The Prize

9

IN the centre of the Old Town of Stockholm there exists one of the architectural curiosities of the city and among the foremost of its tourist attractions. This is Mårten Trotzig’s Lane, an official street no more than three feet wide. The lane is not level, but consists of worn stone stairs that descend steeply, between the caked walls of old buildings, beneath two wrought-iron public lamps, into Västerlånggatan.

Mårten Trotzig’s Lane was both Nicholas Daranyi’s cross and vanity. His ground-floor, three-room apartment was located flush with the thoroughfare of Våsterlånggatan, and only a few buildings down from the lane. The disadvantage of this was that being on the street, so close to traffic, so near a guide-book site, made quiet and peace almost impossible for Daranyi to achieve. In summer and winter alike, the bands of tourists were chattering magpies beneath his window, running to and from the lane, constantly vocal-in English, in German, in Danish-in praise of its oddity. Daranyi liked to read and contemplate what he read, and meditate on things he had seen and things he had done in his wandering life, but the location of his apartment made such monastic retreat impossible.

Yet, for almost no money on earth would Daranyi have surrendered his apartment and lived in a more modern and tranquil one in the new city. Even though his apartment’s situation had its shortcomings, and even though the rent was slightly beyond his means (which meant skimping on other necessities, here and there), Daranyi treasured it for its address. This was snobbery, and he knew it, and did not mind, for such superficialities were of importance to him. His apartment was in one of the most respected and desirable sections of the city, and one of the most ancient, and for a stateless man who had lived from hand to mouth so long, it was worth anything to have the dignity and rooted tradition of such an address.

The best times in all the year were the dark early mornings of winter and the dark long nights of winter. Then the tourists did not come, and few trod the steps of Mårten Trotzig’s Lane, and Daranyi had his address and peace as well.

Now it was Daranyi’s favourite time, the dark early morning of December seventh-8.15 in the morning-with the air in the streets like the wall of an iceberg. Occasionally, snowflakes flurried and swirled and briefly hung suspended in the frozen air, before slowly parachuting to the pavement. It was a morning to be off the streets, to be snug and comfortable in a heated apartment, and Daranyi was, indeed, snug and comfortable in his heated apartment, and convinced that he was one of God’s favoured souls. However, what made his bliss complete was not warmth and roof alone, but an added security that was man-made the immediate prospect of considerable income.

Daranyi was proud to have so distinguished a figure as Dr. Carl Adolf Krantz call upon him at this address, seek him out with restrained urgency, partake of his hospitality-the brown leather chair, antique table from Bukowski, steaming coffee, buttered rolls-as Krantz was now doing, and offer, by his very presence, the promise of money in a period of financial drought. Krantz’s visits to this address were infrequent, but always welcome, for they were never merely social or frivolous. When Krantz appeared, cash was not far behind. True, during his cryptic call to Daranyi shortly after his return home late last night, and during the first ten minutes since his arriving this morning, Krantz had not spoken one word of an assignment, but Daranyi knew, felt it beneath the layers of flesh, perceived it in his bones.

Determined to show his occasional employer that he had no anxiety, anticipated nothing but a friendly call, Daranyi squatted on his chair across from Krantz, and blew on his coffee, and listened to banal comments on world events, and waited. Presently, Krantz ceased the irrelevant conversation, and devoted himself to the rolls and coffee, and they both had their breakfasts in silence. With this, from previous observation of Krantz’s behaviour pattern, Daranyi understood that the waiting game would soon be over. Shortly, there would be a few indirect questions, the tentative posing of an idea that wanted looking into, direct questions, then orders.

Krantz’s empty cup clattered to his saucer, and Daranyi started to rise to bring the bamboo-handled pot, but Krantz’s lifted hand stayed him in his place.

‘Never mind, I have had enough,’ said Krantz. Genteelly he patted his moustache and goatee with his napkin, then took a metal puzzle out of his pocket, swinging it, and finally letting his short fingers twist and untwist it. ‘Tell me, Daranyi, what have you been up to these days? Have you been behaving yourself?’

‘At my age, Dr. Krantz? I practise celibacy, and good eating three times a day. Food and first editions, those are my excesses.’

‘Are you busy?’

Daranyi swiftly weighed his answer: very-busy implied unavailability and might scare the customer off; not-at-all-busy implied undesirability and might make the customer a stiff bargainer. ‘Moderately, moderately busy,’ said Daranyi. ‘There is always something going on, you know.’

Daranyi weighed elaboration: if he was not specific, the customer would think he was lying; if he was too specific, the customer would know he could not be trusted. ‘I am concluding two industrial accounts-of course, Dr. Krantz, I am not at liberty to divulge-’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Krantz impatiently. ‘I will tell you why I am here-I have an idea. A minor matter has come up-something of concern to me-and I would need some-some intelligent, discriminating research. I could think of only you, Daranyi. The question is-your immediate availability. Would you be able to put your other work aside, at once, to undertake a short, intensive investigation? Be truthful, Daranyi. We know each other. We are old friends. I would have to have your complete dedication, your full co-operation. I could not have you being diverted by any other project. You know my requirements-thoroughness, promptness, prudence. What do you say to that, Daranyi?’

‘As I have told you, my other assignments are about done. Fortunately, the deadlines are still a while off. But even if they were not, I would put them aside for you.’ Fleetingly, to Daranyi’s mind came The Faerie Queene: this the temple of Venus, and here inseparable friends, here Damon and Pythias, Jonathan and David, Hercules and Hylas. Daranyi’s smooth, plump countenance assumed the hood of Damon, earnest, sincere, faithful to whatever end. ‘You have always been generous with me, Dr. Krantz,’ continued Daranyi, ‘and I cannot help but stand ready to serve you, with all devotion, at any time. Your word is my command.’

Krantz’s uneasiness gave way to comfort. ‘Good, good.’

‘You need only speak of the problem, and I will address myself to it immediately.’

Krantz, who had been deep in the leather chair so that his stumpy legs dangled and his shoes barely touched the carpet, pushed himself forward in what was to be a gesture of confidence. Now he perched on the front of the chair, his shoes solidly planted before him. He stuffed the puzzle in his pocket-it was as if Eckart was over his shoulder, judging him-and proceeded to the business of the morning.

‘As you know, Daranyi, this is Nobel Week, one of my busiest weeks of the year-’

‘So it is. How time flies. I had almost forgotten.’

‘Have you read of this year’s crop of laureates who have come to us from America, France, Italy?’

‘I am ashamed to confess this, Dr. Krantz, but I have been so busy, I have hardly had time to glance at my newspapers this week.’

Krantz brushed at the air with his hand. ‘No matter. The assignment I have for you concerns these Nobel winners. Because of their importance, and the nature of what you must learn, your research-the assignment itself-must be strictly confidential.’

‘Dr. Krantz, I have never failed you.’ Then Daranyi added with pride, ‘I am professional.’

‘Take no offence. I merely emphasize the-the stature of the persons being investigated-and remind you they are in the international limelight. Now then, a rumour has come to the attention of several of us on the prize-giving committees. One of our laureates, I know not which, may have an unsavoury-no, let me put it this way-may have a questionable past and be of questionable character. There could be a scandal, before or after the Ceremony. If this is true, we must know about it in advance, we must be informed, prepared to take preventive action. The good name of the entire Nobel Foundation is at stake.’

Daranyi nodded gravely, and did not believe one word of what Krantz had told him. Daranyi’s professional assets were distrust and suspicion, and long experience had taught him that the motives men pretended to have in hiring him were always to be doubted. But Daranyi never fussed about this. Morality had nothing to do with free-lance espionage. An ethical spy was an impoverished spy, or worse, a dead one. You took a job. You rendered efficient services for a fee. You did not think. You survived.

Daranyi did not think now. He wore the Damon hood. ‘I can see the importance of this, and your concern,’ he said.

Krantz appeared pleased with himself. For him, so dryly factual, so lacking in the art of fable, the worst of it was over. The rest would be relatively simple. ‘In quite a natural way, several of us on the committees banded together on the matter-unofficially, of course-and determined to take action, sub rosa. I mentioned to my colleagues that I knew someone who could help-and here I am.’

‘I am grateful,’ said Daranyi. ‘You wish me to proceed as I did in the investigation of the Australian physicists?’

Krantz recoiled slightly at the bald mention of an old intrigue, best forgotten. ‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘That was a leisurely research done at long distance. In this research, there is a time element, and the subject-subjects-of the research are close at hand, and therefore your inquiries will be more dangerous. Now, I have spoken of rumour of a scandal, but I do not want you out blatantly snooping for one-not at all. As a matter of fact, you may find no evidence of scandal at all. But we on the committee have our information, our half of the jigsaw, and by supplying us more information, you may supply us with the missing half of the puzzle. Do you understand?’

‘I fully understand.’

‘I will leave with you pocket-sized photographs of the laureates, a record of their recent activities in Stockholm-public activities, that is-and the remainder of their schedules. I will also leave you condensed public biographies of each laureate, containing their backgrounds, statements, habits, as taken from our official records and gleaned from the press. This we have and is of no importance. I will give it to you merely so that you may familiarize yourself with the subjects, know who they are, know the quarry.’

‘Everything will be useful.’

Krantz’s beady eyes glittered. ‘What we require, and do not possess, is personal data-as much as can be obtained in a hurry-on each laureate, and his or her relatives and associates. I repeat, do not look for overt scandal. What we want is that which has been kept secluded from public view-the small weaknesses of the present, indiscretions of the past, the personal histories unknown, the expurgated sections of experience or conduct. I am certain I need elaborate no further. You are practised in these matters.’

‘Thank you,’ said Daranyi modestly. ‘How many subjects will I research?’

Krantz dug inside his jacket pocket and brought out two envelopes. One he placed on the end table. ‘The photographs,’ he said. He opened the second, longer envelope and took out and unfolded what appeared to be half a dozen closely typed pages. He leafed through the pages. ‘Six laureates,’ he said finally, ‘and two wives, one sister-in-law, one niece. Perhaps, because of time limitations, all should not be given equal emphasis.’

For half a minute Krantz was lost in thought. Eckart had suggested the red herring: because you can trust no one in these affairs, do not give the impression you want only one laureate, Max Stratman, investigated, but make it appear you wish all six laureates investigated, Stratman being only one more among them. This was safe, Krantz realized, but the fallacy was that it spread Daranyi’s investigation too thin. They would obtain a little about everyone, and possibly too little about Stratman. Krantz weighed the risk of emphasizing several names, instead of all, and then he took the risk.

‘I will tell you what,’ Krantz resumed. ‘I want to make your inquiry easier. Here, we have ten persons to be looked into, but because of what we already know, perhaps more attention should be given four of them. In your place, I would expend maximum effort on-let us say-Dr. John Garrett and Dr. Carlo Farelli, the laureates in medicine-their wives are of lesser moment, although one never knows-on those two gentlemen, and-let us say-Professor Max Stratman, also-Professor Stratman and his niece, whose name is Emily Stratman. You will keep this in mind, Daranyi?’

‘My memory is unfailing.’

‘Yes, Garrett, Farelli, the Stratmans.’ He examined the papers in his hand. ‘As for the others-the Marceaus-Andrew Craig-’

Daranyi’s bland face almost gave away its first surprise. ‘Andrew Craig?’ he echoed.

Krantz looked up. ‘The literary laureate,’ he said. ‘You know him?’

Daranyi’s mind had gone back to the tall, gaunt American in Lilly Hedqvist’s bed, to their breakfast, to his monologue on sex life in Sweden with Craig in the restaurant. There could not be two Andrew Craigs, both writers, in Stockholm in one winter. The heavy-drinking man-my God, he had even been to the nudist society with Lilly, the puritanical, troubled, attractive man who was Lilly’s lover-was no more a wanderer, tourist on the run, but he was one of the world’s great authors, a Nobel laureate, no less. And Daranyi remembered that he had lectured this giant as he might a farm lad. Suddenly, he felt foolish and weak, and tried to pin his mind to Krantz’s question, and with effort succeeded.

‘Know him? No, no, of course not. I had been reading some books by an American named Craig-’

‘Undoubtedly the same, but we have no time for literary digressions, Daranyi.’

Daranyi’s mind leaped to Lilly: did she know the august position of her paramour? Probably not, or she would have mentioned it. Certainly not, he decided. Lilly, for all her alertness and native wisdom, was widely unread. She was a delightful little animal of the senses, whose frankness sometimes passed for knowledge and erudition. Daranyi, as her fatherly mentor, knew her better. Except for occasional periodicals devoted to health and nature and popular psychology for mothers, she read next to nothing, certainly not books, in fact, not even newspapers. She would know neither Craig’s creative work nor his new reputation. Was there an advantage for her, in knowing? Craig enjoyed her, it was evident, and had interest in her and sympathy for her. What a catch he might make for Lilly.

Daranyi realized that he would have to give the problem further thought when he was alone. Now his duty was to Krantz, and the physicist’s obvious red herring. The interior titillation was-which of the four emphasized was the one that Krantz was trying to hide from him, and yet learn the most about? Dr. Garrett? Dr. Farelli? Professor Stratman? Miss Stratman? Well, that was the fun of it, above and beyond the kronor involved.

‘-can give them less time,’ Krantz was saying. ‘Mind you I want something on the Marceaus and Craig, indeed I do, and the wives and the Decker lady-one never knows-but I want you to use your time where it counts the most. I will trust your judgment.’

‘You have made everything clear, as ever, Dr. Krantz. Now as to the time-’

‘The time limitation is immutable,’ said Krantz firmly. ‘I must have your data by the early evening of December ninth, and if you can bring us the research earlier, I might arrange a bonus. But the ninth-’

Daranyi whistled. ‘Impossible.’

Krantz recited Eckart’s words to him. ‘Nothing is impossible, Daranyi. I do not ask you to move mountains. A few facts from here, from there-’

Daranyi had been calculating. ‘You are giving me forty-eight hours-sixty at most.’

