The Prize

8

WHAT awakened Andrew Craig was the sound of voices from another room.

When he opened his eyes, he instantly realized that he was lying on the folding bed of Lilly Hedqvist’s living-room. Hazily, the events of the night before were recalled-Gottling, in the Wärdshus, drunkenly revealing how the Nobel Prize in literature had been inspired by politics, not art; the nudists in the gymnasium, unclad and bizarre, listening to a speech by their director; Lilly and himself, on this bed, performing their protracted lovemaking.

Only the last memory made sense, and Craig tried to revive the details of it, but at last he gave up. He had been more inebriated than he believed. A few fuzzy amatory pictures remained. The rest was a void. The surviving evidence of pleasure, aside from the rumpled bed, was his languid body frame. His mind contained neither hangover nor remorse; his limbs were loose.

He would have chosen to remain in bed all morning, but then he remembered the voices that had roused him. Undoubtedly, one voice was Lilly’s. He glanced at the clock. It was already after nine o’clock. Why was Lilly here? Why wasn’t she at work? And the other voice. Who had come into the apartment-friend? enemy?-and seen him this way, and was now in the kitchenette?

The voices, indistinct, resumed their give-and-take, and Craig realized that one of the voices was male. Alarmed, Craig immediately sat up, and then lifted himself off the bed, gathered up his clothes and shoes, and hurried into the bathroom.

The shower and drying, the dressing and grooming, took him twenty minutes. When he emerged, somewhat combative over the compromising position Lilly had put him in (alleviated quickly by the realization of the compromising position he had put her in, and by the further realization that she had no idea at all, or at least had not expressed an idea, of his importance and news value), he noted that the pull-down bed had apparently been made and raised back into the wall, and that the living-room was all neatness and chastity again.

He went into the kitchenette, prepared for anything.

At first he thought that Lilly, at the stove in the foreground, was now alone. The morning was dark, and there was but a single window and a weak lone electric bulb overhead. She was a delight to the eye, as usual, golden hair combed free and long, throat exposed and young, wearing a crisp cocoa dacron blouse and dark tan swing skirt. She had just finished pouring coffee, as he entered, and her spontaneous friendly smile showed him even white teeth and no regrets.

‘Good morning, Mr. Craig. Did you rest?’

‘I’m wonderful, Lilly. I thought I heard-’

He stopped short, in mid-sentence. His gaze had gone past Lilly, to the shadowed end of the kitchenette, where, leaning casually against the service porch door, holding a saucer in one pudgy hand and a steaming cup in the other, stood a man.

‘I want you to meet my best and oldest friend in Stockholm, Mr. Craig,’ said Lilly. ‘This is Nicholas Daranyi. He does not like to be reminded of the Nicholas. Everyone must call him Daranyi.’

‘Like Garbo or Duse,’ said Daranyi. ‘Or, for that matter, Kitchener. It would be less to call him Horatio Kitchener. Immodest of me, perhaps. But we all have our little vanities.’ He had set down the cup and saucer, and now he came forward to accept Craig’s hand. ‘I am pleased to know you, Mr. Craig.’

Under the electric bulb, Craig was able to appraise the intruder. Daranyi was in his fifties and below middle height. His head was large and fleshy, and was sparsely covered with hair that had been oiled, then parted well to one side and combed to cover a balding spot. His face was sleek, too closely shaved, and the jovial cheek fat made the eyes into slits. But the eyes were merry, and the long nose and mouth amused, and you thought of yuletide and were sure he wore a costume to surprise all children at Christmas. Preceding him was a considerable potbelly, and you wondered how the legs, so thin, held him upright. His grey suit, faintly checkered, was short at the sleeves and short at the trouser cuffs, but pressed and clean and fastidious, with signs of rubbed usage. His total appearance was unmistakably Middle European, and even in this foreign place, he looked foreign. He smelled of exotic soap and strong cologne.

‘I confess a certain embarrassment,’ said Craig frankly.

‘But why?’ asked Daranyi ingenuously. ‘Because you overslept?’

Lilly turned from the tray she was preparing and clapped her hands with delight. ‘Oh, Daranyi, do you not understand? Mr. Craig is a nice American with Pilgrim morals. He is ashamed to be found in the bed of an unmarried woman.’

‘Yes, I see,’ said Daranyi gravely. ‘But, Mr. Craig, you are in Sweden, not in your native Minnesota-’

‘Wisconsin,’ interjected Lilly.

‘-native Wisconsin. Moreover, I am like a father to Lilly.’ Then, he added quickly, slit eyes bright, ‘A tolerant and sophisticated father, that is.’

‘I don’t know how I would have lived without Daranyi,’ said Lilly, finishing the tray. ‘When I left Lund four years ago, I knew no one here except for three letters of introduction. One was from an aunt to Daranyi. He found me the job with Nordiska Kompaniet. He helped find me this apartment. He bought me my television. And on my two mornings off, and on Sundays, he drives me wherever I must go. Without him, I would be lost.’

‘Pay no attention to Lilly, Mr. Craig,’ said Daranyi. ‘She over-values me constantly, to my secret delight.’

‘And Daranyi knows,’ Lilly went on gaily to Craig, ‘that the Swedish girl has a trial, with more women than men in Sweden-’

‘Six women to every five men in Stockholm,’ said Daranyi precisely.

‘-and a girl so old as twenty-three, like myself, will be an old maid, and mean and nervous, if she does not have a man she admires in her bed at least every fortnight. So do not be embarrassed, Mr. Craig. I am sure Daranyi will tell you that when he came this morning, he was pleased to find you in my bed.’

‘It is true,’ said Daranyi with equanimity.

‘Now, into the living-room, gentlemen,’ said Lilly. ‘We will have breakfast.’

Somewhat bewildered, but enjoying himself, Craig followed Daranyi into the living-room. Daranyi cleared the glass coffee table and drew up the two wicker chairs, and Lilly served fruit juice, ladled out the scrambled eggs from an earthenware dish, and put cups of coffee before them. Then they all sat and ate.

‘Lilly tells me you are a writer,’ said Daranyi to Craig.

Craig, his mouth full, nodded.

‘Fiction or non-fiction?’ inquired Daranyi.

‘Fiction,’ said Craig.

‘Then it is unlikely I have read you. In my work, one has little time for novels. I must spend my book time with politics and biography, current and past, and most of my time for reading I give to newspapers and periodicals.’

‘What is your work, Mr. Daranyi?’ asked Craig.

Daranyi had brought the fruit juice to his lips, but now he held it poised. ‘I am a spy, Mr. Craig,’ he said, and then, he slowly drank down the juice.

Craig knew that his face was foolish with astonishment. He had made his inquiry casually in passing, not expecting anything of interest, expecting perhaps that Daranyi might be an insurance salesman or shoe clerk or civil servant. Instead, he had named the most improbable profession on earth. Craig decided that his ears had deceived him. ‘Did you say-spy?’

‘That is correct,’ said Daranyi, wolfing down his eggs. As he chewed them, he went on. ‘It is not the happiest profession any longer. Once, it was. But no more. If I had a son, I would not let him follow in my footsteps. I would rather let him be a dentist.’

Craig remained nonplussed. Was the potbellied man having sport with him? He appeared serious enough, and Lilly, committed to her breakfast, was hardly listening and certainly no part of a joke. ‘But if you’re a spy,’ said Craig, ‘whom do you work for? And how can you even mention it?’

‘Among friends I can mention it,’ said Daranyi. ‘If I do not mention it, how will I find clients? Besides, most people do not take me seriously. It is an unlikely profession, is it not? Most people think I am having fun with them. There is no need for secrecy, except when I am actually at work. When I am at work, I am undercover and discreet. As to whom I will work for, the answer is-anyone who will pay well. I am the last of a breed almost extinct-the free-lance spy.’

‘Exactly what does that mean?’

‘It means, Mr. Craig, that ideological amateurs have almost put the professional spy out of business. The operation of the Soviet Union is typical. Their intelligence need not shop for expensive agents abroad. They know there are enough idealistic Communist fanatics or fellow travellers who will do the job with dedication at cut-rate fees. The Dr. Allan Nunn Mays, and Dr. Fuchses, and Rosenbergs have made my lot a hard one. There were always national agents, of course, but there were free-lance spies, also. For example, Gertrud Zelle-you know her as Mata Hari or H. 21. Hundreds of men and women like her, who had no allegiance but to themselves and the nobility of their profession, worked for any nation, at any task, on a flat-fee basis. As a young man, in Budapest, I aspired to this profession, as one does to law or medicine. From my reading, it appeared that while there were risks, the inducements were worth while-constant travel, interesting people, excellent food, considerable income, and possible immortality in histories. In the Second World War, I worked for the Germans in Istanbul. I had cultivated some peculiar talents-one of them lip reading-and I would sit in the cafés and restaurants and read the moving lips, across the room, of American and French and English diplomats and pass on their conversations. After the war, I did some valuable work for the English in Jordan and Palestine. You see, I play no favourites. Emotionalism is synonymous with starvation for one like me. The German mark and the English pound buy the same food and clothing.’

‘How did you come to Sweden?’ Craig wanted to know.

‘I could not go back to Budapest, nor did I wish to,’ said Daranyi. ‘I was stateless. I had no genuine passport, although I had several faked ones that I had used. I cold-bloodedly selected Sweden as a perfect base of operations. It is near Moscow, near the two worlds of Berlin, and yet with powerful American and English influences. And Sweden itself, in its anxiety to remain neutral is an excellent espionage customer. It was not difficult to obtain an assignment here as a minor foreign correspondent. Once here, I made myself useful to several persons in high places, and they have seen that I am permitted to remain. Stockholm has its faults. It goes to sleep too early. It is not Paris or Rome or Vienna or Istanbul. But there are worse places. My income is limited, but my needs are modest. I have a pleasant routine. I have good friends like Lilly.’

‘Tell Mr. Craig about Enbom,’ said Lilly from her coffee.

‘Enbom, yes,’ said Daranyi. ‘Lilly is proud of my part. So am I. You see, Mr. Craig, I make no pretences with you. I am no great one like Alfred Redl or Jules Silber or Fräulein Doktor Elsbeth Schragmüller. First, I came too late to my profession. My kind of espionage is now outmoded, as I have said. Second, I am a coward. I am not ashamed to confess it. I am a spy who is scared. With such limitations, I do not receive many important assignments. In some ways, I have been reduced to a researcher. My last assignment, a month ago, was for a Danish industrialist, who desired certain private knowledge of a new Swedish competitor. Before that, I made an investigation for a member of the Royal Swedish Academy of Science-’

Craig was surprised. ‘A Nobel judge?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ said Daranyi. ‘Dr. Carl Adolf Krantz, an old client of mine. You have probably never heard of him. At any rate, I had better not speak of that.’

