, she was standing in the middle of the room. She was staring at him curiously. He observed that she had brought the sheer peignoir from the rue du Bac, a street that now sounded unfamiliar, and that the flat moon breasts beneath the peignoir had been more promising when she had worn the crocheted tweed.

  ‘Claude—’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘—you have not moved since I left you.’

  ‘What?’

  She glided noiselessly towards him. ‘I thought you would be ready.’

  ‘Yes, that will take only a minute.’ He made as if to rise, but her hand touched his shoulder and kept him to his place, and she sat beside him and crossed her lean legs.

  ‘Tell me—sitting here all this while—of what were you thinking?’

  ‘Of you,’ he said.

  ‘You have always been truthful with me.’ />
  He nodded, and then fell silent, and then, quietly, he tried to tell her. He had devoted so many years to vitrification of spermatazoa, and when that was done, there was nothing more, for he had been unable to consider another project seriously. What had saved him had been Gisèle, her love, her kindness. For a man, this was almost a great sufficiency, but there was always the parallel yearning. A job to do. An identity to be fulfilled. This had been missing, and yet he had not known its lack, because he had been so filled with Gisèle. But this afternoon, before their reunion, the miracle had taken place, and now he was filled with that, too. With rising intensity in his speech, he tried to clarify various aspects of the new miracle. He spoke of natural food and synthetic food, he spoke of carbohydrates and proteins and water and fats. He spoke of autoclaves and centrifuges and sublimation chambers. He spoke of freedom from want.

  Gisèle listened diligently, hands in repose, the slightest curve of a set smile on her lips.

  When she thought that he was finished, she said quietly. ‘I wish I had been born you.’

  ‘What an odd thing to remark.’

  ‘To be born you—and have many loves—equally loved—not one.’

  ‘You are mistaken, Gisèle, dearest. This is another matter, a different preoccupation. I have but one love, and that love is you.’

  The smile remained set, unchanged. ‘No, Claude,’ she said.

  ‘But of course! What has got into you? I will prove it—you will see. Here, let me undress—’

  Her hand darted out and restrained his hand. ‘No, Claude, not now. I do not feel you want to—to possess me now.’

  ‘But I do.’

  ‘You have no talent for deception. You are not in the mood, Claude. I can tell. Do not lie to me. And more important, do not insult what is between us by attempting to service me without love.’

  ‘Gisèle—’

  ‘You are in another world.’

  ‘Well, I have been excited—and besides, this has been a week—’

  ‘Claude, it requires no apology. You are exhausted—not from the week but from the new passion. You are forgiven.’

  ‘Gisèle, believe me from my heart—I would like nothing more than to lie down with you, but perhaps you are right—it would be best when my mind, when—it will be best when I am back in Paris again.’