She had risen. ‘You had better go now. I think you will want to discuss your new miracle with—with ones who can appreciate it with you.’
He rose quickly and took her hands. ‘It does not feel right.’
‘With me, it does. You must give me some time to myself now. I have never been here before. I want to shop, buy many things. There are only a few hours before plane time.’
‘I will go with you—carry your parcels—’
She shook her head. Often, the bereaved prefer solitude. Could he know? ‘I would rather be alone.’
‘Well, if you insist—’
‘I do insist.’
‘Voilà.’ He released her hands and took up his hat and coat. He hesitated. ‘I will see you next week in Paris.’
She walked to the door and opened it. ‘There will be no next week in Paris, Claude.’
‘Why do you say that?’ He had reached her side.
‘Because you are through with me. I know it. You know it. I am not a self-deluding youngster.’
‘I am not through with you. If you mean my wife—’
‘You know what I mean, you know exactly what I mean. You have taken back your passion. You have now given it to your work. I knew it would happen, Claude. Of course, I knew from the start. My pleasure was that I did not know when. But now I know when. It is now.’
She leaned forward and kissed him, and at once drew back.
‘Thank you for everything. Now, go to your work. Some day—some year—between jobs—you might look me up.’ Her smile was bittersweet. ‘I just may be around—if I am unlucky.’
He sighed and left, and she closed the door, and leaned against it. After a while, she went to the love seat, and saw his Armagnac, unfinished, and she finished it. Then she untied her peignoir and removed it, and walked in nudity—without provocation, for there was no audience—to the bathroom to clothe herself against the cheerless winter afternoon.
In the study of Carl Adolf Krantz’s apartment, Daranyi had finished reading aloud from his dossier on Leah Decker, considerably less interesting than those he had read on the Marceaus, but necessary to show evidence of his thoroughgoing method. Because he had read swiftly, he knew that Krantz had fallen behind him in recording his report, and so he sat back in the leather chair for a respite.
The watch on his wrist told him that it was past 7.30. Well, only Andrew Craig, Professor Max Stratman, and Emily Stratman, and he would be done and have his reward by eight o’clock. Where to celebrate his riches? Perhaps a late dinner at Stallmästargården, near Hagaparken, with Lilly. He could almost smell the steaks on the charcoal grill. Then, reconsidering the gourmet indulgence, he knew that he had more vital uses for the money. Well, he would see, his throat and lungs felt parched. Ilsa’s tea service still rested on the black table.
Daranyi pushed himself forward in the leather chair, and he poured the tea, now too dark and tepid, then took a cheese patty and munched it genteelly, and washed it down with some of the tea.
Krantz’s head lifted from behind the green fern.
‘I am ready for the next,’ he announced.
Daranyi put down his cup, and took up his sheaf of papers. ‘Next, we have Mr. Andrew Craig, your literary laureate.’
‘I will not require too much on him,’ said Krantz. ‘We have already investigated him. The high points will do.’
Daranyi was grateful. The investigation of Craig had pained him, for Craig was Lilly and therefore of his own personal life. This was the area of loyalty, and he would not abuse it, at least not too severely. Lilly, he had decided from the first, must be kept out of the report. She must remain removed from this and unmarked.
‘You will remember,’ said Daranyi, ‘the notice in one newspaper of an exchange between a female American reporter and Mr. Craig at the press conference? The reporter seemed to imply that Mr. Craig was a drunkard. I have checked this carefully. The reporter was inaccurate. Mr. Craig is by no means an alcoholic, but, at least before he came to Stockholm, was addicted to cycles of heavy drinking. A fine point, I know, but still, a difference.’
‘Go on,’ said Krantz.
‘He was in an automobile crash with his wife three years ago. The place? In the southern part of the state of Wisconsin, which is unfamiliar to me. His wife—her maiden name was Harriet Decker—was instantly killed. Mr. Craig was injured and a convalescent for several months. His wife’s younger sister, the Leah Decker of whom I spoke, has been his nurse and companion ever since.’
‘How has he comported himself this past week?’
‘I was not able to obtain too much information that would have any value to you.’
