The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  ‘Because sadism and violence were inflicted upon you-and you confuse them with loving-when they have nothing to do with loving, because you have saved and preserved and never given your love. That is still untouched. In love, you are a virgin still.’

  ‘I know you want to be kind-you are kind-you pity me-’

  I’m sorry for what happened, but what I feel for you has nothing to do with pity.’

  ‘-and I want to believe you,’ said Emily. ‘But how can I? Ever since the day the war ended, and I came to America, no man has ever touched me. I would not allow it. It was as if I had to live in a sterile bottle, apart from human contact, doing penance for mortal sin-secretly knowing that I had been soiled beyond redemption-that below the waist I was unclean-and if I were ever with a man again, he would find it out and be revolted and cast me out-and if he didn’t find out, he would be cheated and used, and I would be consigned to hell’s fires. Then, in all the more than fifteen years since, I began to live a fantasy-this-that if enough years passed, that filthy part of me would rot away with time, and be replaced by new clean flesh-and I would become wholesome like any normal woman-and then I could allow myself to-to accept a man-or fall in love. You know, on the boat crossing, I tried once to see if any human contact was possible, and I couldn’t-I couldn’t go through with it. Then I met you-and I allowed myself to let go a little-to think it was possible-but then I knew. I met your Lilly, and I knew, seeing her, knowing me-that she was health, and I was an incurable emotional cripple-that what I fancied for you-to offer myself as young and cleansed and virginal was-unreal, and that you had suffered too much to be robbed by life again.’

  Suddenly she closed her eyes and shook her head, then opened her eyes wide, as if recognizing him as Andrew Craig, and then she pushed herself to a seated posture. ‘I think the drug is wearing off. I’ve talked too much. Did I tell you all the things…?’

  ‘Yes, Emily, thank God.’

  ‘I’m glad. Did I tell you-did I say anything about caring for you?’

  ‘In a way.’

  ‘Then you know that, and you know why it can’t ever be.’

  ‘I don’t know any such thing,’ he said. ‘I’m going to love you and I’m going to marry you.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that. Have some respect for my feelings. We can’t go on, and you know why. If we married, how would it be every night? You’d know what had been before-be reminded of all I told you-know that every move I made-the filth of it would corrupt your love-and in the end, you’d have only hate, and I couldn’t bear it.’

  She patted her hair, and straightened her sweater, and began to move her legs off the bed. ‘It’s no use, Andrew. Let me go back to my room.’

  He had her by the shoulder. ‘No,’ he said sharply.

  The need for her to be a part of all his remaining years, the desire to possess and own her, had become an unbearable craving. ‘No, you’re not going to leave me alone, not when I can’t live without you, not when you want me equally as much.’ He took her hand. ‘Emily, think of it, Emily, I’ve heard the worst, and I love you more, and I’m not going to let you ruin my life by being no part of it. I won’t think of all that happened, I don’t now, I won’t ever in our lives. It was a black planet, inhabited by inhuman creatures, but we are human beings of the light and the earth planet, and we deserve our time. And I mean what I’ve been saying-you have not been touched by any man, because you have not known a moment’s love. And what is untouched is all that matters-and should belong to someone who must have you and care for you. Emily, I didn’t think there could be another after Harriet. When she died, I thought I had died, too. But now there is another me, a different me, alive and yearning to belong to life once more-but not alone-only with you.’

  He took her in his arms, and her body relaxed in them, and he kissed her hair, her ear, her cheeks, her eyes.

  ‘Andrew,’ she whispered against him, ‘Andrew-you do mean what-what you’ve been saying?’

  ‘With all my heart and soul. I’d give my life for you. It would not be worth living without you.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said softly. She buried her head in his chest. Her voice was almost inaudible. ‘I believe you now. You showed that today.’ Then she said, ‘Lie down with me, dearest. Lie down and hold me and never let me go.’

  ‘Never in our lives,’ he said.

  She had stretched out on the bed. He lowered himself alongside her, embracing her, at peace, with the contour of her warm breasts and smooth belly and supple hips as one with him, and safe at last. He kissed her face and kissed it and kissed it, and stroked her shoulders and hair, until the last of the fright was exorcised, and the old past crept away into darkness.

  ‘Andrew,’ she whispered, ‘now you can say it.’

  ‘I love you. Forever.’

  She lay in bliss, and she thought: welcome earth, warm earth, the sun-warm, the green-warm, the blue-warm, the singing earth of the living. She moved her face against his to tell him her secret, to tell him-yes-yes-now I can love, too-but then she knew that he knew, and so she kept her peace which was theirs, and they rested as one…

  It was 6.21 in the evening.

