‘I wouldn’t miss it.’
‘I think maybe it would be proper to meet him now. However, I must warn you, he is not an easy talker when he is away from the villa. At home, he is engaging and outspoken. Elsewhere, he is reticent and on guard. No, Hammarlund will not offer much tonight. But I do think you will enormously enjoy Konrad Evang. He is a delightful man, but serious. He is a virtual encyclopaedia of information on his Oslo Peace Prizes—perhaps I value this trait in him too highly, since information on the prizes is my own field, too. Would you like to meet them?’
‘Yes, I would,’ said Craig, ‘but first, I’d like another drink.’
A flicker of apprehension showed on Jacobsson’s face, but then he signalled the liveried servant, who came with the tray. Craig placed his empty goblet on the tray, and taking one filled with champagne, began to drink it at once.
‘All right,’ he said finally, ‘let’s find out about peace—and money.’
The four of them had been talking—or rather the three of them talking, with Hammarlund, for the most part, listening—for five minutes, Evang had governed the conversation, graciously discussing and praising Craig’s novels, with occasional interjections of assent from Jacobsson and Hammarlund. Craig, his reactions dulled by a morning and afternoon of whisky and two recent champagnes, pretended attention but remained indifferent.
Concealing his impatience, he found his eyes seeking the servant with the tray, but the man was nowhere in the immediate vicinity. With effort, Craig tried to concentrate on Evang, who was extolling the merits of Oslo. He observed that Evang’s rust hair was touched with bleach, and the pince-nez on his thin nose had a golden chain, and a network of veins showed through his cheeks, and the cords of his throat stood out as he spoke.
Almost stealthily, Craig transferred his scrutiny to Ragnar Hammarlund. He could not help but stare. The abnormally albescent skull and face were entirely devoid of a single bristle. Hammarlund’s head was glabrous and his face hairless. Peering hard, Craig thought that he detected white eyebrows of almost invisible down above the eyes, but he could not be sure. No wrinkle added character to the face, no wart, no scar, and almost, or so it seemed, no human feature. The eyes lay evenly pressed into the head, neither concave nor convex, miniature flat mirrors of watery grey. The broad nose was shapeless, melting into the centre of the face, so that only the nostrils showed. The mouth was a delicate roseate. No more than an inch beneath the lower lip, the pretension of a chin receded, giving the disconcerting effect of no chin at all. In summary, a soft, smooth larva countenance, the consistency of a white slug. The frame beneath the remarkable head was medium in height and width, and garbed impeccably in an old-fashioned, expensive custom-tailored suit.
Craig tried to detect something human about this legendary figure. The feminine hands held a silk handkerchief, and several times, quickly, almost unobtrusively, the handkerchief was touched to the place where Hammarlund’s forehead must be. The forehead perspired, Craig was pleased to note, and then he remembered that on their introduction, he had shaken Hammarlund’s limp hand, and it had been clammy and repellent.
Raised on the traditions of Commodore Vanderbilt and Gould and Fisk, the blustering and savage robber royalty, Craig could not conceive of how this pulpy being had made his first billion. Fleetingly, he wondered what Hammarlund was doing at this affair. What was his connection with Nobel? Or the King? And what was his interest in the laureates, anyway?
He realized that Hammarlund’s head had turned to meet his stare, and quickly he returned his attention to Konrad Evang, apostle of peace.
‘Yes, my friend,’ Evang was saying to Jacobsson, ‘you get all the attention in Stockholm. I suspect most of the world hardly knows that we in Oslo are responsible for possibly the most important of the five prizes.’
‘If you wanted attention, you should have given a prize this year,’ Jacobsson chided him.
‘It is not so easy, not so easy, my friend,’ said Evang. ‘Ours is a perilous task, and infinitely more controversial—political—than any of the four under your guardianship.’
‘Well, why did you skip this year?’ Craig inquired.
‘We were hopelessly deadlocked over three candidates,’ said Evang. ‘Not one could win a majority of the votes. It is just as well, I believe. How could we honestly give a prize for peace in a time like this?’
‘I should think there would be no better time,’ said Craig. ‘There are plenty of men and organizations working to keep the world from being blown apart. Why not recognize and encourage them?’