‘I am fully cognizant of the difficulties, and I come prepared.’ He took out his wallet, removed a wad of notes held together with a paper clip. ‘Two thousand five hundred kronor for expenses alone,’ he said.

Daranyi picked up the notes and weighed them with satisfaction. ‘This will help.’

‘I presume you are going to do as you have always done-?’

‘How is that?’

‘Buy information from foreign correspondents, among other sources?’

‘That is likely.’

‘The timing is fortunate. Reporters are here from all over the world-the Grand, Hotel Stockholm, Eden Terrace, Foresta, Carlton are teeming with them. Many need extra money. The sum I have given you should go far.’

‘Except with the Americans.’

‘True,’ said Krantz. ‘But you will find other means with them. For one lead, I might mention a young woman named Miss Sue Wiley, who represents Consolidated Newspapers of New York-you will remember her name?’

‘Sue Wiley.’

‘I happen to know that she is preparing an exposé, on the sensational side, of the Nobel history and its many winners, past, present. I suspect she would do anything for new information.’

‘Are you suggesting, Dr. Krantz, that she might give me specific information I need, in return for such gossip as I can supply for her stories?’

‘No question about it. But I would not pretend for her that I was a journalist. She might worry about the competition-Americans are so conscious of exclusivity-whatever the word is they use.’

‘Scoop.’

‘Yes, yes, idiotic word. But give yourself another identity.’

‘You can leave that to me, Dr. Krantz.’

The physicist combed his goatee with his fingertips. ‘You might pay heed to the programme that the laureates have been following. You will find they have been drunk at the Royal Palace and at Hammarlund’s villa-’

‘Do not worry,’ Daranyi reassured his visitor, ‘I have my sources everywhere-and with two thousand five hundred kronor-’ He hesitated. ‘All that bothers me is the time limitation.’

‘You will do your best. I ask no more.’

‘Very well. You can depend on me.’ There was the final matter. Daranyi coughed and cleared his throat. ‘Now, as to my services-’

Krantz came to his feet and pulled his jacket straight. ‘Your fee is not yet settled, Daranyi. I am having another meeting with my colleagues. You will have to trust my judgment. Have I ever failed you in this respect? I have not. It will be good pay for forty-eight hours’ work. It will be more than adequate recompense, more than you received on your last assignment, that I pledge. And I repeat, if you can deliver material earlier, there will be a bonus.’

‘In financial affairs, I trust your generosity, your knowledge of my usefulness, entirely.’

Krantz had taken his overcoat, and now Daranyi was on his feet and helping his employer into it.

At the door, Krantz paused. ‘Utmost discretion, Daranyi, I warn you.’

A smile enlivened Daranyi’s face. He made his joke. ‘I have a neck, too. I like it.’

Krantz grunted. ‘Then it is settled. At any hour of the ninth, when you are ready, telephone my private number. I will be waiting in the apartment until you call. Then I will expect you right over.’

‘I hope I have something,’ said Daranyi.

‘I expect you will,’ said Krantz.

He left. The meeting was over. Daranyi stared absently at the closed door. He wondered what was behind all this. Soon enough, he might know. That was the sport of it, that and the money.

He returned to the end table and took up the biographies that Krantz had left behind. Slowly, he read. His forty-eight hours of voyeurism had begun.

At exactly 11.05 on the same morning-the air still as frozen as it had been in the earlier hours, but with the landscape of Djurgården now painted zinc-grey rather than black-Denise Marceau had been driven through a rear gate behind Åskslottet, and had seen Dr. Oscar Lindblom through the windshield, slapping his arms and waiting at the forest path ahead.

As he assisted her from Hammarlund’s Bentley, a luxury that she enjoyed, so fitting for her mood, she was pleased to observe that Lindblom appeared more handsome, more definite, more manly than she had remembered. His hair has been caught by the wind, and rumpled, and the weather had made his cheeks ruddy and alive. The woollen muffler he had bound about his neck and shoulders-the muffler with no overcoat-gave him an indefinable dash. He looked less like a cavity, praise the Lord, she decided, and she went cheerfully on his arm through the rows of stripped trees. Lindblom said that there were some tame deer in the forest, but Denise saw none.

The private laboratory, a one-storey cement building, thirty by sixty feet, stood in a clearing, isolated from all other construction and habitation. Although the inside of the laboratory-two rooms and a bath-had the familiar appearance of a dozen laboratories Denise had known in France, this one proved infinitely more up-to-date.

Lindblom, attentive as a military school junior, had helped her off with her heavy grey strolling coat. She had been pleased, certain that she had not imagined it, that he had furtively admired her new silk shantung dress, low-cut and stylishly short for daytime wear.

After lighting her cigarette, he had guided her proudly through the larger room, the work section of the laboratory, meticulously pointing out and discussing each glass still and its contents, each high vacuum pump, the temperature gauges and heaters and flasks and beakers, the spectrophotometer, the high-speed centrifuge, the experimental rodents in stainless steel cages. Despite her lack of interest in science at the moment, Denise was impressed at the cash outlay the private laboratory represented.

As they marched up and down, past the counters, Lindblom discoursed with nervous enthusiasm about the work in progress. His love for algae strains and soyabean nodules and Rhodophyceae and Chlorella dinned on her eardrums. His hatred for the chemicals of natural food, his devotion to synthetics, were passionate. What interested Denise was not the knowledge that Lindblom imparted, but rather that he possessed any range of emotion at all. She wondered if only the chemistry of food stimulated him. She wondered if he would react, similarly, to the chemistry of woman.

She listened occasionally, but for the most part she did not listen at all. It was one of her gifts: the ability to shut off almost all human sound, yet to know intuitively when to nod and when to give assent and when to interject a comment of praise or displeasure. She had employed this ability through the laboratory tour and lecture. She had more momentous things in her head.

From the moment of her decision at the Hammarlund party last night, until the moment Claude had left her this morning, she had been of cheerful disposition, secure with her secret inner hope. This sudden change in her temperament had confused and dismayed Claude, and she had seen it in him. She had even guessed that he might be suspicious of her. At the end of breakfast, in the hotel suite, he had interrogated her carefully about her activity and enjoyment of the Hammarlund meeting. He had probed, and for the first time since her humiliation, she had felt real superiority.

The odds, she had known, despite her secret inner hope, were against her still. Gisèle’s imminent coming from Copenhagen might obliterate her entire effort. Still, she had made up her mind to do something, to make a fight of it, and that was heartening.

But her effort, she had known, was yet to be launched. Last night, she had made the crucial initial decision. In this laboratory, this morning, she would have to make the ultimate decision. And, once it was made, she would have to see it through.

Trailing Lindblom, she peered at her watch. She had arrived at 11.05. It was now 11.55. The zero hour that she had set herself loomed close. The ultimate decision. Question One: Should she do it? There were two courses open: (a) mild flirtation, a holding of hands, an embrace, a kiss, romantic whispering, to be followed by similar meetings devoted to the same and no more; or (b) sexual intercourse.

Instinct advised her that moderation would not work. Claude’s infatuation-hypnotized as he was by Gisèle’s sexuality-would not be shattered by mere retaliatory flirtation. She could not play-act the pretence that it was more, and she knew that Lindblom was even less capable than she. Claude would view the flirtation as a juvenile’s revenge, rather ridiculous, rather foolish, a pathetic joke. On the other hand, illicit love had a sweeping power that could bring real response. Here, no play-acting would be demanded of Lindblom. He would be her lover and know it and show it. And real possession of her body, unviolated by another since her marriage, would be a shattering blow to Claude’s ego. If it was not, her marriage was done anyway, and nothing would be lost. But if his ego was injured, and what remained was jealousy, there was hope.

She followed Lindblom about the laboratory and continued to reason with herself. She was satisfied that Question One had been resolved. Should she do it? Yes, she should. Now Question Two: Could she do it? This was a difficulty. She had been raised a French Catholic. Her parents had been stern overseers. Yet, in young maturity, free of them and adrift from the Church, she had enjoyed three brief but earnest affairs with male students of the Sorbonne. But after she had met Claude, and made her vows, she had not once cheated, not once flirted, despite the legendary nonsense about the loose morals of French women. She had not even thought of such a thing.

She walked and deliberated: but now, it was all different, and Claude had made it so. What vow policed her? The vow had been mutual, in partnership, and he had broken it. What chastity need she preserve and for whom? And what fears need she have? She was a woman, and that made it easier. She was a woman scientist, and that made it far easier. She was a woman scientist of forty-two years, matter-of-fact, unromantic, not widely experienced but fully experienced, and that made it far, far easier.

Two factors made it possible and a necessity. Lindblom had halted to point out a beaker of liquid. Standing there, staring at it, by some curious metamorphosis, the beaker became a vessel, and the association was Gisèle Jordan’s young vagina given to Claude, to her husband, and his taking it, and she hated the image and drove it off, but her fury with the offenders in her life remained. Then, to forget the image, to please Lindblom, she had stepped beside him to lean closer to the beaker, and inadvertently, she had leaned forward across his outstretched arm so that her generous breasts, loosely bound in a thin lace bra, had pressed deeply against his arm. She had felt, with excitement at her power, the sudden rigidity of his arm, of his entire frame beside her, in fact, and she knew at once that he could be had with ease and that it would be painless. And so Question Two was answered. Could she do it? She could, indeed.

And now, hardly able to contain herself, she was ready for her plot to spin to its climax.

She had backed off, and she considered Lindblom with friendly pleasure. My collaborator, she thought, but said instead, ‘This has been absolutely fascinating, Oscar-if I may call you that?’

‘Please, please-to be sure-’

‘Now where can I get off my poor feet and have a cigarette and-’

‘Forgive me, Madame Marceau. I am afraid I was carried away by all of this. How thoughtless of me. Come, we will go in the next room-what Hammarlund calls my “think” room.’

Quickly, he led her into the doorless adjacent room, a small carpeted study, a modern desk to one side bearing a portable typewriter, a pile of charts, and an electric coffeepot. Against the wall was a sturdy sofa covered with heavy fabric and a bookcase packed with scientific journals. Two light chairs stood nearby.

‘Would you like to use the bathroom?’ He pointed it out.

She shook her head.

‘Coffee?’ he inquired.

She shook her head again. ‘No, I merely wish to sit and smoke-and find out all about you.’

She sat in a corner of the sofa, crossing her legs so that the short silk dress pulled provocatively above her knee. Lindblom tried not to see this, as he bent forward to light her cigarette.

She stretched backward against the sofa, inhaling deeply, so that her breasts bulged outward. Lindblom remained standing awkwardly before her.

‘Do you mind telling me about yourself?’ she asked.

‘Not at all. But I am afraid you will not find me very interesting, outside of my work, Madame Marceau.’

‘Let me be the judge. How old are you, Oscar?’

‘Thirty-two.’

Not too bad, she told herself. A respectable age, at least, she told herself. ‘And still a bachelor?’ she inquired. ‘How do you manage to keep free-with your good looks?’

Lindblom blushed at the compliment.

Before he could reply, she said, ‘You need not blush. In France, we are used to being frank in all matters. I understood it was the same in Sweden?’

‘Not precisely, Madame Marceau. We Swedes are quite a formal and inhibited people.’

‘What of all the wild reportage I have read about your open sex lives?’

‘Some is true, some is not.’

‘I see. But still, you have managed to escape the girls, Oscar?’

‘I am not exactly a cinema star. Besides, I am devoted to my work.’

‘That I can understand,’ said Denise in a kindly way, to relax him. ‘But your social life-do you keep a girl friend?’

He seemed startled. ‘I am not sure what you mean.’

‘A mistress? Do not be annoyed with my candour or curiosity. It is simply, having come to know you a little more, I am intrigued. You are quite attractive, you know. So I wonder who the lucky young lady is.’

‘There is none,’ he blurted.

‘You mean no single one? Surely, you see women?’

He wriggled uncomfortably before her. ‘I go on dates now and then, but not too often.’

‘How are these Swedish girls of yours? Do they readily let you make love to them?’

His cheeks were crimson. ‘Oh, Madame Marceau-’

She smiled. ‘I am giving you a hard time. But I mean to know. Do you make love to your little friends? Or do you not? You can be perfectly honest with me… you are not undersexed, are you?’

‘Certainly not!’ he said indignantly. And then added, ‘I do not go out with women much because of this long research of ours. Ragnar Hammarlund pays me well, but he is exceedingly demanding. I work day and night-’

‘You have not answered me fully.’

‘Of course, I make love to certain women, when I must, when it is necessary.’

‘How often?’

‘I do not know. I do not think about it. Really, I admit it, I am embarrassed, Madame Marceau-’

‘Nevertheless, how often?’

‘Once a month maybe, sometimes more, when I can get away. These algae strains-’

‘Never mind that. I am truly sorry I have embarrassed you. I did not mean to.’

‘And I did not mean to be impolite to you, either,’ he said hastily.

‘You are a dear young man. You are not impolite at all.’ She smoothed the sofa cushion beside her. ‘Come, sit beside me. I have only been asking these questions because’-she waited while he lowered himself to the sofa, a foot or two from her-‘because,’ she resumed, ‘I am quite enchanted by your person, your intelligence, and-I warned you we French are candid-your physique. I cannot know too much about you. It is unfair to you, but I confess, I cannot control myself in your presence.’ She found another cigarette. ‘Here, light it.’ She offered him her lighter.

He snapped the lighter, and as he offered the long flame, his hand shook. She reached up and took his hand in her cool hand and steadied it. She moved her hand caressingly over his, closed the lighter for him, but did not release his hand, instead kept it in her own on the sofa between them.

She stared at him. ‘I must frighten you, Oscar. Do I?’

‘Not at all,’ he said tremulously.

‘My failing is that I do not know restraint. I am what I am. I confess what I feel.’

‘That is admirable,’ he said, his Adam’s apple as busy as a Geiger counter in the Congo.

‘It is my weakness, and my weakness is affected by you.’ She pulled his hand. ‘Come closer to me.’

