The Prize

10

AS each new day brought the climactic occasion of the Nobel Ceremony closer, the lobby and restaurants of the Grand Hotel became more and more crowded with new arrivals, largely journalists and dignitaries, from every part of Scandinavia and every corner of the world.

Now, at the noon hour of December eighth, with the Ceremony only two days off, the immense Winter Garden of the Grand was filled nearly to capacity. When Andrew Craig, wearing a knit tie, tweed sport jacket, and slacks, and carrying a folded airmail edition of The New York Times under an arm, entered the noisy indoor Garden, he found it difficult to make himself heard. The maître d’hôtel checked his reservation, then bowed across his folded arm and said, ‘Right this way, Mr. Craig.’

Craig followed the dining-room steward past a table of cultural delegates from Ghana, past another where American and English newspapermen conversed and several of these waved to him, past two tables joined to hold eight members of the Italian Embassy staff, and past yet another white-covered table at which Konrad Evang was in deep discussion with several Swedish business types. The variety of foreigners, like the variegated shifting patterns of colour in a kaleidoscope, diverted Craig briefly from what had been uppermost in his mind, the scene with Leah just left behind and the scene with the Marceaus that lay immediately ahead.

The table that he had booked was on the carpeted higher level of the room, between two massive pillars. The maître d’hôtel removed the ‘Reserved’ sign, pulled out a cane chair, dusted it briefly with a napkin, and offered it to Craig.

When Craig was seated, the maître d’hôtel inquired, ‘Does Monsieur wish to have a drink or to order now?’

‘Neither one,’ said Craig. ‘I’d prefer to wait. I’m expecting guests.’

When the maître d’hôtel left, Craig drew his chair closer to the table and spread open the newspaper before him. He had not read a newspaper carefully in days, but today, because he had slept late and soberly, and his eyes were rested, and because he had recaptured some interest in his contemporaries, he intended to resume following the serial story of his time.

But when he bent over the front page, he told himself that the light was too poor to read by. Through the enormous latticed glass dome above, he could see that even at noon, the day was sunless and sombre. Then he realized that although the globular restaurant lamps on either side of him, and all about the room, were illuminated, the artificial lighting was diffused and yellow. Reading, he decided, would be a strain, and he knew that he was in no mood for it anyway. He closed his newspaper and slipped it under his chair. He tilted backwards, one hand fiddling absently with the table silver, and lost himself in thought.

In bed the night before, he had reviewed the astonishing encounter with Märta Norberg, had tried to remember what he could remember with emotional detachment, had sorted out one or two moments of it that he would have to relate to Lucius Mack once he was back in Miller’s Dam, and then he had recalled something said earlier that evening that he had almost forgotten. What he had recalled was Norberg’s bizarre revelation of Ragnar Hammarlund’s machinations-the secret recordings, the information on Claude Marceau’s affair with some mannequin, the plotting to snare the chemistry laureates into Hammarlund’s industrial web.

In bed, Craig had considered all of this detestable scheming. Generally, he did not concern himself with individual morality. Most often, he preferred to play the onlooker, to live and to let live all the earth’s cabbages and kings. Perhaps that had been his major defect as a human being. Last night, for once, he had determined to correct this defect in himself. He had detested Hammarlund for his cynicism, for his degrading of dignity by invasion of privacy. The Hammarlunds of the world, like the Sue Wileys of the world, he had told himself, must not go unchallenged. Moreover, Craig had identified himself not only with all victims of life, but, in this case, victims with whom he had a bond in common.

Somehow, he had seen that the Marceaus-like the hapless Garrett and distant Farelli and forever displaced Stratman-were, like himself, by chance, by circumstance, human targets. Through the prize, they had all become, with him, not only what Gottling had called democracy’s élite, but also democracy’s vulnerable ones. The six of them were, by birth and environment and interests, strangers before meeting in Stockholm, but with the awards, they had been pressed into eternal kinship. Forever after, they would be as one, the laureates of this year, and Craig had seen that if the Marceaus were harmed, so was he, and so were they all.

Once Craig had reasoned this out, and made his decision, he had acted. He had picked up the telephone and asked to speak to the Marceaus. There had been no answer in their room. This frustration had seemed to make the matter more imperative. Craig had left his bed, scrawled a note requesting Denise and Claude Marceau to meet him for lunch in the Winter Garden the next day, hinting at some private matter that would be of special interest to them, and had then summoned a page and sent the message down to their letterbox.

When he had awakened this morning, the luncheon invitation to the Marceaus had still seemed right, and he had not cancelled it. After dressing, he had taken his coffee in the living-room, alone, grateful that Leah had gone out earlier. After finishing the coffee, there had been more than an hour to spare before his date with the Marceaus. He had wanted to spend the time with Emily, and then remembered that she would be out, and that they were having dinner this evening. The anticipation of seeing Emily alone had heightened a desire, long dormant within him, to please and impress a member of the opposite sex. This had brought to mind a nagging duty-the formal acceptance speech that he was expected to deliver, after Ingrid Påhl’s introduction of him, before the King and a large audience during the late afternoon Nobel Ceremony, in Concert Hall on the tenth.

Ordinarily, Jacobsson had previously explained, these laureate addresses were made following the Ceremony, in the evening, in the Golden Room of the Town Hall. But owing to the King’s departure from the country immediately after the Ceremony, it had been decided to change the schedule and move the speeches up to the afternoon, out of respect for His Royal Highness. Because these addresses were widely quoted and read, Jacobsson had tried to convey to Craig the necessity of careful preparation. As a gentle reminder, and perhaps for use as guideposts, Jacobsson had posted Craig several addresses made by earlier Nobel literary laureates. They had arrived the morning before, and Craig had merely glanced at them and thrown them aside, putting off the disagreeable task of composing a speech.

But this morning, after his coffee, thinking of Emily and of how she would be in the audience at the Ceremony and how much he wanted to command her respect, he had taken up the English copies of speeches by his predecessors and painstakingly read them through.

The Eugene O’Neill speech, prepared in 1936, Craig found interesting. A footnote explained that O’Neill, recuperating from a ruptured appendix, had been unable to attend the Ceremony in Stockholm, but had had his speech read for him. In it, O’Neill had given all credit for his career to the inspiration of August Strindberg. ‘If there is anything of lasting worth in my work,’ O’Neill had written, ‘it is due to that original impulse from him, which has continued as my inspiration down all the years since then-to the ambition I received then to follow in the footsteps of his genius as worthily as my talent might permit, and with the same integrity of purpose.’ The ring of sincerity was in this, Craig had believed. It could not have been a mere sop thrown the Swedes, since the Swedish Academy had ignored Strindberg and found his name an anathema to this day.

Next, Craig had studied the address made by Albert Camus in 1957. One paragraph he read and then read again. ‘Probably every generation sees itself as charged with remaking the world. Mine, however, knows that it will not remake the world. But its task is perhaps even greater, for it consists in keeping the world from destroying itself. As the heir of a corrupt history that blends blighted revolutions, misguided techniques, dead gods, and wornout ideologies in which second-rate powers can destroy everything today, but are unable to win anyone over, in which intelligence had stooped to becoming the servant of hatred and oppression, that generation, starting from nothing but its own negations, has had to re-establish both within and without itself a little of what constitutes the dignity of life and death. Faced with a world threatened with disintegration, in which our grand inquisitors may set up once and for all the kingdoms of death, that generation knows that, in a sort of mad race against time, it ought to reestablish among nations a peace not based on slavery, to reconcile labour and culture again, and to reconstruct with all men an Ark of the Covenant.’

From the realistic splendour of Camus’s phrases, Craig had turned to the courageous power of William Faulkner’s uncharacteristic optimism in Stockholm during 1949. ‘I decline to accept the end of man,’ Faulkner had announced in his formal speech. ‘It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure; that when the last ding-dong of doom had clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet’s, the writer’s, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honour and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past…’

Long after Craig had laid Faulkner’s speech aside, the majesty of his predecessor’s words rang in his ears. He had remained motionless, moved by one who had possessed the strength to raise and shake a fist at Fate. Finally, because it must be done and because Emily would be there to judge it, Craig had tried to prepare his own speech. ‘Your Royal Highnesses,’ he had written, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen.’ That he had written, and then he had written no more. What cramped his hand had not been the literary brilliance of Camus and Faulkner, although their words had, indeed, been inhibiting, but rather their assurance and their authority. For all the progress that he himself had made since his arrival in this place, Craig still had no sure understanding of his role, his value, and his integration in his time. He still had not fully escaped Camus’s ‘kingdoms of death’. He had still the suspicion, as Faulkner had not, that man would be lucky to endure, let alone prevail.

And then, as he had attempted to explore what he did truly believe, he had heard the door open and seen Leah, arms filled with parcels, come through it.

‘It’s about time you were up, Andrew,’ she had said, and had then stared at the pencil in his hand. ‘Don’t tell me-let me guess-you’re writing!’

He had thrown the pencil on the table and stretched. ‘Nothing like that. Just some notes.’

She had dropped her parcels in a chair. ‘I’ve got to rush, or I’ll be late.’ She had started for her bedroom. ‘Märta Norberg invited me to lunch.’

Immediately, Craig had been attentive. ‘Who? Did you say Norberg?’

‘Yes. What’s so unusual about that? She’s very plain and friendly if you get to know her.’

‘Where did you get to know her?’

Leah had shown exasperation with him. ‘My God, Andrew, what a memory you’ve got. The night before last at the Hammarlund dinner. I spent a good deal of time with her.’

‘Oh, yes.’ He had almost added, ‘She told me,’ but had held his tongue in time.

‘As a matter of fact,’ Leah had gone on, ‘we talked about you. She wanted to know what you were writing, and I mentioned the new book, and I think she’s very interested in it for a movie or play. You may be hearing from her.’

Craig had not replied to this. Instead, he had inquired, ‘When did she invite you to have lunch with her?’

‘When? Why, at Hammarlund’s. She said there’s a wonderful restaurant called-it’s a crazy name-Bacchi-Bacchi Wapen, and she wanted me to see it. I’m sure she really wants to talk about you. I think she’s very impressed with you. Isn’t it wonderful-all the excitement here-the people-’ She had peered at her watch. ‘My God, the time. I’ll be late. I wouldn’t dare keep Märta Norberg waiting.’

She had hurried into the bedroom, and ever since, Craig had felt a vague uneasiness. He had speculated on the outcome of this lunch. Originally, Norberg had probably made the date to learn more of his project, and had then taken the initiative to act faster and got in touch with New York. Now, she would have no use for Leah, yet she had not cancelled the meeting. What did Norberg want? Would she mention to Leah, at all, the events of last night? And if so, how much would she reveal of them?

The questions had persisted inside him as he had gone down to the lobby in the elevator, and they persisted still as he sat at his table awaiting the Marceaus. His mind had strayed far from the Marceaus, the purpose of seeing them, and now he tried to recollect clearly what it was that he wished to pass on to them.

He had no more than half a minute to think, when he saw Denise Marceau, alone, looking less plump than usual in a smart charcoal suit, walking towards him. He leaped to his feet, welcoming her with social smile, and she beamed at him cheerfully and took the chair that he held, and placed her bag and gloves on the table.

‘How nice of you to invite us, Mr. Craig, but I hope you will not mind if it is me all by myself?’

Craig sat down. ‘I couldn’t be more pleased.’