Craig said nothing, although he was curious. He found his pipe and filled it, and remained attentive.

‘But occasionally, rarely, but sometimes, an important case comes to me. Such was the one Lilly refers to-the Enbom case, in 1952. You have heard of it?’

‘I’m sure I read about it,’ said Craig, trying to remember.

‘It was the most important spy trial in our history,’ said Lilly. ‘And Daranyi played a role.’

‘Fritiof Enbom was a reporter for a Swedish Communist newspaper in Boden,’ Daranyi said to Craig. ‘That is our vital fortress in Lapp country, near Finland. He was a Swede, and one of those ideological spies I was telling you about. He was an agent for Soviet Russia. He started during the Second World War for Russia. He had secreted a radio transmitter. He came often to Stockholm. When he did, bringing with him reports of our fortifications, he would leave a twisted hairpin in the crevice of a house near the Russian Embassy, and then the Russians would call on him. All went well, until 1951. Then he had a falling out with the Communists, quit his newspaper in Boden, and moved down here to Stockholm. Since Enbom needed a job, he asked help of some of his old Swedish Communist comrades in the government. They refused him. Enbom was extremely put out. One night, complaining to a friend, he told what he had done for the Communists as a spy. The friend, a loyal Swede, went to the Ministry of Defence. Enbom was promptly arrested. So were his brother and mistress-here is where I came into the story, but I cannot yet reveal what I was hired to do or who hired me-and also arrested were four others. Enbom was charged with selling military secrets to Russia for ten thousand kronor. The others were charged the same. Enbom was convicted and given Sweden’s harshest penalty-life in prison at hard labour. Of the others, one was acquitted, and five also sent to prison, although for lighter sentences. But, you see, sometimes my life is not so drab. Perhaps some day you will want to write my story, Mr. Craig?’

Craig smiled. ‘Perhaps, some day.’

‘The real point,’ said Daranyi, ‘is that Stockholm deceives tourists. It is orderly, immaculate, prosperous, so much so that it seems hopelessly dull. But it is not as it looks. Neutralism makes this a free playground for conspiracy. The Enbom case was one that happened to be made public. You take my word, there are a hundred other intrigues, as varied as the smorgåsbord, in this city.’

‘It’s hard to believe-like being told the Brontë sisters were really a spy ring,’ said Craig. He looked at Lilly, who was patting her mouth with a napkin. ‘I suppose Lilly is one of your agents?’

‘No, she is quite hopeless,’ said Daranyi. ‘She has no talent for the devious.’

‘I think,’ said Lilly, ‘my frankness upsets Mr. Craig. I tricked him into joining our nudist society last night.’

Daranyi shook his head. ‘Not for me. You have more courage than I have, Mr. Craig. Never in a million years would I expose my belly to that pack of health fiends.’

‘I don’t remember much about the experience,’ said Craig. ‘I’m afraid I was drunk.’

Lilly lifted her arms behind her head and stretched. Her breasts expanded outward against the cocoa blouse, but nothing was revealed, and Craig realized that, for the first time, she was wearing a brassière. Craig wondered why.

‘Well, whatever it was, the drinking or our nudist meeting, it agreed with you,’ said Lilly to Craig. ‘You were wonderful in bed last night.’

Craig felt his face redden. ‘So were you, Lilly.’

Daranyi coughed and spoke. ‘We used to have a Prime Minister in Sweden-Per Albin Hansson-who was a prohibitionist, and his favourite quotation was from Aristotle. It was, “Those who go to bed drunk beget only daughters.” A word to the wise.’

Lilly waved her hand at Daranyi. ‘Do not be an old father goat. Am I a child? When I was in school in Vadstena, and I was seven, I was taught about the fertilization of the ovum, and by the time I was twelve, I had learned in the classroom about contraceptives. You tell your Aristotle I will beget no daughters.’ She turned. ‘Are you relieved, Mr. Craig?’

‘Not if they’d look like you.’

‘American men make prettier speeches than Swedish men.’ She glanced at her wristwatch, and suddenly leaped to her feet. ‘We will be late. Hurry, Daranyi.’ She looked at Craig. ‘Are you busy at the hotel?’

‘Not especially.’

‘Then you must come along with us. There is someone I wish you to meet. It will delay you only an hour. After that, Daranyi will drop me off at NK and return you to the hotel. Is that all right?’

‘I’m with you,’ said Craig.

Lilly did not bother with the dishes, but hurriedly brought her coat, and the men’s coats, from the cupboard. She was all rush now, as they made their way into the hall, down the elevator, and outside.

‘Some of the canals are frozen over from last night,’ said Daranyi, as they walked to his car. ‘But today is not so cold. Gloomy, though. Yes, look at the clouds.’

‘Do not waste time,’ said Lilly. ‘You know it is bad if I am late.’

The car proved to be a black Citroën. Despite its age-it was at least ten years old-it gleamed with care and polish. There was not a nick, not a dent, and the chrome was shining. Craig helped Lilly into the front seat, and, himself, got into the rear, as Daranyi squeezed behind the wheel with an exhalation.

They started with a forward jerk, and then smoothed out. Daranyi drove stiffly, like all fat men, and correctly, like those on a temporary visa, and he drove not at excessive speeds but steadily.

‘Where are we headed?’ Craig once asked.

‘Near Vällingby section,’ said Lilly. ‘You will see. No more questions.’

Craig settled back, and smoked contentedly, as Daranyi related anecdotes of the life of a Hungarian in Sweden, and Lilly was quiet, lost in her own thoughts.

In a short time, on a wide street of apartment buildings and modern shops, Daranyi slowed the vehicle, and edged into a parking space against the kerb. They left the Citroën and made their way, with Lilly several strides ahead, to a two-storey stone building. Craig could not make out the Swedish lettering above the door, as he dutifully followed the other two inside.

They were in a hall, and then in a reception room. The room was neatly furnished with an oak sofa that had a wickerwork back and four chairs featuring cowhide seats and a large centre table holding two rows of Swedish magazines.

‘You sit and be comfortable,’ said Lilly. ‘I will be right out.’

She disappeared through a glazed door. Daranyi sat and picked at a magazine, Craig hunted about.

‘What is it?’ inquired Duranyi.

‘I’m trying to find an ashtray.’

‘They always forget. Mostly women come here, and rarely do they smoke in public.’ He pointed off. ‘There is one, on the window ledge.’

Craig crossed, mystified by their locale, emptied his pipe of ashes into the ceramic tray, filled the bowl again, lit up, and found a chair.

‘Why all the mystery?’ Craig demanded to know.

‘Sometimes Lilly likes her fun,’ said Daranyi.

They waited five minutes, neither speaking, when suddenly the glazed door opened, and Lilly appeared. She was carrying a straw-haired boy in blue jeans, a little over a year old, and she was cooing at him and rubbing his nose with her own, and he was giggling.

She turned him around in her arms, handling him as she would a puppet, and she bowed him towards Craig.

‘Arne, I want you to meet a friend of ours from far away-Mr. Craig.’ She smiled across the room at Craig, who half rose, blinking in stupefaction. ‘Mr. Craig,’ continued Lilly, ‘I want you to meet my son.’

Then, without waiting for Craig’s reaction, she pointed the boy toward Daranyi and lowered him to the floor. ‘There is Uncle Daranyi. You may kiss him.’

The little boy waddled, unsteadily, but with secure familiarity, to Daranyi’s outstretched arms. Daranyi engulfed him in a hug, and then worked through his coat pocket and produced a grape lollipop, and handed it to the boy, who took it and kissed him. The little boy turned, saw Craig’s strange and amazed countenance so high above, backed off in fright, and trying to run, fell down. Lilly was on her knees at once. She scooped him up, cuddling him. ‘Did Arne hurt himself?’ she whispered. ‘Mommy loves Arne.’

Standing with the boy in her arms, Lilly faced Craig. ‘What do you think of him? Does he look like me? He is so smart for fourteen months, but he is shy.’

‘He’s beautiful,’ said Craig, and he meant it. ‘I didn’t know you’d ever been married, Lilly.’

‘But I have not ever been married,’ Lilly answered cheerfully. ‘I am still an old maid… Excuse us now. Arne and I must meet the guardian. See you later.’

Craig considered himself sophisticated in many respects, and Stockholm had made him more so, but his amazement had turned to undisguised shock. Dazed, he watched Lilly leave the room with her son.

He felt Daranyi beside him and looked down. ‘You are startled, yes?’ the Hungarian asked.

‘I’m stunned.’

‘But not appalled?’

‘Nooo. Not appalled.’

‘I am pleased with you,’ said Daranyi. ‘Lilly would not want your disapproval. She did not tell you before, because she feared that you would not understand with words. She is a woman who lives by instinct. Her instinct was to let you see her son first. When you saw him with her, you would understand better.’

‘I’m not sure I understand anything,’ said Craig, ‘but I’m not appalled.’

‘Exactly,’ said Daranyi. ‘Perhaps I can make you understand. Come with me. There is a restaurant on the corner. Lilly will meet us there soon. We can have coffee, and I can make you understand.’

They walked outside, and the short distance to the corner, and in the restaurant they took the counter seats at the far end, apart from the other morning customers.

After Daranyi had ordered coffee for Craig, and coffee and a sweet roll for himself, he spun on his counter stool towards Craig.

‘To make you understand,’ he said seriously, ‘I must request a trick of magic. Presto, you are no longer in your Wisconsin or on America’s Main Street or anywhere in your United States. You are in Scandinavia, in a different moral climate, a more unusual and progressive moral climate. Is that something you can do?’

‘I can try. She called him her son. You can’t have a son by yourself. Was it an accident?’

‘Not at all an accident, Mr. Craig. Arne’s conception and birth were planned.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Mr. Craig, divest yourself of the old shibboleths. One out of every ten children born in Sweden is illegitimate.’

‘I’m not a puritan, whatever Lilly says. Far from it. But somehow, you don’t expect this of someone you know-know intimately-or thought you knew.’

‘But it always has to be someone. Why not someone you know? People become millionaires, and sometimes it has to be someone you know. People murder and are victims, and sometimes it is someone you know. People divorce, and they commit suicide, and sometimes it is someone you know. Little Arne is the one out of ten in Sweden.’

