The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  ‘Yes.’

  He stepped out of the taxi, aided by the doorman, and then freed himself, and came back to the open door.

  ‘What is your name?’ he inquired meticulously.

  ‘Lilly Hedqvist.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lilly.’

  ‘I’m Andrews-Andrews-Andrew Craig-C, R, A, I, G-Craig.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr. Craig.’

  ‘Pleased, too.’

  Only after she had been driven off did he remember that he had not paid for the taxi, for himself or for her, and he did not know her hotel and could not remember her name, except Lilly.

  He walked stiffly to the elevator, and inside punched the sixth-floor button. When the elevator opened, he found the room, the key in his pocket, opened and closed the door. He pulled off his trench coat, and suit jacket, felt his way to the divan, yanked off his shoes, and dropped back on the bed into wondrous oblivion.

  How long he slept he did not know-it was more than three and a half hours, he would later learn-but the first consciousness he had was that of being shaken by someone. He opened his eyes, and above him the face was Leah’s.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she was asking anxiously.

  His mouth was dry again, and his eyes were being pinched by something behind them. He felt all right.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, and he sat up.

  ‘You’ve slept nine hours. Do you know where you are?’

  ‘Of course I know. I got up to go to the bathroom and found your note.’

  ‘It’s almost eight. The train leaves at seven minutes past nine. Mr. Gates is going to drive us. Do you want a sandwich?’

  ‘No.’

  She looked at him wearily. ‘How you abuse yourself. I had to change the reservation, you know.’

  ‘Thank you, Leah. I’d better clean up.’

  They arrived at the hangarlike Central Railway Station with fifteen minutes to spare. Trailing their porter to the Nord Express, Craig halted briefly at a vendor’s white wagon to buy some peanuts and an American digest magazine. At their wagon-lit, a short, affable conductor, holding a clipboard, checked their names and took their passports.

  Once in the carriage, Craig found their luggage divided between two adjoining rooms, compartments 16 and 17, and saw that the beds were made up, and that there was no place to sit.

  Going into the aisle again, he pulled down a window for Leah and one for himself. Gates was below them, on the platform, a Foreign Service smile, like an Embassy pennant, flying from his face. Leah thanked him for lunch and dinner, and Elsinore, and Gates insisted that the pleasure was all his.

  He seemed more eager to speak to Craig. ‘We’re all mighty proud of you, Mr. Craig. We’ll be looking for every word about the Nobel ceremonies.’

  ‘We appreciate all you’ve done,’ said Craig. ‘When I have time, I’ll write to the Ambassador and recommend a promotion.’

  Gates depreciated his services with a modest shake of his head. ‘Don’t even think of it,’ he said. ‘One thing that would mean a lot, though-my wife, Esther, she’s a fan of yours like I am. We’d certainly treasure an autographed copy of your next novel.’

  Brother, it’ll be done in time for your grandchildren, Craig wanted to tell him. But he was almost sober, and fixed on being gracious. ‘I’ll remember that,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll make a note of it, Mr. Gates,’ added Leah firmly.

  Craig had already tired of leaning on the half-open window. ‘Is there a lounge or diner on this train?’ he inquired.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Gates called up, ‘but European trains don’t have lounges. One of their major barbarisms. If your room is made up, you can pull down the little folding seat in the aisle and read-’

  Craig had almost forgotten. The folding seat was at his knees.

  ‘-and as for a diner,’ Gates continued, ‘this train doesn’t carry one. They figure everyone has eaten, and you’ll be in Stockholm at a quarter to nine in the morning, in time for breakfast. But I’ll tell you what, Mr. Craig-if you’re hungry-in fifteen minutes, fifteen minutes after you leave here, they’ll be loading these cars on the Malmö ferry. It’s a seventeen-mile water crossing to Sweden and usually takes about two hours. You can get off this wagon-lit while you’re on the ferry, and if you poke around, you’ll find two or three places to eat. That should do it.’

  ‘Imagine,’ said Leah, ‘a train on a ferry. I can hardly wait.’

  ‘It’s an experience,’ said Gates. He looked off. ‘They’re buttonning up. I think you’re about to go.’