‘Poor Claude,’ she sighed. ‘He cannot say no to invitations. He had agreed for us to speak to the United Societies, and I prayed for any excuse to be out of it, and, mon Dieu, you gave me the excuse, so I thank you doubly, for that and for the invitation to lunch. Claude is off to his appearance, furious with me and sending you his regrets, and I am happy and festive. Would it be dreadful of me to ask you for a drink? A Bacardi cocktail, I think. Be sure to emphasize cocktail, or they always give you straight Bacardi.’

Craig summoned the waiter and ordered a Bacardi cocktail and a double Scotch, and then lit Denise’s cigarette.

‘Well,’ she said, exhaling smoke, ‘here we are. I owe you an apology at once, Mr. Craig.’

‘For what?’

‘I have never read a book of yours. Is that not shameful? Normally, I do not read novels, except the French classics. We have so many scientific papers to keep up with. But when I learned that you had won, and we would be together here, I determined to buy your novels and studiously read them so that if ever I was thrown in your company, I would have something intelligent to say about your work. But here we are, and I have nothing to say.’

Her good humour surprised Craig. On the few occasions that he had seen her before, she had appeared highly-strung and vexed. Now, at lunch, she seemed transformed and entirely at ease.

‘You’re forgiven,’ he told her. ‘After all, what do I know of spermatozoa?’

‘Then we are equal,’ she said, as the waiter set the drinks before them. She lifted her Bacardi. ‘Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité.’

He touched her glass with his. ‘Entente cordiale,’ he said. They drank, and then he said, ‘Actually, we do have something to talk about. That was primarily why I invited you to lunch.’

‘Your note was very mysterious.’

‘I didn’t mean it to be, but it is a private matter, and it does concern your husband and you.’

For the first time, Denise was solemn, her brow wrinkling. ‘What is it you want to tell me?’

‘This,’ he said. ‘Last night, I happened to be in the company of a woman who is a close friend of Ragnar Hammarlund. Her name is unimportant. What she had to say to me could be important. To begin with, whatever you may believe, Hammarlund is an unsavoury character.’

She shrugged. ‘But what else? Of course, he is evil. I would trust Judas Iscariot or Rasputin before I would trust Ragnar Hammarlund. What has he to do with this?’

‘The friend of his I heard from-she is in his confidence-spoke of certain designs Hammarlund has-a scheme, if you will-to get you and your husband to work for him.’

‘How ridiculous.’

‘He’s determined to make a major breakthrough in the synthetic food field, so that he can have it first, control it, and corner the world market.’

‘I have listened to his idiocy about synthetics. He makes no secret of it.’

‘Well,’ said Craig, ‘he seems confident he can win you and your husband over. I was led to believe that he already is sure you are interested in the findings of one of his chemists. And he seems to feel that he can-has the means to-how shall I put it?-convince, yes, convince your husband that he, too, both of you, must devote your next years to his work.’

Denise laughed. ‘But that is impossible. We have not given him the slightest encouragement, neither my husband nor I. He has approached us, in his unsubtle way, but without success, I assure you. What on earth could make us collaborate with a horrible man like that?’

Craig bit his lip nervously. ‘Maybe I should tell you one more fact. That might be useful to you, throw a new light on what he’s up to. I was told his entire house is wired to record anything spoken privately, between guests, in any room, and on the telephone. In short, every word any of us said at his party-every word is in his possession.’

The merriment had again gone from Denise’s face. ‘Fils de putain,’ she said under her breath.

‘My description of him exactly.’

‘So-now I know what you are trying to tell me. He has some information on my husband, is that so?’

‘Well-’

‘It is so. He knows about my husband’s affair with that mannequin from Paris. Were you told that? Was it mentioned?’

‘I’m afraid it was, Dr. Marceau. It’s embarrassing, but I thought you should know, and since you know about your husband-hell, I wouldn’t have brought that up-’

‘The devil with my husband,’ said Denise suddenly. ‘There is me.’

‘I heard nothing about you.’

‘No,’ she said, thinking hard, ‘because the thing about me was too recent. You say every room of his house has a microphone?’

‘So I was told.’

‘His private laboratory out in the rear. Was anything said of that?’

‘Not that I remember.’

‘No matter. That would be wired, too. Well-’ Suddenly, she grinned and looked at Craig. ‘I gave Mr. Hammarlund quite an earful yesterday. I do not mind telling you, since you already know about my husband. In fact, you can probably be of assistance to me. You are a famous author-you do know everything about plots-’

‘My books do not always have happy endings, Dr. Marceau.’

‘I will take my chances. You see, Mr. Craig, I have worked out an intricate little plot of my own. I do not know if it will have a happy ending. It probably will not. But I am proud of my creative bent.’

‘Are you sure you want to tell me about it?’

‘Of course, I do. If an enemy already knows, why should not a friend?’ She sipped her Bacardi and then set it down. ‘My husband was at a loose end after our long years of work on our project. It was inevitable, at his age, that he would find some mischief. He met a Balenciaga mannequin, and she was clever and with loose morals, she saw a good thing, and she seduced Claude. Now, the affair has gone on a month or two-I know not how long-and it is still not resolved. The girl is flying here tomorrow, and Claude is meeting her. You can see that she is determined to take him from me. I am not sure that he is worth fighting for-but now I have become determined, too, to make the fight for him. How do I do it? What does a woman do? Nothing I have said has restrained him or made him give up this girl. Then, I decided that there was only one hope left-and that is to fight fire with fire. Do you understand?’

‘I’m not sure I do,’ said Craig.

‘To do as he does, and try to make him jealous of me.’

‘I see.’

‘He has pride. He is possessive-or used to be-and so I am gambling on this. You remember Dr. Oscar Lindblom at the Hammarlund party?’

‘I don’t think-’

‘Hammarlund’s head chemist, a tall, thin Swedish boy.’

‘Yes, I know now.’

‘Yesterday, on the pretence of being interested in his synthetic work-I suppose that is why Hammarlund thinks I am interested-I called upon Dr. Lindblom in his laboratory. I was shameless. I seduced the poor boy. You may look amazed. I know I am not the temptress type.’

Craig tried not to reflect either astonishment or disapproval. But he found it incredible to imagine this sedate, intellectual, almost matronly middle-aged chemist seducing anyone and committing adultery. ‘Why did you have to go to all that bother, unless you care for the young man?’ asked Craig.

‘He is nothing-a child-but I am trying to make him more, so that he will feel, and therefore appear to the world, to Claude especially, like a man deserving of my love. Otherwise, the plot would be a fiasco. Now, I will reveal the rest of my plot. If it has weaknesses, perhaps you will give me your professional advice. Tonight, Claude will be in Uppsala. I have invited Dr. Lindblom to my suite, to drink with me, to dine, to continue our passionate affair. What I plan to do is this. I will have drinks ready-I will make Dr. Lindblom consume more than usual, so that he is more, more-so that he is less afraid-and of course, before dinner, I will take him to my bed. After that, I will tell him not to dress-to put on Claude’s pyjamas-so that we can enjoy each other again after we dine. I will send for room service to see the menu. When the waiter comes, I will arrange that he clearly observes Dr. Lindblom, and after we have ordered, I will follow the waiter into the corridor and give him a large tip for a favour. I will tell him Dr. Lindblom is my husband, and tomorrow is his birthday, and I am eager to surprise him with a gift, a bottle of his favourite French champagne. I will give the waiter money, and ask him to buy the bottle and bring it back tomorrow and give it to no one but Dr. Lindblom. I will warn him that we may have visitors tomorrow, but he must ring and come in and give the gift only to Dr. Lindblom as a surprise. Do you see the outcome?’

‘Tomorrow, the waiter will find your husband instead of Dr. Lindblom.’

‘Exactly. But he will think Claude is a visitor only, and that my husband is not there, and he will refuse to give the gift to Claude but say he will return to give it to the right man. What follows is almost mathematically predictable-I hope. Claude will collar the waiter or corner me to find out what other man has been with me. There will be a horrific scene. Because of violence, I will be forced to confess my infidelity. Then, one of two things will happen. If I have already lost Claude, this will merely hasten his leaving. Or, I will bring him to his senses, make him jealous, make him see how he has treated me-and maybe-there is a chance-maybe I will win him back to faithfulness. So, you see, Mr. Craig, Hammarlund holds no blackmail weapons over our heads. What can he do? Threaten to tell me of Claude or Claude of me? I already know about Claude-and, heavens, I want Claude to know about me. Violà. There you have it.’ She sat back and brought her Bacardi to her lips. ‘There you have my precious plot. Do you see a flaw?’

Craig had been entirely disarmed by her easy candour. She spoke of herself, of her husband, her lover, his mistress, as if they were marionettes she was manipulating. It was difficult to take this seriously, it had so much the flavour of traditional Gallic sex comedies, and yet, Craig perceived, his confidante had suffered, and was deadly serious out of a desperation now repressed.

‘A flaw?’ he repeated. ‘Yes, possibly one.’

She leaned forward intently. ‘You must tell me.’

‘No one can fight fire with fire,’ he said simply. ‘You are a scientist. You should know that. Fire feeds fire. It doesn’t put it out. You may get your revenge and see destruction-that I won’t deny-but you speak of salvaging your marriage. I can’t believe this is the way. It’s not a plot I would write, because it’s psychologically wrong. You wanted my advice, Dr. Marceau, and I am giving it to you.’

She had not expected this, and she was less assured, less gay. ‘What do you expect me to do? Just sit by, while he gets in deeper and deeper with this prostitute of his? I have tried that.’

‘I would suggest you try it longer. Sit by, go your own way with dignity, and that may make him more ashamed than anything else. But remain above him and make him less. Wait for him to tire of the other woman. The odds are heavily in your favour that he will come back to you, contrite, and with the single necessity to prove himself, hold his youth a day longer, a month longer, entirely out of his system.’

‘And what if he does not come back to me?’

‘That is the chance, of course. But what you are doing now-I think it is a longer shot. Men are more moral than their women. Once he learns of your behaviour, he will never be able to look at you in the same way again. And you won’t be able to look at yourself in the same way. Not only will you have lowered yourself to his level, lost the one superiority you now possess, but you will have soiled yourself. You’ll never feel quite the same, just as he won’t.’

‘You are not a woman, Mr. Craig.’

‘Indeed I am not. At the same time-’

‘Men have an opposite view of it. I feel no differently now, and will feel no different later, than I ever have. It is only true love that changes one, that damages beyond repair, not a frivolous copulation.’

‘Perhaps that is the French attitude. I can only speak to you from my background and moral precepts, American and Calvinistic.’

‘Understand me, Mr. Craig. In all my marriage of so many years, I have never cheated or shown disrespect in this way for my husband. Before my marriage, before I ever knew there was anyone like Claude on earth, I had several earnest young student affairs. These were not mere indulgences of the flesh. For, whatever you have heard of the French, there are many of us brought up moral and constrained, and raised strictly French Catholic. Those student affairs were, you might say, part of the growing process, like menstruation and development of the bust. They were a process of maturing, seeking life’s full potential, and a self-probing to learn if you could feel the way all the poets and novelists said you were supposed to feel. But when I was grown and I met Claude, there was never anyone else, no thought of it. Why should there have been? For me, the marriage was a contract, not to be lightly broken or ever broken. Furthermore, there was no need for infidelity, for I had nothing more to seek or prove. There was Claude, and there was our work, and that was enough for nine lifetimes. But when the work was done, and there was no Claude-what was there left for me, for the dull and serving wife, but a broken contract held in hand?’