‘Because,’ said Hammarlund, speaking at last, in a tone so satiny and faint that it automatically forced everyone to lean closer to him, ‘our Norwegian neighbour prefers to keep peace rather than honour peace. An award to any party, no matter how neutral, might be interpreted as an affront to the Soviet Union or the United States.’
‘Come now, Ragnar, that is not so,’ said Evang without anger. ‘We are judicious men, not frightened men, and you know it.’
‘I am not so sure.’ Hammarlund’s handkerchief flicked his forehead. ‘I know your awards very well. You gave your first one to a seventy-three-year-old Swiss, Henri Dunant, because he founded the International Red Cross. I have heard it said that he deserved not the Nobel Peace Prize, but the Nobel Prize in medicine. You could have done better, but you were playing it safe. In 1946, after World War II, you honoured the American Quaker, Emily Greene Balch, who had done her best work in World War I, and John Raleigh Mott, the Protestant, who was in retirement. You would not honour an active worker, because you feared controversy. You reached into the forgotten past. As for you and your colleagues being judicious men—’
‘Now, now, Ragnar,’ protested Evang, ‘do not start in on us again.’
‘I am speaking for the benefit of our guest, Mr. Craig,’ said Hammarlund softly. His glance included Craig, but he continued to address the Norwegian. ‘In 1906, you gave thirty-six thousand dollars and a Peace Prize to Theodore Roosevelt—to the Rough Rider—an obvious warmonger like all the others. Did not this Roosevelt once say, “No triumph of peace is quite so great as the supreme triumph of war”?’
‘He mediated the Russo-Japanese War,’ said Evang.
‘Mediators are not good enough for me,’ said Hammarlund. ‘Then go and honour all referees and umpires on earth. They are mediators, too. I know your list of Rough Riders—you honoured Elihu Root, Aristide Briand, Gustav Stresemann, General George Marshall—you call them all genuine pacifists?’
‘You must be fair, Ragnar,’ interrupted Jacobsson. ‘Our Norwegian friends have also honoured Woodrow Wilson, Fridtjof Nansen, Albert Schweitzer, Ralph Bunche, Cordell Hull—’
‘I know about Hull,’ said Hammarlund placidly. ‘Franklin D. Roosevelt wrote to Oslo every year between 1938 and 1945, nominating Hull, before Mr. Evang’s committee saw fit to elect him.’ He turned to Craig. ‘This may interest you, Mr. Craig. In 1937, Cuba nominated Franklin D. Roosevelt for the Peace Prize, and Hull seconded it. That was one election your Roosevelt lost. The Peace Prize went to Viscount Cecil of Chelwood instead, a League of Nations man.’
Evang appealed to Craig. ‘My friend Hammarlund is teasing. He knows of our courage. Take the year 1961. Did we not defy the white supremacy people of South Africa to give our honour to Albert Luthuli, a dark-skinned former Zulu chief who fought apartheid?’
‘Too easy,’ said Hammarlund. ‘You were not afraid of South Africa. You were picking on someone your own size.’
‘All right, then,’ persisted Evang, ‘let us speak of someone bigger. In 1946, the Finns nominated Aleksandra Kollontai, Russia’s first female Ambassador, an advocate of free love, for helping to shorten the war between Finland and Russia. It was outrageous, a Russian propaganda move. We voted her down, despite the threats of Pravda. And long before that, we had suffered when the Czar of Russia and Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany were nominated for the Peace Prize, and we had voted them down, too.’
‘How d
id you ever get saddled with that award?’ asked Craig. ‘Why was that single one taken away from Sweden?’
‘Nobel had intended that Sweden give the Peace Prize, too, with the other four awards,’ said Evang, ‘but at the last moment, he had a change of heart. At the time, Sweden and Norway were under a single ruler, King Oscar II and Nobel wanted to bind the countries more closely together. Also, he felt that we in Norway could be more impartial about a political hot potato than his fellow Swedes. There were other reasons, but those were the principal ones.’
Abruptly, Evang turned away from Craig to face the bland Hammarlund once more. ‘I will tell you this, Ragnar—we have made our blunders, yes, but we have had our moments of truth, too, truth and courage. I will mention one name, and then you judge us as you wish.’ He paused, and then he said slowly, ‘Carl von Ossietzky.’