Stiffly, he moved closer, until their hips and thighs touched. She did not take her eyes off his face. ‘You are the most handsome man I have known in years, and sweet-do all the girls tell you that?-so sweet, with your devotion to synthetics, with your gorgeous wavy hair and beautiful mouth. I cannot take my eyes off your mouth.’

She leaned against him, cupping his intimidated face in her hands, and bringing her lips to his. His lips were unyielding and withdrawn, but she worked her mouth until his lips parted and softened and began to respond. He did not touch her. His arms were limp at his sides, but now he responded with his mouth. She felt his thin body shuddering with excitement, and she feared what might happen, and withdrew from the kiss.

‘Now, was that so bad?’ she asked.

‘No-no-’

‘Is that the best you can say?’

‘It was wonderful. I am honoured-’

‘Do you like me a little, Oscar? You can be truthful.’

‘Madame Marceau, what can I say? You must know how I feel inside. You-you and your husband-you have been my idols. The thought of even meeting you, of daring to be alone with you-’

‘Do not be so foolish, Oscar. Make such speeches when you speak of historical figures like the Curies. I am not the Curies. I am not entombed in history books. The Nobel Prize has not mummified me-not my heart or flesh or emotions. I am a human being and young, and I am fortunate enough to be with a human being who is also young, a male who electrifies me. I do not want your admiration for my achievements. I want your admiration for my person. Am I attractive to you?’

‘I have dreamt of one like you-’

‘But am I attractive?’

‘Of course you are, Madame-’

‘Of course-who?’

‘Madame-’

‘Is that the best you can find to call me?’

‘But anything else-I could not-’

She considered the tense sallow face and the tic that had come to the corner of his right eye. He was as foolish, as incredible and introverted, as every Stendal hero, but his fear and inhibition whetted her appetite to bring the experiment to a successful conclusion.

‘Oscar,’ she said softly, ‘loosen your tongue and let your heart escape. Do you not see what I am trying to learn from you-what I want to hear-what every woman in the prime of life must know from a man who affects her? Do you care for me as a woman? Just as a woman-a female denuded of records and accomplishments and prizes-a female who is not above you, but your equal or less-who wants your admirations-’

Lindblom’s face was contorted, and the words choked before they came out. ‘I worship you,’ he cried. ‘I worship you above all women!’

Denise felt victory near. ‘If you could, Oscar, if it were possible-would you love me?’

‘I cannot allow myself to think of such a-’

‘Then you would!’ she said triumphantly. She turned, half faced him on the sofa, her manner at once businesslike. ‘Now, we will be sensible about this, while we can be. We are both, the two of us, adult persons of science. At the same time, we admit, we are both human beings. We are people with emotional needs, which require gratification, and that is often as important to us as our work, is it not? Do you grant that to be true?’

‘Oh, yes, yes-’

‘I have tried desperately to tell you-do not be misled by my public reputation, for I have a private life. I am as much a female woman as any. I have passionate needs, and one of them, the most enslaving, is love, physical love of a man who attracts me. I can no longer endure austerity, pretence. I must humble myself before you.’ Impulsively, as she had planned, she reached for his hands and gripped them tightly. ‘Oscar, I need you. Can you understand that? It is a terrifying hunger for a woman, because she must passively wait for fulfilment. For a man, it is so simple. When he has a need, he goes into the street, anywhere, finds someone, and is sated. For a woman, it is unendurable, especially for one in my public position. But today, I can contain myself no longer-because of you. Through these hands of yours, I feel the surge of passion. I am putty. Mould me as you wish.’

She closed her eyes, and wondered if she was going on too theatrically, like someone in Poetry of the English-Blake to Byron. Perhaps she was talking too much. But then, she decided that she must, for she was playing both roles, both woman and man.

She heard Lindblom’s small distant voice. ‘I would like to-but are you sure-I mean-your husband-’

Denise opened her eyes, about to speak rudely of Claude and to chastise Lindblom for his reticence, but she instinctively knew that either derogation might reduce her partner to impotence. The last word in her thought-impotence-gave her the clue to her reply. She must dissolve Lindblom’s fear and guilt potential, by explaining away Claude and her own behaviour.

She dropped her gaze and turned her head and furrowed her features in secret suffering. ‘My husband-my husband’-she was finding it an affliction that curbed speech-‘he is impotent. I must not speak of this-’

At once, Lindblom sought to comfort her. ‘Do not then, please do not torture yourself.’

She went on, nevertheless. ‘Five years ago-after many excesses-ill-using himself-abandoning me-he was stricken by a grave disease. In recovery, he lost his powers of manhood. I had planned to leave him, but now there was his pitiful need for companionship, and I could not. I knew my fate. I must forego all normal womanhood, become his cloistered nun. I did, and have done, my duty. I sublimated my natural wants in our work-pas facile, believe me-but his bestiality made obedience a cross too heavy-oh, dear Oscar-my life has been cruel, my body starved and withering for love, for love-’

Carried away by her improvised scene, Denise managed to squeeze tears to her eyes.

She saw that Lindblom’s face was all tenderness and empathy, and that his eyes, too, were wet. He stroked her arm. ‘Poor, poor dearest-’ he was saying.

Denise had enough of verbal foreplay. She sniffled and tried to compose herself. ‘Oscar, are we alone here?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Does anyone come here?’

‘Only Hammarlund, and he is gone for the day.’

She bent forward and brushed his pale cheek with her lips. ‘Lock the door, my darling,’ she whispered, ‘and draw the blinds. I must go into the bathroom. Be here-wait for me.’

She rose with her handbag and quickly went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

A few minutes later, she emerged, eyes bright. The room was considerably darkened, more intimate, and she saw that the blinds were drawn. Lindblom stood unsteadily beside the sofa, worriedly clasping and unclasping his hands.

She went directly to him, putting her hand on his chest, hearing his wild heart beat, and slid her arms around his waist. ‘Take me, Oscar,’ she whispered. ‘I am in your hands.’

He embraced her hard, almost suffocating her, and kissed the top of her head.

She groaned, and whimpered, ‘Oscar, be kind to me,’ and pulled him down on the sofa. She kissed his eyes, and then his mouth, all the while unbuttoning his shirt, and then she had her hand on his jumping chest, on his ribs, on his bony back.

Her mouth was at his ear, kissing it, filling it with endearments. ‘I am ready, Oscar. I have removed my girdle, and taken precautions. There is nothing beneath my slip but love-’

She felt him shiver.

‘Poor darling,’ she whispered, ‘do you want me to help you off with your clothes-?’

‘No-no-’

He tore himself away, almost falling, and then stood upright. Hastily, he shed his trousers and shorts, and stood overwrought before her in shirt and shoes and nothing else.

‘Ah, how magnificent you are,’ she said in a voice muffled and pride-giving. ‘I am so fortunate. I will cherish this love forever.’

She closed her eyes, and wished Claude could see, and awaited the coupling. Seconds passed, and when he had not come to her, she opened her eyes once more and realized that he was not above her, but kneeling beside the sofa, staring at her.

He tried to speak, and strangled, and his Adam’s apple was everywhere. ‘Madame Marceau, are you sure-?’

Her patience was gone and in its place came indignation. ‘Oscar-it is not fair-you have me hanging here, excited beyond belief. Now-are you or are you not going to-?’

With that, she lifted her slip, and bunched it about her waist, half twisting towards him, showing him her white belly and thighs.

Her voice-she was certain not even the Divine Sarah could have improved upon it-was weak with passion. ‘Oscar, do not deprive me-I will die without you-’

‘Ah, älskling-my darling-my darling-’

At once, he was beside her, suffocating her with kisses, caressing her throat and chest. She squirmed sensuously-the last months had been so barren-and made believe that this was the Claude of long ago, and she held her lover tightly.

‘I am ready,’ she murmured. And then, ‘Are you?’

‘I-I think so-’

His uncertainty alarmed her, and she forgot fantasy and brought herself back to the living task at hand. She understood that, like it or not, she must participate, or there would be no consummation, and the long seduction would be wasted. What to do? She quickened her breath, mouth at his ear and against his face. She gasped and gasped and brought her fingers fluttering, like broken wings across his lank thighs. His arousal was almost instantaneous, and at once-and during this she recollected the Bible euphemism for sexual intercourse-he had ‘gone in unto’ her.

She had thought that consummation would end her role, and that she could wait out the rest with no part in it, but after several seconds she saw, with objective detachment, that still more was demanded of her. If he would have value in her plan, he must have pride of conquest. Anything less would make him ashamed, and consequently useless to her.

The bloating, mis-shapen ecstasy on his face-dangling above her like a grotesque mask on the Eve of Allhallows-was the signal that momentarily it would all be over. As yet, she had hardly been moved by, or in any fashion answered, his erratic rhythm. It would be a feat to pretend what was not there-she needed the stimulation of the damp flesh smell of sex, and what there was, and nothing more, was the soap odours of a scrubbed male body and the reek of camphor from the laboratory-but then she remembered, when there was no natural food, there must be a synthetic. Her arousal would have to be a chemical substitute, produced by the mind and not by nature. Desperation spurred her to action.

Any moment, she knew, and so, hastily, she implored her lethargic body to anticipate him. Once more, she closed her eyes tightly, and made her bound bosom heave, and she moaned and begged him not to torture her and begged him to be done with it or else she would die-wondering all through this if her performance was too theatrical, if he could sort the synthetic from the real-and at once, she knew that she was succeeding. Seeing that the climax of the play was upon them, she froze to his frame, then subsided into tiny helpless cries of pleasure, and clutched his elusive transported being as best she could, and when she was positive-for the expected thunder was merely a squeak-she acted a final heaving spasm of release, timed to match his own, but towering above his own to make her pride small and his pride large, and, mon Dieu, it was done.

He fell beside her, balancing precariously on the sofa to keep from dropping to the floor, and she placed an arm over her eyes-she had seen the pose once in a French film and had always thought it to mean the woman had been satisfied-and they both rested in silence.

At last, she removed her arm from her eyes. Her neck was stiff, and hurt from reclining without a pillow. She realized that he was looking at her, and that his features reflected growing shame-similar to those of a rough farm boy who has just learned that the female he had taken by force was none other than the Queen-and the enormity of his desecration was beginning to overwhelm him.

Denise moved at once to prevent this reaction. She did not want his protestations of guilt, his apologies, his humbleness, and, in the end, his frightened avoidance of her. He must know that he had not pillaged a holy temple.

‘Merci, Oscar,’ she said softly. ‘C’est beau. I have never been loved better.’

He blushed-that he could blush even now!-and sighed.

‘It is true,’ she went on. ‘You satisfied me.’

The Adam’s apple skittered up and down, like a simian in a banana tree. ‘I am so glad,’ he was saying. ‘I was not sure.’

‘I am fulfilled, Oscar, and I thank you with all my heart.’ She glanced at her watch and sat up with dismay. ‘So late. It is difficult to leave you, Oscar-I do not know what I shall do-but I must hurry back to the hotel, before my husband returns.’ Her slip was still bunched at her waist, and quickly and chastely she drew it across her knees.

He had watched her. ‘You are beautiful, Denise.’

‘Do not be naughty-or you will tempt me again.’

He pushed himself to a sitting position. ‘If only it were possible-’

She brushed his cheek with her lips. ‘It will be possible,’ she said, and then added, ‘You may as well know, I must see you every day I am here.’

‘I pray for that. When may I see you again?’

‘Tomorrow-tomorrow night in my suite.’

‘But your husband-?’

‘He is spending the evening in Uppsala, addressing the faculty. He will not return until long after midnight. You must come to me early-à huit heures du soir-I want to enjoy you in leisure. It will be heaven, I promise you.’ It will also, she thought, be the decisive turning-point of my marriage.

When she had finished in the bathroom, had dressed, combed, made up her face, she returned to find that the blinds had been opened and that Lindblom, clothed, was regarding her possessively.

She was gratified. She had performed well.

‘I was thinking how lucky I am,’ he said, ‘to have found-something besides algae-’

She went jauntily to him, and gave him a hasty off-to-work, married kiss. ‘It is not you who are lucky, but I. To think that I believed only France was the land of love. How provincial and insular we French become. But I am learning, and you are teaching me. Au revoir, dear Oscar, and thank you. Do not be late tomorrow night. Every moment with you is important to my life.’

Although it was already two o’clock in the afternoon of December seventh, the double bed in the Nobel suite on the fourth floor of the Grand Hotel was still occupied by a laureate.

Except for several visits to the bathroom, John Garrett had not left his bed of pain all morning, or since. The major injury he had sustained in the Hammarlund garden was not corporeal but spiritual. His gut still ached from Farelli’s fist, and his right eye had swollen slightly, although he had not been hit in the eye but on the jaw. But these were minor hurts, and would pass away. What would not leave him was the laceration of his self-respect.

The memory of what had happened to him was an affliction which no salve or pill could remedy. From the moment of wakefulness, early this morning, he had been reminded, by throbbing belly and jaw of his humiliation, and morbidly he had relived the scene many times in the hours that were behind him.

Sometimes he thought that he had demeaned himself by his unusual behaviour. He had not struck, or been struck by, a fellow human being since he had come of age. He was an intellectual, a man of medicine, not an outdoor brawler. Fists settled nothing, except whose biceps were larger and who took more exercise. He had not meant to fight. It was just that the sight of Farelli, so self-assured at the party, had incited Garrett beyond control. And the drinks had been his final downfall. He was not a drinking man, and so that was wrong. If he had not had the drinks, he might not have swung at his rival. On the other hand, if he had not had the drinks and had swung at Farelli, he would have been sober enough to have won the fight. The righteous always won the fight, didn’t they? At any rate, he kept reminding himself, he had not meant to stoop so low, had only meant to put Farelli in his place with words, let him know that Garrett was no fool and had his number. He was sorry, too, that he had used the language he had used, and then, again, he was not sorry, for the charlatan deserved no better. But to have been knocked down, made to grovel at the criminal’s feet, that was what really rankled. And, almost as bad, to have had an outsider, Craig, witness this miserable subjugation.