She halted, and Craig struck a match and put it to her fresh cigarette.

‘You mentioned your work,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t there be some absorption in finding new work and-’

‘Find new work? Just like that? You should know better. Mr. Craig. Is an author so different from a scientist? One does not find work-the work finds one. Maybe, from now on, the work will never find me. And if that happens, and Claude leaves me, I will know widowhood twice and at the same time. Surely, that would be too much to bear. For this reason, in the only way I can think of, I am fighting to keep Claude.’ She drew steadily on her cigarette and then sat back. ‘So-you still do not like my plot?’

Craig threw up his hands. ‘What can I say? Criticism, without engagement, is not too easy to make accurately. It is just that I have the feeling, Dr. Marceau, that the plot, for better or worse, will resolve nothing. The solution must come by other means.’

‘Let it come by any means,’ she said. ‘Beggars are not choosers. But I cannot wait for happy accidents. I must go ahead.’

‘Then I wish you luck, believe me. If I can help in any way-’

‘You have helped me enough. I will read your books… Here, they have left the menu. Whatever is Friterade sjötungsfileer med remouladesås?’

Craig signalled for the waiter, and then, with his guidance, they studied the luncheon menu. Except for the pickled herring, salad, and mushrooms, they skipped the smorgåsbord and ordered a fillet of sole, to be accompanied by glasses of cold brännvin.

No sooner had the waiter gone than his place was filled by the figure of another man. Both Denise and Craig looked up as one to find Dr. John Garrett before them. His features wore their perpetual anxiety, even the purple bruise under his right eye seemed jump, and he pinched nervously at his grey worsted suit.

‘I thought I’d tell you, Dr. Marceau,’ he said, ‘they’re paging you in the lobby. There’s a phone call.’

‘Oh, thank you, Dr. Garrett.’ She rose and said to Craig. ‘Excuse me a minute,’ and then hurried off behind the pillar and through the tables.

Garrett remained standing, searching the busy room for someone. At last, he brought his attention back to Craig. ‘Do you happen to know Sue Wiley? She’s the-’

‘I know her,’ said Craig, and added, ‘unfortunately.’

‘Have you seen her around?’

‘No, I haven’t, and I don’t want to.’

‘She was supposed to meet me here,’ said Garrett. ‘She has a lunch somewhere else, but she had an interview here in the morning and said she’d see me for a minute. Maybe she got tied up.’

‘I wouldn’t concern myself about her,’ said Craig. ‘If you can help her, she’ll be around.’

Garrett seemed suddenly agitated. ‘What did you mean by that-if I could help her?’

‘Why, nothing at all. Only you’re a laureate, and she’s doing a hatchet job on laureates, all of us and those in the past, and so she won’t pass up a chance to see any one of us. Why don’t you sit down? Keep us company until she comes around.’

‘If you don’t mind?’ Garrett took the chair facing the lobby entrance, peered off expectantly for a moment, and then turned to Craig. ‘You don’t like Sue Wiley, do you?’

‘I think I’ve made that clear.’

‘Would you trust her at all? I mean-I know about her sensationalism, but she has a reputation-a big organization behind her-and the press has some integrity.’

‘I wouldn’t trust her under any circumstances,’ said Craig flatly.

This appeared to fluster Garrett. ‘But I mean-there are often special circumstances. For example, I’m always reading about reporters going to jail for a day or two, rather than divulge sources of their stories. Miss Wiley told me this once happened to her.’

‘I don’t believe it. I don’t think Wiley would go to jail an hour to protect her own mother.’

‘You’re just sore at her.’

‘That’s right,’ said Craig.

‘There’s good and bad in all of us,’ said Dr. Garrett.

‘And some of us believe what we want to believe,’ said Craig. ‘I don’t know what you’re seeing her about, but you had better be prepared to explain that mouse under your eye.’

Garrett touched the bruise. ‘Does it look bad?’

‘On someone else, no, but on a Nobel Prize winner, it might provoke questions.’

Garrett squirmed in his chair. ‘I guess you’re right. I’ll think of something.’ He hesitated, then went on. ‘I never got a chance-I mean-I guess I should give you my thanks for breaking-up that fight the other night. It was foolish. I shouldn’t drink.’

‘I’m glad I was there,’ said Craig. ‘He’s a big man. He could have killed you.’

Garrett said nothing, and then he said, ‘Maybe, but I would have killed him first.’

‘I won’t ask you what started it, only I can’t conceive of anything on earth that would make two-well, let’s face it-famous men-make two of them risk their reputations-’

‘Mr. Craig,’ Garrett interrupted, ‘there are times when you don’t think of consequences. Self-preservation is man’s first instinct. This was self-preservation-in a way, self-defence.’

‘I had the impression you started the fight.’

‘That night, yes, I plead guilty. But with moral justification. The original provocation came from Farelli. He stole my discovery, and if that wasn’t enough, to get half my prize undeservedly-now, he’s trying to get it all.’

The waiter appeared with the two modified smorgåsbord plates, and Garrett stopped speaking.

‘The lady will be right back,’ Craig told the waiter. Then he asked Garrett, ‘Will you join us?’

Garrett shook his head. ‘Thanks, I’m not hungry.’ He spoke absently, as if his mind were elsewhere, and the moment that the waiter had gone, he addressed himself earnestly to Craig. ‘I suppose I can talk to you,’ he said. ‘I am desperate for some advice.’

‘I’m not sure I’m capable of helping myself, let alone anyone else,’ said Craig, and he picked at the salad with his fork.

‘I mean, besides my wife, you’re the only one who knows about Farelli and me.’

Craig remembered Märta Norberg and Ragnar Hammarlund, but kept his silence.

‘I have an awful problem, Mr. Craig. I make up my mind, and then I’m not positive about it. To tell the truth, and this is between us, I even telephoned my psychoanalyst in California last night-long distance. I’ve been overworked and upset this last year, and I’ve been in group therapy-and Dr. Keller has been extremely helpful, settling-’

‘Well, I’m sure I couldn’t give you better advice.’

‘Dr. Keller wasn’t in. He’s out of town for two days. And now I have to make this decision-in fact, right now. I had made it when I phoned Sue Wiley to meet me, but suddenly here I am, and I’m not sure.’

Craig was reluctant to become involved in an intramural squabble, but the fact that Garrett was involving Sue Wiley made whatever it was sound more ominous. ‘What’s the problem?’ Craig asked. ‘Are you going to tell the Wiley woman that Farelli took a poke at you?’

‘No, no, nothing like that. This is much more-’

‘What is it then?’

Garrett dug a hand into his pocket and brought out a folded typewriter sheet. He unfolded it and handed it across the table to Craig. ‘Read that.’

Casually at first, and then carefully, Craig perused what was entitled ‘Report to German Experimental Institute for Aviation Medicine’ and signed ‘Dr. S. Rascher, 3 April, 1944.’ He almost missed Farelli’s name in the first reading, and then he saw it plainly, and read the document a second time.

Craig looked up. ‘What is this supposed to be? Is it what I think it is-those doctors who were tried at Nürnberg and hung for experimenting on human beings?’

‘Exactly. And all Hitler’s allies co-operated in supplying doctors, and Farelli was one of them. There it is-black and white.’

Craig stared at the paper in his hand. ‘Where did you get hold of this?’

‘It’s authentic, all right. A friend of mine in the Caroline Institute made those notes from someone who had seen the photocopy. When the Nobel people were investigating Farelli-they investigated me, too-they found this out, in tracing Farelli’s war history.’

‘I read he was an anti-Fascist, arrested-’

‘Only to a point,’ said Garrett excitedly, as if he were happy at his rival’s weakness, ‘and then-well, there you see it-he decided to play ball and went to Dachau and collaborated with those medical murderers in torturing and putting helpless prisoners to death in experiments.’

Craig dropped the paper to the table. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said.

‘There it is,’ insisted Garrett doggedly.

Craig looked at Garrett’s glowing, unnatural face, and was dismayed. ‘And this-this so-called evidence-is this what you are giving to Sue Wiley?’

‘Well, I-I thought it seemed the right-’

‘Is that your problem?’ persisted Craig. ‘To do or not to do? Is that what you can’t make up your mind about?’

‘I’ve made up my mind-’

‘But still you’re not sure. Your conscience bothers you. And so you want someone else-your psychiatrist-me-anyone-to give our approval, so you’re not alone.’

‘Well, not exactly.’

‘You want my advice?’ asked Craig.

‘Yes, that’s why I showed you-’

‘Don’t do it,’ said Craig with all the firmness he could muster. ‘Tear this up and forget it.’

‘But-’

‘I said forget the whole thing. What kind of revenge is this-to destroy an eminent physician, destroy him utterly, in return for a punch on the jaw?’

‘It’s not revenge at all,’ protested Garrett.

‘What is it then-righteousness? Cut it out. Who appointed you supreme judge of all men? If a Nobel investigator, an informed and intelligent and balanced man, saw fit to weigh and reject this, why should you veto him and place your sole judgment, emotional and prejudiced, over an expert’s? Who are you to do this?’

Garrett began to shake. ‘A criminal should be punished,’ he said too loudly, so that several at the next table turned to stare.

Craig lowered his own voice, ‘You’re sentencing him to death without trial. Turning this unproved paragraph over to Sue Wiley is like giving a five-year-old boy a loaded Lüger and telling him to go out and play cowboy with the kids. She’ll plaster this a mile high around the world. You’ll ruin Farelli forever.’

‘If he deserves it-’

‘And what if he doesn’t deserve it? What if he can prove this is a mistake? Who’ll remember or pay attention to the retractions. They’re not worth headlines. For the rest of his life Farelli, no matter how innocent, will be the Nazi collaborator who helped kill at Dachau.’ Craig tried to reach the troubled man across from him with anything, even flattery. ‘Dr. Garrett, try to see yourself as others see you. Today you are world famous, Farelli or no Farelli. You are known, respected, applauded-and deservedly. Your discovery is one of the most remarkable in history. You don’t have to stoop to defamation of character to secure your own place. Can’t you see that?’

‘But letting a criminal-’

‘Who says he’s a criminal besides you?’

Garrett pointed to the sheet of paper between them. ‘The evidence is obvious.’

‘It’s circumstantial,’ said Craig, biting the words. ‘Were you there? Did you see it? Have you found actual reliable witnesses? Have you heard Farelli’s side of it? No, I’m sure not. All you have is a scrap of paper.’ He snatched up the paper and read the one line, ‘ “Dr. C. Farelli, Rome.” ’ He looked up sternly. ‘Is that enough, Dr. Garrett? Farelli is an Italian name, and so is Carlo, both common. There must be countless Carlo Farellis the length and breadth of Italy. And some of them physicians, and some of them with war records. Coincidences happen too often, and too often innocent men are injured for life because people refuse to believe in coincidences.