  The majestic Ceremony in the auditorium of Concert Hall was drawing to a close. Dr. Claude Marceau and Dr. Denise Marceau had been introduced and extolled in Swedish, and greeted in French, and they had accepted their award from the King, and for both of them Dr. Claude Marceau had addressed the vast assemblage. Dr. Carlo Farelli and Dr. John Garrett had received their awards, and each spoke briefly, eloquently, in turn.

  Now, Professor Max Stratman, having been honoured, had tried to dismiss his apprehensions about Emily, and was at the lectern, reading the speech he had so carefully prepared, a plea for East-West understanding, a plea for eternal peace.

  He had reached his last paragraph. ‘Every year, in my country, the United States of America, we sponsor a Nobel anniversary dinner in New York City, during the month following this night. On one such occasion, a giant whom I admired and was proud to know spoke in the role of scientist and pacifist, and fittingly, his concluding words must be my concluding words. In 1945, at the American Nobel anniversary dinner, Professor Albert Einstein said, “May the spirit that prompted Alfred Nobel to create his great instititution, the spirit of trust and confidence, of generosity and brotherhood among men, prevail in the minds of those upon whose decision our destiny rests. Otherwise human civilization will be doomed.” Thank you, and good evening.’

  Stratman bowed to the prolonged ovation, and he returned to his chair.

  Ingrid Påhl, who was to introduce Andrew Craig, last of the laureates to be honoured, had already taken the empty seat beside Jacobsson, and, tugging nervously at the corsage on her gown, she despaired of what to say.

  ‘What has happened to him?’ she asked. ‘It will be a disgrace. What excuse can I make to His Majesty, the audience?’

  ‘You’ll have to-’ Jacobsson had begun to reply, when suddenly an outburst of applause, louder and louder, from the audience, crashed against the stage. Jacobsson saw all eyes on the platform directed to the rear, and he swung around.

  Andrew Craig, resplendent in full dress, wing collar and white bow tie and patent-leather pumps, was marching slowly down the centre steps of the stage to his place in the right front row.

  Ingrid Påhl, pale with relief, leaped up to shake his hand and give him the seat so long vacant, and Craig bowed to her and settled next to Jacobsson.

  Immediately, Ingrid Påhl walked to the lectern and began to deliver in Swedish the speech on Craig and his writings that she had memorized. As she spoke to the audience, Craig tried to pretend attention, but he spoke, too, in an undertone from the corner of his mouth to Jacobsson.

  ‘Forgive me, I want to apologize,’ he said. ‘I was unavoidably detained-no discourtesy-there was some-some trouble-but it is solved. Perhaps one day I will be able to explain it to you.’

  Jacobsson stared at Craig with amazement, and then deep curiosity, wond
ering what had detained him, and Krantz, too, Krantz across the aisle, and it occurred to Jacobsson, with not a little sadness, that no matter what he heard and saw and read, his precious Notes would never be complete. But then, he consoled himself, no record of men can ever be complete, for what is inside them, the bottomless mysteries, are not meant to be known. And, at least, at least, he told himself with relief, Craig was here, and the Notes would not be forced to record a scandal. In all, in summary, it would be a quiet and pleasant account he could make of one more placid Nobel Week.

  Craig tried to listen to Ingrid Påhl, but understanding no word of Swedish, again his attention drifted. He enjoyed the gala stage, and he oriented himself to the elegant audience, and he desperately tried to remember the protocol that must momentarily be observed.

  In a loge high above, his eyes caught Lilly Hedqvist, Gunnar Gottling, and Emily, his own Emily, entering, standing, staring proudly down at him. And he smiled up towards them.

  He remembered how he and Emily had left his bed, and dressed, and hurried downstairs to urge the taxi to speed them to Concert Hall. Backstage, Lilly and Gottling had been waiting for his cryptic reassurance that everything had worked out all right-and then Lilly, with her own news that Daranyi was watching television in the hospital and would be home tomorrow, and Gottling, with his news that ‘that flat-assed broad, Sue Wiley, had gotten suspicious, and is nosing around for the story, but I warned her if she made any more trouble, I’d bust into her room and deflower her, so I think she’ll behave.’

  And as they had waited for Stratman’s speech to end, listening backstage, Craig had taken Emily’s hand, knowing that she had given herself to him for life, knowing that this life with her would not always be easy or uncomplicated, yet knowing, even as he left her to march into the glare of the stage, that it would work, because Humpty Dumpty had been put together again.