What had followed, he kept remembering, had not been too bad. His eye had not yet begun to puff, and, reinforced by more drink, he had survived the formal dinner. When Saralee had put him to bed, he had told her everything-his version, of course-and she had sympathized, wifely moved and upset, and had spoken darkly of putting the police after that unruly Italian hooligan.

Now it was morning-no, afternoon-and he was still in his bed, too distressed and heartsick to leave it and commune with the hostile world outside.

The door buzzer sounded, and he heard Saralee call from the sitting-room, ‘That must be Dr. Öhman. I’ll get it.’

Garrett propped himself higher on the pillow, wondering why Öhman had come. Then, through the parted drapes, he saw that the visitor was not Öhman at all, but the white-coated room-service waiter who had called for the lunch tray.

When the waiter had gone, Saralee came to the foot of the bed.

‘Are you feeling any better, John?’

‘I’ll live.’

‘Dr. Öhman should be here soon. Do you want to get out of your pyjamas and dress?’

‘No, I’ll see him here.’

After Saralee had returned to addressing her postcards, Garrett left his obsessive reliving of last night’s horror, and tried to put his mind on Öhman. At eleven o’clock in the morning, Öhman had telephoned, and Saralee had taken the call. Öhman had sounded, she said afterwards, excited, bursting with some kind of news. He had inquired if Garrett would be free in the afternoon, because if he were free, there was something extremely important Öhman must tell him. Saralee had covered the mouthpiece and repeated this to her husband, and Garrett had waved his hand negatively, muttering that he wanted to see no one. But then he had said, ‘Ask him what it’s about.’ Saralee had asked what it was about, listened, and said to her husband, ‘It’s about Farelli.’ At once, Garrett had been curious, and eager to see an ally. ‘Tell him to come over at two.’ Now it was just past two, and Garrett was waiting and wondering. What he wondered the most about was whether Öhman had learned of the fight, and was coming to warn him of trouble. And again, obsessively, his mind relived the fight.

It was 2.10 when Dr. Erik Öhman, a thin leather briefcase under his arm, arrived. His pugilistic face was alive with good cheer, but at once sobered when he found his friend in bed, marked by recent combat.

The moment that Saralee had departed with Öhman’s overcoat, the Swede pulled a chair up to the bed, studied Garrett’s bruised profile, and clucked with concern. He scratched his short cropped reddish hair with stubby fingers.

‘Uhhh-Dr. Garrett, my good friend, what has happened to you? Did you fall down some stairs-or bump into a door?’

‘I was slugged by that drunken bastard Farelli,’ said Garrett with vehemence.

Öhman seemed confused. ‘He actually hit you?’

‘Not once, but several times. And he kicked me when I was down.’

‘But Dr. Garrett, this is-uhhh-shocking, shocking!’

‘Absolutely the truth. Last night, Saralee and I had dinner at Ragnar Hammarlund’s-all the winners were there-and Farelli, of course. He was drinking, and so was I, and I’ll admit I was sore as hell at him. I just couldn’t get it out of my mind how he, knowing you were a friend of mine, put one over on me by using you and your good work for a publicity stunt. So, at one point, I decided to tell him that you and I knew what he was up to, and we didn’t think he was being ethical. Well, we went outside, to talk privately in the garden, and one thing led to another, and he blurted out something insulting-I forget what-and I made some kind of innocent movement to warn him-maybe I waggled my finger under his nose-something like that-and without any chance for preparation on my part, he became violent-’

‘He gave you that black eye?’

‘Yes. Just out of nowhere-socked me in the stomach and then a couple of times in the face. I was off balance, not ready, and I tripped and went down. And then he kicked me. I would have killed him, I swear, only someone overheard us, saw us, and intervened.’

‘Anyone who can do you harm?’ asked Öhman, worried.

‘No, not at all. It was one of the other winners-Craig, the writer. He stopped Farelli from kicking me, and he kept me from fighting back.’

‘Just as well. It might have become uglier.’ He shook his head. ‘This-uhhh-this Farelli, I knew he was a bad one, after you told me the truth, but I could not have imagined he would resort to such a performance.’

Garrett touched his discoloured eye. ‘He is a man without morals, capable of anything.’

‘I see that,’ agreed Öhman. It grieved him to find his generous American mentor prone on his bed, so brutally victimized, and he became pensive. ‘Dr. Garrett, what will you do about this Farelli?’

Garrett shrugged helplessly. ‘I no longer know how to cope with him. I suppose you can say I am the martyr to my civilized Christian training. Men like you and me are taught to behave ourselves with dignity and forbearance-and, suddenly, when we are confronted with a barbarian who behaves like a pit viper, we are lost. I confess my failure-I do not know how to contend with this beast-this dangerous-’

‘Dr. Garrett-’

There was something about Erik Öhman’s expression, so set and avenging, that made Garrett halt his tirade in mid-sentence.

‘-I have a way for you to contend with Carlo Farelli,’ said Öhman.

Öhman’s statement, uttered like a sentence of doom from a bewigged justice on the bench, alerted Garrett’s senses. He waited. Was there hope?

‘Uhhh-at first-I was not sure if I should come to you with this.’ He had brought his thin leather briefcase to his lap. ‘It seemed to me too inconclusive. Yet, if it could be proved, your case would be won in a single stroke. You would not only silence Farelli, you would destroy him. He would vanish from the earth.’

Garrett sat up straight eyes burning fanatically. ‘What is it?’

‘I will explain. Uhhh-after our meeting at the Caroline Institute-after you had convinced me that Farelli was taking credit for sharing a discovery that was not his but yours-and now even attempting to steal your credit too-I decided too-uhhh-casually-uhhh-look into Farelli. If nothing more, at least to try to understand such a man being in medicine. As you know, as I explained at our meeting, the Royal Swedish Academy of Science appoints expert investigators to look into the cause of each candidate-I and another investigated you-and two of my colleagues at the Caroline-they had investigated Farelli. These studies are thorough. I had told you how, back as far as the turn of the century, our committee sent two men to St. Petersburg to-uhhh-see what they could see about Pavlov. To be confidential with you, our medical investigators-they not only verify a discovery and determine its importance, but-and this must remain in this room-they report on the-uhhh-character, responsible character, of the discoverer. Well, Dr. Garrett, such an investigation was made of Carlo Farelli.’

All through this recital, excitement had mounted within Garrett. He could not be mistaken. Something of vital importance was coming. ‘You-you said on the phone you had something important. Is it about Farelli? Did you find out something about that dirty-?’

‘Yes.’

Garrett could not modulate his voice. ‘What did you find? Tell me-I’ve got to know!’

Öhman had slowly drawn the zipper back and opened his briefcase. He fingered through it, and removed two thin sheets of typescript.

‘As you no doubt know,’ said Öhman, ‘Farelli’s background is-uhhh-colourful.’

‘I don’t know, except what’s been in the papers.’ And then, he asked urgently, ‘What do you mean-colourful?’

Öhman tapped the typescript. ‘It is here. This is not the original investigation report. But one of the men who took part-an old friend and former schoolmate-a cardiac specialist like us-he told me from memory what he had found, and I took notes, and then I typed it myself. Of course, it might be possible to see the original report-through my friend-or someone. It is filed away, but I am sure it would be no different from what I have in hand. My friend has the memory of a bull elephant.’ Öhman examined the top sheet in his lap, and then looked up. ‘You know, of course, that in the last days of 1941, when Mussolini had already declared war on Russia and the United States, Dr. Farelli was placed under arrest by OVRA, the Fascist Secret Police?’

‘I don’t know the details,’ said Garrett. ‘He bragged to me once that he was in prison during the war.’

‘Yes, that has been verified,’ said Öhman. ‘It must be admitted, on his behalf, that he has a long record as an anti-Fascist. Even as a student in medical school, Farelli opposed Mussolini’s adventure against Haile Selassie in Africa. When the Second World War came, Farelli, along with several other young doctors, signed an open letter published in Il Popolo di Roma opposing it. Late in 1941, the OVRA learned, through an informer, that Farelli had acted as a physician giving comfort to Il Duce’s underground enemies. At once, the carabinieri came and confined him to the Regina Coeli prison in Rome.’

‘What are you trying to do, make him out a hero?’ said Garrett bitterly. ‘We were the heroes, if you want it that way. You were at least neutral and gave help to refugees, and I was in the landing on Iwo Jima-but, whatever you say, Farelli was an Italian-’

Öhman saw how troubled his friend was and forgave him his lack of objectivity. ‘I am only quoting our neutral report,’ said Öhman. ‘But, Dr. Garrett, I am leading up to something-of importance, as I promised you.’ He rattled the papers in his hand. ‘As I was saying, Farelli was confined to the Regina Coeli prison in Rome, and later, according to our records, he was shipped to another prison, near Parma, an old castle where political agitators were kept and sometimes shot. So far, all well and to the good for Farelli. But then our Academy investigator-the friend of whom I speak-found a mystifying, inexplicable piece of information.’

‘Yes?’

‘Uhhh-hear this,’ said Öhman. ‘The next we know of Farelli, he turns up as a doctor-no longer a prisoner, but a doctor-in Nazi Germany.’

The intake of Garrett’s breath hissed through the silent bedroom. ‘Nazi Germany,’ he repeated, as if it were a blessing. Then quickly, ‘How do you know? Is there proof?’

‘That is the point,’ said Öhman seriously. ‘By our standards, the evidence is flimsy, almost cryptic, but it is evidence. For a while, I was unsure, and was going to withhold it from you. It was so fragmentary. It could be misleading. On the other hand-’

‘Read it to me.’

‘-I felt, in view of Farelli’s behaviour towards you, in view of our-uhhh-friendship, I owed it to you, in all fairness, as something you could think about and measure.’ He lifted the typescript from his lap, but still did not consult it. ‘As you know, Dr. Garrett, the German medical profession, which we esteemed so highly in the years before Hitler, which we showered with Nobel honours-the German medical profession disgraced itself in the Second World War.’

Garrett remembered the stories from Nürnberg in 1947. ‘You mean the Nazi medical trial before our tribunal at Nürnberg?’

‘I mean what led to it. Throughout the war, almost two hundred German physicians comported themselves in such a manner as to make the Marquis de Sade appear sweet and gentle by comparison. These German doctors employed helpless human beings-Jewish men and women, Polish and Russian prisoners of war, their own nationals who opposed Hitler-instead of guinea pigs and rats, for their sadistic experiments. I am-uhhh-it is sickening to know the truth of their record. Do you recollect the record?’

‘It was so long ago,’ said Garrett. ‘And, anyway, I was in the Pacific.’

‘For their insane experiments, these long-worshipped doctors injected human prisoners with typhus, deadly typhus. They sterilized the sexual organs of Jews with X-rays, and murdered most of them. They tried out synthetic hormones on defenceless homosexuals and killed some. They injected yellow fever into persons, not animals. They tried out poison gas on persons, not animals. They made artificial abscesses on persons, not animals to study blood poisoning. They severed healthy limbs in order to experiment with transplants. The list is too nauseating-I will not go on.’

He stared down at the typescript. ‘Then, one day, with the approval of Himmler and the Reich Air Ministry, they undertook a long series of horrible experiments-in the name of aviation medicine, and presumably designed to learn valuable information for their Luftwaffe pilots-with a decompression chamber, to study heart action at abnormally high altitudes. These tests were the ultimate in-uhhh-savagery. According to my notes, Dr. Sigmund Rascher had proposed the tests to Himmler, and Himmler had approved. The decompression chamber was moved into the Dachau concentration camp, and, one by one, these prisoners were led into the torture chamber-and the air was let out of the box-so that the prisoner, without oxygen or any equipment-the guinea pig-would reflect the human condition of a flyer in rapid ascent to an altitude of thirteen or fourteen miles. It was terrible, Dr. Garrett. I have heard the case histories. In the first minutes, perspiration and lack of control; in five minutes, spasms; in eight minutes, the dropping of respiration; in twelve minutes, boiling of the blood and rupturing of the lungs, with the human victim tearing out his hair in bunches and gouging out the flesh of his face to relieve his suffering, and attempt to find oxygen when there was no oxygen-and all this while, the-uhhh-doctors were studying the victim through an observation window, and checking their cardiographs, and later, making their calm autopsies on the corpses.’

Öhman paused. He saw that Garrett had grown pale. Both men were silent. Only the ticking of Garrett’s travelling clock, on the bedstand, could be heard.

Öhman sighed. ‘The names of all the doctors participating in these high altitude experiments are known. One of them was Dr. Carlo Farelli.’

‘Farelli-’ Even Garrett, who considered his enemy capable of any enormity, did not consider him capable of this. Garrett sat stunned. At last, he found words. ‘You have proof?’

‘As I explained-inconclusive proof. I shall read it to you.’ He read from the typescript. ‘ “Report to German Experimental Institute for Aviation Medicine. Attention Dr. Siegfried Ruff. Lieutenant General Dr. Hippke. Subject: Experiment 203 of heart action at high altitudes. Place: Dachau altitude chamber. Test persons: Five criminals, volunteers. Test levels: 30,000 to 70,000 feet. (Results to be forwarded under separate cover.) Test effects: Two casualties. Physicians participating: Dr. A. Brand, Berlin; Dr. I. Gorecki, Warsaw; Dr. S. Brauer, Munich; Dr. J. Stirbey, Bucharest; Dr. C. Farelli, Rome… Signed, Dr. S. Rascher, 3 April, 1944.” ’ Öhman stopped, looked up, and laid the paper aside. ‘There it is.’

Garrett plucked at his blanket and stared at the opposite wall. ‘Dr. C. Farelli, Rome,’ he intoned, as if reading an epitaph. He shook his head in daze. ‘Incredible. Is there more?’

‘That is all. There is nothing else.’

‘There can’t be two C. Farellis in Rome, both heart specialists?’

‘There were not two. There was only one. Our investigator checked.’

Suddenly, Garrett turned on Öhman. ‘With that damning evidence, how could you let Farelli share the prize with me?’