There was a silence. Hammarlund remained imperturbable. His handkerchief flicked. His hairless head moved ever so slightly up and down.
‘Yes, Konrad,’ he said, ‘Ossietzky was your finest hour. For giving the prize to him, I forgive you all else.’
Craig tried to identify Ossietzky in memory, and failed, and was about to inquire who he was, when the liveried servant materialized with a tray, freshly filled with goblets of champagne. Gratefully, Craig traded his empty glass for a full one. By the time the servant moved on, the thread of conversation had been lost.
He prepared to speak to Hammarlund, when he saw that Hammarlund was gazing intently off towards a far corner of the room.
‘Bertil,’ Hammarlund murmured, and Jacobsson was immediately alert. ‘Bertil, that couple over there before the fireplace—the handsome gentleman and his Gallic lady in light blue décolletage—would they be the Drs. Claude and Denise Marceau, your chemistry winners?’
Jacobsson squinted off. ‘Yes, the Marceaus.’
‘Introduce me,’ said Hammarlund. It was not a request, but a command. ‘Introduce me,’ he repeated. ‘I am keenly interested in them. I must know them tonight.’ He nodded at Craig. ‘Forgive me, Mr. Craig. It has been a pleasure.’ He glanced off at the Marceaus again, and then added enigmatically, ‘It is ever thus—business before pleasure.’
The moment that the Ambassador had left them, and they were alone for the first time this evening since leaving the Grand Hotel suite, Denise Marceau flung her accusation at Claude.
That same moment, as he stammered in his bewilderment at her charge, she saw two men approaching them. One she recognized as the Swedish Count who had been on the Nobel reception committee and who had welcomed them at the afternoon press conference. The other, a fantastic, so bald, so white, so singular, she had never seen before. Suddenly, nearing, the Count had whispered to the other, and they had veered off in another direction and attached themselves to a group nearby.
Immediately, Denise perceived what had kept the two men from joining Claude and her. They had seen her face, distorted with rage, when she had spat her accusation at her husband. They had deduced that a family quarrel was in the making. Tactfully, they had steered clear of the battle. Thank God, Denise thought. She wanted to settle this with Claude alone, uninterrupted, and right now, here and now.
‘You have not answered me,’ she challenged Claude. ‘Did you or did you not arrange an assignation with that girl, in Copenhagen?’ Then, without waiting for his reply, she went on angrily. ‘It is not enough to insult me in Paris. Now, you throw discretion to the winds. Now, you must have your favourite courtesan follow you through Europe, always near, always at your beck and call. I do not know what has got into you. I swear, you must be insane.’
Claude listened to the tirade in befuddled silence. What he had feared the most was happening before his eyes. Denise had been too distraught to reveal, in continuity, what new fantasy was troubling her. She was making charges that were not only riddles but utterly senseless.
‘Denise,’ he pleaded, again fearful of a scene, ‘what are you going on about this time?’
‘Do not lie to me. I am sick of lies.’
‘Denise, I swear, I simply do not know what you are talking about. Qu’est-ce que c’est?’
‘Oh, yes, I can imagine you do not know.’ She had unsnapped her sequin evening bag, and pulled out a crumpled envelope. She thrust it at him. ‘Voilà. Now tell me you do not know.’
He flattened the envelope in his palm. The envelope was addressed to him, typewritten. It bore a French stamp, and a Paris postmark, and the imprint Par Avion. He turned the envelope over, unable to guess its contents, and saw that the back flap had already been torn open. He fingered inside for the letter, and found only a short newspaper cutting. Across the top, in block lettering had been printed in pencil, Figaro.
With anxiety over an unknown threat, heightened by Denise’s accusing eyes, he read the cutting. It told him that the French government, in a gesture of goodwill towards Denmark, had arranged to transport ten of its foremost Parisian mannequins, and the latest Paris fashions, to a Copenhagen winter fair. The mannequins would be guests of the Danish government, at the Hotel d’Angleterre, for three days, commencing December 6. The names of the ten mannequins from Balmain, Dior, Balenciaga, Ricci and La Roche were listed. The fourth name in the list of ten read, ‘Mlle Gisèle Jordan, Balenciaga.’