  ‘Thanks for everything,’ said Craig. He closed his window and went into his compartment, leaving Leah to conduct the last farewell. He sat on his bed, taking in the rich, worn brown wooden walls of the small room. He filled and lit his pipe, and a moment later, the Nord Express was moving.

  Leah came to his open door. ‘We’re on our way,’ she said.

  ‘Thank God.’

  ‘Aren’t you the least bit excited?’

  ‘Only about getting that fifty grand.’

  ‘How can you be so-so commercial about it?’

  ‘What do you want me to say, Leah? I’m no schoolboy.’

  ‘It’s the greatest honour in the world.’

  ‘So I’m honoured. I also know I haven’t written a book in some years. I feel I’m taking the prize under false pretences.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I’ve been reading a biography of Alfred Nobel. It says he thought of the prize in literature to help young or middle-aged writers continue doing idealistic work-’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid your Alfred Nobel made a poor investment this time.’

  Leah reacted with exasperation. ‘Why do you always run yourself down, Andrew?’

  He looked up sharply. He remembered that the Swedish girl with the golden hair had used almost the same words to him earlier in the day.

  ‘I’m not running myself down,’ he said defensively. ‘I simply have a realistic evaluation of my worth-and my future.’

  ‘I hope you won’t carry on like this in Stockholm. They think a lot of you, and they’ll be expecting more than this.’

  He felt fretful, in no mood for advice from his sister-in-law. ‘I promise you, Leah dear, I’ll be the model of a literary giant in Stockholm.’

  ‘Don’t joke.’

  ‘I’m not. Watch and see.’

  She was about to leave him. ‘We should be on the ferry-boat soon. Are you going to eat?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘If you do, take me along. I’d like to be with you.’

  Sure, nurse, you’ll be with me, in a pig’s eye you will, he told himself. ‘Okay, Leah,’ he told her, ‘I’ll knock if I go out.’

  After she had left, and he heard her door and the rattle of clothes hangers in the next compartment, he went into the aisle. He stared out the window at the strings of light in the distance, and his throat and belly twitched in their need for drink. At last, he shoved down the folding seat, and sat on it sideways, stretching his legs and smoking. He wondered why, in the first place, he had not told Leah to go to hell, and packed a suitcase filled with whisky so that there would not be this problem. Perhaps it was the fear of losing her-although this seemed unlikely-and loneliness appeared more terrifying than sobriety. Perhaps it was something altogether different. People lived by miniature milestones: on this holiday you would begin a diet, on this birthday you would begin economy, on this New Year’s Day you would begin a programme of work. These were the little rejuvenations, game symbols, artificial hopes, with which people deluded themselves. In an effort to break free of his bondage to the bottle, to leave behind inertia and defeat, he had seized upon the Nobel award as such a turning-point. One half-drunk night, after the telegram, he had made himself believe that he would travel to Stockholm sober, accept the award sober, and after, undertake his responsibility as a recently absentee member of the human community sober.

  But now he saw, lucidly, the fallacy of the dream. Th
ere was no reason on earth not to drink. What mattered it a damn if he went to Stockholm sober and received the award sober? What mattered it if he renewed his subscription to the human race, worked, voted, gave parties, attended them, read, fished, loved? For what, for whom? The argument for permanent euphoria, alcohol-induced, made better sense. It was the medicine man’s good medicine for driving away the spirits of Harriet missing and Harriet guilt, of books unwritten, of life promise unused.

  The train was no longer moving. Outside the window, there stood a small-town depot, a rail siding, yellow lights, and bundled Danes. The train jolted forward, and then again, and once more. Craig rose, allowing his folding seat to jump against the wall with a bang, and he opened the window. The blast of cold air made him shiver, but he held his place. Not until he saw the railing, and gleam of water behind it, did he realize that they were boarding the Malmö ferry-boat.

  Again a metallic shudder, and the train was stationary. Quietly, Craig passed Leah’s compartment, walked down the aisle to the end of the wagon-lit. The conductor helped him to the tight boat deck. Pressed between the train, suddenly large above him, and wooden cabins to his right, he felt claustrophobic and oppressed. He had forgotten his trench coat, and the night air coming through his suit was like a sheet of ice.