‘This evidence was weighed by my colleague with all else that was ninety-nine per cent favourable. He felt that this mere mention of Farelli’s name was too little with which to disqualify him. He did not submit it to the Caroline staff of judges.’

‘Too little to disqualify him?’ said Garrett sarcastically.

‘Farelli’s political record was otherwise good. He had been a prisoner through most of the war. This one blot, my colleague felt-uhhh-he felt Farelli might not have had a part in conducting the tests that day, might have only been a foreign observer.’

‘Is that what you think, Dr. Öhman?’

‘To be honest with you, I do not know what to think. I can only guess that Farelli may have weakened under long confinement-possibly even punishment-and at last, to buy some freedom, some relief, abandoned his resistance and bent to Mussolini’s will. In short, in those days, Il Duce was doing what he could to hold up his end with Hitler. There is evidence he offered some physicians to co-operate in various endeavours with Hitler’s medical researchers. Farelli was a notable cardiac man, even that far back, and I suppose Mussolini offered him a parole if he would join with other Italian doctors in flying over to Germany and lending a hand in these-these-uhhh-experiments.’

‘It’s no excuse,’ said Garrett relentlessly.

‘I do not say it is. But it is the only explanation I can find for such hideous behaviour.’

‘He should have been hung at Nürnberg with all the rest,’ said Garrett. ‘Instead, your weakling friend suppressed that and gave him the Nobel Prize.’

For a moment, Öhman felt national pride and tried to defend his colleague. ‘He weighed this-this one indefinite mention-against Farelli’s career before, and in all the years since. He felt Farelli’s contribution to mankind was proved, but the one fragment of evidence of collaboration was unproved That was the decisive factor.’

Garrett’s emotions had gone through many convolutions. At first, he had been revolted by the information-a description of an act of brutality and cowardice so low and foreign to his pedestrian nature and normal academic background that he had recoiled from the monstrosity and thought that he wanted no part of it. But gradually, as he became used to the evidence, as he again suffered the ache of his chin and stomach, his hatred for the Italian returned. Farelli had humbled him and humiliated him without mercy, in public and in private, the typical behaviour of a man who would have assisted his German medical friends in butchery at Dachau. Here was evidence that the soft Swedes, ever fearful of trouble, had tried to suppress. And so gradually, Garrett’s mind substituted for petty revenge the soul-satisfying and loftier notion of moral indignation and retribution, in the name of all humanity. He had a duty to humanity, to God, to protect the world from this Roman Eichmann. In an hour’s time, from grovelling defeat, he had vaulted, using Öhman’s pole, to a height of power and superiority. With Öhman’s generous revelation, he could wipe Farelli from his life, from the lion’s share of honours, and, at the same time, know saintliness for helping all unsuspecting fellow men.

He heard his voice. ‘Dr. Öhman, whatever your committee member thinks, I’m not going to stand by-I have too much conscience-and let this war criminal strut around Stockholm like a Caesar. I’m not going to let him sit on the same platform with me at the Ceremony.’

Öhman scratched his scalp nervously. ‘What are you proposing?’

For the first time this day, Garrett smiled. ‘I have my ideas.’

He threw off his blanket, and crawled off the bed, and stood up, a man rejuvenated, hitching and tightening his pyjamas.

Öhman jumped to his feet. ‘I brought you this, because we are friends. I hoped you would take time to digest this, think about it, and then proceed with utmost care. I hoped, when you returned to America next week, you might bring this up-somehow-with-uhhh-friends in your Pentagon Building, and let them see if they could check further. In that way, you might learn every fact. If Farelli were then proved innocent, you could forget the matter. And if you truly found him guilty, it would become known-’

‘No!’

‘Dr. Garrett-’

‘I’m not letting a war criminal escape. I’m not letting condemning information like this die in channels. Now is the time-now, when the whole world is here in Stockholm. Now is the time to make Farelli go on trial, before he makes fools of you and me and all of us.’

‘But the Nobel Committee will not support-’

‘I don’t need them. I have a better outlet, a far better transmitting agent.’

‘Who?’

‘Sue Wiley of Consolidated Newspapers. I’m going to lay Farelli’s infamy in her lap tomorrow. You won’t have a part in it, and I won’t. I’ll just give her the tip, and let her run from there, and by tomorrow night-I guarantee you this-the whole world will know, and what I have promised will come true. At the Ceremony, I will sit on the stage by myself, and I alone, will receive the Nobel Prize in physiology and medicine!’

Night had fallen on the city, and a damp fog laced the frosty polar darkness. It was five past six in the evening when Andrew Craig reached the shrouded waters of Nybroviken, some blocks behind the Grand Hotel. The portier had given him exact directions to the Royal Dramatic Theatre, reminding him it covered an entire block near Strandvägen, on the iced bay of Nybroviken.

Now, in the fog, Craig was lost, and he waited for help. A Swedish youngster on a bicycle, whistling in the fun of the fog, bundled like a Lapp, approached the corner.

‘Young man-’ Craig called out.

The bicycle slowed.

‘-please, where is the Dramatic Theatre?’

The beet-coloured face was puzzled, and suddenly it beamed. ‘Dramatiska Teatern?’ He jerked his thumb behind him, and held up his forefinger-an improvement on Esperanto-and Craig understood that it was one block away.

He proceeded slowly, heading blindly into the blackness. His mind returned to-had really never left-the person of Emily Stratman. Her kiss, almost twenty-four hours old, was still on his lips. During the Hammarlund dinner, there had been no way to communicate with her, except with his eyes, nor had more been possible in the communal ride to the hotel afterwards.

This morning he had overslept, and had found her at lunch with her uncle and three Scandinavian physicists and their wives in the Winter Garden. He had joined the party, but there had been no opportunity to go further with Emily. Only afterwards, briefly, as they had all risen from the table, had he been able to ask when he might see her again. She did not know. In the afternoon, a social tea. And this evening, a performance of something or other-a pageant-at Drottningholm. Tomorrow then? She had hesitated, and worried, and he had perceived that she was again afraid, afraid she had gone too far on the Hammarlund terrace, afraid to be alone with him and take up from the last encounter. But he had been so pleading and kind that she had acceded, and almost with enthusiasm finally. Tomorrow she was free for dinner, and so that would be it. He had not seen her since, and he wondered if she and her uncle had reached Drottningholm this evening safely in spite of the fog.

He found himself before a stone building piled high and stretching upward through the layers of mist. There were indistinct yellow lights, revealing ornate pillars and a statue, two figures, to the left. This was the Royal Dramatic Theatre he was sure, and he hastened up the steps and inside to keep his meeting with Märta Norberg.

In the lobby, a plump, bandy-legged cleaning woman was pushing a carpet sweeper.

He removed his hat. ‘Pardon me. Miss Märta Norberg is expecting me.’

‘Not inside,’ said the cleaning woman. ‘She finish rehearsal-go upstair with Nils Cronsten.’

‘Can you tell me where upstairs?’

‘She go to-with young ones-Little Theatre of Royal Training Academy. Fourth number floor.’

‘Thank you.’

Craig took off his overcoat, and, carrying it over one arm, began the long climb up the staircase. When he reached the fourth floor, he was winded and overheated.

A big blonde, with the chubby aspect of an innocent milkmaid, and wearing a skintight red leotard that made her flaring hips and buttocks seem abnormally large, was hurrying down the corridor.

Craig intercepted her. Was it fröken or fru? ‘Fröken-’

‘Yes, sir?’ Her accent was clipped West End.

‘-where can I find Miss Norberg or Mr. Cronsten?’

‘The small theatre down there.’ She pointed.

He considered the leotard. ‘May I ask-who are you?’

She dimpled. ‘Viola. Twelfth Night. William Shakespeare. I am overweight, but I am dieting.’

With that, she hurried away, an Amazon in haste, and Craig enjoyed her as he walked to the theatre and went inside.

It was, indeed, a small theatre, ninety-eight red plush seats, footlights ablaze, and a fair-sized stage now displaying three performers in costume, a slender Olivia, veiled, a refined and dignified Malvolio, and a jester, all gaudily attired. Accustoming himself to the auditorium, Craig listened. Olivia was addressing the steward, her voice rising and falling: ‘O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail-’ Craig thought of Gunnar Gottling, and tried to listen again.

‘Are you Andrew Craig?’

Craig pivoted in the direction of the inquiry, and saw a stocky, conventional looking gentleman of indeterminate but older years, a parted brown toupee, complacent respected banker’s face, bow tie, pin-striped neat suit, rise from a seat.

‘I am Nils Cronston, Miss Norberg’s director. She advised me earlier you were to be expected.’

They shook hands in the aisle.

‘I congratulate you, Mr. Craig, on your Nobel Prize. Indeed, I have admired your novels, and it is a pleasure to have you visit us. Please join me. I will send for Miss Norberg.’

Craig took the second seat from the aisle, and Cronsten settled beside him, lifting his hand and loudly snapping his fingers. Immediately, a young man with tangled hair and padding beneath the abdomen of his costume leaped from the front row and came racing up the aisle.

‘Sir Toby Belch,’ commanded Cronsten with mock severity, ‘an assignment for you.’

‘Yes, Mr. Cronsten.’

‘Go forth on winged feet to Miss Norberg’s dressing-room and summon the star of Sweden. Inform her that her caller from across the sea is present and waiting-the renowned Mr. Andrew Craig.’

‘Yes, sir!’

The young man was off, like a jack rabbit, and both Cronsten and Craig laughed. ‘Martä rehearsed a few hours late this afternoon,’ said Cronsten, ‘but then she tired of it-not in the mood-and we came up here to watch our future Norbergs. Don’t ever repeat that to her, Mr. Craig. She can imagine no past or future Norbergs, only one, and that one touched with immortality anyway.’

‘I guessed it,’ said Craig good-naturedly.

‘She finally went to the dressing-room to make some long-distance call.’

‘Last night she told me that you were directing her in Adrienne Lecouvreur. It will be exciting news to the theatre world. When will she open?’

‘Never,’ said Cronsten. ‘I’ve rehearsed her in four plays these last years, but they never open. At the final moment, she always quits and goes into hiding again-searching for properties, she says, searching for the foolproof hit. She will never find it. You see, Mr. Craig, her malady is historic greatness. When you attain her summit, become not an actress but a legend, when you are so high, you cannot top it again. So you become over-cautious. You must find the perfect vehicle for your perfect talent-there can be no possibility of failure-and, well, it is impossible to arrange such guarantees. So I play her fool-we have our little game of rehearsals. I delude myself over and over-maybe this time, maybe this time-but it will never be. I doubt if she will expose herself on the legitimate stage again. Someday, perhaps-just possibly-another film, but I would not wager on that. And so she goes on playing the enigma, the recluse, the unattainable-and since it is a better role than she will ever find, I suspect she will play it out for the rest of her days.’

‘What does she do with her time?’ Craig wanted to know.

‘She’s not social if that’s what you mean,’ said Cronsten. ‘She busies herself with herself. When you are Norberg, you don’t need anyone else. She devotes mornings to her appearance and health-she is a faddist, like so many actresses, so there is always something new. She spends afternoons reading properties or rehearsing. She gives evenings over to Hammarlund and his friends. Sometimes she travels incognito. She owns a villa in the hills behind Cannes and keeps an apartment in New York. Most of all, here or anywhere, she intrigues.’

Craig’s interest was piqued. ‘You say-she intrigues?’

‘It is too complicated to explain. When you know her better, you’ll understand.’ He looked off. ‘Here comes our runner with tidings.’

The young man with tangled hair and stomach padding trotted towards them, and saluted them with the note in his hand. ‘Sir Toby Belch reporting. The Norberg has flown. In her place, she left with Viola a note addressed to Mr. Craig.’

He handed the folded paper to Craig, waited for dismissal, and was dismissed by Cronsten.

Craig opened the note:

DEAR LAUREATE, Rushing off to be home for a call from New York. It is imperative I see you tonight. Can you come to dinner at seven? I will expect you. I am a mile beyond Hammarlund. You need only tell the taxi-driver-NORBERG.

Craig saw that the director was inquisitive, so he explained. ‘She had to go, but she wants me to dine with her at seven.’

‘It’s twenty-five to seven now. I’ll tell you what we can do. Let’s go to my office and have a drink, and then I’ll drive you to Norberg’s.’

‘I wouldn’t think of imposing-’

‘Not far out of my way, so I will insist.’

They rose, and Craig followed the director into the corridor, and in a minute they were in Cronsten’s tiny, spotless office, with its dark teak desk and contrasting pale beech-framed chairs, carefully padded with thick foam-rubber cushions.

Opening a wall cabinet, Cronsten asked, ‘What will it be?’

‘No fuss. Plain Scotch. Don’t bother about ice.’

Cronsten poured, and brought the whisky to Craig, who was facing the opposite wall, examining framed photographs of Greta Garbo, Ingrid Bergman, Signe Hasso, Viveca Lindfors, Mai Zetterling, and half a dozen other Swedish actresses, all bearing affectionate autographs to the director. Above these, in solitary splendour, was a portrait of Märta Norberg. Across it was scrawled, ‘To Cronny-from his Trilby.’

Craig took his drink. ‘You seem to have known them all.’

‘Yes. I’ve directed them. They all have three things in common-Sweden, talent, and the Royal Dramatic Training Academy. They are all products of our Socialist-supported school.’

‘You’ve got a remarkable record.’

‘I’m proud of it. Every summer, we print and circulate a poster. It says, “Kungl. Dramatiska Teaterns Elevskola Prospekt.” It is an invitation to our young ladies, between sixteen and twenty-two, and young men, slightly older, to try out for our state Training Academy. After rejecting certain ones, we usually have over one hundred to judge. They all come to Stockholm, to the little theatre here, in August, and do scenes for us. We have an elimination tournament. There are sixteen in the final round, and of these, we select eight to be trained for the stage.’

‘By what standards do you pick the eight?’