The news of Gisèle’s impending nearness stunned Claude. He kept his eyes fixed on the cutting, to give himself time to regain his composure before the inquisition continued.
‘Well,’ Denise was saying, ‘how long ago did you arrange that little rendezvous?’
‘I arranged nothing. Can you not read? This was arranged by the French government.’
‘Est-ce que tu veux me faire prendre des vessies pour des lanternes?’
‘No, I am not trying to prove to you that black is white. I am simply saying I knew nothing.’ He held off the cutting as if it were contagious. ‘This is the first I know of it.’
‘Parbleu?’
‘I am sorry. It is the truth.’
‘That skinny putain sent it to you—you will not deny that.’ And then Denise added. ‘Or do you have some concierge for a go-between?’
Claude examined the envelope. There was no doubt that Gisèle had posted it. Such indiscretion was unlike her. Yet, no doubt, she had assumed, as a single person who knew privacy, that in all marriages this privacy was maintained. She had believed Claude opened his own mail, and Denise her own. She could not know that, in the long years of their work, with most of their correspondence scientific and technical and meant for their collaborative eyes, they had always opened each other’s mail. His bad luck, he told himself. It was done, and he would have to make the best of it.
‘I will not deny it is from Mademoiselle Jordan,’ he said at last. ‘There is no one else who could have sent it. But I assure you, Denise, I had no idea of her visit to Copenhagen. I suppose it just came up—’
‘—and now she lets you know she is waiting, flat on her bed, ready, your divine sous-maîtresse.’
‘I can endure anything from you, Denise, except crudeness.’
‘And I can endure anything from you except humiliation.’ Denise’s lips trembled. ‘When have you agreed to see her?’
‘Please. We have agreed to nothing. She will be in Copenhagen, at work with her friends. I am in Stockholm with you.’
‘Copenhagen is an hour or two from here. Like taking the métro.’ She paused. ‘You intend to see her, do you not?’
‘I am not seeing her,’ Claude said firmly.
‘If you humiliate me once more while we are in Stockholm, you can go on that stage yourself and take the whole damn prize for yourself.’
‘You are suddenly generous,’ said Claude, weary of his defensive position. ‘You were less so this afternoon.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘At the press conference,’ said Claude, bitterly. ‘You certainly did your best to castrate me—’
‘I would not do it with words—I would do it with a dull spoon, if I had one,�
� Denise interrupted.
‘—to make a fool of me in public,’ Claude went on. ‘I would like to see a transcript of that interview. One would think you had won the Nobel Prize alone, and I had come along to help you carry the medallions.’
‘I told them nothing but the truth,’ said Denise.
‘We did the work together, and you know it. Since when do we say, “I have done this” and “You have done that”? What have we come to, Denise, even to have to discuss this? We are a team of two—’
‘I thought it was three. My roll call shows three.’
‘Mon Dieu, stop it!’
‘I married you to collaborate not only in work but in pleasure. When you take your pleasure elsewhere, and leave only the work part for us, then there is not enough for me. I am left alone. I have to think of myself alone, now and in the future, and so I spoke for myself.’
‘Denise, I told you we would work things out.’
‘How?’
‘I do not know yet,’ he said miserably, ‘but we will, I guarantee it.’ His hand took in the salon. ‘Surely this is not the time and place to make decisions.’
‘I am telling you this—I am not waiting for your decisions. Henceforth, I shall make my own.’
‘Then make your own,’ he said.
Her eyes blazed at him, and she wanted to say many cruel and important things, but she suppressed further combat. ‘Get me a drink,’ she said.
He searched the room until he located a servant, and then summoned him. When the tray appeared, and they took fresh champagne, Denise became aware that the pair of men who had originally approached them, and then detoured, had now decided that the family quarrel had ended.
Count Bertil Jacobsson joined the Marceaus with a slight bow. ‘How do you do? One of our most celebrated citizens is eager to make your acquaintance.’ He brought Hammarlund forward, as if from the wings. ‘Dr. Denise Marceau—Dr. Claude Marceau—our eminent industrialist, Mr. Ragnar Hammarlund.’
(1961) The Prize Page 33