  With a start, hearing his name and himself addressed, he realized that Ingrid Påhl had completed her speech in Swedish and was now speaking to him, briefly, in English, informing him of why he had been honoured this night. And then this was done, and she advanced towards him, hand outstretched, a smile wreathing her face, and he was on his feet, accepting her hand, as the audience applauded.

  She guided him now along the train of carpet to the railing and stairs that led down from the centre stage. And there she remained, while he descended the stairs to the King who waited to shake his hand. They met again, clasped hands warmly.

  ‘I congratulate you, Mr. Craig,’ said the King. He handed Craig a large tooled-calf portfolio. ‘Your citation-diploma,’ said the monarch. ‘And in this leather box, the gold medallion. Have a look at it.’ Craig accepted the box and opened it, and the medallion, bearing two classical figures, one with a lyre, sparkled, and he enjoyed it.

  ‘Finally,’ the King was saying, ‘the envelope with the prize cheque, you may pick up in the morning. Once more, I congratulate you, Mr. Craig.’ The ruler’s eyes twinkled. ‘And do not forget you have promised me your next work of fiction when it is done.’

  Craig smiled. ‘That will be sooner than you think, Your Majesty, and thank you.’

  He almost forgot, so many eyes upon him, and then he remembered what was expected. Bowing, he backed off from the King, and moving sideways but still facing the King and somehow Emily, he went backwards up the steps to his chair, as the audience rose en masse and clapped.

  Craig handed his three awards to Jacobsson, and then, slowly, thoughtfully, he made his way to the lectern.

  After applause overwhelmed him once more, a silence fell. He had no speech, but glancing up at the loge, he knew what he must say.

  ‘Your Royal Highnesses, ladies and gentlemen. On this most memorable day of my thirty-nine years on earth, I do not wish to speak of creativity, of man the creator or man the politican, but rather, of man the individual. Not many years ago, a great countryman of mine, in my field, Mr. William Faulkner, spoke to you about the immortality of man, because man has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion, sacrifice, endurance. I wish to address you tonight on another factor of man-the obligation of man to his time on earth.’

  He paused, thinking about it, and realized that he was not speaking to the audience at all, not to these two thousand nor the thousands who were watching television, not to the millions who might ever read his words. He was speaking to himself, clarifying it all for himself, himself and Emily who were one, and thus, perhaps, secondarily to all humankind.

  In each one of us, he reflected to himself in these fleeting moments, there were, like unused muscles and organs, resources of the spirit-courage and energy and responsibility-never employed in our time in the world. The blessed one was he who, confronted with a crisis in his life (as was all humanity this day), was driven to call upon these resources, to use them to survive, even triumph, over life itself. One so challenged and so triumphant had won the only prize that counted-the prize of the Maker of the spirit, the rebirth of a withering soul and, as such, a Homeric victory over life’s disasters. In a lesser way, he had been so challenged, and had discovered the resources he had not known that he possessed, and was therefore, now at last, an entire man. This, indeed, was his prize. He wondered if all the others, before him, everywhere, could understand this victory and its honour. He must make them understand it. They must know the supreme value of challenge, and the eternal necessity to meet it as an individual and grow to fullest life.

  ‘This is the foremost of earthly honours that you have offered me,’ he found himself saying aloud. ‘I am moved and grateful beyond inadequate words. But I believe Alfred Nobel would have understood what I will say next. It is this-that all man’s honours to man are small beside the greatest prize to which he may and must aspire-the finding of his soul, his spirit, his divine strength and worth-the knowledge that he can and must live in freedom and dignity-the final realization that life is not a daily dying, not a pointless end, not an ashes-to-ashes and dust-to-dust, but a soaring and blinding gift snatched from eternity. The ultimate prize is to know that each new day’s challenge is meaningful and offered for use, that it must be taken to the bosom, and it must be used-and to know this, to understand this, is the one prize worthy as man’s goal and all mankind’s summit.’

  He paused. He scanned the intent faces, the sea of faces, beneath him, and they came distinct, this one and that, as faces like his own, and at once he knew that they understood the urgency of his self-revelation, and that they waited to welcome him back to Ithaca.

  Never, never in all his life, had he felt more reassured and more content. He knew where he was going. And so, at last, at last, he could go on…

  Irving Wallace

  Irving Wallace (March 19, 1916 – June 29, 1990) was an American bestselling author and screenwriter, penned best-selling books that were extensively researched, including such page-turners as The Chapman Report (1960), about human sexuality; The Prize (1962), a fictional behind-the-scenes account of the Nobel Prizes; "The Man", about a black man becoming president of the U.S. in the 1960s; and The Word (1972), about the discovery of a new gospel.

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