‘How did it happen? You said it was planned.’

‘Two years ago, a well-known Swedish architect, rather handsome and impressive, came into Nordiska Kompaniet to buy a dress for his wife’s birthday. Lilly served him. They fell in love with each other. Young women like Lilly do not believe in promiscuity, but they do believe in love, not sublimating it but expressing it and enjoying it. They had an affair. As I said, this architect loved Lilly, but he also loved his wife and three children. Lilly is sensible, you can see. She knew that she could never possess him legally. But if marriage was denied her, she wanted the fruit of marriage. She wanted a child in her lover’s image. So they talked it over, exactly like married couples, and they went ahead. Soon enough, Lilly was pregnant.’

Craig tried to keep an open mind. Daranyi was making it too reasonable. ‘But the consequences-didn’t she think of that?’ Craig asked.

‘There are no consequences in Sweden,’ said Daranyi. The coffee had arrived, and he dropped two cubes of sugar in his cup and stirred them. ‘The word bastard is unknown here, and that is as it should be. After all, Mr. Craig, the newborn child has committed no sin.’

‘Right,’ said Craig, ‘but still-’

‘Sweden does not encourage illegitimacy. Women like Lilly do not prefer it. Marriage is still the ideal. But life goes on, and love happens, and Sweden faces these facts. Because every child’s birth, by either a married or unwed mother, is recorded here, and accepted, Sweden has the highest illegitimacy rate in the world. Sometimes, I wonder. I think that is only because they admit to what other countries hide and make ugly.’

‘You mean Arne actually won’t suffer?’

‘He won’t suffer at all. When Lilly was ready to give birth, I drove her to a state hospital, and the father, the architect, was already there. After Arne was born, Lilly was put in a room with two married mothers, and treated exactly as they were. The cost of the hospital and doctor was only one krona a day-maybe twenty cents American-a virtue of socialized medicine so detested by your American doctors. The government gave Lilly four hundred kronor as a gift, for her immediate needs. While she was still in the hospital, the appointed guardian appeared. You see, the Swedish welfare state thinks of everything. In 1917, around that time, they established what they call the Svenska Barnavårdsämnnden or Child Welfare Committee, to supervise unwed mothers. This organization has female guardians, trained for two years in sociology, psychology, child care, and it assigns a guardian to each unwed mother. The guardian gives advice, sees that there is money, and so forth. Lilly’s guardian has been visiting her and the boy every month-today they are meeting in the government nursery building, where we were-and soon, the guardian will look in maybe only twice a year, until Arne is eighteen.’

‘How does Lilly manage?’

‘I was coming to that, Mr. Craig. The Swedes, as I have said, are sensible. Every child must have a father. Very well. If the father does not volunteer his responsibility, as Arne’s father did, the state finds the father with help of the mother. If he admits paternity, all is well. If he refuses to admit it, he is given a blood test. If the blood test is positive, he is automatically the father.’

‘But blood tests aren’t always accurate,’ said Craig.

‘No, they are not, but they are better than nothing. There are a few inequities, I am sure, but very few. If the blood test is negative, and the father cannot be found, or if the father is found but too poor to help, the state takes over financial support of the so-called illegitimate youngster. Lilly’s architect, of course, admitted paternity at once. He now gives Lilly ten per cent of his monthly income to take care of Arne.’

‘What does the architect’s wife say to this?’

‘He has never told her. If she outlives him, one day she will know, for Arne will receive part of the inheritance. More often, the men tell their wives. There are scenes, but I have never heard of a divorce over this.’

Craig stared at his coffee, but had no interest in it yet. ‘Mr. Daranyi, I don’t want to pry, but-does Lilly still see her son’s father?’

‘No. That was over with half a year ago. The decision, you must believe me, was Lilly’s own. She finally fell out of love with him. She saw that he was not really her type. She is happy now that he was not free to marry her, or there would be either an unhappy marriage held together by the child, or there would be a divorce. In case you wonder, she is still pleased to have the little boy. For the time, Arne is her life. She keeps him in the state nursery all the time now. But later, she will let him be there only in the day, while she works, and at night and Sundays she will have him in the apartment.’

‘And there is no disgrace whatsoever?’

‘Mr. Craig, when Arne was born, Lilly put a birth announcement in the newspapers, and she sent blue cards of happiness to all her friends. She has several friends in similar circumstances. One girl, in the nudist society, and with a good job-she was thirty-four and dying to have a baby, but because of the man shortage she was afraid she would never find a husband. At her job, she discussed this problem with her employer, whom she admired, and he co-operated, and now she has a daughter. Is that not better for a normal woman than living barren and sterile and withered? And is it not better for the child, at least when he comes by accident, to recognize him and make him like everyone else, not to do what is done in other countries, make him sinful or dead by abortion, or make the mother a fallen woman or a suicide or forced into a shotgun marriage? I think so.’

Craig nodded slowly. Understanding had come, and in an hour he had grown again. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think so, too.’

‘You heard Lilly speak of her sex education in school. That is universal here. No girl, no boy, graduates without complete knowledge about intercourse, birth, abortion, contraceptives. That would be impossible in your country, because the churches would not allow it. But here the Lutheran Church is the state church, and the state dominates it. Here the church is weak. Hardly anyone attends it. Education and realistic government supplant it. Is that so bad? Let us be honest. Swedish young people are no different in their sexual needs from American young people. At seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, the urges are the same everywhere. But in America, the love is illicit, all behind the barn and in a lovers’ lane and in motels, and spoiled by shame and guilts and secrecy. Here the love is not illicit. It is natural. If a girl loves a boy, she has intercourse with him because it is the normal thing to do. If the love continues, they marry. If it is not good, they do not marry. I have read the findings of your Dr. Chapman, who took the sex survey of your married women in America. What were his statistics? Four out of ten married women had premarital sex relations. Well, there was a similar survey in Sweden. Here, eight out of ten married women had intercourse before they were married, and the majority by the age of eighteen. You see, Mr. Craig, they are freer here, and no worse for it. In fact, better for it. Marriages here are more solid. A man does not marry a woman so that he can sleep with her. He sleeps with her, and then marries her because he does not want to be without her.’

Craig sipped his coffee absently. Lilly was on his mind. There was a question, and by now, it should not have troubled him, but he was a product of his past. ‘What will happen to Lilly?’ he asked.

Daranyi shrugged. ‘Who knows? She is still young. Swedish women marry relatively late. I believe the average marries at twenty-six or so. Lilly has found men she loves. Maybe one day, she will find one she loves enough to marry.’

‘Why did she-why did she submit to me?’

Daranyi smiled. ‘She did not submit to you, Mr. Craig. You submitted to her.’

‘I’m not so sure.’

‘I am. Lilly has love on her own terms.’

Craig set down his empty cup. ‘It all seems different now,’ he said. ‘Up to last night, it was just a-a side adventure-a tumble with a lovely girl. But now-’

‘Now what, Mr. Craig?’

‘I can’t say exactly. It seems she deserves more. And her son, despite what you’ve said-he deserves more.’

‘Mr. Craig, I detect in you the incurable disease you hold in common with all your countrymen.’

‘What is that?’

‘Guilt, Mr. Craig, guilt-from cradle to the grave.’

‘But the boy-’

‘Do not worry about the boy. He is Arne Hedqvist, secure and accepted. He does not have horns. Lilly knows-I have told her-that some of the greatest names of history were illegitimate children-Leonardo da Vinci, Erasmus, Pope Clement VII, the younger Dumas, your Alexander Hamilton, our Strindberg. They managed. Arne will manage better. And Lilly will manage, too. She has no guilts. Perhaps this is a good day for you. Perhaps after today you will have no guilts, either.’

Daranyi looked past Craig and waved.

‘Here she comes now,’ he said, turning his seat and rising. ‘We must go.’

Craig came to his feet slowly. He wished he could discuss all this with someone, someone close. He tried to think of Miller’s Dam and Harriet, but neither came alive. What came alive was the vision of Emily Stratman. If only he could speak to her, but he could not, because between them was an invisible barrier. Both had reached to surmount it, but they had not touched. Emily was, as yet, unreal. Only the girl with the golden hair, before him, was real, but here again was guilt, the smooth-rubbed Leah guilt.

What, he wondered, does one owe all others?

When does one belong to oneself alone, oneself alone?

Dr. Hans Eckart had left the taxi, and, in his unbending, goose-stepping stride, approached the goateed, diminutive figure who had answered his summons, and now waited on the street-corner.

‘Carl,’ said Eckart.

Carl Adolf Krantz whirled around, and without bothering to take Eckart’s formal gloved hand, he grabbed his arm and pushed him towards a doorway.

‘In there,’ said Krantz with urgency.

Annoyed, Eckart made the concession to the Swede’s foolish melodrama, and permitted himself to be pushed into the open recess of a konditori entrance.

‘What has got into you, Carl?’

But Krantz was peeking at three receding figures, a stout man, a tall man, and a young woman, across the street. ‘Gott sei dank,’ he muttered at last, ‘he did not see us together.’

‘Who?’ asked Eckart with exasperation. ‘Um Himmels willen-what is this idiocy?’

Krantz had recovered, and was immediately humble and apologetic. ‘Forgive me the bad moment, Hans. I did not wish to inconvenience you. But just as you came towards me, I saw across the street, coming out of the restaurant, the Hungarian.’

‘Zum Teufel! What Hungarian?’

‘Remember when I spoke to you of’-he paused discreetly, looked behind him, but the door of the tea shop was closed-‘the secret Stratman vote, how I manoeuvred it?’

‘Yes, yes-’

‘I told you of a Hungarian clown who passes for a spy-he is an investigator, actually, with good press connections-and how I hired him to inform me of Stratman’s rival candidates in physics. Do you recall? He was the one who learned the Spaniard was a Falangist and the two Australians homosexuals.’

‘Vaguely, I remember.’

‘He was across the street just now. There would have been nothing wrong in his seeing us, but he is curious-by nature of his calling-sometimes gossipy, and I thought it wiser-’

‘You did the correct thing,’ said Eckart, mollified.

Krantz poked his head out of the recess and looked up the street. He could see a tall gentleman helping a blonde into an automobile. He could see Daranyi, identifiable by his shape, waiting, and then getting in behind the wheel. Daranyi’s companions, the blonde and the tall gentleman, had been too distant and indistinct to be recognizable. Briefly, Krantz wondered who they were and what Daranyi was up to these days.

