Daranyi had remained in the leather chair, and he remained seated still. ‘No,’ he said plainly.
Krantz had begun to move towards the mantelpiece, but now he halted and turned. ‘What was that?’
‘I said no-meaning ten thousand kronor is insufficient for what I have done.’
‘What do you expect?’
This was the long-awaited moment at last. ‘Fifty thousand kronor,’ said Daranyi.
Krantz looked stricken. ‘Are you mad, Daranyi? You are pulling my leg.’
‘Your wallet, perhaps, but not your leg.’
‘You seriously think we would give you fifty thousand for that batch of prattle and pap?’
‘I seriously think you will. I have a notion I have done well for you.’
‘You have done nothing. Fifty thousand kronor? Why, you will consider yourself fortunate if I can have your fee raised to fifteen thousand.’
Daranyi sat Buddhalike, as immovable, as superior, on the chair. ‘The price is fifty thousand for my work’-he paused, and concluded-‘ and my discretion.’
‘Discretion, is it? I have never dreamed you would stoop so low as blackmail. Do you understand the position you are in? I could have you thrown out of this country in two minutes.’
‘I have counted on that. Eviction would coincide with my own plans. You see, the moment you have paid me, I will buy my air ticket to Switzerland. A second cousin of mine has taken residence there and plans to open a rare-book shop, and wants a partner. I think Lausanne will be more healthy than Stockholm. And I think there is more of a future today in rare books than in-research-and documents.’
Krantz was livid. ‘Now you want to jew me out of the money to finance you?’
‘Exactly.’
‘You are a greedy devil. Where is your sense of proportion and self-respect?’
‘I have just regained both.’ He smelt his victory, and he came lightly to his feet. ‘I have done my part. Now you do yours. Fifty thousand.’
Krantz stared at Daranyi with distaste. ‘You cannot be dissuaded from this crime?’
‘No.’
‘I would have to talk to my friends first. It could not be fifty thousand in any case, perhaps closer to thirty thousand.’
‘Forty thousand is my bottom.’
‘I will not bargain like a tradesman,’ said Krantz. ‘All right then, forty thousand.’ He picked up a Spanish hand-bell and shook it. ‘Ilsa will show you out.’
Daranyi made no move. ‘When do I have my fee? Tomorrow is my deadline, tomorrow before the Ceremony.’ He would remind Krantz of the price of forfeit. ‘While the world press is still here.’
‘You will have your Judas money. I will send the cash in a plain envelope by messenger to your apartment… You know this is our last meeting.’
‘I had hoped it would be. Good-night to you, Dr. Krantz. And if ever you are in Lausanne, and in need of a rare edition-’
Daranyi permitted himself to smile, and Krantz glared and said, ‘Good-night!’
Daranyi opened the door, took his coat and hat from Ilsa, and hurried out.
Krantz went to his study door and closed and bolted it. Then he hastened across the room to the glass door and peered down into Norr Mälarstrand. Not until Daranyi was briefly visible, below, did he leave the point of vantage.
Hurrying on his short legs, he went to the sitting-room door behind his chair and knocked three times. He heard the tumble of the lock, and stepped back. The door opened.
Briskly, polishing his monocle with a handkerchief, Dr. Hans Eckart came into the study.
‘You heard everything?’ Krantz asked anxiously.
‘Every word.’ Eckart placed the handkerchief back in his pocket and adjusted his monocle.
‘He kept staring at the plant,’ said Krantz. ‘I was nervous all the time that he would see the microphone.’
‘No one could see it,’ said Eckart.
Krantz danced closer to his patron, jittering. ‘You heard him about the money-’
‘Never mind about the money. That Hungarian nincompoop’s usefulness is ended anyway. I will see that he is paid.’
‘Was there anything in his information that-?’
‘Yes,’ said Eckart curtly. ‘The SS file on Emily Stratman. Let me see it at once.’
12
IT had snowed all the night through, gusty flurries of large flat flakes, dry and adhering to where they fell, and on the early morning of December tenth, it was snowing still. The flurries had ceased, Count Jacobsson observed from his parlour window above the Foundation, and now the crystalline flakes floated lazily downward like confetti, and clung to every surface, and built one on the other, so that Sturegatan and the park below, and all the city of Stockholm encompassed by the eye, lay snug and white under a powdery blanket that rose and fell into the darkness beyond sight.
We are regally cloaked, thought Jacobsson, majestically covered by a royal cape of white to herald our climax day of Nobel Week.
He heard, behind him, the ponderous movements of his stout housekeeper, who came three times a week to clean his bachelor quarters, and listened as she set his breakfast on the oval table. He waited for her to leave, continuing to enjoy the snowfall, and when she was gone, he turned from the window and took his place at the table.
He had been too preoccupied with the problems of the big day ahead to think of breakfast, but now his appetite was whetted by the hot tiny sausages and scrambled eggs, the toast spread with red whortleberry jam, the choklad, and he began to eat ravenously. After he had devoured the sausages and eggs, and begun to sip the cocoa and munch the toast, he opened the three morning newspapers piled at his right hand. Each, he noticed, had picture spreads and long stories about the afternoon Ceremony, on its front page.