‘When we watch a young girl, we think beauty is nice but only an extra asset. It is the least important factor. We do not watch for technique and tricks, either. We watch to see if the girl has emotional range, imagination, and courage. It will surprise you to know-I remember the very day-that when Garbo tried out, she was an extrovert, full of noisy confidence. The eight we select are given a three-year course here, tuition free, and the fifty teachers show them how to stand, sit, walk, move, train them in diction, Shakespeare, make-up, and the psychology of other peoples so that they will understand all roles, including those written by foreigners. For their third year, they each get a salary of two thousand kronor extra. After that, they are admitted to the Royal Theatre repertory, but the best of them go on to the cinema in London or Hollywood.’

‘What school of acting do you follow?’

‘We are still old-fashioned,’ said Cronsten. ‘We are still Stanislavsky. Norberg grew up with that method. I will never forget Norberg, when she came here over twenty years ago. She was gawky, strange, but she had inner beauty, burning ambition. Even then, we might have passed her over, except that Hammarlund had discovered her and recommended her, and he was already famous and one of the patrons of our Donor’s Fund for needy students.’

Craig swallowed the last of his drink. ‘How did Hammarlund find her?’

‘She was an usher in a cinema house, and Hammarlund saw her, and liked her voice and fire. He became interested in her. I suppose we can assume that he slept with her. As Ellen Terry used to say, “Men love unhealthy women.” When he found out that she wanted to become an actress, he arranged for some private coaching, and then entered her in our eliminations. Well, once she had the scholarship, she had her confidence, and she swept all before her. By her third year, she had the nerve to refuse to play the role of Queen Christina in a one-act play because-I remember her telling me-she felt that Christina was not a real woman. She would only play a real woman. You know what happened after that. We had her only one year on our big stage downstairs, and then she had that second lead on Broadway, and then Hollywood-and now, twenty years later, only one role is good enough for her-to play Märta Norberg.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘I would invite you for another drink, but you’ll be late.’

They slipped into their heavy coats, descended the stairs, and went into the chilled, foggy night. Once in the Saab, Cronsten drove slowly. Every corner was camouflaged by murky vapour, and when they entered Djurgården, the mist enveloped them, and Cronsten slowed the Saab to a crawl.

They spoke little. Once Craig thought that he recognized Hammarlund’s mansion. Five minutes later, Cronsten said, ‘Here we are.’

He turned into a long circular driveway, and stopped, idling his engine, before a white two-storey Georgian house.

‘You will have an interesting time,’ said Cronsten with a riddle of a smile. ‘Not many men are invited here.’

‘Really?’

‘Only the high and the mighty.’

‘I hardly think of myself-’

‘Do not think of yourself as you see yourself, but as Märta Norberg sees you. Did she tell you why she asked you out here?’

‘No. Only that it was business and imperative.’

Cronsten nodded as if he were knowledgeable of this and privy to some secret. ‘It was good to meet you, Mr. Craig. I wish you luck.’

‘I don’t know how to thank you.’ He opened the car door.

‘Do not thank me for the ride,’ said Cronsten, ‘but thank me for some advice I will give you, because you are a nice fellow.’

Craig had left the car, but now he waited at the open door.

‘Have you ever heard of the Coral Island clams found along Australia’s Great Barrier Reef? They are the greatest clams in the world. They sometimes weigh one ton each, and are ten feet long, and they consume living things. An unsuspecting swimmer, coming upon such a clam, could easily be caught in it, have the shells close over him, and be devoured. It is a bit of natural history you may find valuable to remember in the next hour or two. Good night, Mr. Craig.’

Craig remained standing in the driveway a few moments, until Cronsten’s Saab had disappeared behind a bank of fog, and then he went thoughtfully to the huge door, touched the bell, and was admitted by a short, unsmiling Filipino houseboy.

‘I’m Andrew Craig.’

Entering the high-ceilinged entrance hall, Craig gave his hat and overcoat to the houseboy.

‘Right this way,’ the Filipino said in stilted English. ‘Miss Norberg is having her swim.’

Craig did not comprehend. ‘In this weather?’

‘The indoor pool in the lanai.’

Going through the vast living-room, across the muffling cropped-lambskin carpet, Craig took in the furniture. The pieces seemed definitely American and expensive, and Craig guessed that the actress had shipped her household effects from Bel Air or New York to this house in Stockholm. There was the flash of an elegant low sofa covered with yellow Venetian silk, fronted by a black lacquered table, and another sofa done in turquoise Thaibok, and scattered overstuffed chairs. On one wall, spotlighted from the ceiling, a towering, vivid oil of Norberg, full length, as Manon Lescaut. On a table, a piece of sculpture by Rodin, and another piece by Moore, and an eleven-by-fourteen Karsh photograph in a silver frame of Norberg as Héloïse, probably, but too resolute for that role.

The houseboy had pulled back a glass sliding-door, and Craig went into the lanai and thought that, through a trick of time and space, he had landed in some primitive corner of Tahiti. He wished Emily were beside him to marvel with him at the sight of it. Three glass walls were almost entirely hidden by growing tropical plants and greenery the colour of aquamarine. The swimming pool was not like any standard pool he had ever seen, but designed to resemble a South Sea water hole, clear as crystal except at the farthest end where an artificial waterfall cascaded into it.

And then he saw off to his right, lolling on a webbed lounge, wrapped in a silk Japanese kimono of Tyrian purple, Märta Norberg.

‘I’m here, Craig.’

He advanced towards her. She remained horizontal, not stirring, but arched a thin hand upward. Since the hand was not in a position to be shaken, but to be kissed in the Continental manner, Craig kissed the fingers somewhat self-consciously.

‘I’m glad you could come, dear man.’ Lazily, her hand indicated the makings on the rosewood table near her. ‘Mix yourself whatever will make you happiest.’ She lifted her own drink from the artificial grass beneath her lounge. ‘I’m staying with vodka plain. You might freshen me up, while you’re at it.’

As Craig took her glass, and made the drinks, Norberg called off to the houseboy immobilized at the door. ‘That’ll be all for tonight, Antonio. On the way, tell cook we’ll dine at eight-thirty.’ When the houseboy left, sliding the door shut after him, Märta Norberg said, ‘Isn’t Antonio a doll? Utterly unobtrusive and efficient. I brought him with me from Hollywood, brought most of them, Antonio, and my masseuse, and my secretary. The rest, the menials, are easy to find here. But Antonio’s the one. My countrymen stare at him as if he’s a zoo. A Filipino in Sweden. Well-why not?’

‘He told me you were swimming. Were you?’ Craig handed her the vodka, and sat sideways on the lounge beside her.

‘Not yet. I was waiting for you. You swim, of course?’

‘I used to. I haven’t for several years.’

‘It’s a must with me. Gives the muscles tone. I’m in the pool ten minutes every morning and for half an hour before dinner.’ She held up her drink. ‘I like vodka and water-separately.’

Craig scanned the lanai. ‘I’ve never seen a room quite like this.’

‘Anyone can have one-for an extra forty thousand dollars.’

‘That much?’

Norberg shrugged. ‘Why not? If Lollio Paulina could have an evening gown for two million dollars, and Cleopatra have a goblet of vinegar wine worth a half-million-because she dissolved a pearl in it-surely Märta Norberg deserves this little bauble. Do you want to swim now?’

‘After I finish my drink.’

‘Good. We can talk.’ She kicked off her fuzzy sandals, wiggled the painted toes of her bare feet, and then tucked her feet comfortably beneath her.

‘Did you enjoy Ragnar’s party?’

‘It was an event. I’ll use it one day.’

‘I suppose you will,’ she said. And then, she added casually, ‘I suppose you’ll also use that ridiculous fight between Garrett and Farelli.’

Craig’s face did not betray his amazement, but he looked fixedly at Märta Norberg. ‘That’s uncanny,’ he said. ‘I thought there were no witnesses besides myself. Did you see it?’

She shook her head, pleased with herself. ‘No, I did not see it. I heard it.’

‘Heard it?’

‘That’s right. Do you want to know more that I heard? Dr. Claude Marceau is having an affair with a French mannequin named Gisèle Jordan. How’s that? How am I doing?’

‘You’ve got me baffled.’

‘More? The celebrated author, Andrew Craig, kissed someone’s niece and whispered endearments-’

‘Where in the hell did you hear that?’

Norberg teased him. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

Craig glowered at her and said nothing.

She threw back her head and laughed, and for a moment the bottom folds of her kimono separated, revealing her naked legs, and she primly covered them again. ‘Now you have something more to write about, don’t you, Craig? Well, I’ll relieve your mind. No sleight-of-hand, see, no mystic powers, no black magic. Ragnar Hammarlund has that Elysium of his bugged and tapped from top to bottom. Flush a toilet, and it goes on tape. Cough in the garden, and it’s on tape. Kiss on the terrace, and it’s for the ages.’

‘I never heard of anything more corrupt. The immoral son of a bitch.’

Norberg laughed again. ‘That’s what I said the first time I heard of it. But you know, from his point of view, it makes good sense and has a morality of its own. He’s in business, and this is the age of communications. So why not go modern?’

‘Recording the private conversations of guests isn’t my idea of business.’

‘You’d be surprised, Craig. I’ll give you an example so that you’ll come off your high horse. Why do you think Ragnar gave that party last night? I’ll tell you. He has his eye on the Marceaus. That’s all he cares about. The rest of you were only window-dressing. The Marceaus are the goods he is after. He once read an early paper of theirs on some synthetic food. He got the idea-and when he gets an idea, nothing can pry him loose from it-he got the idea that if he could lick the synthetic food problem, he could be the first to market it internationally, and treble his fortune. Don’t ask why he’d want to do that. Empire builders are in the business of building empires. He’s had this young Lindblom on the problem for several years, others too, but he wants the best. He figures if he can interest the Marceaus in it, the big minds, the Nobel winners, progress will be accelerated, and he’ll see practical results in his life-time. So he keeps plotting to see the Marceaus, propagandize them, use them. Well, now, give the devil his due, he’s actually making inroads. He knows about Claude Marceau’s affair. All to the good. He won’t blackmail him, nothing so crude, but it gives him some advantage. I don’t have his mind, so I don’t know how he thinks. And he believes he’s actually got Denise Marceau interested in Lindblom’s work.’

‘I hope you don’t condone that kind of thing?’

‘Craig, I couldn’t give less of a damn. The world is full of all sorts of people, and they include the warp-heads like Ragnar, and let them go merrily to Hades in their own ways. I’m interested in One World-mine.’

‘Why have you been telling me all this?’

‘Because I’ve decided to double the population of my One World. I’ve given you an entry visa. Behave, my good man, and you may become a naturalized citizen.’

Craig considered her with wonder. There was some quality of unreality about her person. He could not divine it. His life, once, had been frequented by the self-absorbed and the egotistical, but never had he encountered another human being narcissistic to the point of total disinterest in general right or wrong.

‘I would be flattered to be a citizen of Norberg,’ he said, to say something, ‘but I’m not exactly sure I know what you’re driving at.’

‘Time will tell,’ she said cryptically. She squinted at his empty glass. ‘Now, what will it be-whisky or water?’

‘Hard to decide. I could use another drink. Hammarlund has left a bad taste in my mouth. At the same time, I’d like to cleanse myself entirely. I’d say water.’

She pointed a limpid hand off. ‘Door behind the diving-board. Built-in cabaña. There are drawers full of swim trunks. Take your choice.’

‘What’ll you be doing?’

‘Keeping the water warm for you.’

He stood up and strode to the cabaña door, conscious of her wide, grey, amoral eyes upon his back, and then he went into the cabaña. He stripped down quickly, opened several wall drawers, tried various swimming shorts against his angular frame, and then pulled on a white jersey pair that appeared to have elasticity. They were cut high, and they were tight, and he still felt naked but did not care much. He wanted the water’s refreshment-and to discover what business Märta Norberg had been withholding from him.

When he went out into the lanai, he saw that she was already in the pool, wearing a lemon-coloured bathing cap and scant bikini, backstroking with the grace of a sea nymph across the pool. She bobbed up straight at the deep end, treading near the waterfall, and shouted deeply, ‘Come in, Craig, it’s delicious.’

He was inspired to do a dramatic jack-knife off the short board, but knew that he was out of shape and would certainly strain muscles or break his neck, so he elected conservatism and went off the side in a flat shallow, splashing dive. The water was tepid on his body, and as soothing as the lining of his old sheepskin coat left behind in Miller’s Dam. Stroking and kicking in a modified crawl, he traversed the pool to Märta Norberg’s side.

‘You look mighty smart in those trunks, young man,’ she said, her long Swedish face sparkling with beads of water. ‘Like a tall Jantzen ad. What was your sport in school? Basketball?’

‘Football. Left end.’

‘I never went to school-at least not much,’ she said. ‘My family was too poor. I had to drop out at the end of realskola-grammar school. I had my schooling later, when I could afford tutors. That’s when I took up sports. Ski-ing for winter. Tennis for summer. And this all the time.’ She was almost girlish, and Craig liked her more. ‘Want to race?’ she said.

‘One, two, three-go,’ he said.

They went off churning to the opposite end, then touching and rolling, kicked off to reverse their course. She came in three yards ahead of him.

‘You didn’t tell me you were Gertrude Ederle,’ he said, gulping for air.

‘Who she? Look, Craig, I’m not all that old.’

After that they swam leisurely, no games, the backstroke, the Australian crawl, the breast stroke, a good deal of floating, and no conversation at all. After twenty minutes of this they found themselves facing each other, breathless, holding the rim of the pool at the shallow end alongside the metal ladder.

‘You had enough, Craig?’

‘Just about.’

‘So much for pleasure. You want to talk business?’

‘I don’t know what business-but you said there was some.’

‘Important business, important for both of us.’

He held the rim of the pool, and splashed water on his chest. ‘Shoot.’

‘I won’t waste words,’ said Märta Norberg. ‘I called my agent in New York. He called yours. My agent then called a studio in Hollywood. And minutes before you came, he called me.’

