‘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.’
&nb
sp; ‘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.’
(1961) The Prize Page 71