The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  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.’

  ‘Under
stand 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?’