‘I remember reading of a renowned criminal case, a lamentable true story-Adolf Beck, that was his name-he was the victim of circumstantial evidence and misinformation. Just before the turn of the century, a Dr. John Smith was arrested for swindling women out of jewellery. He was arrested, jailed, released. Years later, there occurred another series of similar swindles and a Norwegian chemist residing in London, one Adolf Beck, was arrested, identified by ten women, but what really convicted him was the old file on Dr. John Smith. This Beck’s features, build, scars, handwriting were identical to those of Smith, and so the court decided that Beck was none other than Smith, and he was sentenced to six years in prison. He protested his innocence in sixteen petitions, to no avail. He was released from jail-in 1901, I think it was-and three years later, he was back in jail for swindling jewels a third time, although he pleaded that he was innocent and that it was all a case of mistaken identity. Then, after this long travail, two chance things happened to save Beck. An old identification of the original Smith, overlooked so long, was found, and it said that Smith was circumcised-and Beck was examined and he was not circumcised. And then a man named Thomas was arrested in the act of selling swindled jewels, and he turned out not only to resemble Beck, but to be the original Smith who was, indeed, circumcised. So after all those years in jail, his life ruined, Adolf Beck was freed. And all because of coincidence, hysteria, a mistake in identity.’

Craig halted his impassioned account and glared at Garrett. ‘Do you want to take the risk of having an Adolf Beck on your conscience, Dr. Garrett?’

Garrett had grown pale and smaller, and Craig pressed his point harder.

‘It’s not only that there may have been another C. Farelli at Dachau. What if there was none at all, and this was merely a diabolical trick, this insertion of the name of an anti-Fascist, by one of Farelli’s blackshirt enemies, by Mussolini himself? At the worst, supposing Farelli had indeed been there, your Farelli, our Farelli. Maybe his attendance was enforced at the point of a gun-to obtain his diagnosis and advice. Maybe he was there and did not participate in the actual murders at all. There are all those possibilities, and more. Are you the one to say none of these is correct and only your angry indictment-Farelli capitulated, volunteered, killed others-is the true one? Will you accept that responsibility fully-and tonight, on thin evidence, see a valuable colleague ruined by unprincipled scandal? The decision is yours to make, Dr. Garrett, not mine-your own and no one else’s.’

Craig’s appeal, so fervent, had depleted his reservoir of energy, and he fell back against the chair, exhausted, and waited.

Garrett stared down at the tablecloth, all dumb except for his hands in his lap, opening and closing.

‘There you are, Dr. Garrett!’ It was a young woman’s voice that called out, and they were both startled and turned to find Sue Wiley, wearing, her Robin Hood hat and a military coat, coming towards them. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you!’

Garrett, wraithlike, clambered to his feet, but Craig remained in his place.

Sue Wiley shook Garrett’s hand and widened her eyes. ‘Boy, what a beaut. Where did you get the shiner?’

Garrett felt Craig’s presence, and felt perspiration under his collar. ‘I-I was in the bathroom and turned around and the shower door was open-lucky I didn’t lose an eye.’

‘I’ll bet,’ said Sue Wiley cheerfully. ‘If that’s your story-okay by me.’ She came around on one spiked heel. ‘Why, hallo, Mr. Craig. I didn’t see you.’

‘Don’t,’ said Craig.

‘I heard that you had a divine night with my friend Mr. Gottling. Did you? He said he was too drunk to remember a thing, the beast.’

Craig offered his silent thanks to Gunnar Gottling and hoped that it was true. ‘You can write that the alcoholic literary laureate was drunk too, and that he robbed the Royal Palace and raped a princess or two and that his mind is a blank.’

‘Thanks for nothing,’ said Sue Wiley with determined cheer, but her eyes blinked and blinked. She faced Garrett once more. ‘You wanted to see me about something? I have an important date, but if it’s anything at all, I can ring and put off-’

Garrett swallowed. ‘It-it’s nothing-nothing at all-I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought I would have some news for you, but-’

‘About what?’ demanded Sue Wiley.

‘I-well, it was about the nature of my next-next work-experiments. But it involves others-an endowment-and there’s been a delay, so I have no announcement to make yet.’

Sue Wiley sniffed. ‘Anything is grist for the mill. Maybe you can tell me something?’

‘I apologize for taking you out of your way, Miss Wiley, but what I wanted to tell you-it hasn’t developed-and I’m not at liberty-’

‘I understand,’ she said abruptly. ‘But if it happens, remember what I told you on the plane-I’m in your corner, and I want the beat.’

‘I promise you that.’

‘All right. See you before the Ceremony, I hope.’ She hitched her bag under her arm and turned to Craig. ‘You keep me in mind, too, Mr. Craig.’

‘You’re never out of my mind for a second,’ said Craig.

‘I know, I know. Well-happy skåling and goddag and adjö.’

‘The same to you,’ muttered Craig.

He watched her leave, stopping here and there to shake hands at various tables, until she had disappeared into the lobby.

Garrett sat down slowly, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. After he had stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket, he took the sheet of paper from the table. He tore it into shreds, and crumpled the shreds, and shoved them into his pocket, too.

‘Can I have a sip of whatever you’re drinking?’ he said, at last.

‘Ice-cold brännvin,’ said Craig. ‘Have it all.’

Garrett took the short glass in his unsteady hand and drank the brännvin down in one gulp. He grimaced, and then met Craig’s eyes.

‘Thanks,’ he said. And then he said, ‘I don’t mean for the drink.’

Craig nodded. ‘I know. You won’t be sorry.’

Garrett licked his lips. ‘I think you should know-this is only armistice-it isn’t peace.’

‘Whatever you say.’

After that, Garrett ordered another brännvin and smoked reindeer sandwiches, and by the time his order came, Denise Marceau was making her way back to their table.

‘Have I held you up? Please do not stand.’ She slid into her chair, and beamed at Craig. ‘That was the party of the third part on the telephone. Everything is arranged.’

‘The plot thickens?’ said Craig.

‘Precisely,’ said Denise, opening her napkin. ‘Even though it isn’t your play, wish me luck.’

‘Luck,’ said Craig.

And with that, they all bent to their food.

For his interview with Miss Sue Wiley, of America, Nicholas Daranyi had selected a distinguished restaurant several centuries old, the Bacchi Wapen, in Järntorgsgatan, not far from his residence in the Old Town.

In seeing established contacts, Daranyi made it a policy not to pamper them with lunch at all, at least not expensive lunches. For them, the money was enough. Gottling, although he had been sullen and unco-operative yesterday, in fact almost rude, had frequently been free with gossip for the price of a night of drinks. Mathews, the English correspondent, whose suits were threadbare, and Miss Björkman, Hammarlund’s secretary, who was underpaid, were always valuable and dependable, as they had been last night, and never made demands beyond the kronor offered. But Miss Wiley was a new one, of great promise, or so Krantz had suggested, and she was a highly paid American, and that meant that she might require being handled with considerable delicacy.

Bacchi Wapen was far too expensive for Daranyi’s budget, but since he knew that he could not woo a rich American with his small funds, that he must entice her with other bait, a fine restaurant seemed an appropriate beginning. Daranyi had much faith in the seductiveness of expensive surroundings. For one thing, they gave him an air of solidity and prosperity. For another, they put his informants in his debt, in a subtle way, and wine of the best vintage and a fine cuisine more often than not made his guests drop their guards.

There was something to be said, too, for the enchantment of the surroundings. In Bacchi Wapen, a restaurant carved out of a rock, with its unique dining levels like so many descending cliffs, with its rare smorgåsbord table, and the lovely young girl nearby at the piano, this somehow ennobled what otherwise might be regarded as a tawdry business. In surroundings such as this, the acquisition of odious calumnies took on the high purpose of a search for Truth.

At his table, enjoying the fragrance of his own body cologne, Daranyi nursed his dry martini and listened to the tinkling piano and wondered if Miss Wiley would prove a fruitful source. If she did, and Mathews delivered as he had promised, the few sources that remained would be inconsequential, the mere gilding of the lily. If Miss Wiley co-operated, he would surprise Krantz by presenting him with a thorough dossier on each laureate many hours before tomorrow evening’s deadline. And for this, he would have a bonus besides his payment. Perhaps more, perhaps more. Daranyi would think about it when he was alone, and making his jottings, tonight.

He saw that the proprietor was directing a young lady-a surprisingly young lady, with a face like a gun dog, a pointer, wearing a costly soldier coat-towards his table. Daranyi shoved back his chair, to free his belly, and came to his feet.

‘I’m Sue Wiley of Consolidated,’ she said, and offered her hand.

Daranyi clicked his heels and inclined his head. ‘Nicholas Daranyi,’ he announced, and quickly bent and kissed her hand.

After they had been seated, Daranyi inquired, ‘You will join me for a drink?’

‘I don’t drink,’ said Sue Wiley. ‘But I’m as hungry as ten wolves. What’s the specialty?’

‘I have studied the menu. Everything in Bacchi Wapen is delicious.’

‘What does Bacchi Wapen mean?’

‘Bacchus Arms,’ said Daranyi.

‘The names get sillier every day. All right, what were you suggesting?’

‘In Sweden, for lunch, you can never go wrong with köttbullar.’

‘What in the devil is that?’

Her aggressive manner was disconcerting to Daranyi, but he retained his aplomb. ‘A superb form of meatballs with carrots in a thick sauce-’

‘That’s for me,’ said Sue Wiley. ‘I’m busy as all get out, so if you don’t mind, let’s be served and call the meeting to order.’

‘Certainly, whatever your pleasure,’ said Daranyi.

He snapped his fingers, and when the waitress came, he placed the orders, and added regretfully that they were in a hurry.

‘What kind of accent have you got?’ demanded Sue Wiley. ‘Romanian? Bulgarian? Hungarian?’

Daranyi was momentarily taken aback, for he did not know that he had an accent. ‘Hungarian,’ he said feebly.

‘Oh, one of those.’ She fiddled with her handbag, took out her compact, examined her face, then snapped it shut. ‘When you have a Hungarian for a friend, you don’t need an enemy.’

‘I beg your pardon, Miss Wiley?’

‘No offence. An American joke. There are hundreds about Hungarians. How does it feel to be a Hungarian?’

‘I would not know. I have always considered myself a man of the whole world.’

‘Yes? Well, what are you doing then, hiding in Sweden? A duller place I’ve never seen.’

‘Oh, you must not be too critical, Miss Wiley. One becomes accustomed to the quiet, and after a while, one appreciates and enjoys it.’

‘There’s enough quiet after you’re dead.’

‘True, but for a historian, it is valuable in life, too.’ He had decided upon his role early this morning, when he had thought about Andrew Craig. ‘One requires solitude.’

‘You can have it.’ Her hand accidentally tipped over the saltcellar, and she hastily retrieved a pinch of salt and cast it over her left shoulder. ‘Now, Mr. Daranyi, I’m not sure why I’m here, except you said on the phone you’d heard I was writing a Nobel series-’

‘Yes, a correspondent from London so advised me.’

‘-and you might have some useful material for me, in return for a slight favour. What favour?’

‘Before we go into that,’ said Daranyi suavely, ‘we must have at least a brief knowledge of one another, how I may be of assistance to you, and you to me. I am, as I have advised you, a historian. I have a contract with a British publisher to develop a thorough book on the Nobel Prize awards, and the personalities concerned, since 1901. However, much to my distress, the publisher has insisted that the history not be too-er, dry-that even, as regards the personalities, it be racy, and that emphasis be placed on the more recent laureates. Unfortunately, I am a scholar and not a journalist. I find it difficult to acquire such information on the current winners.’