‘Again, Daranyi, let me make the judgments, and you please confine yourself to the facts.’
‘Yes, Dr. Krantz,’ said Daranyi, chastened. ‘I am told that Mr. Craig spent one night drinking heavily with Gunnar Gottling.’
Krantz made the ugly sound of spitting. ‘Gottling—pig!’
Daranyi waited respectfully, and then continued. ‘Mr. Craig spent another evening in the villa of Märta Norberg.’
‘He moves in high company.’
‘Indeed, he does. There is a rumour—I can find no verification—I give it to you as gossip—that Mr. Craig had an affair with Miss Norberg.’
‘Back to her old tricks, eh?’
‘As I said, I cannot prove it. Moreover, there is better evidence that Mr. Craig has frequently been in the company of Professor Stratman’s niece, Miss Emily Stratman, who—’
‘How serious is that?’
‘There is no way to know, at least not yet. They dined one evening at Den Gyldene Freden. Oh yes, and also—my scribbling is difficult to read here—but—here—Mr. Craig and Miss Stratman were off alone at the Hammarlund dinner, and he showed unrestrained affection for her.’
Krantz chuckled in what Daranyi considered an evil way. ‘Ach, Daranyi, you poke your nose into everything, do you not? One second—’ He began to write.
‘It is my business,’ said Daranyi, offended.
‘Your skin is thin,’ Krantz called up from his yellow pad. ‘I meant a compliment.’ He peered over the fern. ‘What is the latest on this Craig romance with Miss Stratman? Did he see her yesterday or today?’
‘To my knowledge, no, not in public anyway. The last I have on Mr. Craig was as of four o’clock this afternoon. He was seen entering the building of the Nobel Foundation. I believe he had an appointment with Count Jacobsson. . . .’
Andrew Craig had been in no humour for this appointment with Count Bertil Jacobsson.
The riddle of Emily Stratman’s personality, her unreasonable rejection of him, had left Craig almost destitute of will to live. The drinking of the evening before had not alleviated his desperation, and the enjoyment of Lilly’s body in the night and the solace of her comforting extroversion had been all too brief.
In the morning his resentment of Leah’s meddling and her dangerous jealousy had hardened him, and he had returned to the hotel with every intention of a showdown. But Leah, no doubt anticipating his fury, had been too clever to present herself before him so soon. A flippant note, left on the stand beside his bed, advised him that, in the company of Margherita Farelli, and under the guidance of Mr. Manker, she was off for the day and the night to the province of Dalarna, north of Stockholm, to tour the Lake Siljan district. Her note begged Craig not to worry about her—this was the flippancy—for she would be back early the morning of the tenth, in time to help dress him for the Nobel Ceremony.
The day had been vacant, haunting, and he had read and wandered and avoided all bars, entertaining Emily constantly in his thoughts, resenting her and loving her and hating her responsibility for the resumption of his torment.
He had not been unmindful of his four o’clock appointment with Jacobsson, a date made several days before, and every hour he had considered cancelling it on some pretext. Jacobsson had wanted Craig to visit his private apartment above the Foundation offices, and see his museum—wha
tever that was—and at the time, Craig had agreed, had even looked forward to the visit, assuming that Emily would accompany him. But, with circumstances as they were, it was a dull duty. What had made him keep the date, finally, was boredom—that, and no wish to disappoint the fine old gentleman.
Now, nearly half an hour had passed among the books and glass cases of Jacobsson’s spacious library in his apartment at Sturegatan 14. To his surprise, Craig had not found the visit disagreeable. The tranquillity of the room, as removed from wordly cares as a station in space, the literacy of the host, had eased Craig’s nerves and absorbed his attention.