‘Alexander Graham Bell is the man in your life.’

She ignored this. Her face was concentrated. All humour had fled, and even some femininity with it. ‘We have a deal to offer you, a firm deal, no ifs, no maybes. I want your new novel, Return to Ithaca, for a picture in which I’ll star. Since you’re still writing it, the studio has agreed I can offer you twenty thousand dollars down against two hundred thousand when the novel is finished. That’s fat, Craig, when your bank account is thin, and yours is, I know-I know from your sister-in-law and I know from your agent. I also know after you’ve paid up debts with your Nobel money, and lived it up a bit, you’ll be lean again, scratching. What do you say?’

Craig was too taken aback by this news, and her offer, to say anything at first. His head spun. ‘How can you spend so much on a book that’s hardly written and that you haven’t read?’

‘I know what it’s about. Miss Decker told me the whole story last night. It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for-for years-and, as you know, from the studio angle anyway, the fact that you’ve won the Nobel Prize enhances the property.’

‘You mean, Leah told you the whole story?’ Inwardly, he cursed Leah and thanked her, simultaneously. Leah had typed and retyped those early pages, and outline notes, and knew the characters and plot as well as he. But she had no right to broadcast it, peddle it so naïvely, without his knowledge or approval. At the same time, it was a miracle that she had been so indiscreet. The timing was perfect. He could use the money. It was a windfall. He hardly bothered to consider if he was capable of finishing the book. Somehow, the freedom that the money would buy him made the creativity seem possible. That is, if he would not drink, if he would not flagellate himself with Harriet, if he could leave Stockholm an integrated man with a will for life.

Märta Norberg had replied, ‘Yes, I know the story forwards and backwards,’ and then had remained silent, allowing him his introspection.

Now a curious dark doubt crossed his brain and bothered him. ‘If you know the story,’ he said slowly, ‘then you must know there is no real part in it for you. The whole book is the hero, a man, one man. All the women have nothing more than episodes. There are six women in the book. They come and go. They have little bits and pieces. What would you do?’

‘I would be Desmona, the bohemian girl he marries.’

‘But she’s only in three chapters, and then she’s killed. That’s all there is of her, except what she is in his mind. You see, after she’s killed-’

‘I wouldn’t let her be killed,’ said Märta Norberg simply. ‘I’d throw out the other five women-well, four anyway-and keep Desmona alive.’

Craig frowned. ‘Miss Norberg, I respect your genius as an actress-indeed, I worship it. But you are not an author. I am an author. This is my book, and in it Desmona dies early. Without that, there’s no point to the story line.’

‘Don’t be so ridiculously inflexible. You can change it around. There are a hundred possibilities, based on the little I have heard. Why, you haven’t even written her death scene yet. So all you have to do is not write it at all. You can make it an accident or something-she’s injured-in fact, I think that improves your story a great deal. And then, you can reshape the rest.’

Craig was appalled. He measured his words. ‘Let me get this straight. I want no semantic misunderstanding. Are you suggesting-actually suggesting-that you will buy my next novel if-only if-I change it to conform to your idea of what the heroine should be?’

Märta Norberg laughed, and lowered herself deeper in the water. ‘You make it sound like I’m threatening you. Don’t be an arty boy, Craig-one of those too young, ever young, foolish New England boys, forever out of the Ivy-making believe they are tender Prousts, untouched by human hands or other minds, putting down their precious, puny, gilded words as if the heavens had rent asunder to inspire them. What nonsense, and you know it, and I know it. Dickens, Balzac, Dumas, the whole lot of them, wrote by the page, manufactured to please their printers or their public, and nothing was spoiled, because they were good. Well, you’re good-and keeping one character alive to suit a customer and to keep your bank account in balance won’t make you a hack or sell you out. It’ll only teach you that you’ve grown up.’

‘What if I answer no, flatly no? Will you make the deal anyway?’

‘Of course not. As you say, there would be nothing in it for me.’

He hated to say the next, but he wanted the deal.

‘You could change it around in Hollywood. I wouldn’t give a damn about that.’

‘Impossible. The book itself will be widely read and known-serial, book clubs, trade edition, paper edition-and I want that heroine built up-talked about-loved-long before I give her life on the screen. Now, will you do it?’ She smiled at him sweetly. He was about to speak, evidently in anger, for she quickly put her wet forefinger to his lips, sealing them. ‘Wait, Craig. Before you speak, there’s another aspect of my offer that I’ve deliberately withheld from you. I was going to tell you about it later-under-under more favourable circumstances.’ She paused. ‘I see you’re so male upset, I had better tell you now.’

‘All right-what?’

‘The two hundred thousand was only a part of my offer. There is a richer part, and it’s worth infinitely more. Do you know what that part is?’

‘No.’

‘Me.’ She smiled at his bewildered reaction. ‘Me, Märta Norberg,’ she said simply. ‘I go with the deal.’

At first he was puzzled, because what this innuendo suggested was possible between them had been so remote in his head, and then he pretended to be more puzzled than he really was, because if he had misunderstood her, he would be made to look a dunce. He studied her wet, celebrated, and mocking countenance beneath the rubber bathing-cap, and held his silence.

‘Did I shock you?’ she asked.

‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

‘Bingo,’ she said cheerfully. ‘As the little girls with curls used to say, in silent pictures, I’m prepared for a fate worse than death. I don’t have the cutes, Craig, and I don’t have coyness. When I collaborate, it’s all the way.’

He was so dumbfounded, he wondered how he could offer any negative reaction without sounding less than adult, less than masculine. He decided to handle the offer as lightly as she had originally made it, and see what would come of their talk. ‘My dear, no man has ever been more flattered.’

‘Balls,’ she said.

The expletive was not coarse but business like, and he grimaced. ‘You mean it, then? How can you-?’

‘It’s easy,’ she said curtly. ‘I want what you have, and you want what I have. That’s all that matters. I will add this. What makes the trade more agreeable is that I find you attractive, and I’m sure you find me so. Even if you weren’t attractive, my offer would still stand.’ She read the lingering disbelief on his features, and solemnly took one hand from the ladder and patted his cheek. ‘Don’t make a federal case of a simple proposition. You creative people are all the same. You think too much. You introspect every pleasure to death. Obey your real impulse, Craig, and you will look back on this night as the beginning of the most memorable deal-relationship-in your life.’

With that, she turned back to the ladder and gracefully, sideways, in the way actresses are taught, climbed out of the pool. For a moment, she stood long and lean, high above him, water sliding down her concave breastbone and slight bosom and sleek flanks and dripping to the poolside. As she unclasped her bathing-cap, and then shook her hair free, she was transformed into femininity once more, and he became aware of her, almost for the first time this evening, as a love object. The wetness of her, the brevity of her attire, the posture of her, the knowledge of her legend, gripped him. She wore two strips of peppermint bikini, one strip of material unfilled and pasted by water to her button breasts, and the other strip, stopping several inches below her navel, water-sogged and caught up and drawn up tightly between her legs to two bows on her naked hips.

Craig did not deceive himself. He felt desire for this person, but the desire he felt was not unadulterated lust for an inciting female but passion for Märta Norberg, a love object the whole world of men coveted and were denied.

If you thought about it-and now he did-the invitation was unbelievable, and because it was unbelievable, it was irresistible. Here now, looking down at him as she dried herself, was the most popularly desired woman on the surface of the earth, kept in the public eye by continuous reruns of her classic films. This moment, in darkened community houses girdling the earth, men in endless number, of every size, shape, complexion, morality-men who were Roumanians, Bulgarians, Kurds, Afghans, Armenians, Siamese, Sudanese, Nigerians, Ecuadorians, Andorrans, and fellow Protestant Americans-sat glued to their theatre seats and benches, staring up at the elongated, enlarged, flat and bright image of this enigmatic Swede projected on white sheets and screens before them. This night, they were united in a common admiration and indulgence. One and all were vicariously subjecting Märta Norberg to physical ravishment, and enjoying the bliss of their cinematic rape. Only when the lights went on, and the screen went blank, and they knew the image was all illusion, did they feel briefly cheated-but the fantasy of Norberg remained in their minds, and the elusive legend continued immortal.

And now, incredibly, the flesh and not the image of all this vicarious seduction was before him. She was his for a single word. Yet he could not utter it.

Having dried, she sat down at the edge of the pool, dangling her legs so that her toes touched the water. ‘Well, Craig, what were you thinking?’

‘I was watching you.’

‘Yes, I know. Does it simplify your decision?’

‘It makes it more complicated.’ He moved to the ladder. ‘I want you, you know.’

‘Of course you do. I want you, too. So what stands between us?’

‘The deal. Do you really mean it?’

‘Certainly, I mean it. Do you doubt me for one second? Say yes, and you shall have the preliminary letter to sign, and the down payment in the morning, with the rest of the money when you have finished the novel.’

‘No, I mean the other part.’

‘Me? That, too, of course, with pleasure.’

‘I’m dumb. Spell it out.’

Her lips curled slightly in what he interpreted to mean a triumphant contempt for the inevitable weakness and surrender of all men. ‘What do you wish me to tell you, Craig?’

He grabbed the rails of the ladder, and pulled himself out of the water, and climbed the rungs to the poolside. He retrieved her towel and began to rub his skin under her gaze.

‘I’m an amateur at these matters, and I admit it,’ said Craig, working the towel. ‘How do I get the bonus payment? And how do I deliver my work to your satisfaction?’

‘It will all be quite natural.’

‘Natural?’

‘You will see. You will remain in Sweden longer-you will move in here-we will work together on your outline until we are both satisfied.’ She saw his frown, and then amended her wish. ‘If you prefer, I will take you to my place on the Riviera, or even accompany you to New York, where I keep an apartment ready. In the day, we will work-and at night, we will love.’

He threw the towel aside. ‘And that’s all there is to it?’

‘I will not intrude upon your work. I am an artist. Our minds are alike. When you are ready to be alone, resume creation, I will let you go your way. If you still prefer my presence, you may have it.’

He squatted beside her, and then sat, wondering how he could reach a mind so foreign to his own. ‘Märta-I will call you that now-’

She smiled. ‘We’re making progress.’

‘No, listen to me. I think-l really think-you believe this is possible. I want the money you offer. You know the facts. I can use it. And I think you believe that this novel I am writing, intend to write, my first since the Nobel Prize-a book that is a naked representation of me, of all I hold holy-can be falsely twisted and wrenched to satisfy your needs. Don’t you see how wrong that is, how corrupting? You say we are both artists, our minds alike. If you were right, you would understand how I feel. What you mean is that you are the artist, and nothing else matters, and I am less an artist and should sublimate my individuality and craft in yours. When you made the offer to buy me, the cash offer, my answer was an automatic no. What made me hesitate-and you knew it would make me hesitate-was your added offer of an affair, of possessing someone every man on earth would give his soul to the devil to possess. So, indeed, I hesitated, because I was astonished, I was unnerved, and-I confess-I was curious and excited. But let us say this-let us pretend that this cold offer so dazzled me that I reversed myself and made the deal. What would happen? I would have my fun in bed, and you would have your book, your comeback property tailored by a name currently exploitable. But what would either of us have really? You would have a lousy book, it would have to be lousy. And I would have-what? Memory of a virile conquest? How could I tell myself it was a conquest, when it was only a cold-blooded legal clause? Memory of an unforgettable love? Helen and Paris? Dante and Beatrice? Nelson and Emma? Or the memory of a mechanical, loveless union, dearly paid for, purchased, and in the end distasteful, because it was an extravagance I could not afford after all?’

She had listened, never removing her eyes from him, not attempting to interrupt, her features emotionless, her figure immobile. When he had talked himself out, she rippled the water with her toes.

‘Make me a vodka, Craig,’ she said.

He lifted himself to his feet, grateful that she had not contended with him, and went to the table to pour the drink for her, and the whisky he now needed more than ever for himself. When he turned around with the filled glasses, she was standing, waiting. He avoided looking at her bikini, her limbs, and handed her the drink.

‘You can look at me,’ she said. ‘Why do you avoid it?’

‘Why torture myself with something I can’t have?’ He tried to keep bitterness out of his tone, and made a lame attempt to be amusing. ‘I don’t like to press my nose against shop windows.’

‘Craig, I want you to look at me, right now. How do I strike you?’

‘Female. Quite the opposite of male.’

‘I’m more, don’t you think?’

‘Granted.’

‘Much more,’ she said definitely, ‘and the much more of me is the propaganda of me and the legend of me, and that is attractive. But don’t be deceived. Even without all that, there is much more to me. Not merely my beauty, either. If I were to undo my bra right now and remove this strip of cloth down here-what would you see of me? First, two breasts. I’m realistic. There are better breasts to be seen in every half-dollar art magazine. Second, my nakedness below. No rare or exotic contour, no different down there from what you can see on any chippy you pick up for five dollars or fifty dollars. That’s not the much more of me I speak of, Craig. What I speak of cannot be seen, must be intimately known. When you buy me, you are, it is true, paying a bigger price than ever before for lesser physical endowments than can be had at a fairer market price, but you are buying two marvellous things. One is, as you’ve guessed, the fame of me, the right to remember, when you are old and old memories are important, or when you are merely older and ribald with others, that once you possessed the flesh of Märta Norberg, yes, the Märta Norberg. That is important to men, of course. Imagine to be a man and to know that once you had enjoyed the favours of Ninon de Lenclos or Madame Du Barry or Eleanora Duse. That is the obvious pleasure you buy. But there is another that is better, far superior. Do I titillate you?’

‘Go on,’ said Craig, drinking his whisky, and keeping his gaze shoulder high, and wishing that they were dressed and elsewhere.

‘Do I titillate you?’ she repeated.

‘Yes.’