  ‘Where can I get a drink to warm up?’ he asked the conductor.

  ‘Stairs to the upper deck,’ said the conductor. ‘Restaurant and drinks in the first-class dining-room. At the prow.’

  ‘Do we have two hours?’

  ‘One hour and fifty minutes. You must return in one hour and fifty minutes.’

  With the conductor, he backed against the train as a stream of people, all in heavy coats and sweaters, pushed through to the boat stairs. There was a tall woman with a long cigar in her mouth. There were raucous adolescents, most of them smoking cigarettes. There were well-dressed men.

  ‘Who are they?’ Craig asked. ‘Are they on the train?’

  ‘Oh, no. Our express train is from Paris,’ said the conductor. ‘The others, they are all down from the waiting-room upstairs. The young ones are vacationing, the Swedish returning to Sweden from their holiday, and the Danish leaving for Sweden to begin their fun. The older people go back and forth on business.’

  Craig fell in behind the crowd, and climbed the metal steps to the top, where a door kept opening and closing. He went through it to find himself on the windy top deck of the ferry, a deck crowded with travellers, Danes and Swedes sitting on benches, standing in groups, walking, all giving off laughter and commotion.

  The boat had begun to churn and creak, as he elbowed through the thickly packed deck. An illuminated sign ahead indicated the first-class restaurant, and Craig fought his way towards his goal. One glass door led into a vestibule, comforting as a decompression chamber after the force and stress of the outer cold and the milling passengers, and the second glass door led into an immense, newly decorated dining-hall. There were tables and chairs everywhere, but few of them occupied. Immediately to his left, Craig saw a circular counter, with a great array of smorgåsbord sandwiches, and sweet cakes behind it. Waiting in attendance were a grey-haired Dane and a thin young woman, both in uniforms.

  Craig went to the counter. ‘I was told I could get a drink here.’

  ‘Coffee or tea?’ the grey-haired man asked.

  ‘Scotch.’

  ‘Whisky?’

  ‘Yes. Make it a double-two shots-on ice. No soda. Better serve two drinks, both two shots.’ This needed an explanation. ‘I’m expecting someone,’ he added.

  The ferry was rolling slightly, and he walked, legs apart for equilibrium, to a table beside a port window. Through it, he was unable to see Sweden, but saw only the prow of the boat beneath, and the reflection of the boat’s lights in the water.

  Presently, both drinks were served, one before him, and one across from him. His need was terrible, and he emptied the first glass as if he were drinking water. He exchanged it for the glass across from him, and drank that one more slowly. When he was done, he felt in harmony with his surroundings, and he felt relaxed. The glow of the Scotch was high in his head, and, for the first time, Stockholm and what it held for him seemed more probable. Yet he was not sufficiently disarmed to forget the danger that lay ahead. The black night lay ahead, and he had no wish to think.

  The grey-haired waiter was nearby, setting a table, and Craig signalled him. ‘Do you sell bottles on the ferry?’

  ‘Not as a practice, sir.’

  ‘I’m on the Nord Express. We’re having a little party. I wonder if you could accommodate me?’

  ‘I’d have to take it out of our stock. What do you prefer?’

  He tapped his glass. ‘The same. Any brand.’

  ‘I’ll see what we can spare.’

  Waiting, Craig stoked his pipe, and absently scanned the room. He saw her before she recognized him. She was still wearing the white béret on her golden hair, a white blouse strained by her bust, and the open coral sweater. The skirt was different. Navy blue had been replaced by something grey, woollen, and fuller. She stood inside the glass door, tentatively, impermanent, seeking someone.

  He leaped to his feet and crossed the dining-hall towards her. Only when he was within a few yards of her did she recognize him.

  ‘Hello,’ he said with real pleasure. For the life of him, he could not recall her name.

  ‘I am surprised, Mr. Craig.’ She extended her hand formally, and he shook it. ‘I do not think you remember my name. I am Lilly Hedqvist.’