They stood before the last of the glass cases. Jacobsson pointed his cane at a yellowed letter. ‘Romain Rolland wrote that on behalf of Carl Spitteler of Switzerland. More than anything, that helped Spitteler win the literary award in 1919. . . . Next to it, an 1882 first edition of Det Nya Riket—The New Kingdom—signed by Strindberg himself. Why is it here when Strindberg was never a laureate? Because of the book’s association. In this non-fiction work, Strindberg used Wirsén badly—you recall, the chairman of the Swedish Academy—and it was one more reason why Wirsén kept Strindberg from getting the prize. . . . And here—look closely, Mr. Craig—the cancelled Nobel Peace Prize cheque for $36,734 that was given to Theodore Roosevelt. It is signed by him. Do you know what he did with that cheque? Originally, he gave it to a special committee that was formed to further industrial peace in the United States. But, I am told, the committee dragged its heels, and your Rough Rider was not a patient man. Ten years later, Roosevelt demanded the money back and presented it to a fund for the comfort of the American soldiers fighting the First World War—the Peace Prize, mind you.’
A cautious rapping on the door interrupted them, and Jacobsson excused himself and opened the door. His secretary, Astrid Steen, had a message, and she delivered it verbally, in an undertone. Jacobsson listened, frowning, and then considered the message a moment.
Turning suddenly to Craig, he said, ‘Miss Sue Wiley is outside. She has requested permission to see me for a moment, to authenticate some piece of information or other. Do you mind if I have her in here and get it over with?’
‘Of course not,’ said Craig. ‘I’m inoculated against all Typhoid Marys.’
Jacobsson chuckled and turned back to the door. ‘Very well, Mrs. Steen, show her in, but tell Miss Wiley it will be only for a moment.’
He waited at the open door, and Craig occupied himself with kindling his pipe.
Sue Wiley entered breezily, thanking Jacobsson, and briefly disconcerted by Craig’s unexpected presence. ‘Well, I didn’t think I’d find you here,’ she said to Craig. ‘What’s up? Counting your money?’
Craig kept his temper. She was not worth it, and she was too ridiculous in some kind of newly purchased fur Cossack hat, with a matching fur muff that she carried looped over one wrist. ‘If it’s private, I’ll step outside,’ said Craig.
‘None of my comings and goings are private, Mr. Craig. Stay put. I’ll be out in a flash.’ She pivoted on her spiked heels towards Jacobsson. ‘Just a point of information, Count. I’m becoming a historian—and I’m strictly contemporary—so every once in a while, I get shaky about a fact. This one concerns George Bernard Shaw. Remember him?’
‘I certainly do’, said Jacobsson courteously.
‘Somebody told me he turned down the Nobel Prize flat. That’s it. True or false?’
‘I am afraid I must disappoint you, Miss Wiley. What is true is that we voted Mr. Shaw the prize in 1925. When the Swedish Minister in London notified him of the award, Mr. Shaw, who was often critical of prizes in general and our own prize in particular, replied in strongest terms, “No, I do not want it. What do I need the money for?” The untrue part is your information that he actually turned it down. He did not. After giving the matter more mature consideration, for one week, he changed his mind and accepted the prize. I will add that he was most gracious about the money we gave him. He assigned it for use in the creation of an Anglo-Swedish Alliance that would encourage literary and artistic understanding between Great Britain and Sweden.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sue Wiley, ‘and, may I add, you are wrong to think I am disappointed. If I didn’t know you were such a nice person, I’d believe you were letting people poison your mind against me. What do you think I’m after, Count Jacobsson—scandal and nothing else? I’m anything but an advocate of yellow journalism. I’m simply after the truth.’
‘Miss Wiley,’ said Jacobsson with infinite restraint, ‘in my experience I have found that truth has three faces—a whole truth, a half-truth, and a white lie that is barely truth.’ He paused. ‘As a matter of fact, I am glad you brought the word up. I have meant to invite you in for a little orientation talk. It has come to my attention—or would you prefer to converse at another time in private?’
‘Not at all. Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Mr. Craig or anyone else.’
‘Then, what I have been meaning to say to you is this—and only the pressure of my responsibilities during this week of festivity has prevented my saying it sooner—it has come to my attention that you have been making numerous inquiries about the city concerning one type of information and one type only.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘The inference has been, and I have heard it from several reliable sources, that you are attempting to acquire only such information as will be detrimental to the Nobel institutes.’
