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 tha
nk 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 wil
l 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?’
(1961) The Prize Page 68