When the Citroën drove off, Krantz returned to Eckart. ‘They are gone,’ he said. ‘We are free to go wherever you like. You said on the phone you wished a brief conference?’

‘I do.’

‘Well, where we go depends on what you want to discuss.’ In his heart of hearts, Krantz hoped that Eckart had arranged this meeting to report good news of his appointment to the staff of Humboldt University. More realistically, he realized that it might be too soon for that, and more likely Eckart had immediate problems on his mind. Probably he had seen Stratman, and wished advice. ‘If it is nothing important,’ continued Krantz, ‘we can go to the restaurant across the street. However, if it is privacy you prefer-’

‘It is privacy I prefer,’ said Eckart sternly.

‘I have a Volkswagen at my disposal. It is around the corner. We can sit in it and talk or drive about-’

‘We will sit in it and talk,’ said Eckart.

From Eckart’s tone, Krantz sensed something disagreeable in the air. He fretted about the appointment, as he led the way around the corner to the Volkswagen sedan. Krantz opened the door for his German visitor, and Eckart stiffly stepped inside and sat on the leatherette seat, blue-veined hands folded on his lap. Krantz slammed the door, becoming more nervous, then bounced quickly around the car and settled straight behind the wheel.

‘Do you want me to leave the windows rolled up or do you want some air?’

‘Leave them up.’

Krantz tugged off a glove, and located the metal puzzle in his pocket, and worried it with the fingers of his bare hand.

Eckart, who had been collecting his thoughts, was suddenly diverted by the metal puzzle, and regarded it with distaste. ‘Carl, höre doch auf with that puzzle-put that infernal game away. I must concentrate, and I wish you to concentrate. This is serious.’

‘Yes. Sorry.’ Krantz shoved the puzzle back into his coat pocket and waited penitently.

‘As you know, I saw Max Stratman at lunch yesterday.’

‘Ah, good.’

‘Not good,’ snapped Eckart. ‘It was a wasted meeting.’

Krantz was anxious that his own valuable contribution to the meeting, the production of Stratman in Stockholm, not be diminished. ‘I warned you of the possibility, Hans. Remember? Do you remember? He told the press he did not wish to work for a totalitarian state. He said he had left Germany voluntarily.’ Worriedly, he glanced at Eckart. ‘Is that what he repeated to you?’

Eckart ignored Krantz’s question. ‘I offered him a place at Humboldt University at three times his present salary. I offered him a house. I offered him freedom. No one but an addled and sentimental fool would have turned down that offer. He turned it down.’

Almost physically, Krantz felt the pain of Eckart’s words. From the first, he had understood, without being openly told, that Eckart and his East German comrades wanted Stratman in Stockholm so that they might woo him back to the Fatherland. But, somehow, it had never occurred to Krantz that they wanted Stratman for a post at the university. That was a surprise, and it disturbed Krantz deeply, for it was also a threat to his own future. After all, how many positions were there in the physics department of the university? If the great Stratman had one, would there be another for the less important Krantz? This was all that mattered to Krantz, now. He did not give a damn about Stratman’s refusal. Except, of course, if it helped his own application. But he knew that Stratman’s post, still open, did not automatically make room for him. Rather, as he suspected from the first, the refusal detracted from his own accomplishment. About Stratman’s turning Eckart down, he had no emotional feeling. Krantz was a Swede, pro-German but a Swede, and officially neutral in these affairs. All that mattered was himself, his future. Which way did his best advantage lie?

Eckart’s feelings had been made clear, and Krantz’s shrewd judgment advised him to agree with his patron. ‘I am surprised as yourself,’ he said. ‘How could any scientist refuse so magnificent an inducement?’

‘We dug our own grave,’ Eckart mused, almost to himself. ‘I always knew they went too far with their liquidation of undesirables. They should have screened more carefully, looked ahead. It was madness, and we are the heirs to it.’ He met Krantz’s eyes. ‘Stratman will not forgive Germany for killing his sister-in-law, and Russia for killing his brother. This niece who survived-he spoke of her as Emily-it is she, I suspect, who keeps the unreasoning hatred burning within him. He is subservient to his military masters, I am certain, and prattles on about the wonders of America, and the virtues of capitalist democracy but that is all camouflage. He is a German still. Our fault is we made him a Jew, also.’

‘Was his refusal absolute?’

Eckart was silent a moment, staring through the windshield. ‘So he says, so he says.’

‘Then it is impossible,’ said Krantz. ‘There are other talents. You must turn your mind elsewhere.’

‘No,’ said Eckart angrily. ‘There is one Stratman. There is not another.’

‘But hundreds of physicists have worked in solar energy. Perhaps if you hired-’

Eckart turned on Krantz with a fierceness bred of frustration. ‘Are you a fool? Do you not see what we are after? Stratman alone has the key. The door he has opened for our enemies he has closed to us. Some day we will find that key. But it is the many other doors he can now open that worry us. We want him in East Berlin not for what he can give us of his discovery. No. Not even for what he can give us in new discoveries. We want him with us so that he will no longer work for them, help them, arm them. We want him not as an addition to us, but as a subtraction from them. That is what we want, and that is what we will have. Why do you think I am telling you all this? Because we have hope, still, and we know we have you, as a friend, a future colleague, to depend upon.’

Krantz received the last with mingled pleasure and misgivings. ‘What more can I do for you? I have done my part.’

‘Only a share of your part,’ said Eckart roughly. ‘Your work is done when we are satisfied. We are not yet satisfied.’

Krantz felt himself pulling at his goatee, and he knew his hand was trembling. ‘That is not so, Hans, that is not so, and you know it. It was an exchange of favours. I had a simple demand, and you made a difficult one. You asked me to make certain that Stratman won the Nobel Prize in physics and came to Stockholm to collect it. That is what you asked me, and no more. In return, you promised me a full professorship in the physics department of Humboldt. I have done my whole part, and now you should do yours.’

‘Really, Carl, I respect your meticulous and matter-of-fact mind, I respect it highly,’ said Eckart, his tone softening and sucking, ‘but there are limits of exactness in the human relationship. We are not measuring molecules. We are concluding a-a happy trade. Yes, it is true, you have brought Stratman here. To your eternal credit. But as long as he is still here, and not compliant to our wishes, he is still a matter of contention. In a broad sense, he is not delivered.’

‘He is delivered. He is here.’

‘Fleetingly. Why this resistance, Carl? You do not even know what I want of you.’

‘My position is precarious, that is all I know,’ said Krantz. ‘I have gone as far, in my position as a Nobel judge, as is humanly possible. What more can you want of me?’

‘A minor request, a routine performance, and nothing else. Were I in a position to carry it out, I would do so. I am an outsider here. You are still an insider. A task that is formidable for me becomes easy for you. And this I can promise you, Carl-acknowledge your responsibility to finish the work you have begun-finish it-and before I part company from you and your capital city, I shall offer you the contract for your chair at Humboldt and a residence visa to East Berlin. Now, what do you say to that?’

Krantz knew that there was no bargaining. He must go on, or forfeit his dream of the future. Well, he told himself, it would all depend on what was demanded of him. ‘Exactly what is it you want me to do?’

‘All yesterday afternoon and evening, I have given the problem my full mind,’ said Eckart. ‘The problem is one of providing greater inducement for Stratman. What can we offer him that he cannot reject? This is the scientific and civilized approach to the problem. But to make the proper offer, I have told myself, I must know more of the man and his requirements. What are his needs? What does he want? For what would he trade his allegiance? What are the necessities and luxuries that would bring him to our side? These questions are the ones I wish you to find answers for, Carl. When I have them, I will arrange a second meeting with Stratman. This time, I will have the bait. I guarantee you, it will hook him.’

‘How can I find out about Stratman’s wants? I am not a detective.’

‘You were once, not long ago. You can learn his wants by learning about his life, and the lives of those around him, like the niece, anyone else. After all, you told me yourself that when you had to find out about the Spanish physicist and the two Australians, you found a way, and the information was useful. Now, that is all I require of you again. Is it so much?’

‘I see,’ said Krantz, thinking. ‘If that is all-’

‘That is all.’

‘It might be possible. I suppose I could employ the Hungarian again-Daranyi. He is experienced, a workhorse, and he has sources.’

‘Is he reliable?’

‘Perfectly. I have said, his residence here is dependent upon several like myself. And he is always desperate for money. You would supply cash for the services, of course?’

‘Money is not an issue. Within reason, that is.’

‘How soon do you need this dossier on Stratman?’ Krantz asked.

‘How soon? Yesterday, if that were possible.’ Eckart’s Prussian face sniffed slightly in heavy humour, and then it relapsed into severity. ‘Let me see. What is today? The sixth of December? By the night of the ninth, no later.’

‘Three days for such a job? Impossible.’

‘Nothing like this is impossible, and you know it. I must have the information by the ninth, so that I can engage Stratman that evening, or the morning of the tenth. By the afternoon of the tenth, he will have the prize, and the next day be gone. He told me so himself. You can try, Carl. You can do your best.’

Krantz sighed. ‘I will try,’ he said.

‘When you brief the Hungarian-or anyone else you hire, for that matter-you must be clever, clever and cautious. Your agent must not know precisely what you are after. You understand? The slightest slip could be an embarrassment for me-for both of us. But do not fret. What is this, after all? An innocent little sport. A harmless research to give us some psychological understanding of Stratman. It will not be difficult for one of your stature and mentality. Already, I look forward to the day when you are in Berlin with us. You and Stratman, our proudest advertisements. How your Swedes will envy you then, eh, Carl?… Now, drive me back to the hotel. You can drop me off a block or two before. Remember to telephone me tomorrow, after you have made the arrangement. I will be waiting… Now, Carl, let us relax and speak of other things. Are there any worthwhile revues in Stockholm this season? And the girls-how is the current crop of Nordic beauties, my good friend?’

The embossed invitation, engraved on the most expensive linen paper, had gone out to twenty guests.

The invitation was for a formal dinner party, given by Ragnar Hammarlund, host, and Märta Norberg, hostess, honouring the visiting Nobel Prize laureates. The time was seven o’clock of the evening of December sixth. The dress was, in Swedish, smoking, which meant black tie and evening dress. To this was added O.S.A.-om svar anhålles-meaning R.S.V.P., and below that was listed Hammarlund’s private telephone number.