‘Says who?’ snapped Sue Wiley, colouring. ‘That’s ridiculous. I’m an objective reporter doing an objective job. I don’t invent material. I take it as it comes. If it sometimes turns up black instead of white, well—as I said—truth.’ Suddenly, her eyes began to blink, and they narrowed. ‘You wouldn’t be suggesting that I leave out some of the things I find, to conform to your ideas of—of censorship, would you?’
Craig found this unbearable, and shifted from one leg to the other, irked by her tone, her obvious attempt to force a censorship angle out of Jacobsson. But Jacobsson remained unruffled and diplomatic. ‘I am suggesting no such thing, Miss Wiley, and do not even dream of it. You are in a free country, among a free people, and we encourage you to write as you please. I only say that it distresses me to have our guests seek half-truths about us, and offer them to the world as whole truths.’
‘If that’s all that is worrying you, have no fears about me. I’m sticking strictly to the facts. If you find lies or libel in my copy, you can sue. That’s how sure I am.’
A smile flickered across Jacobsson’s wrinkled features. ‘The Nobel Foundation is a quasi-government institution, Miss Wiley. We approve or disapprove, but we do not sue.’
‘Then we understand each other. Well, I guess I’ve taken enough of your—’
‘One moment, Miss Wiley. Something occurs to me. Since you have been gathering so much information from so great a variety of sources, perhaps it would be to your benefit to add one more story that comes to you straight from the headquarters of the awards.’
Sue Wiley brightened. ‘A story! Any time!’
Jacobsson looked off. ‘If you do not mind, Mr. Craig—’
‘I’m as interested as Miss Wiley.’
‘Please sit down, Miss Wiley. You too, Mr. Craig. I will make it as short as possible. Do you have a pencil, Miss Wiley?’
‘I’m all set.’ She had seated herself across from Jacobsson’s antique walnut desk, fishing pen and notebook from her handbag. Craig stayed on his feet, lighting his pipe again, Jacobsson busied himself with the row of green ledgers on the shelf above his desk, removed a single ledger, and brought it down to the desk behind which he now seated himself. He leafed through the pages until he had located what he was after. He looked up.
‘Miss Wiley,’ he said, ‘as you know, there are five Nobel Prize awards, and they have been given with some regularity almost every year since 1901. The world has come to look upon these awards as the highest achievement—highest honour on earth
man can confer upon man. Therefore, the Nobel Prize awards have become a sacred cow. The temptation to journalists, every so often, to prove this sacred cow only a common bovine is irresistible. You will go around the city, and you will find it all too easy to learn our shortcomings—how many times in my too many years I have heard them repeated and broadcast with relish and glee—how we are anti-Russian, how we are pro-German, how we indulge ourselves in nepotism—above all, first and the worst of it, how we vote our prizes out of prejudices and politics and fears. Some of this is truth, and I am the very first to admit it. In fact, whenever I have the honour to take visiting laureates on tours of our academies, I always make it a point to let them know our worst side as well as our best, and Mr. Craig will confirm this. What bothers me, all of us here, the most is that our visitors seize upon our worst side, and too often ignore our best side. I am going to take the liberty of giving you one instance, my favourite, of our best side. I promised you a story, did I not?’
‘You did,’ said Sue Wiley, less brash than earlier.
‘You came here this afternoon wondering if George Bernard Shaw had actually turned down the prize, and I told you he had not. Now, I will tell you the story of another man who was prevailed upon to turn down the prize, and did not, and of his prize that was by all logic and commonsense not to be voted and given, and was voted and given. I will tell you about Carl von Ossietzky, and I will write the name down for you, because I want you to spell it right and not forget it and not let your readers forget it.’
Unhurriedly, Jacobsson block-printed the name Carl von Ossietzky on a piece of notepaper and handed it to Sue Wiley, who accepted it and studied it with bewilderment. Hearing the name, Craig tried to remember where he had heard it before—either at the Royal Banquet or the Hammarlund dinner, one or the other—but still, the name was foreign to his ears, and he was curious about what Jacobsson might have to say of this unknown name.
(1961) The Prize Page 77