Sue Wiley’s eyes blinked steadily. ‘So that’s where I come in?’

‘I had heard you were well acquainted with the current winners.’

‘You bet your life I am. I’m loaded. Are you? What’s in it for me?’

‘I have devoted two years to my researches, Miss Wiley. I have a mountain of important information on the past.’

‘My kind of information, Mr. Daranyi?’

‘It depends. What exactly is your kind of information?’

‘One paragraph’ll do it for you. You want to know the lead to my opening article next week? Now, sit tight.’ She squeezed her eyes shut and recited: ‘ “Part I. Exploding the Nobel Myth. By Sue Wiley, CN’s Special Correspondent in Stockholm. Paragraph, lead. That late gadfly, George Bernard Shaw, once stated, ‘I can forgive Alfred Nobel for having invented dynamite, but only a fiend in human form could have invented the Nobel Prize!’ Ditto, say I from the capital of Sweden, source of the world’s greatest and most dangerous give-away circus. Paragraph. I have been where few men or women have ever ventured, behind the scenes of last week’s Nobel awards, and for months I have done firsthand spade-work into past awards, and I am here to prove that the dignified, solemn prize-giving is, and always has been, an explosive, as deadly, as harmful, to giver and taker alike, and to the world, as the donor’s invention of dynamite. Exclamation point.” ’ She opened her eyes. ‘How’s that?’

‘Provocative, to say the least.’

‘You can say that again. It’ll be a sensation. Now then, I’ve laid it on the line. I’m not interested in any high falutin’ scholarship. I’m interested in dirt, as one writer to another. Can you help me?’

Even Daranyi, who had been forced into many disagreeable relationships in the course of his work, was repelled by this young person. But he saw at once that she would have what he required for Krantz. Business is business, he reminded himself. ‘I believe I do have much that would be valuable to you, Miss Wiley.’

‘Okay, you come across and I’ll come across. Your credentials first. For all I know, you may be a stringer for Associated Press.’

‘Credentials?’

‘How do I know you’re pounding out a book?’

‘Yes, of course, I do not blame you.’ From inside his jacket, Daranyi withdrew a folded, blue-bound publishing contract which he had carefully prepared for this occasion. He handed it to Sue Wiley. ‘I anticipated that you might ask. There is my contract. I trust that you will not divulge the-er, financial-financial details to outsiders.’

‘What do you think I am?’ She studied the first page of the contract, then riffled quickly through the other pages, then examined the last page. She handed it back. ‘Kosher,’ she said. ‘You want to see my press pass?’

‘That will not be necessary, Miss Wiley. I have been informed of your high standing.’

‘Okay, Mr. Daranyi, what do we do next?’

‘We exchange information. You give me a fact. I give you a fact in return.’

Sue Wiley blinked. ‘Not so fast, my friend. Let’s have a preview first.’

‘What does that mean-preview?’

‘Sorry-some samples. You throw me a couple of titbits, so I know you’ve got the dope. I’ll do likewise. If we’re both satisfied, we can go on from there. You’ve got everything with you?’

Daranyi nodded. ‘In my head, yes. All can be verified.’

‘Bravo for you. I keep my notes under lock and key in my hotel. If I’m satisfied, we’ll get this lunch over with fast, and you’ll come back with me. We can make our exchange and take down the information in my room. Suit you?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘Let’s go, then. You first.’

Daranyi found himself inhibited. ‘I do not know exactly what you want. There is so much.’

‘Anything off the cuff,’ said Sue Wiley, ‘but make it juicy and keep it factual.’

He had prepared himself carefully, reviewing carbon copies of old assignments and writing down snatches of gossip overheard since his arrival in Sweden, and his knowledge had seemed formidable, but now, suddenly, he was less confident of pleasing her.

‘Frans Eemil Sillanpää-’ he began.

‘Frans Eemil who?’

‘Sillanpää,’ he repeated weakly, ‘the Finnish author. When he learned that he had won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1939, he immediately proposed marriage to his secretary and then went off on a fourteen-day drunk.’

Sue Wiley scowled. ‘Is that all?’

Momentarily, Daranyi lost his composure. ‘I-I think it is amusing.’

‘If that had happened to Red Lewis or Pearl Buck, sure. But who in the hell gives a hoot about Frans Eemil Whatever-his-name-is?’

Grieved, Daranyi tried to save Sillanpää. ‘There is more to it, Miss Wiley. The Swedish Academy was prejudiced for Sillanpää, because he had tried to make Swedish the official language of Finland. Also, when the voting started in 1939, Russia was invading Finland, and by honouring a Finn, the judges were making a gesture against Communism.’

Sue Wiley gave Daranyi no encouragement.

With quiet desperation, he slogged on. ‘Also-also-Sillanpää was a friend of Sibelius-no, I suppose that is not important. At any rate, he was poor and a widower with seven children, and when he heard that he had won the prize, he sent his seven children running through Helsinki shouting, “Father’s rich!” ’

‘Strike one,’ said Sue Wiley grimly.

‘I do not understand?’

‘It means you have one strike on you, and you’d better start swinging. Mr. Daranyi, I’ve got news for you-nobody, but nobody, in Kansas City or Denver or Seattle gives a damn what happened to Sillanpää. You’ll have to do better than that. What else have you got in the hopper?’

‘Sir Venkata Raman won the physics award in 1930-’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘The Raman ray, Miss Wiley. He discovered it. He came from the University of Calcutta, wearing a turban, and he created the most embarrassing moment in the history of the Nobel Prize. When he made his speech, after the Ceremony, he accepted a toast to his award by glaring at the British Minister and saying, “I accept not on my own behalf, but on behalf of my country and on behalf of those of my great colleagues who are now in jail.” ’

Sue Wiley looked off with irritation. ‘Where are those meatballs? Are they growing them?’

‘This Raman-’ said Daranyi.

‘You can keep him. That’s two strikes. One more to go.’

Daranyi, in disorderly retreat, scrambled through his memory, brushing past the great names he had waiting in line, until he found one and brought him forward. Andrew Craig. Andrew Craig and Lilly Hedqvist. He, alone, by lucky chance, knew of their love affair. What if he revealed it now? Ah, how Miss Wiley’s mouth would water for every detail. This would win the day. But then, he saw, this act of revelation would make him as detestable as was Miss Wiley in his eyes. It would also make him a traitor to friendship, his only fatherland on earth. He had liked Craig enormously, and he regarded Lilly protectively, as a child of his own. Not Wiley, not Krantz, were worth losing her. Ashamed for having even considered the betrayal, aware of his guest’s impatience, he hastily located another author of the same nationality and led him to the assassin. It was all or nothing now. ‘Americans-’ he said, and hesitated.

Sue Wiley was attentive. ‘Americans? What about them?’

‘They were not always favoured in the Swedish Academy. There was strong resistance to Sinclair Lewis, the first American author to-’

‘I already heard that from Gunnar Gottling.’

‘Did you hear that Sinclair Lewis’s publisher in New York, Alfred Harcourt, had been secretly promoting Lewis for a long time to win the prize?’

‘You mean Harcourt was lobbying for him? In what way?’

‘I do not know. It is only something I heard. I cannot prove it.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Sue Wiley. ‘That’s good, that’s more like it.’

In that instant, Daranyi realized what she wanted of him, not bold human-interest sidelights but stupid slivers of modern gossip. Immediately, he consolidated his short gain. ‘There is the other one with a similar name-yes, Upton Sinclair. He was nominated for the Nobel Prize in 1932 by seven hundred and seventy famous people.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Oh yes, Albert Einstein, Bertrand Russell, Harold Laski, they all nominated him, but he was defeated by John Galsworthy. And W. Somerset Maugham, he was once nominated for the Nobel Prize, but he lost because a majority of the judges said that he was too popular.’

Sue Wiley clapped her hands. ‘Wonderful. Home run, Mr. Daranyi. And you’ve got more where that came from?’

Daranyi felt the tension go out of his shoulders. ‘Much, much more, Miss Wiley.’

‘Good. We’re in business.’

His confidence came hobbling back. ‘Not quite, Miss Wiley. This is a two-way proposition. I have not yet heard what you have to offer.’

His sudden lack of timidity surprised not only himself but Sue Wiley as well. ‘You don’t have to worry about my end of it,’ she said. ‘I’m loaded. When we get back to the hotel-’

‘I must know now,’ he said, more than ever pleased with himself. ‘I must have what you call the preview sample.’

‘All right,’ she said generously, ‘fair’s fair. Let me see-’

He recalled the names on which Krantz had placed emphasis. ‘Dr. John Garrett?’ he suggested.

‘Garrett?’ Sue Wiley nodded. ‘Sitting duck. He and Dr. Carlo Farelli hate each other.’

‘I know all about that, Miss Wiley.’

‘You do?’ Her eyebrows had shot up, and now she was suddenly respectful.

‘Indeed I do. They had an altercation at the Royal Banquet. And on another public occasion.’ He was pleased to retaliate in this way, and silently he thanked Hammarlund’s secretary.

‘Well, do you know that Garrett is in psychoanalysis in Los Angeles?’

‘No, that I did not know. Most interesting. I would be pleased to hear more.’

Sue Wiley glanced about her. ‘Not here. But soon enough. Are you satisfied?’

‘What about Professor Max Stratman?’

‘There’s not too much new on him. You know about his background during the war?’

‘I do.’

‘Mmm. But in Stockholm?’

‘I know nothing.’

‘Well, then,’ said Sue Wiley, ‘for one thing, he’s apparently got a heart condition, been seeing a heart specialist at the Southern Hospital. Also, he had lunch at Riche the other day with some big-shot German Commie-I don’t know who yet, somebody who just checked in from East Berlin.’

Daranyi’s veins swelled in his temples. This was good, too good. He tried to think: was this armament for Krantz or against Krantz? He wondered. Then he remembered that he had his role. ‘Yes-yes-interesting, Miss Wiley. Of course, not exactly material of enduring quality for a staid historian-yet, one never knows. I think you will be a useful contributor. Indeed, I shall acknowledge your help in my book.’

‘Just leave me out of your book,’ said Sue Wiley. She observed the waitress coming with their tray, and beyond the waitress, just being seated, the famous actress, Märta Norberg, and a rather severe woman who resembled a governess and whom she suddenly identified as the writer Craig’s sister-in-law. ‘Here’s lunch,’ she said to the Hungarian. ‘About time. The place is getting too crowded. Let’s make it fast and get back to the hotel. Our afternoon’s work is cut out for us.’

Emily Stratman hummed softly as she rode the elevator to the third floor of the Grand Hotel. Although she had long ago banished all that was German from her life, the tune that she now hummed, a stray wisp of recall from childhood, was Du, du, liegst mir im Herzen, Du du liegst mir im Sinn.

It was 4.10, and Emily’s frame of mind was mellow and quietly happy. The late luncheon given by several members of the Nobel Committee for Physics, and their wives, in the large apartment on Ringvägen, had been more pleasant than she had expected. The wives had spoken so adoringly of their husbands, their children, their home lives, that Emily’s desire to see Andrew Craig again, as she would in several hours for dinner, had been heightened. It was comforting, in a way she had always dreamed but never known, to have someone calling on her, attentive to her, protective even, someone with whom she felt safe and in whom she was emotionally absorbed.