While all twenty guests had responded to the invitations affirmatively, several hours before the dinner it appeared that the list might be reduced to nineteen. Emily Stratman had telephoned Hammarlund’s secretary to explain that her uncle was not well-nothing serious, simply fatigue-and that he wished to rest and begged to be excused. When informed of this, Hammarlund had personally telephoned Count Bertil Jacobsson at the Foundation and requested him to substitute for Professor Stratman as Emily’s escort. Jacobsson had been agreeable, and Hammarlund was satisfied that the guest list would once again number twenty.

Now, it was 7.15 in the evening.

On the Djurgårdsbrunns Canal, beyond the ornate metal gate and artificial lily pond, the first-storey windows of Hammarlund’s pillared Taj Mahal-Åskslottet-were ablaze with festive light. Since the Scandinavian guests had been bred on Swedish punctuality, and since the foreign guests had been forewarned about it, all twenty visitors were inside the huge and splendid main living-room.

The last callers to arrive had just come through the living-room archway. This party consisted of Jacobsson, Emily Stratman, Andrew Craig, and Leah Decker. Their host and hostess waited inside the entrance to welcome them with handshakes.

Ragnar Hammarlund, attired in faultless evening wear by Bond Street, seemed more featureless than ever. His white, hairless visage could hardly be discerned, so that his person resembled some eugenic cross between headless horseman and invisible man. Beside him, as fill-in hostess for the evening, a role she so often performed, was the legendary Märta Norberg.

As they awaited their turn to be greeted, Leah whispered to Craig in the tremulous voice of fan worship, ‘My, doesn’t she look just like she did in pictures?’

Indeed, Märta Norberg looked just as she had looked on thousands of billboards and magazine covers and in legitimate theatre and motion picture advertisements. She also looked at forty-two as she had looked at thirty-two and twenty-two, the perfectly preserved product of the most costly international beauticians. Despite the trademark slouch of her broad shoulders-that had long reminded awed audiences in London, New York, Cairo, and Bombay of disenchanted world-weariness and that had offered overtones of a sexuality both mystical and unique-Märta Norberg was tall, considerably taller than Hammarlund beside her. The other trademarks were also in evidence, the trademarks so endlessly celebrated in the fan magazines: ‘her mouse-coloured hair, to the shoulders, abandoned and recklessly uncombed… her sunken pool of grey eyes, bearing the unconquered enigma of all womanhood… her patrician nose that launched a thousand theatres… her maddeningly superior smile, the smile of a Valkyrian Mona Lisa… her insinuating voice, a husky throb caught in a swan throat.’

Awaiting his introduction, Craig found himself almost as captivated as Leah. If he had passed her on the street, and she an unknown, he wondered if he would have bothered to turn. Technically, her features and physique were imperfect, the face too long and sunken, the bosom-breasts like matched oversized buttons-too flattened beneath the clinging silk crepe gown, with high front, bare back, and the body too straight. What made it all desirable was the world wide reputation that she wore like a royal cape.

But then, when he was the last to take her firm, slender hand, he felt the electric current of her magnetism and understood the allure of her personality.

‘Craig,’ he said, introducing himself in the formal Swedish fashion.

‘I know,’ she said deeply. ‘I have been entranced by all your books. I am Märta Norberg.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I have been entranced by all your faces-Camille, Nora Helmer, Beatrice, Sadie Thompson, Lady Windermere.’

Her lips curled ever so slightly. ‘You speak as well as you write, I see. Come, Ragnar will lead you to the guests.’

Again, Swedish formality prevailed. The protocol of introduction had been given Leah by Mr. Manker, and Leah had passed it on to Craig. Apparently Emily, so delicate in her sleeveless silk jersey evening dress, had been well briefed by Jacobsson, for she was performing as Craig knew that he must perform.

The fourteen guests who had arrived before stood waiting, some with cocktails, some with highballs, in an uneven semicircle, a formation almost identical to the one Craig had witnessed at the Royal Banquet. He moved awkwardly inside the circle, behind Leah and Emily. As he came face to face with each new guest, he introduced himself by surname, and the guest murmured back his or her surname. The ones he had met before-the Drs. Marceau, Dr. Farelli and his wife, Dr. Garrett and his wife, Konrad Evang, the Norwegian-these, Craig met again with spontaneous informality. But with the new ones, he conformed to strict etiquette. There were Baron Johan Stiernfeldt, a representative of the King, and the Baroness Stiernfeldt. There was Miss Svensson, the opera contralto. There were General Alexei Vasilkov, military attaché of the Russian Embassy, and his wife Nadezhda Vasilkov. There was Mrs. Lagersen, with the countenance of a monkey, whose claim to fame was that she had known the friendship of Mette Sophie Gad, Paul Gauguin’s bewildered Danish wife, in Copenhagen during 1905, and had recently published A Memoir of Mette and Paul. There was Dr. Oscar Lindblom, Hammarlund’s research chemist, who was thin and uncomfortable.

The moment that the formal introductions were concluded, since it was known that these were the last of the guests to arrive, the semicircle of formality splintered off into conversational foursomes and pairs.

Leah, who pretended to have forgiven Craig for their bad night and now had resumed her old relationship of domineering nurse and ever-present conscience to him, began to rave about the expensive living-room, decorated in late Georgian style, and for the first time, Craig became attentive to his surroundings.

The great room, wainscoted from floor to ceiling, every panel featuring eighteenth-century engravings, was broken on one wall by an enormous fireplace faced in Carrara marble. At the far end, on top of a small platform, beside the French doors that led onto a terrace overlooking the botanical gardens, was a five-piece orchestra, definitely Parisian, that was playing muted standbys and operetta classics. A wispy, tiny French chanteuse, attractively anæmic, all gesticulation, joined them to sing unobtrusively, nostalgically.

Against the opposite wall stood two Chippendale sideboards of mahogany with ornately carved legs, one magnificently laden with a peacock of sculptured ice and surrounded by cut hothouse orchids and a rainbow of smorgåsbord-pickled salt herring, salmon cutlets, marinated mussels, veal meatballs, Gotland asparagus, braised beef rolls, boiled potatoes, rye rusks and saffron bread, smoked goose breast, endless cheeses-which was served by two wholesome Swedish girls in Dutch aprons. The second table held glasses and bottles of drink, and was officered by two bartenders in red-and-black uniforms. Circulating through the room was Hammarlund’s liveried butler, Motta, an elderly Swiss with the face of an inebriated St. Bernard. Motta carried, and tendered, a large tray of hot-American-style hors-d’oeuvres. Behind him, with dishes and napkins, dainty in her starched dress, was the Finnish parlour-maid.

Leah had become separated from Craig by Saralee Garrett, who felt safe with Leah, and now they were intently discussing Swedish shopping bargains. With relief, Craig turned away and sought Emily. He had not seen her all day. After Daranyi had left him at the hotel, Craig had tried to call Emily but learned that she was out with her uncle. During the drive to the Hammarlund dinner, Jacobsson and Leah had dominated the conversation, and Craig had been unable to do more than smile at Emily. Now he was impatient to speak to her.

He beheld her at last. Jacobsson had her arm, and had brought her into a group that contained Baron Stiernfeldt and his wife, Mrs. Lagersen, and the Farellis. Craig knew that he could not extricate her, not yet. That left one immediate alternative.

He made his way to the temporary bar and ordered a double Scotch on ice.

Waiting, he observed on the end of the table a placard propped against an easel. It bore the legend Placering. Beneath the legend was the seating plan for dinner. Craig studied the table arrangement etched in pencil. He would be seated between Margherita Farelli and Leah Decker. He frowned, and studied the chart further. Emily would be seated between Jacobsson and General Vasilkov.

Craig accepted his drink, and pursed his lips, as he glanced at the seating plan once more. It was unromantic. It would require one rewrite. He promised himself that he would take care of that later.

Briefly, flanked by Lindblom and Märta Norberg, the evening’s host stood apart from his guests and surveyed the room.

Every important Swede-that is, a Swede with social position-was expected to sponsor three formal dinner parties a year, usually in the dark winter season when life was monotonous and unbearably dull, but Hammarlund always preferred to exceed this requirement. Essentially, he was a lonely man. This, however, was not the motivation behind his formal party-giving. He hosted his expensive dinners because, from an Olympian height, he looked down upon smaller men, regarding them as being helpless as insects, and the antics of the species Homo sapiens amused him and later filled his reveries. This was Hammarlund’s ninth formal dinner of the year, but only the third time in his life that he had invited Nobel laureates as guests.

The first two Nobel dinners had been, for him, disasters, because he had found the scientists dreadful and dogmatic bores. He had vowed to avoid another Nobel party, and limit his guest lists to the people that he enjoyed the most-fellow industrialists who spoke the common language of legalized piracy, and the foolish, crazy children of the entertainment world. What had changed his mind this year, and prodded him into one more Nobel feast, was the award of the prize to the Marceaus of Paris. He had seen, at once, how they could be valuable to him, in a way beyond their understanding or beyond the conception of ordinary beings. Knowing that it would have been unseemly to honour only the Marceaus in Åskslottet, he had taken on the responsibility of his third Nobel dress dinner. So far, he decided, all had gone well. Soon he must instigate the business at hand.

Märta Norberg was speaking. ‘That author person, Craig, has a certain charm. I daresay he could be fun.’

‘Forget Craig,’ said Hammarlund curtly. ‘I have told you to devote time to Claude Marceau.’ He addressed Lindblom. ‘And as for you, Oscar, you know your duties.’ Hammarlund took Lindblom and Märta Norberg by their arms. ‘Come. Let us begin before they are involved.’

The three advanced across the room to where the Marceaus stood together, moodily drinking, speaking neither to each other nor to anyone else. Irritation between the Marceaus had mounted in the past twenty-four hours. Claude chafed under the relentless new speaking schedule Denise had imposed upon him, through the Foundation. And Denise was tense because she had read of the arrival of the French mannequins in Copenhagen early that morning. Under these circumstances, the appearance of Hammarlund, with glamorous Märta Norberg and young Lindblom, was not entirely unwelcome.

When he put his mind to it, Hammarlund was a master of social tactical diversion. With practised ease, he paired Märta Norberg and Claude Marceau, and pointed them towards the sideboard-bar to obtain a cocktail for Märta. Relieved to be free of his wife’s abuse, and, indeed, impressed by the attentions of the renowned actress, Claude had gone off too willingly to please Denise.

Alone with Hammarlund, and his skinny, youthful employee whose name she could not remember, Denise decided to make the best of a bad thing. She imbibed her dry martini and left the burden of sociability to be borne by her repulsive host.

‘You met Dr. Oscar Lindblom, I believe,’ Hammarlund was saying.