‘Of course, I do. I have told you I am a good buy for two reasons. One is my desirability as a conversation piece, The other is this, Craig-my desirability as an experience. Do you know what that means?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Do not regard what I am going to tell you as extraordinary vanity. I’ve simply equated myself against all others, I know my worth, and I am practical. When you come to bed with Märta Norberg, you eliminate the remembrance of every other woman you have known since adolescence. I will explain, Craig. Only a handful of others, in the world, know what I am to tell you. The act of love is my other gift-the one I have brought along with my acting. Those are my two perfect skills. You have known experienced women, no doubt, active, intelligent amateurs, and prostitutes and call girls. Often such women have considerable knowledge of love, and are infinitely superior in their pleasure-giving to any housewife drab or dull-assed starlet. But the gifts of prostitutes are tarnished by their ready availability and the unspoken feeling of degradation. Nowhere can similar gifts be found untarnished, except in my bed. You will take my word when I say that I know more of love than any prostitute or courtesan or backstreet Bovary. Your face tells me nothing now, but you may be secretly doubting me. I am sure you are. I pride myself on being a psychologist of men and their minds. You may be saying to yourself-what more can this boastful woman know of love than any other? How many ways can a woman lie with a man-on her back, on her side, on her stomach, sitting, standing, upside down, whatever you guess or know. You may be saying to yourself-how many erotic movements are there, and words, and pressures, and erogenous zones? All is limited and repetitious, and nothing can be new. You may even assure yourself that the ways of love, beyond intercourse, are restricted to six or sixteen. And so you will doubt me. And to that I can only say, Craig, say this-try me-find out.’

She sipped her vodka.

Except for her profound, humourless sincerity, Craig would have been embarrassed. He did not know quite how to respond. ‘That’s quite a sales talk,’ he said at last.

She smiled. ‘I’m rarely called upon to make it.’

‘But you have made it. And now I’ll tell you something-I still don’t believe it.’

‘Are you daring me? Is that what?’

‘Nothing so childish. I simply will not accept your statement that you can please, entirely through physical skill, without one iota of emotion, passion, love given from the heart-’

‘Save that fairy tale for your damn books,’ she interrupted, ‘and for all the empty women who read them and want to be deluded. Craig, I know men. Once you have a man between your thighs, you have his unconditional surrender on your terms, in exchange for whatever pleasures you wish to serve him. In intercourse, of whatever duration, a man is senseless, an absolute lower animal. His enjoyment derives not from the knowledge that his mate adores him-that may pertain before and after the act-but during the act he wants the primitive gluttony, and the better that is, the more voluptuous, sensuous, maddening, the more ecstatic he becomes.’ She paused and seemed to draw herself up, and the bikini bra filled. ‘I am honest, Craig. I don’t barter my heart-only what is beneath it-and I have never had a complaint. On the contrary, my lovers have become beggars, debasing themselves with their pleas for more of me. Now, what do you think of that?’

‘I think you have accomplished exactly what you set out to do-make me helplessly curious.’

She tossed her hair. ‘Then we have a deal?’

‘No-not on your terms.’

‘I see you still don’t believe me.’ Her face had strangely darkened. ‘What will convince you? Do you want a preview tonight?’

‘Not if you would consider it an option on my services.’

‘Don’t be rude.’

‘I don’t mean to be rude, Märta. I’m simply not on your wavelength. We’re not communicating at all. You’re speaking to me about a parcel you label sex, and I’m saying if it has no other name, it’s a poor product. Haven’t you ever been in love? What would happen if you fell in love?’

‘I wouldn’t be where I am,’ she said stiffly. ‘Craig, I have never and will never let myself be used.’

‘But you will use someone else.’

‘How am I to take that? Are you being sarcastic, chastising me?’

‘I’m simply trying to believe you. I can’t believe you. I’m appalled.’

‘Quit simpering at me. Don’t be a sanctimonious child. And don’t start categorizing me with your cheap writer’s clichés-prefab characterization-Enter, the cold, calculating devourer of men, et cetera.’

‘I’m not judging you. I confine myself to observing, imagining, reporting. I’m trying to find out who you are. Do you know?’

‘You’re damn well sure I know,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you who I am, and who I am not. I am an actress, a great actress, the greatest in this century. That means one thing to me-my art comes first, and everything else can go merrily to hell. In this world, there are two kinds of actress. One is the actress-woman. She is schizoid. She is one-half public performer and one-half private human being. She is the one who winds up emotionally bankrupt, soon forgotten except for a fund-raising benefit and a ghost-written memoir. The other is the actress-actress, who is not split in two halves, but is of a single indestructible piece, single, whole, self-sufficient, self-directed, devoted only to herself as celebrity and artist. Everything in her life, every judgment, decision, every choice and turning, must measure up to one standard-is it good for the actress that I am? This applies to homelife, leisure, children, finances-and above all, it applies to love.’

She swallowed her drink, then, instead of asking Craig for another, she brushed past him to the table and began pouring her own.

‘I was fortunate,’ she went on, ‘because I became an actress-actress early. The moment I was brought to America. I perceived how detestable and degrading the market-place was. American show business, I found, was exactly like American sports and commerce and politics-a game of naked bartering. In Hollywood, on Broadway, what they had to offer was a good role with good money. But beauty, personality, talent were not necessarily enough to win the role. There were dozens of beautiful and trained young girls for every part. Then, on what would the choice be based? What could win such a role? The added offer of easy sex? No, not even that was enough. These dozens of girls were all too eager to divest themselves of pants and maidenheads. In fact, so eager were they, so uniformly accessible, that even I, as a young Swedish girl, was shocked. But then, because I was clever, I saw what extra was needed to win the role. Beauty was good, but too cheap. Nonconforming beauty was better. Acting talent was good, but too widespread. Overlaid on it there must be personality. Sexual availability was good, but there was a monotony to it, like raw steaks displayed in the meat market. But to offer something different with sexual availability-to offer fornication with skill, real skill-and once it be made known, to make the experience gradually more difficult to possess-that, and those, were the extra factors I understood and put into use.’

She held her vodka before her, not drinking, and her earnestness was such that Craig felt she had forgotten his presence. But now she seemed to address him.

‘Have you ever slept with a starlet? Groomed hair, cameo face, cherry lips, and figure always either forty, twenty-four, thirty-five or thirty seven, twenty-four, thirty-five? If you’ve slept with one, you’ve slept with one hundred, one thousand. The same eagerness to oblige, the same tired endearments in accents of dramatic schools, the same practised wigglings, the same superficial gamut of love play-warm pliable receptacles of love by rote, as if waiting in the wings for the cue, only waiting horizontally-until they can get the waiting done and be on with their real roles, the payoff. That was wrong, and it was not for me. At once, I knew that I would not be another pound-pounds-of easy flesh, to evaporate from memory by daybreak, to be paid off by some minor casting man with a bit part. I would be no starlet. I would be more, and I would be an experience. And so I went at this as I went at my public career. I schooled myself in the art of satisfying in bed as well as on stage. No matter how I did it, or how long I took. But I did it, and a night with Märta Norberg became not a passing physical release for a producer or director or banker, but an adventure in a new dimension of sensuality, and an enslavement and commitment. Soon, as I made my way, I was able to resist the pastry cutter in other ways. I would not let them coiffure my head like all the others. Or shorten my nose. Or artificially inflate my breasts to the minimum expected size. Or learn the same carriage, and same, same diction. I stayed myself, and that made me unusual and different and remembered. And all the while, I remained a wonder in bed, and when this was known, and I was known, my roles grew larger, better, choicer, until they were the best, and exposure and publicity made me a household name. And when, at last, I was bigger than the spoiled men, the potbellied men, the sadistic men who had so often humiliated me-when they needed me, and I did not need them-I was able to becom e what I really was and am this day-remote, reserved, selective. My skills were less needed, but I had them when they were needed-a rivalry for the best play purchased, for the best director imported, for the great leading man, for a percentage of the gross. I kept my distance and gave sparingly, but when I gave, I gave well.’ She paused. ‘I still do, Craig.’

In a curious way, her story had moved him. His perception had filled in so much that had not been told. Yet the story made her even more difficult to understand. ‘But now you can do as you please, Märta. You’ve spent a life trying to be yourself again. You’ve won. You are yourself. Why not love whom you wish and when you wish?’

‘Because avarice never ceases,’ she said with a smile, ‘and mine is the avarice of the ego. My monument is in people’s minds. To keep it there, I must continue building it. I have been idle too long. I must build again. And the materials I most urgently require are story properties. You have one such property, and I want it. Since I can’t have it for cash alone, I am willing to return to the market-place with my unique skills. But I am who I am, and I deserve to have what I want on my terms. Be sensible, Craig, I can dictate. You cannot. Despite this advantage, I am fair, because you are an artist as well as a man, and unless you are rightly rewarded you will not work happily, and I will suffer as well as you. So I offer you a fortune, and I offer you an experience, one that will be impressed upon your brain until it is senile, one that will mean more to your biographies than the silly prize. I am giving you all of me for a part of you. I’m leaning over backwards, and I don’t want to go on like this any more. Simply say yes, and we’ll seal the bargain with a kiss, and you’ll stay the night. Now, are you happy-?’

‘I’m revolted,’ he blurted out. The sympathy she had weaned from him had fled, as her cold bargaining had resumed. ‘For some money that can be earned elsewhere and some loveless convulsions in the hay, and a behind-the-hand conversation piece-you want a tooled novel, hammer and chisel and nails and plane, pounded and hacked out, slanted, a sham-’

‘Goddammit,’ she cried suddenly, ‘I’m sick of your friggin’ writer divinity-’

‘No, wait, wait-I’ve got to finish. I’m not putting my art above anyone on earth who accomplishes an honest day of labour honestly done, so that life is earned and deserved. I make no pretence of being touched by a heavenly hand, singled out for special treatment, stand back because he’s Muse-inspired-none of that. I’m not making myself out above a housewife who cooks a meal right and raises an infant well, or above a plumber who repairs the toilet efficiently, or the shoe assistant who gives you the right size. It’s not a hallowed creation of work I defend-but destruction of myself as honest and decent and already in debt for my place on earth. If I grind out your untrue book as the pretence of a book truly mine, to be peddled far and wide with my name on it, my book is a lie, and I am a pervert before every reader who reads me, because he or she trusts me.’

He caught his breath. ‘I am sorry, Märta, but I must write to please me, not you. That’s why my answer is flatly no, Märta, flatly no. I’m not worried about you. You’ll find fifty other properties, more suitable ones, or have them manufactured for you. And you’ll find men you won’t have to love to get them. And maybe someday you’ll find men-a man-you honestly love, without this barter, far from the market-place, although I doubt it. And as for me, I will keep my-I won’t say integrity-but my nerve and my self-respect, always regretting that I had to let you keep your money and your dazzling skill. Yes, Märta, I have no doubt, no doubt at all, you will find other men who can afford, better afford, your money and skill, who have a backlog of integrity that can survive one small corruption, but I no longer have that backlog, and I can’t afford you now. If I give you what little I have left, no reward of yours will help me survive as a man-because then, at last, I’ll be totally bankrupt.’

Where earlier had been her smile, he now saw her teeth bared. The drawn Nordic face gave him no satisfaction of emotion, but the teeth were bared, and she had never been more revealed.

‘No man has ever spoken to me this way,’ she said, ‘and lest you think you’ll get some satisfaction out of it, I’ll tell you right now why you’re turning me down-the real truth of it. I can tell-I can smell it-I always can.’

He waited.

Her throaty voice was a bullwhip, and she lashed savagely at him. ‘You’re quaking down to the crotch. You’re the boy without balls, and we both know it. You’re afraid of me, and that’s the beginning and end of it. You’re scared of sex, and you’re scared of a real woman, and it’s a thousand to one you’re afraid of my bed and my body, because you can’t get it up.’

It was then that he did a foolish thing. He had been controlled, but now, like a schoolboy taking a dare, he lost his control. ‘I wish I could save your face and say that’s true, but the truth is I’ve done all right by myself, and right here in Sweden, and with a woman who has the decency to give love for love and for nothing else.’

‘You’re a liar!’ she shouted. ‘I wouldn’t let you touch me now, if you were William Shakespeare and wanted to give me every word you ever wrote. I wouldn’t let myself be touched by a puny, running weakling-who’s got integrity instead of balls. Is that what you give your lady friend, your poor, starved lady friend, a hot injection of integrity? Get out of here, Craig, get out of my sight! Get your clothes and beat it, and stay out of my sight before I tell the whole world about their great masculine Nobel winner-the one man on earth who couldn’t get it up with Märta Norberg!’

She spun away from him, seething so furiously that the contraction of the muscles in her shoulders and back was visible. He remained a moment, looking at her, at the dishevelled hair no longer provocative, the slouched shoulders that would soon be old, the curved spine no longer lithe and slender but skinny and knobby, and the sparse folds of buttocks below the bikini strip no longer inciting but only grotesque and pitiful. The lofty, illusive female love symbol was, finally, only an embittered man-woman of the market-place, and no more. Wordlessly, Craig turned away from her and went to the cabaña.

He changed slowly in the confined room, without anger, with only an inexplicable burden of sorrow, and when he was fully dressed, he emerged.

The lanai was vacant of life. She had gone. He went into the living-room and found the yellow telephone. The number came to him at once. He dialed 22.00.00, and when the girl answered, he requested a taxi and told her where he was. As he hung up, his eyes caught the full-length oil of Märta Norberg on the far wall. As Manon Lescaut. The Trader, he thought-no, better-Trader in the Market-Place.

His hat and coat lay across a bench in the vestibule. No one came to see him out. He opened the heavy door and went into the cold and fog to wait.

After he had lit his pipe, he felt better and wondered why. He had lost something tonight. In the eyes of the world, he had lost very much. Yet he was certain that he had gained infinitely more. For the first time since the Harriet years, he realized that he was not only a writer of integrity, but a human being of worth. The evaluation had a pomposity about it, and he considered rephrasing it, reworking it, and then he left it alone, because it was true, and because the feeling deep inside him, in that recess where the soul crouched and watched, the feeling was good, and it had not been that way for a long, long time.

He smoked his pipe, and enjoyed the fog, and waited for the taxi that would take him back to the living.