Except for the brief exchange at noon the day before, Emily had not been alone with Craig since that natural embrace on the Hammarlund terrace, when he had kissed her. Or, in truth, had she really kissed him? She wondered what would have happened, been said, if they had not been interrupted by the summons to dinner. She wondered how he would behave tonight and what he might say and what she would say in return. Her constant devotion to him, in the privacy of her hidden fantasies, had at first alarmed her, but now if he was even briefly missing, she was bereft. In her world of make-believe, she had never been closer to any man. Her need for him, and trust in him, dominated her inner existence. How surprised he would be if he could know this! For she knew the reality of her presence in his presence, her withdrawn and withheld inarticulate presence, her aloof and cold untouchability. Well, she would try to represent to him her truer self tonight-that is, if there was a truer self.

Inexplicably, she found herself before the door of the suite, and still humming idiotically. She opened the door with the heavy hotel key, left it on the entry-hall table, hung her coat neatly in the cupboard, then, fingers knitted together behind her head, through her hair, she stretched her shoulders and chest before the mirror, studied the fit of her new wool cardigan suit, and was satisfied.

A bath, she decided, a bubble bath. She would soak and soak, and dream a little, and perhaps nap briefly, before dressing for Andrew.

She strolled lazily into the sitting-room, noticing that the maid had turned the lamps up-outside it was already dark-and then suddenly, turning fully into the room, she froze.

At the opposite end of the room, like a granite statue in a chair, sat Leah Decker.

Involuntarily Emily brought her hand to her mouth, and emitted a gasp. Her heart raced-the occupant had been so unexpected in a room that she had thought only her own-and then she closed her eyes, and animated herself with a shudder, and looked at Leah Decker.

Leah remained unmoving. ‘I’m sorry to have scared you, Miss Stratman,’ she said, but the voice was unusually hard and bore no inflection of apology.

Emily laughed nervously. ‘How silly of me. It was just that I didn’t expect-’

‘I know this is improper,’ Leah said. ‘I fetched the maid and told her who I was and asked her to let me in. It was important to see you. I wanted to take no chance of missing you.’

Emily felt confusion at her visitor’s conduct and her bitter tone. Her mind leaped to Craig. This was his relative. Emily moved a few tentative steps towards Leah. ‘Is there anything wrong, Miss Decker?’

‘Should there be?’ said Leah laconically. ‘As a matter of fact, yes, that’s what brought me here. I think you’d better take a seat, Miss Stratman. You and I are going to have a short talk.’

Leah Decker was totally in command, her voice so imperative (so familiarly Germanic to Emily’s oldest memory), that Emily obeyed without question. Hastily, she took the chair nearest Leah, and gripped the arms, and waited in befuddlement.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘You seem so-you seem upset.’

‘I am upset.’ Leah’s voice was nasal and imperious. ‘I have every right to be. Things have been going on behind my back, ugly things, and I want them out in the open.’

‘I have no idea what you are speaking about.’

‘You will, you will, indeed, in a minute. I had lunch today with Märta Norberg.’

She said it as if it would mean something to Emily, but it meant nothing, and so Emily said nothing.

Leah resumed. ‘Märta and I had a long talk about my brother-in-law. And then we discussed you.’

Emily was honestly astonished. ‘Me? I didn’t know Miss Norberg was aware of my existence. What could you find to discuss about me?’

‘You’re very clever, Miss Stratman, but you will find I am no fool either, so you needn’t try any of your tricks on me.’

Leah’s tone was offensive, and Emily was instantly affronted by it. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Decker-’

‘Never mind. You’ll find I’m blunt and to the point, as I have a right to be. My brother-in-law called upon Miss Norberg last night at her residence. He was trying to sell her his next book for movies. According to Märta Norberg-and I do not know her to lie, and I do know my brother-in-law’s weaknesses as no one ever will-Andrew behaved disgustingly. He was drunk, he was obnoxious, and he tried forcibly to seduce his hostess. He might have criminally attacked her, had she not had a house filled with loyal servants. At last, she found it necessary to throw him out.’

Emily felt the blood rushing to her head. ‘I don’t believe a word of that, and I’m shocked that you believe it and dare repeat it. Everyone knows Märta Norberg’s reputation. Why are you telling me this ridiculous story?’

‘Because you are in it, my young lady, you are deeply in it, and I know Andrew’s character, his irresponsibility, and it’s my duty to see that he keeps out of trouble.’ She stared at Emily contemptuously. ‘I know all about you and Andrew. I heard it all from Märta Norberg. And she heard it from Andrew, yes, Andrew, your precious Andrew. He told her how he got you out on the Hammarlund terrace and kissed you-’

Emily sat stricken beyond the power of speech. A sinking ache lowered itself through her entire body. Leah’s outburst could no longer be turned aside. Who but Andrew and herself knew of that moment on the terrace? How could Leah know of this, if Andrew had not humiliated her by telling it to that actress?

‘-and that’s the least of it,’ Leah was saying. ‘I know everything now. I know you’ve been sleeping with Andrew from the moment you met. I guessed it when I caught you two at the Royal Banquet, when he didn’t come back to his room all night, not until morning.’

Emily’s body was stitched with pain, and her throat so constricted with dumbfounded indignation that she could hardly recover speech. ‘Sleeping with him!’ she cried. ‘That’s a filthy lie-and you’re a filthy-minded liar, you and that actress-both of you-both of you!’

Leah sat unwavering. When Emily had spent her fury, Leah spoke once more with calm superiority. ‘Deny it if you wish. It’ll do you no good. I have the facts. And I’m going to repeat one of them, exactly as Märta Norberg told it to me. When Andrew tried to seduce her last night, and she resisted, he began his drunken bragging, as he always does when he’s had too much. These are his very words to Märta Norberg. “I’ve done all right for myself right here in Sweden. I’ve been sleeping with a woman for sex and nothing else, so I don’t need you, Märta.” Those were his words. That’s what he told Märta, and she swears on the Bible he said them.’

‘I don’t care what he says or does,’ said Emily, trying to keep her voice from breaking, ‘but he didn’t tell that actress he was sleeping with me-he didn’t say that-so how can you come here-’

‘Does he have to spell it out? I told you I’m not a fool, and neither is Märta. If he behaves with you the way he does in public, what does he do with you in private? He said he’s having an affair-’

‘It’s not me-it’s not me-’

‘Will you deny what happened on the terrace?’

‘That’s true-and I’ll never forgive him-never-’

‘And the rest is true, too, and you know it,’ said Leah relentlessly, ‘and I know it, and I’ll believe it till the day I die.’

‘It’s still a lie! No man has ever touched me.’

‘Please. We’re not children.’

‘You are, with your foul mind. I’m not. If he said what he said-it’s true about the kissing-but if he said the other also, it could have been some other woman he’s having an affair with-it could be any of a thousand-’

‘It’s you, Emily Stratman.’

‘Believe what you want to, I don’t give a damn!’ Emily leaped to her feet, distraught and beyond restraint. ‘Now get out of here-get out of my room. What do I care what is in your sick mind?’

Leah rose slowly, the edges of her thin lips showing exultancy. ‘Of course, I shall leave. But first you’re going to hear why I came here at all.’

‘I don’t want to know! Get out!’

‘You’re going to know, and I’m going to tell you. I’ve watched you from the day we arrived here, watched you set your cap for my brother-in-law. I’m a woman, and I can tell when a woman makes up her mind-sets her sights-a handsome widower, tall, fascinating, free-a rich and famous author-a Nobel winner-well, why not? And how best to get him, this widower-the easy way, the way all crafty women trap and catch naïve men-by getting him below the belt, by giving their immoral, unclean bodies-’

Emily moaned at the shame of it, and began to sob piteously, eyes shut, shoulders shaking.

‘-and so you think you have him, but I’ll tell you what you have, Emily Stratman. If you want the truth or not, I’m going to tell you, and if you don’t believe me you can ask him. You’ve got a murderer, yes, a murderer-a man who killed his wife, my sister-because he was a drunkard. Did you know that? I bet he didn’t tell you that in bed. Ask him-ask him any time, see what he says. He killed Harriet. And that’s not all. He lives like a pig. He is a pig. He’s an alcoholic, drunk from morning to night, disgusting, every day drunk, every day and Sundays, drunk until he passes out. And as for being a writer? Ha! He’s a fake, a hoax, and everyone in Miller’s Dam knows it, but they don’t know it in Stockholm, and you can bet your right arm Andrew’s not telling them. He hasn’t written a word in three years, and he never will again. And he hasn’t got money, either. He’s got nothing but mortgages and debts, and when the prize money pays for those, he’ll be broke and drunk again. And sex-do you want to know about sex? Ask him about me, Leah Decker, ask him about when he was naked and I was naked, the two of us in his bed-see if he denies that either.’

Emily had stumbled to the chair, and sunk down into it, head in her arms, her body heaving, her sobs wretched. Leah regarded her without pity, and stalked towards her.

‘Why do I tell you all this?’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you why-because I’m all he has, and he’s all I have-because even though he killed my sister, even though he’s a wasted drunk, even though he hasn’t done a day’s work in years, even though he’s behaving disreputably every night in Stockholm-he’s still my charge, and I’m his guardian. He’s my responsibility and I’ve devoted my last three years to him, and I’ll devote the rest of my life if I have to, because it’s what my sister would want, and I loved her in life, and I love her in death. When he marries, it’ll be to me, if I’ll have him, and I’ll do it for my sister. But I’m not letting him-not now when he’s accomplished something, and even though he’ll never accomplish another thing-I’m not letting him throw himself away on some foreign Nazi chippy.’

She bent over Emily, shouting into her ear. ‘Do you hear me? If it is over my dead body-you are not going to get him!’

Slowly, Emily turned in the chair, hair tangled, eyes dulled, cheeks tear-blotched, gasping for breath, and then at last, she choked out her words.

‘I don’t want him-or anyone-no one… Please leave me alone-please-please-’

Leah Decker straightened to full height. She could leave now, and she left.

When Andrew Craig, dressed for the evening, buoyant with anticipation, arrived at the door of the Stratman suite, it was a few minutes after seven o’clock. He rapped, waiting to hear Emily’s quick step, but instead the door opened immediately, and there was Max Stratman buttoning his thick overcoat with his free hand.

‘Ach, Mr. Craig-’

There was neither cordiality nor hostility in Stratman’s demeanour, only sadness, as if he had aged too much overnight. He did not invite Craig inside, which Craig thought was surprising, but Craig wrote this off as an oversight due to self-absorption.

Craig crossed the threshold. Stratman avoided his eyes and stuffed his woollen scarf inside his coat.

‘I should have telephoned you,’ he muttered. ‘Emily asked me to telephone you. She cannot go to dinner.’

‘Why not? What’s the matter?’

‘Since I have come back, she is lying on her bed in the dark room. She says she has a headache and wants to rest. I do not like the way she looks, but she has no fever.’

Perplexed, Craig scratched his forehead. ‘I wonder what-May I see her?’

‘She will not see you. What has happened, Mr. Craig? Did you two quarrel?’

‘Of course not. I haven’t seen her all day.’

Stratman lifted his shoulders and then dropped them, as if to surrender the mystery as unsolved. ‘Then I give up. She will not have a doctor, and I do not think she needs one. She will not even have me around. “Go out and have dinner, Uncle Max. I want to be by myself.” So I go out to dinner and let her be by herself.’

‘Well, I’d like to know what’s the matter,’ said Craig. ‘I’m going in to see her anyway.’