‘Yes, of course I remember,’ said Denise. ‘He was the one who blushed when we were introduced tonight.’

Now that Lindblom had once more been identified, Denise considered him objectively, as he stood beside his employer. Lindblom and Hammarlund were physical opposites-one an ectomorph and the other an endomorph-yet they seemed to blend because of one characteristic held in common. Both were supremely colourless. If Hammarlund resembled a mound of mash, Lindblom’s aspect was that of a blank human figure outlined in a juvenile colouring book, not yet filled in with crayon. Except for a mop of dark brown hair, and insomnia traces under his grey eyes, Lindblom’s regular Nordic features, thin but handsome, were bleached out by a personality that was tentative and and introverted.

At once, Denise realized that Lindblom’s blanched face was tinged with pink, and she remembered that she had accused him of blushing, and here he was blushing again. He had started to say something gallant, stuttered, and then said to Denise, ‘It is not every day, Dr. Marceau, one can meet a genius in one’s own field whom one idolizes.’

Denise inclined her head. ‘I thank you, Dr. Lindblom.’ She gave regard to Hammarlund’s pleased reaction. ‘You must be lax with him, Monsieur Hammarlund. When a chemist has time to learn pretty compliments, he cannot be giving enough time to his test-tubes and mice.’

‘Good,’ said Hammarlund. ‘Then you recall my telling you that Dr. Lindblom is head of my private laboratory?’

‘Certainly I remember.’

‘But you do not recall my telling you that he is one of the most promising chemists in Scandinavia? Mark my word, he will one day have the Nobel Prize like your husband and your-’

Lindblom blushed once more, and his bow tie danced nervously on his prominent Adam’s apple. ‘Mr. Hammarlund, really-’

Hammarlund brushed aside his protest with a gesture, even as he would brush aside a gnat. He continued addressing Denise intently. ‘You are quite wrong about the time he gives his test-tubes and mice. He gives all of his time to his experiments. He is on the verge of an important breakthrough in synthetic foods. Only now, just recently, he has become bogged down.’

‘I am sorry, but it happens,’ said Denise to Lindblom with fervent disinterest.

‘I do hope he will tell you all about his work,’ said Hammarlund energetically. ‘I know he wants to. And as for gallantry, you will find him charming.’ He looked off, as he had planned. ‘I see I am wanted by General Vasilkov. Excuse me for a moment, please. You will enjoy each other.’

Quickly, Hammarlund left Denise and Lindblom. He had grafted them. He hoped the graft would take.

Denise watched her host depart with a relief that she made no effort to disguise. But what she was left with was equally boring. She considered the straw man before her, a Swedish oaf, a science amateur, and she wondered how long it would be before she could gracefully escape from him.

‘I must apologize for Mr. Hammarlund,’ Lindblom was saying with some mortification, his bow tie jigging. ‘Everything he possesses must be the best, and he permits these enthusiasms to include his employees.’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Denise tartly.

‘I mean-I mean-his prediction that some day I may earn the Nobel Prize like your husband and you. I would not allow myself to imagine this, or let you think that I believed I was on the uppermost plane of science with two great laureates. I am relatively a beginner, a student almost, in comparison to your genius. It embarrasses me to have-to have my name brought up in the same conversation with yours. That is why I apologize for Mr. Hammarlund’s extravagance.’

Denise’s eyes narrowed, and she considered her companion more keenly. His lean face, the grey eyes, not entirely unattractive, were sincerely abject, but the one thing that Denise could not bear in a male was weakness. ‘Never mind that,’ she said. ‘We each have our work, our place.’

She knew that she would have to give an ear to his work, before she could be free of him. She might as well get it out of him and over with as speedily as possible. She could see her husband, at the bar, speaking too animatedly to Märta Norberg, and standing too close to her. Now that Claude’s moral balance was gone, and he had sunk to the depths of philandering, there was no telling how far he would let himself slide. If he could not have Gisèle Jordan in Copenhagen, the old fool might try to have that overpublicized iceberg, Mèrta Norberg, right here in Stockholm. It would be just like that old roué, that pitiful Casanova, to feed his vanity with another affair.

Denise bit her lip in resentment, and then knew that she was marring the lipstick, and quickly opened her evening bag to repair her face. She was not yet alarmed by Claude and the actress, but it would be foolhardy to let the flirtation go on at length. She would do her face, and finish her drink, and hear this oaf out, and then take herself to the bar and break that new thing up.

As she worked with her lipstick, and then her powder puff, Denise said, ‘Mr. Hammarlund told me something of your work. Do you wish to tell me more? Of course, this is no place for laboratory talk-but a little might be interesting, just what are you up to, Dr. Lindblom?’

Denise’s peevish tone inhibited Lindblom and, at the same time, made him venerate her the more. This female genius, so other-worldly, her head doubtless teeming with a hundred projects requiring talents beyond his mundane limitations, had actually encouraged him to speak of himself. He wanted to, desperately, and yet feared her impatience. What forced him to speak, at last, was a remembrance of Hammarlund’s command earlier in the day: ‘Oscar, when you are alone with her, interest her in your work-that is one of the main purposes of the party.’

For an introvert, the assignment was as impossible to envision as daring to monopolize the time of a Marie Curie, but the necessity of reporting back to Hammarlund enforced a superhuman effort. ‘I am sure Mr. Hammarlund told you the motivation behind our research into synthetics?’

‘Yes. Personal aggrandizement.’

‘His motive, for the most, but not my motive. He is a vegetarian, as you know, and he did not want to consume foods-meats especially-that came from the corpses of once-living animals. Yet he knew also that the proteins of meats were necessary to his survival. He posed the problem of synthetic proteins to me, some meat substitute with the same values that would be morally and aesthetically acceptable. I pointed out that with time and money, anything was conceivable in the area of synthetics. When soldiers suffered from malaria in the last war, the cure was quinine. But not enough quinine, from tree bark, was available. This vital necessity mothered the invention of synthetic quinine, known as Atabrine. I pointed out to him that when there is an important need, there is always a possible solution.’

‘And you felt your employer’s vegetarianism was an important need?’ remarked Denise acidly.

‘By no means. While his need was for a solution to squeamishness, and later, a chance to make added millions, my motives were entirely different. For one thing, as I worked in the laboratory, I saw that natural foods were not at all as efficient and wholesome as people imagined. Synthetic foods could be made free of nature’s defects, and promise more health to humanity. For another thing, once food came out of the laboratory and then could come off the assembly line, there would be food, always, for the entire world-no more undernourishment, no more famines. I saw the goal was worthy. I have devoted myself to it ever since.’

‘I admire your humanitarianism,’ said Denise, who had long since tired of the subject, ‘but in the end, you may be manufacturing only fool’s gold.’

‘No, no, Dr. Marceau, you must take my word that anything can be done in this field. Consider what Bergius has accomplished in converting sawdust and wood shavings into carbohydrates of the sugar type, and Fischer, synthesizing proteins that provide full nourishment. Most of us tend to forget that synthetic elements already exist in natural food. What is ice cream? Is it natural? Is it picked in the field? Does it grow? It is the result of combining natural products with chemicals. Or baking powder. Is that grown from trees? Synthetics are employed, chemicals like monocalcium phosphate. Or, for that matter, what shall we say of baked bread-?’

He was going on and on, warming to his subject, but Denise was no longer listening. With her concentrated glare she tried to hold her husband, across the room, in check. He had ordered, and was now accepting, fresh drinks for Märta Norberg and himself. He was standing even closer to the bitch in heat, addressing her more confidentially, beguiling her with his heavy-handed wit, now touching her bare arm and laughing, obviously working at seducing her (had he not had recent practice in the technique?).

Denise only half heard Lindblom’s hymn to synthetics, and the word caught in her mind, and she wished that chemistry could produce synthetic men, with synthetic faithfulness and a love that did not revolt against becoming middle-aged, and synthetic sex as well, that was geared to one mate and one mate only.

‘-and so I am trying to reproduce, in the laboratory, the taste of meat, the nutritional content of meat, the resemblance of meat,’ Lindblom was saying. ‘At the same time, I am exploring new areas, algae strains-’

‘Fascinating,’ said Denise with firmness and finality.

Lindblom knew that Her Majesty had dismissed him, but he was not dismayed. He was flattered to have held her attention at all. He was relieved that he could report some success to Hammarlund after the dinner.

‘Some day,’ Denise went on, ‘under more propitious circumstances, in a more appropriate place, you must explain your concrete accomplishments and the problems that have prevented your going further. Right now-’

‘I would be honoured,’ Lindblom hastily interrupted, ‘to have you visit my laboratory in the grounds, show you about, let you see my work.’

‘Thank you, thank you very much. Our time, as you know, is not our own. We are in the hands of the Nobel Foundation. Count Jacobsson appears to have filled every hour of our stay. But as I said, some day in the future-’

‘You and your husband will be always welcome.’

‘Yes, my husband,’ said Denise, glancing towards the bar. ‘I fear I have neglected him. A tribute to your elocutionary powers, Dr. Lindblom, and the drama of your work. Now I had better see my husband. Thank you so much.’

Abruptly, she left Lindblom and strode across the living-room. Claude and Märta Norberg both had their glasses to their lips when she came between them.

‘I wondered where you were,’ she said to Claude viciously.

Claude’s social smile froze. ‘Miss Norberg was interested in spermatozoa-’

‘Quelle surprise!’

Märta Norberg appeared not to have overheard her. She was searching off for someone in the room. ‘Well, I’ll leave you two together,’ she said formally. ‘Your charming husband, Dr. Marceau, made me entirely forget I was the hostess. I must circulate.’ And then to Claude she added, ‘It was divine. Now, remember, my dear, keep one frozen sperm for Norberg. I may need it one day, if I don’t find a man soon.’

Gracefully, she inclined her head, and slouching, long-striding, she was gone.

‘ “Keep one frozen sperm for Norberg,” ’ Denise mimicked. ‘The shameless bitch. I will wager this is the only time she has been vertical all year.’

Claude showed pain. ‘Denise, is this continuous vulgarity necessary? Miss Norberg is a decent, utterly captivating lady.’

‘Like someone else we know?’

He affected not to have heard her. ‘How was your Dr. Lindblom?’

‘A hotheaded Don Juan,’ she said savagely. ‘I had to fight to keep from being raped… Now get me a natural drink, you synthetic husband.’

‘What does that mean? Are you going to be difficult tonight?’

‘You may be sure of that, mon brave,’ said Denise Marceau.