  He grinned. ‘I don’t think I was in condition to remember your name. Now I won’t forget it.’

  ‘I’ve been looking for my friends. They must be downstairs in the second-class café.’

  ‘Won’t you have a drink with me first?’

  As he spoke, his eyes had gone past her, through the glass door to the outer deck door, to fix on Leah Decker. She was holding the deck door open, standing half in the vestibule, half on the deck, searching behind her for some sign of her quarry.

  The sight of her galvanized Craig. He gripped Lilly’s arm so firmly that she winced. ‘We can’t stay here. Come with me. I’m trying to get away from someone.’

  Swiftly, he propelled her around the circular counter, and almost pushed her out the opposite door.

  ‘Where can we hide?’ he implored.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  He went out onto the deck, with Lilly behind him. Temporarily, the drinks fortified him against the icy air. He peered down the deck, apparently discovered something, grabbed Lilly’s arm, and guided her to the sign over the second-class lounge. They entered. All the chairs and sofas were taken. They stood against a darkened wall.

  Lilly’s concern was in her eyes. ‘What is the matter? Are you a criminal?’

  ‘Nothing so romantic. I have a guardian.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘My sister-in-law. She’s on this trip to look after me. She disapproves of drunkards. She’s an amateur reformer. When we were standing back there, I saw her on the hunt. I don’t want her to find me.’

  ‘Why are you afraid of a relative?’

  He tried to find an answer for her but could not. ‘Christ, I don’t know why I’m afraid.’ He glanced about. ‘This is second-class, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s too snooty to look here the first time around. But she will the second time. Look, honey, will you do me a favour?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a long night ahead on that train-I’m on the Nord Express-’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘What room?’

  ‘No, it is the second-class compartment in front, for six. We sit up.’

  ‘You can use my bed. I’ll find somewhere-’

  ‘No. I am with my friends. I can sleep anyplace. What is the favour?’

  ‘Just before you came, I ordered a bottle of Scotch-whisky-in the restaurant. I need it. I thought-’


  ‘I’ll get it for you.’

  He handed her the last of his kroner. ‘Go with God.’

  After she had gone, he leaned against the wall, smoking nervously, waiting, and ever watchful for the appearance of Leah. After five minutes, Lilly returned. She was holding a parcel that made no pretence of being anything but a bottle.

  He accepted it from her, with the change. ‘I could kiss you,’ he said. ‘Do you still want to look for your friends?’

  ‘You offered me a drink,’ she said.

  ‘Offer still stands. But where?’

  Her smooth brow furrowed, and then cleared. She smiled, pleased with herself. ‘I know where to hide.’

  ‘You’ve been on this boat?’

  ‘No, but my friends have. Follow me. It is a strange place.’

  He followed her from the lounge to the windy deck. She waited, while he examined the area for Leah. He nodded. She took his hand, and skilfully guided him through the groups of passengers, and then led him down the metal steps to the lower deck. The wagons-lit stood high and immobile. The place was dank and raw and desolate of life. She released his hand and hurried ahead. He strode behind her. They emerged fully into the dark, open prow of the ferry. Parked in front of the train were two rows of four automobiles each.

  They stood, shivering, and she waved gaily at the vehicles. ‘Which will you have?’

  ‘I don’t get you.’

  ‘The business people drive and take their cars on the ferry. It is too cold to remain in their cars for two hours. The owners go upstairs. The cars are empty. Pick one. It is a perfect place to hide.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he said. He joined the fun. ‘What is my lady’s preference?’

  ‘The Volvo.’

  It was a Swedish runt of a sedan in the middle of the first row, concealed by the darkness and the other vehicles, but nonetheless exposed to the wind. He preceded her, tugged open the front door, and assisted her inside. His teeth chattering, he hugged his parcel, circled the car, and got in behind the wheel. Only one window was open, on the driver’s side, and he rolled it up.

  ‘Sealed tight,’ he said. ‘I wonder if it has a heater.’

  It had none that he could discover. He unwrapped the bottle of Scotch, ripped the seal off with his thumbnail, and removed the cork.