‘Officially, no admittance. But if unofficially someone goes to her, what can I do? I look the other way. Have success, Mr. Craig, but do not aggravate her.’

‘Why should I? Of course not. You can trust me.’

He waited until Max Stratman had gone, and then he tried to imagine what had gone wrong, and could think of nothing. He went into the sitting-room, sailed his hat towards the sofa, yanked off his overcoat and dropped it on a chair, and opened the bedroom door.

He had expected it to be entirely dark inside, but it was not. The lamp beside the bed, which gave off a poor jaundiced-looking light, made visible only a portion of the bed and only a shoulder and arm that belonged to Emily. She was in the shadow of the light, and when Craig advanced to the foot of the bed, he could see that she had propped up a pillow and was settled back against it. She was fully clothed, except for her shoes, and her arms were folded across her bosom and her legs crossed before her. She seemed to be staring straight ahead of her, at some fixed point on the wall, and her eyes did not shift to Craig when he came into her field of vision. In no way did she acknowledge him.

He studied her delicate face, and it had the appearance of fragile chinaware accidentally broken and recently repaired.

‘Emily-’ he said.

She neither looked at him nor spoke to him.

‘-your uncle said you weren’t well and couldn’t come to dinner.’

‘I heard,’ she said listlessly, and still did not acknowledge him.

‘He said you wouldn’t even see me. If you’re not sick, it makes no sense. Has something happened?’

There was a movement of her head, and she acknowledged his concern at last. ‘I’m too tired to talk to you. Some other year, maybe. I’d prefer to be alone.’

He did not like the hurt flatness of her voice. ‘I’m not leaving you alone, Emily, until I find out what’s wrong.’

She did not reply, but turned her face from him, towards the wall, and at once he knew that it was serious. He came softly around the bed. He sat on the corner of the bed.

‘What is it, Emily? Is it something I’ve done-or not done? What? I’m completely mystified.’

‘Go away.’

‘Emily, what’s got into you?’

‘If you must know-’ she said. She turned her face towards him. ‘-I’ll tell you, and then I want you to go.’ She paused, and then she spoke. ‘Your sister-in-law was here this afternoon.’

He did not hide his confusion. ‘Lee-here?’

‘She came, and she had her picador sport, and she went. She said you and I were having an affair, and I was after you, and as proxy for your victimized wife, she would not permit it. She said you and I should not see each other again, and her arguments convinced me. That is all. My reserves are gone. I haven’t the strength to go into it with you. It’s too ugly, and I want you to go now.’

He was taken unawares by this event, but he was not astounded. The logic of Leah, the predictability of this, he should have anticipated from the night that she had made Emily her enemy. Still, how far had she gone? What had she been capable of saying? He tried to visualize the scene that had transpired, and he shuddered. Leah and Emily: the cat and the canary.

‘Emily, I’m sick at heart that you were subjected to this. But in all fairness, to both of us, I must know what Lee said to you.’

‘What does it matter? It means nothing now.’

‘Perhaps to you, but it means everything to me. I want to know.’

‘I don’t feel I should tell you.’

‘Emily, for God’s sake, this is no time for nice little games-sparing your tender feelings or my own. I’m as upset as you are, and I want the truth. I must have it.’

‘Very well, if you must. But I remind you, I don’t care. I don’t want a contest, no dispute, no more emotions. I just want to pay the price you are exacting to be rid of you.’ She seemed to steel herself, half turning towards him on her pillow. ‘Your sister-in-law was in my room when I came in. She had just had lunch with Märta Norberg-’

Craig nodded vigorously. He had been afraid of that lunch, and the detonation. One lunch, and two women scorned, and the inevitable fallout that maimed all at the periphery.

‘-and Norberg had given her an earful about you,’ said Emily. ‘First off, you were supposed to have seen Märta Norberg at her place last night. True or false? Oh, I don’t give a damn-’

‘True,’ said Craig. ‘I saw her.’

‘You were drunk and tried to seduce la Norberg.’

‘False and false again. I was sober as I am now. I did not lay a hand on Her Majesty. Do you want the truth?’

‘Don’t bother.’

‘She tried to seduce me-it’ll sound incredible-as part of a deal to make me write my next book to her specifications. I refused. Now she’s being vindictive.’ He paused. ‘Is that all of it, Emily?’

‘It’s not even the preface of it.’

‘Oh, Christ. What else?’

‘Must I?’

‘You’re damn right.’

‘I’ll make it brief. I hate this. Leah Decker said you killed your wife.’

He had feared this. What was there to say? ‘Yes and no,’ he said. ‘I’d had a few drinks, and we were driving, and I don’t know what happened. Technically, I did not kill Harriet. But by some moral standard-and Lee is Morality-I am responsible, I am, because I was drinking.’

‘And you’re a drunkard, she said.’

‘More or less, for three years, true. But since coming here-’

‘And you’ve given up writing and gone to hell, and your sister-in-law nurses you-’

‘Yes, I suppose you could say that. But I’m going to write again. I’m pulled together-if only you’ll-’

Emily interrupted him. ‘And you were in bed with her naked.’

Craig groaned. So this was how things were made to sound in a court of law, the half evidence, the half lies, the one-sided profile of truth? ‘Lee said that? Christ, the way it sounds!’

‘Either it’s true, or it’s not true.’

‘It’s true, but it’s a lie. A truth can be a lie. Were we in bed together without clothes? Yes, we were-’

‘Then-’

‘Wait! But it was she who was the aggressor. She was jealous of you, and she thought she could keep me this way, and when I went to bed, I found her there, but I didn’t-’

‘I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t care.’

Emily’s controlled evenness, her lack of emotion, made Craig suspect the extent to which she was seething inside. He must attempt to reason with her. ‘Emily, can’t you see that all this is the product of two angry, selfish women? I’m not worth all that devotion to distortion of truth. But here it is-and look what it’s done to you. Without examining Lee’s motives, you are swallowing it whole.’

‘Am I?’ said Emily, with her first flare of temper. ‘Then maybe you’re going to deny that you’ve merely been having fun with me, drunkenly dangling my scalp wherever it can be shown? How could Leah Decker know that we were out on the Hammarlund terrace-kissing?’

‘She said that, too?’

‘Norberg told her. Norberg said you bragged about it.’

Then, it came to him. ‘The bitch, the goddamn bitch. You know how Norberg knew that? In fact, she teased me with it. She knew that because that scum that walks like a man, Ragnar Hammarlund, has his whole house and outside bugged with hidden microphones-a business asset-and he’s in on everything. If you don’t believe me, ask Dr. Denise Marceau. I even warned her at lunch today.’

‘I’m not interested one way or the other,’ said Emily. ‘I don’t care about any of that, but only one thing.’ For the first time emotion began to pluck at her face, and she turned it away, and then went on in a low, almost inaudible voice. ‘I can’t stand that you made a public fool of me, that I behaved like a child. Maybe it could have happened to anyone, but I was the easiest to do this to because I’d never let my guard down before, never once, and now when I did, I did so entirely, and there was nothing to protect me, and now I’m so ashamed. It’s so hard for me to understand, still. You were nice-kind-thoughtful-beyond reproach-and interesting-and the first man since I can’t remember when-the first I wanted to hold me and to kiss-and it deceived me because I began to think-’

Her voice trailed off.

‘Began to think what, Emily?’ he said quietly. ‘That I might love you? I do love you, Emily. I am in love with you.’

‘No, I don’t want to hear any more about that. I want only the truth about one thing. I know it’s wrong of me, but I can’t help it-because right now it’s the only thing that matters. All the rest-I don’t care-but this matters. While you were with me-all the time you were with me-were you sleeping-having an affair-with another woman?’

Craig’s chest constricted. It was known, and here it was. What could be said?

But Emily went on. ‘Märta Norberg told your sister-in-law you had boasted of it. I don’t remember your exact words now, but something about-you were doing all right for yourself in Sweden, making love to some girl-woman-every night-something like that. Leah misunderstood this. She thought I was that woman. I told her I wasn’t. She didn’t believe me. But I didn’t care about that. What I cared about-how can I put it? If you were having an affair with someone else-I don’t mean pickups or prostitutes-but if you were making love to someone else, while leading me to believe you were-were-interested in me, giving me reason to trust you and have faith in you and pride in myself-if you were doing that-I’d be too humiliated to forgive you. And I’ve let you stay now because, I suppose, I had to know the truth. Be honest with me. That at least I deserve. Is what you told Màrta Norberg the truth? Have you been making love to another woman while you’ve been seeing me?’ She stared at him apprehensively. ‘Have you?’

‘Yes, Emily, I have.’

The breath she had held she now let go in a small sigh. She closed her eyes briefly. The timbre of her voice was that of a young woman turning from the open grave. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘all right.’ And then, ‘At least you’re honest. I suppose it’s the only virtue you have left.’

‘I have one more. I love you, Emily.’

She moved suddenly into the yellow light, her glossy black hair reflecting the light and her green eyes flashing. ‘Stop saying that. I despise falsity. How can you say you love me, and how can I believe it? How can you pretend romance with one woman, and hours later-or before, for all I know-possess and make love to another? What kind of person are you anyway?’

‘Emily, try to understand.’

‘I don’t want to understand that kind of perfidy.’

‘Try to hear me out, Emily. I have a right to my side of it. You gave Lee hers, to my detriment, and now be generous enough to give me mine.’ He collected his thoughts, and then spoke with frank urgency. ‘On the way to Stockholm-no, it was first in Copenhagen on a tour, and then on the Malmö ferry-I met a pretty young Swedish girl, a good, decent girl, as good as you and more decent than I, but with standards somewhat different from our own. She never knew who I really was-doesn’t know to this day. I had merely met her, had drinks with her, and charming conversation, and that was all there was to it. Then, the evening of the banquet in the Royal Palace-remember?-when I became so drunk, and you had properly turned me away-well, after the banquet, there I was, plastered and floating in self-pity-Lee told you my condition in Miller’s Dam after Harriet died-so there I was, filled with guilts, loneliness, rejected-and I wanted someone to reassure me that I was a human being. Then, in my stupor, I thought of Lilly-not love or sex, because I was too far gone-I thought of a woman’s warmth-hadn’t thought of it for years, and I missed it-and then there was Lilly-that’s her name, Lilly Hedqvist-and impulsively I went to her, and without a word, a question, the slightest hesitation, she took me in, a stranger, foreigner, a nobody as far as she was concerned. She put me to bed, and I slept it off. When I woke up in the morning, I tried to sneak out and let her be, but she wouldn’t think of it. And so what happened-it just happened in a natural way.’

‘I don’t want to hear of your disgusting amorous conquests,’ said Emily with bitterness.

‘This was no conquest at all. I had a need to be wanted, and she had the gift of kindness. I don’t know what was in her mind, if anything. Maybe she sensed my emptiness, my defeatism-there I was, brought down by drink, and exhaustion, and too many years-and so she gave her love and restored my belief in life. If there is one other soul on earth who thinks you have some worth, then life is possible. When I left that morning, I had no planned thought of seeing her again. But then, soon, the need came-it was after another bad evening. I had been drinking heavily with a well-known Swedish writer, and he had some inside information about how I’d got the prize.’ He paused, considered, but then it did not matter. ‘He had evidence that I didn’t get the prize on merit, but because I was needed as a political pawn-my most popular novel was anti-Communist-and because I had so little that had been propping me up, this information shattered me. I wanted to go to you. But I was afraid of your own fragile sensitivity. So I went to Lilly because I had been there before and had come to believe she would not fail me. And she didn’t. That’s all there is to this great affair that Norberg goaded me into revealing-and I could kill myself for being so immature as to take her dare-but it was necessary, too. I won’t say more or less about Lilly than I believe is true. I have affection for her, respect and affection-why shouldn’t I have?-but what I have for you, Emily, is love.’