All through the cocktail hour, Andrew Craig had been trying to catch Emily’s eye. Now, with his second double Scotch in hand, he succeeded. She turned her head in his direction, knowing that he was staring at her, and he made a movement of his head to invite her to join him, but she replied with a quick, helpless shrug.

He understood. Her circle had enlarged. Baron Stiernfeldt and his wife, Mrs. Lagersen, and Margherita Farelli were still there, although Dr. Carlo Farelli had disappeared. And to this group had been added, since the last time Craig had looked, the persons of Ragnar Hammarlund, Konrad Evang, and General Vasilkov and his wife. It was the largest circle in the room, and it irritated Craig that the men were being attentive to Emily. Inevitably, he thought. She was irresistible to the male. Wherever she shone, the moths would bat about the flame.

At last, he conceded to himself that she could not escape from the others. He was on his own. He wheeled slowly to take in the remaining occupants in the room. Leah was still involved with Saralee Garrett and another woman, Miss Svensson, the opera singer. Craig saw that Leah kept glancing at him worriedly, and this posed a minor threat, for she might make up her mind that he was lonely. A second threat, too, was gradually drawing nearer. The actress, Märta Norberg, appeared to be approaching him. For a time, she had been with Claude Marceau, but twice he had caught her studying him. She had left both Marceaus at the other end of the bar, and by a circuitous route, first briefly engaged with Dr. Lindblom in conversation, then exchanging a few words with the butler, Motta, and now, after looking in on Leah and her ladies, she would undoubtedly be headed for him. He was next. There could be worse fates, he knew.

As a younger man, watching Norberg’s unapproachable enlarged image on countless motion-picture screens, enchanted by her gifts behind the footlights, Craig had shared in common with millions of other males certain wish fantasies. The years had been kind to Norberg, he told himself now. She was ageless, and still a lithe symbol of all desired and unattainable. Yet through some perversity, now that he had an opportunity to converse with her on intimate terms, as an equal almost, he was reluctant to do so. He was in no mood for banter about the entertainment world. He was in no mood to listen to her glories. His mind was on Emily Stratman, only Emily, with an occasional bewilderment about Lilly.

He gulped down the last of the second drink, and suddenly felt stifled in the overheated room. He wondered where he might cool off, in isolation, free to sort out his thoughts. His gaze passed along the exits from the living-room, and held, finally, on the French doors near the indefatigable orchestra. One of the French doors was ajar. It was all the encouragement that Craig needed.

Giving his empty glass to Motta, and rejecting a refill, he walked to one French door, and, hoping that he was not being observed, edged through it and closed it behind him.

The cold night air, not so bitter as other evenings, braced him. For the eternity of a minute, he stood motionless on the flagstones, inhaling the night and peering up at the clear navy-blue sky with its infinity of miniature stars like erratic strands of gay Christmas-tree lights. After a while, he drew back into himself, and strolled around the veranda, romantically and dimly lighted by antique English coach lamps. He considered Emily, and then Leah, and then Lilly, in that order, and tried to relate them each separately to Miller’s Dam and Lucius Mack and Joliet College and Return to Ithaca.

He had reached the low stone balustrade that partitioned the veranda from the gardens, and absently he looked below, at the bush clumps and intersecting paths, and the hothouses in the distance. That moment, he realized with surprise he was not alone. Two male figures, directly beneath him, were moving across the lawn from the veranda stairs to the nearest garden path.

By straining his eyes, he made them out at last. The bulkier one, progressing with fluid ease, was Carlo Farelli. The other, progressing in fits and starts, nervously, jumpily, was John Garrett.

Briefly, Craig speculated on what the two winners in physiology and medicine, who were comparative strangers, would have to say to one another. His writer’s mind wrote. Would they exchange shop-talk, medical talk? But why out here in the cold night? Why not inside the warm house? Or was it something else? Something private?

‘Because it’s something private, that’s what,’ said John Garrett belligerently, in reply to Farelli’s question, as they reached the gravel garden path.

Farelli good-naturedly protested once more. ‘But in this frozen weather? I am a Latin, do not forget. My blood is thin.’

‘I know, I know about your blood,’ said Garrett with a rasp. Whenever he drank excessively, and tonight he had, his voice grew hoarse. Now it was not only hoarse but strained with hatred long repressed.

‘If what you must tell me is so private, we can ask Hammarlund for his library. We can enjoy the civilized amenities as we converse. Shall we?’

Farelli halted and looked hopefully at Garrett’s unremarkable face, now flushed. Garrett halted, too, and swayed.

‘No,’ he said. ‘What I have to say-there should be no one around.’

‘You are certainly enigmatical, Dr. Garrett.’

Garrett pulled himself together, trying to attain his full height, trying to match his enemy in strength and power of physique. It had been after the meeting with Dr. Erik Öhman, on his return from the failure at the Royal Caroline Medico-Chirurgical Institute, that he had come to this decision, the decision to have a showdown with Farelli. He could no longer postpone the inevitable. Farelli’s promoter tactics were steam-rolling him. Farelli’s trick at the Caroline Institute, taking advantage of Öhman and him, using Sue Wiley, crowing to all the world that he alone was the medical savant, that Garrett did not exist. Well, at least in one intrigue, Farelli had tripped. Now Dr. Öhman knew that Farelli was a charlatan, and a disgrace to the profession and the Nobel honour roll. Now Dr. Öhman knew that Farelli had used him badly.

Garrett’s intensity, overlaid on Öhman’s debt to Garrett and worship of Garrett, had converted the Swede into a dependable ally, if one were needed. But now, Garrett did not need an ally. He had looked forward to this night’s truth session with Farelli. Once Farelli realized that Garrett had his number, once Farelli understood that Garrett was on to his manipulations, the Italian would cease and desist. He would not dare to continue as he had. Then, and only then, would Garrett be free, at last, to receive the full credit for discovery that was rightfully his own.

He realized that he had been lost in thought, and that Farelli was staring at him strangely. ‘Is anything wrong with you, Dr. Garrett?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘You seem-somewhere else. I had been asking you what mysterious matter brought us out here in the night to get pneumonia.’

‘I’ll tell you what-I’ll tell you what-’ Garrett’s reserve had burst, and he was shivering. ‘I brought you here to say what I think of your getting half of my money!’

At first Farelli’s leonine head shook with lack of comprehension. His tone of voice was incredulous. ‘Do I understand your English, Dr. Garrett? Do you say I am receiving half of your money?’

‘For the Nobel Prize, yes, yes, that’s what I’m saying. I should have got $50,300 instead of $25,150. You don’t deserve the other half. You never have, and you know it. I made the discovery first, by myself, but you took the credit, you took most of it, like Cook and Peary-you’re Cook-you’re a pretender.’

Farelli’s jaw was agape. ‘Dr. Garrett, I do not believe my ears. You are joking with me, of course. It is a joke.’

‘It’s not a joke. Don’t give me any of that clever pretence. You can hoodwink the Nobel Committee, and the press, and Sue Wiley, and Öhman, and half the world. But some of us know the truth. We’re on to you.’

‘On to what? What are you on to? Your crazy words make my head swim.’

‘You know what I mean. You want me to spell it out? I know a good deal about psychology, not just pathology but psychology, and I know what makes a pretender like you tick. History’s full of impostors and frauds. I’ve read about them all, and on every page I see you-I see you in Psalmanazar, and Tichborne, and the so-called Dr. Graham with his Temple of Health and celestial bed, and Colonel Ghadiali, and all the medical quacks. You used my findings, my years of labour, you used my papers, and you had spies in my laboratories-’

Farelli’s dark face had hardened. ‘Che faccia tosta!’ he growled. ‘Dr. Garrett, if I did not believe you were either drunk or paranoiac, I would slap your face.’

‘Go ahead, try it, try it, try it,’ Garrett chanted, like an inciting boy roughneck who wanted to be struck so that he might have a cause. ‘I’ve watched you here, Farelli. Öhman and I have watched you, the greatest operator of all time. You’ve got the wool over their eyes, all right, you sure have. Taking over our press conference, trying to blot me out. And the Royal Banquet, trying to make me ridiculous in front of the others. And now-now-pretending you want to help Öhman-using him so you can get a lousy, cheap story from that Wiley girl.’

Garrett reeled with the excitement of his temper and the alcohol high in his throat.

‘You couldn’t steal the whole prize, the whole credit,’ he went on in a shriek, ‘so you’re trying to do it now. But I know you’re a phony, and others are beginning to know, and you keep it up, and you’re asking for trouble. Yes, trouble! You’re a phony, goddamn you-’

Farelli’s big face was livid. ‘Shut up, you stupid man. Si calmi. Make yourself sober, and maybe I will let you apologize someday.’

He turned to leave, but Garrett was not letting him have the last word, not tonight, not this exulting night that was Garrett’s night and his hour of truth.

Garrett reached out, almost falling, clutching Farelli’s arm, and pulling him around.

‘You’re a phony, a rotten Dago phony!’ he shouted.

Farelli slammed at Garrett’s hand, knocking it free of his arm. ‘Do not touch me, you sick, crazy man! Go away-imbecille-pazzo!’

It was this, nothing else but this, that goaded and incensed Garrett beyond all final restraint. Dr. Keller would have understood. The group therapy patients would have understood. Garrett departed from himself and his senses. With all frustration and fury unleashed, he swung his fist at Farelli. The blow landed high on the Italian’s shoulder and skated off. It was less the impact of the blow than the surprise of it that staggered Farelli, and sent him reeling backwards a few steps.

‘I’ll show you!’ Garrett was shouting, choking.

Blindly, he charged at the Italian, swinging both arms clumsily, like all middle-aged, sedentary men who become violent. But Farelli had his balance now and control of his temper. Quick of foot, he stepped aside, and as one of Garrett’s fists missed him entirely and the other glanced off his ribs, Farelli rammed his beefy right hand wrist-deep into his attacker’s stomach. Aggression and oxygen went out of Garrett. He doubled in two, and then as he slowly folded like a jack-knife, Farelli catapulted a hooking left to the exposed jaw. The sound of knuckles on flesh was short and sharp, like a handclap, and Garrett, head jerking, fingers holding his belly, went over backwards as if axed.

He sat on the gravel path, whimpering, spitting blood and alcohol and, like a sand sucker, chewed for air.