‘Please don’t-’

‘A man knows these contradictions are possible. On the one hand, I could accept one young girl’s sympathetic tenderness and physical love-and on the other, at the very same time, give my heart to another woman who seemed unattainable.’ He stopped. Then he said, ‘There’s my explanation. I can add nothing more to it, if you have no understanding of it.’

Emily was gazing fixedly at the opposite wall once again. For some seconds she did not speak, and at last she spoke without looking at him.

‘I wish I had such understanding, but I don’t have it,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand such things about men in general or you in particular. Maybe by some neutral judgment, you are in the right, and I am in the wrong, but this is what I am, and I have to live with my emotions and expectations.’ She paused, and now spoke with rising intensity. ‘I can’t bear looking at you or being near you or being touched by you, when I know that for days I was being treated like a pitiable half-woman-which I may be-and being courted-if that is what you were doing-by the least part of you, and knowing that you only found even this possible because the most of you had to have and could enjoy a full woman in the night. I can’t find the right words-it’s all nerve ends-but it has to do, for me, with feeling inadequate and somehow cheapened.’

She turned her head towards him. ‘You say you love me. I don’t know how it is possible, and I don’t know what the word love means to you, but I know what it means to me-and-and with me it is a different word altogether. But if you do have-let me say regard-if you do have regard for me, then the best thing you can do is to leave me alone.’ Her hurt green eyes had filled, and he had a sudden impulse to hold her-or shake her, or make love to her-but he could do nothing.

‘Go away,’ she said. ‘Go to your Swedish friend, and let her fill your wants-let her love you again and again-but just don’t come near me, not now and not ever.’

She jerked her head away from him and buried her face in the pillow.

Craig lifted himself off the corner of the bed and dragged his feet across the carpet to the doorway and through it. He retrieved his hat and coat, all too slowly, hoping beyond hope that she had the inconsistency of all women-as Harriet had once had-and that she would recall him, because she loved him, too.

But no voice beckoned from the bedroom.

Craig went to the entry, and then into the hotel corridor, closing the door softly behind him.

He felt dislocated in time and purpose. He had no taste for dinner. His appetite was long gone. He had no interest in his room, where Leah might lie in wait, expecting his anger and relishing another opportunity to remind him of his debt. He had desire for nothing but oblivion.

He made his way to the elevator and descended to the bar.

He was lifted skyward in the triangular cage at Polhemsgatan 172C, and when it creaked to a halt at the sixth floor, he fumbled to open the cage and be out of it.

Only once he stumbled, which was not bad, not bad at all, he congratulated himself, for one who had been drinking steadily, alone, for over three hours.

He knocked on the door with the ‘C’ and squinted at the window and fire escape nearby and he waited. It was important that she be in tonight, the most important thing in their lives.

And then came her voice through the panel. ‘Ja?’

‘It’s me.’

The door flung open, and Lilly Hedqvist was his own, the cascade of golden hair, the welcome smile accentuating the beauty mark, the lavender robe.

‘Mr. Craig, I am so happy to see you.’

He directed himself in a straight line to the mosaic on the wall, and then sat clumsily on the hard, straight sofa beneath the mosaic.

‘Lilly,’ he said, ‘I am loaded to the gills. Do you want to throw me out?’

‘To have you run over by a car or maybe faint? Never. You will stay right here, until I say you are all right.’

‘And also I’m hungry. Haven’t eaten since noon.’

‘I will cook for you,’ she said gaily.

‘Only eggs. Scramble ‘em. And black coffee black.’

‘You are so easy to please.’

He had tried to find his pipe and tobacco, and did, and then dropped both. Quickly, Lilly picked them up.

‘I will fix it,’ she said. She dipped the pipe into the pouch, and packed it, and gave it to him. Then she lit it. ‘There. And do not burn my sofa.’

‘You’ll make some man a good wife,’ he said.

She started for the kitchenette. ‘I hope so.’

‘But I won’t let you,’ he said. ‘Because I want you to make me a good wife-me-not some man.’

She had slowed with this, and then stood still, her back to him, and now she came around, forehead knitted, and looked at him.

‘Are you making a joke, Mr. Craig?’

‘I’m perfectly serious. I’m proposing, young lady. I’m asking for your hand in marriage.’

‘You mean it,’ she said. It was not a question but a statement of fact.

‘Of course I mean it, Lilly. Never meant anything more. We can get married here, and then, you and your son, we can go back to the States, and-’

She moved towards him. ‘Mr. Craig, why do you ask to marry me?’

‘I don’t know why. You want to marry someone, and you ask them.’

‘But why-now-me?’

His mind dwelt on the incomprehensibility of all women, and he wanted a drink. ‘Because I care for you and need you, Lilly, and you can make me alive again.’ He was too sodden to concentrate in this serious vein. She liked fun. They had not often been serious. Fun. ‘I will buy you a Thunderbird and refrigerator and Bergdorf dress and nudist camp.’

She had circled the coffee table and was now on the sofa beside him, rubbing the back of her neck beneath her golden hair, face too solemn.

‘You do not want to marry me, Mr. Craig.’

‘Lilly, I know what I want. I’m asking you to be my wife.’

‘If you are asking so serious, it is bad then, because I must say no.’

He prickled and sobered slightly. ‘You said no?’

‘I do not wish to marry you.’

He was too drunk to be depressed, but he had recognized her reply as a phenomenon. He had made up his mind while drinking, and had imagined her pleasure, a famous and wealthy American Lancelot, Galahad, to rescue her from insecurity, work, unwed motherhood. Yet she had said no.

‘But I thought-’ he began. ‘What’s wrong with me? Am I too old?’

‘Oh, no. That is all right.’

‘Don’t you like me? I thought you liked me. We get along, and we have fun, and it would always be better.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Or is it that you have been sorry for me-the sad, middle-aged old man who is drunk and lonely-’

‘Of course not-never!’

‘Why did you let me love you, then?’

‘Mr. Craig, you are making that too much, I have told you, and Daranyi has told you. Because a woman sleeps with a man in Sweden is not the same as America-is not to prove eternal love-is not a pledge for marriage. Maybe I was sorry for you, but not so much. And I would not give you body love for that reason. I offered my body love, because you are in many ways the kind of man I enjoy-you are serious and silly, and handsome and tall, and grown up-and, most of all, fun. I wanted to enjoy you, and you wanted me, and there was no more necessary. It is the most important thing, maybe, to have pleasure when you feel like it and not always look and wait for something that maybe does not come or comes too late. That is enough, what we have. Must I give you my heart too? Must there be a legal ceremony? Does that make us happpier or better?

‘We cannot marry together, because the fun is all right for a while-but a marriage is more practical and formal, and we do not have common things. You are too intelligent for my mind. You would tire of me. I am like a young girl who is always a young girl, who likes only the outdoors and to be frivolous, and you are not so, and I would tire of you.’

A moment before he had ceased listening to her, because something else had entered his head. ‘Lilly, I know what is wrong. You know nothing about me, except I am a writer. You think I’m just another American tourist-a bad prospect-but that is not so. I could give you a fabulous life. Do you know who I am?’

It was like handing her an expensive birthday present, and he could not wait to open it for her.

But she was speaking. ‘You are Andrew Craig, the winner of this year’s Nobel Prize in literature.’

His mouth fell open. ‘You knew?’

‘Not at first, but I have known. Daranyi told me.’

‘And you can still say no?’

‘I respect you, Mr. Craig, and am proud to have been loved by someone so famous. But what has that to do with marriage? I cannot be happy because I have married a prize.’

He felt maudlin and also depressed, at last. ‘Then it’s no?’

‘There is one more reason,’ she said at last, ‘and it is one more reason why you would not be happy with me forever.’

He waited.

‘You are in love with another girl, and you really want to marry her.’

Lilly’s knowledge was startling and eerie, and he kept staring at her. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘Daranyi. He told me.’

‘How in the devil would he know?’

‘He knows everything, Mr. Craig. It is his business. He is making an investigation now for somebody connected with the Nobel Prize-Dr. Krantz-a bad man, Daranyi says, because he is always liking the Germans-and now he wants to know all about you and the other winners, and Daranyi helps and finds out everything-’

‘I don’t give a damn about Krantz,’ said Craig. ‘I want to know about this thing you heard about me.’

‘It is because Daranyi is like my father-always protecting me-and that is why he told me about you and about Emily Stratman.’

‘You even know her name.’

‘Emily Stratman. Her uncle is Professor Stratman. She is born in Germany. She is now American. She is beautiful and strange and not married. You met her at the Royal Palace. You took her on a tour of the city. You were with her at Mr. Hammarlund’s dinner. And Daranyi says maybe you love her like you did your wife.’

‘And that’s why you won’t marry me?’

‘No, Mr. Craig, I assure you. It is for all the reasons I give. You do love her, do you not?’

He hesitated. Her face was so open, her honesty and strength so plain, that he could not lie to her. ‘Yes, I do, Lilly. And do you hate me?’

‘Hate you? How foolish you are, Mr. Craig. Of course not. It is as always with us.’

‘Well, she hates me-because of you.’

‘I cannot believe it.’

‘All women are not like you, Lilly, and all are not Swedish.’

And then he recited to her, as briefly as possible, sobering all the while, some of what had transpired with Emily several hours ago in her bedroom. Lilly listened enrapt, sometimes clucking with incredulity. When he had finished, he awaited her comment.

‘She is most strange indeed,’ said Lilly.

‘All women are different, different problems and neuroses, different heredity and upbringing, and many women are like Emily.’

‘No, I do not like it. I think she loves you and commits suicide. It is terrible wrong.’

Craig shrugged. ‘There’s nothing to be done.’

‘I am sad for her,’ said Lilly. ‘But you are the main one I worry about. It is no good for you alone. You can be so much and enjoy so much, but you cannot because you are alone. Emily Stratman pushes you away. Now, Lilly Hedqvist will not marry you. I am worried about you, Mr. Craig. Maybe I must marry you.’

‘Will you?’

‘No. Still, I worry in my heart. What will happen to you when you leave us?’

‘What will happen?’ Craig snorted. ‘I think we both know. It was fated. I’ll go back to Miller’s Dam and answer fan mail when I’m not drunk-that’ll be the writing I’ll do-and I’ll wind up with the inevitable-marrying my warden, Lee-the omnipresent Lee.’

‘Lee?’

‘Leah Decker, my sister-in-law.’

‘The awful one we hid from on the ferry to Malmö? Oh, no, Mr. Craig, you must not-’

‘There are worse things. At least, all my debts will be paid.’

Lilly stood up. ‘Do not make deep decisions on an empty stomach. I will cook your eggs and heat coffee. After that, we will see how you feel.’

‘How do you feel?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Like my bed is too big for one person alone. And I want to remember the fun-because I do not think you will be here again, Mr. Craig, and I want to remember.’