He looked up, eyes crossed and maniacal, and suddenly, from some reservoir of strength, he lifted himself, groaning, to one knee, and then, throwing himself at Farelli’s legs, tried to pull the other down. Farelli kicked loose, with a curse in Italian, but when he attempted to retreat, Garrett was upright on his feet again, wobbling. Garrett threw himself upon the larger man, bear-hugging him, attempting to wrestle him to the turf, attempting to destroy all that stood between himself and self-respect. Farelli fought to tear Garrett’s clawing hands from his shoulders, and in this way, into the frosted loam of the garden, they grappled and cursed.

It was then that Andrew Craig came on the run, having watched the altercation from the terrace. Craig pushed between them, and because he had will and no anger, his authority was felt, and Garrett released Farelli, and staggered backwards, panting, lips working, but speechless.

‘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 schedule-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.

Märta Norberg, with a toss of her unruly hair and a disconcerting smile, was before him.

‘Have you been trying to avoid me?’ she said teasingly.

‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

‘I don’t know. You’ve been monumentally disinterested in your hostess.’

‘Quite the contrary. My hostess seemed well occupied.’

The superior feline smile came and went. ‘Occupied, yes. Well occupied, no. However, your sister-in-law was quite interesting.’

‘Was she?’

‘Her delivery may leave much to be desired, but her material is interesting,’ said Märta Norberg. ‘She talked a good deal about you.’

‘I see.’

‘At any rate, when I observed this paragon of hers all alone in the armchair, so forlorn, reduced to reading the seating-plan, I thought I might provide more amusing company.’

He wondered if she had seen him change the seating-plan. He decided that she had not. ‘To confess the truth, Miss Norberg, I am an avid and indiscriminate reader-anything I can find-railroad timetables, old telephone books, seed catalogues-dinner seating arrangements-and when there is nothing else available, I even read palms.’

She held out her slender hand, slowly revolving it until the palm was upward. ‘Read mine.’

He shaded his brow, set his face in a feigned trance, and touched Norberg’s palm with his forefinger. ‘I see one woman, majestically alone, and thousands at her feet.’

‘I hate crowds, Mr. Craig,’ she said quietly. ‘If you look closer, you might see more. Not the career line, the personal life line. You mean you don’t see a man coming into my life?’

Craig knew that she was frankly staring at him, but he did not lift his eyes. Was an invitation couched in the child’s play? It was possible, anything was possible, and the likelihood of it amused him. He remembered, at once, Gottling’s little speech: democracy had virtually swept away titled royalty, and then, to fill the gap, created a royalty of its own-the élite aristocracy of celebrity, wealth, and prize-winners. In this rare circle, background did not matter. A boy might come from New York’s lower East Side or Coney Island, be born of semi-literate parents with unfashionable ghetto accents, uneducated beyond grammar school or high school, or he might emerge from a farm in Iowa or a ranch in Idaho, be born of narrow peasant stock, unread and unlearned and unsophisticated, but if he could floor any man on earth with a punch, or crudely and savagely outwit all competition and amass vast wealth, or, yes, write a book that moved millions-if he could have his image before the world on magazine covers, or his name in print, if he could become a Success-he was of the élite. A single unique talent or sometimes luck alone, either one was enough. He was of the earth’s anointed. Overnight, he was in that higher place. Overnight, the ones who would previously not have deigned to look at him or speak to him, the ones who considered him of the herd, would now recognize his aristocracy and accept him as their equal. Overnight, what had so recently been impossible was all-possible. Overnight, he could banter with a King, share food with a millionaire, and know flirtation from an unapproachable sex symbol. So incredible. For he was no different than before the ascension. He had not changed in his eyes. He had changed in their eyes.

And tonight, Märta Norberg could say to him, ‘You mean you don’t see a man coming into my life?’

A month ago, he would have been timorous of asking for her autograph. Now she was asking for his.

He bent over her hand. ‘I see many men,’ he said.

‘Unlikely,’ she said, and instantly withdrew her hand. ‘You are a faker, Mr. Craig. Confine your reading to timetables and telephone books.’ Then her mouth smiled, as if to remove any hint of annoyance. ‘I read in the newspaper the other day that the things you like most about Sweden include Carl Milles, Ivar Kreuger, and Märta Norberg.’

‘And Orrefors glass,’ said Craig mildly.

‘Yes, of course.’ She considered him. ‘Am I to feel complimented in that company?’

‘You all have this in common-divine artistry. Except that you and Orrefors have also beauty.’

‘Orrefors is transparent and hard. Whatever you think, I am neither.’ She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘But I have artistry and beauty, yes. I can see it is a compliment.’

‘I always looked forward to your plays and pictures,’ said Craig honestly. ‘Going to either, when you starred, was forever an event. I’ve missed you, and I know I’m not alone. Why did you quit?’

‘I didn’t quit,’ said Märta Norberg testily. ‘It is the creative writer who has quit. I have waited for one to invent a role worthy of my time. In the last four years, I have read nothing but trash. Why don’t men write about women any more-women as large as life, as tragic, as important? Why are men afraid? Where is Anna Karenina? Where is Emma Bovary? Where is Marguerite Gautier? Why have women diminished in size?’

‘Women are not smaller today,’ said Craig. ‘The problem is that men have shrunk-withered by complexity-and men are so busy growing up to women, they no longer have time to sing of them.’

‘You may be right,’ said Märta Norberg thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps it is up to us… At any rate, I’ve been made so desperate that I am involving myself in rehashing Rachel’s old repertory. I’m considering Eugène Scribe’s Adrienne Lecouvreur. Do you know the play?’

‘Not the play but the subject. Lecouvreur was the eighteenth-century actress Voltaire loved, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes. And Marshal de Saxe. It’s an old play, perhaps dated. But it has a woman. It has grand passion. At least the heroine is worthy of Märta Norberg.’ She measured Craig briefly. ‘Would you like to see me rehearse the role?’

‘I would like nothing better.’

‘Very well. I’m at the Royal Dramatic Theatre every afternoon. Cronsten is directing me. Why don’t you drop in tomorrow? As a matter of fact, there is a business matter I’d like to discuss with you. This is no place for it. But if you came by late afternoon tomorrow-five or six-when rehearsal is almost over, we can have a cocktail and talk in peace. May I expect you?’

‘I’ll be there, Miss Norberg.’

She glanced off. ‘Ragnar has his handkerchief out. That is his distress flag. It means he wants to be rescued. Very well. Tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Craig.’

‘Thank you, Miss Norberg.’

His eyes followed her to Hammarlund’s group. Her stride was a man’s stride, and her carriage slouched and poor, and yet there was utter femininity and provocation in her lanky figure. Around her, like the circles around Saturn, there was an atmospheric film of inscrutability. Or had that been manufactured in a hundred press agents’ typewriters? No, he told himself, you did not create such things. It was there. You wanted to know what she was really like, deep inside, and if she possessed, to a degree more than mortal, the mystic power to make a man feel he was superman. Thus spake Zarathustra. Thus spake Märta Norberg.

As he watched Norberg link her arm in Hammarlund’s arm, and join Hammarlund’s company, Craig saw Emily Stratman detach herself from that group. He fancied that she had tried to catch his eye, but he was not certain. She had placed her empty glass on a table, and was moving towards the French doors. Craig’s gaze followed her passage, and Norberg was forgotten. If femininity was desired, femininity and provocation and mystery, Emily carried all these more naturally. The silk jersey gown clung to the contours of her body as she walked, to the wavelike vacillation of her breasts, to the sinuous, rippling thighs. She had lifted the latch on the French door, and then she was gone.

Craig looked over his shoulder. Leah was elsewhere absorbed. Immediately, he started for the terrace.

Outside, the air was colder now, and the English lamps seemed shrouded. At first, he could not find her, and then he made her out at last, her back to him, arms folded against the weather, in a shadowed corner of the veranda.

He went to her. ‘Emily-’

She revolved towards him, slowly, without surprise, her green eyes and innocent face serious and trusting.

‘-it’s too cold out here, but’-he faltered, because her eyes were intent on his mouth, and she was not listening-‘I had to see you alone.’

She said nothing, but her bare arms crossed, she seemed to lean towards him, and he placed one arm around her shoulders, spontaneously, unthinking, to draw her close and give her garment warmth and body warmth.

In his half embrace, she lifted her face, eyes closed, soft lips parted, and momentarily he was mindless of discretion and consequences. He brought her up to him, her back arched against his hand, until his mouth met her moist lips. The kiss held for a small infinity, until both his arms had gone around her, and the kiss deepened, and rising passion gripped them both.

Suddenly, with a gasp, she withdrew her lips from his mouth, eyes still tight, but averting her face, yet remaining in his hold.

‘Emily,’ he whispered, ‘my darling-’

She buried her face low in his chest, saying not a word, and as he stroked her shining hair, the sounds of a brass gong from within, once, twice, three times, brought them back to themselves, their separateness, and the stone terrace, and the night’s chill.

The butler’s voice in the living-room followed the echoes of the gong. ‘Dinner is served… dinner is served.’

Emily pushed free of Craig. ‘They’ll be looking for us,’ she said.

He caught her arm. ‘No, Emily, wait-’

‘We must,’ she said, and she went inside.

For a few seconds, Craig remained stationary, unconscious of the weather, still savouring her lips and the compliance of her body and their intimacy. At last, eager to lead her in to dinner beside him, he went through the French door.

He saw at once that most of the guests had disappeared. Four couples were still in line, in the regulation Swedish manner, ladies to the right and their gentlemen partners to the left.

He was surprised that Emily had not waited for him. Perhaps, he told himself, she had not seen the revised seating-plan.

Since he was tardy, he decided to take a short Scotch in to dinner. Ordering it, his gaze fell on the placard marked Placering, and then what held him-unless it was a trick of vision-were two blotches. Perhaps his erasures were clumsy, he thought.

He made his way to the chart to enjoy again his arrangement: Emily Stratman, Andrew Craig, Margherita Farelli.

The blotches he had observed were real, but they were not from his erasures. Firm new erasures were on either side of his name.

Emily Stratman was no more. In her place was written the name of Leah Decker. The return of Leah Decker, neatly written in a hand he recognized as the familiar hand of Leah Decker. Craig’s own name remained untouched, unchanged. But like Emily, his other partner had disappeared also. Margherita Farelli was gone, and in her place, in an unfamiliar hand, but in a hand distinctively feminine, was pencilled the name of Märta Norberg.

‘Here you are, Mr. Craig.’

He turned to find Märta Norberg smiling at him. ‘You see what we think of you? You are the partner of the hostess. You are to be at my left. Ragnar is about to make his speech of welcome. Will you take me in?’