It was only after he had finished his cocoa that he opened the green ledger containing his Notes of a decade ago, now lying to the left side of his plate. Upon awakening, and welcoming the celebration of snow, he had remembered the entry he had made that decade ago. It had been made shortly after reading a memoir by Rudyard Kipling, and this morning had reminded him of that old entry.
Lovingly, he opened his ledger, scanning the endless waves made by his pen on every page-how firm his hand had once been!-flipping the pages, seeking what he had remembered, until he found it at last.
This entry in the Notes contained some reminiscences of King Oscar, who had awarded the prizes at the first six ceremonies held in the years just before his death, then touched upon his successor, King Gustaf V, with whom Jacobsson had become so friendly. Then the Notes continued:
I have finished reading Rudyard Kipling’s recollection of his trip to Stockholm, of his arrival in our city immediately after King Oscar’s death. I am setting down some of Kipling’s impressions as he came here for his Nobel Prize in 1907. He wrote: ‘Even while we were on the sea, the old King of Sweden died. We reached the city, snow-white under sun, to find all the world in evening dress, the official mourning which is curiously impressive. Next afternoon, the prize-winners were taken to be presented to the new King. Winter darkness in those latitudes falls at three o’clock, and it was snowing. One half of the vast acreage of the Palace sat in darkness, for there lay the dead King’s body. We were conveyed along interminable corridors looking out into black quadrangles, where snow whitened the cloaks of the sentries, the breeches of old-time cannons, and the shot piles alongside of them. Presently, we reached the living world of more corridors and suites all lighted up, but wrapped in that Court hush which is like no other silence on earth. Then in a lit room, the weary-eyed, overworked, new King, saying to each the words appropriate to the occasion. Next, the Queen, in marvellous Mary Queen of Scots mourning; a few words, and the return piloted by soft-footed Court officials through a stillness so deep that one heard the click of the decorations on their uniforms. They said that the last words of the old King had been, “Don’t let them shut the theatres for me.” So Stockholm that night went soberly about her pleasures, a
ll dumbed down under the snow.’
Softly, Jacobsson closed his ledger, evoking his memory of the myopic, forty-two-year-old Kipling strolling through the Old Town in 1907, and conjuring up a picture of the city on the Ceremony day of that year, a field of snow then, as it was this day. But Jacobsson reminded himself that this day there was a difference. This day there was no mourning, except as men everywhere mourned the advent of the frightful nuclear age-in 1907, there had been reason to award a Peace Prize, and now there was no reason at all-but at least, this would be a better day, the city would not be ‘all dumbed down under the snow’, and there would be festivity and formality and new fodder for his precious Notes.
Glancing at the time on his clock-the numbers were Roman numerals and the clock had belonged to his grandfather-Jacobsson saw that the beginning of this long, ceremonious, climactic day was at hand. Pushing himself from the table, carefully, to avoid the twinge of pain that often came from his back, he regarded his person in the gilt mirror, and was satisfied that his tie was correct. Taking up his cane, he plodded out of the parlour to the chillier staircase, and then descended on foot to keep his meeting with the select members of the foreign press.
When he entered the conference room of the Royal Swedish Academy of Science, he observed, with satisfaction, that the response had been excellent. The oxhide chairs, used by the judges, were now filled by the press, the majority of those seated being ladies. The men, smoking and conversing, were standing all about the green room.
Jacobsson’s entrance brought all fourteen occupants of the room to varied degrees of attention. Jacobsson accepted his manila folder from Astrid Steen, and as he passed the length of the green room, nodding courtly but vague greetings, he recognized Sue Wiley across the table before the marble ledge, and beside her an older Frenchwoman who represented a French periodical, and he recognized also correspondents from London and Manchester and New York and Hamburg and Barcelona and Tel Aviv and Calcutta.
At the foot of the table, beneath the oil portrait of the donor, one painted in 1915, Jacobsson took his position and surveyed the gathering.
‘The Nobel Foundation welcomes you to the final day of Nobel Week,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I trust you find the weather agreeable. You will see that of the three bronze busts that decorate this conference room, one is missing this morning. The bust of Alfred Nobel was moved, last night, to the stage of Concert Hall, so that he may, as ever, in spirit if not in fact, be present during the Ceremony late this afternoon.’
He paused, opened his manila folder, and extracted a three-page, duplicated schedule with the heading: ‘Memorandum. Dec. 10th.’
‘Before replying to any questions you may have,’ said Jacobsson, ‘I will read to you the official memorandum we have sent to each one of the six prize-winning laureates. Mrs. Steen has extra copies of this memorandum, and they will be available to you as you leave. I shall now read you the contents of the official memorandum.’
Holding the duplicated schedule close to his face, he read it aloud in a deliberate and dry monotone:
‘The festival ceremony in connection with the distribution of the Nobel Prizes will take place in Concert Hall-Konserthuset-beginning 5 P.M. sharp. The persons invited have been asked to occupy their seats in the large assembly hall not later than 4.50 P.M.
The Nobel laureates with their families will please enter Concert Hall through the side entrance-Oxtorgsgatan 14-about 4.45 P.M. They will be escorted to the place from their hotel by two attendants, both attachés. Owing to the possible congestion of traffic around Concert Hall, it may be advisable to start from the hotel at 4.20 P.M.-not later. Autos will be reserved for the purpose and will be in waiting before the hotel at the fixed hour.
At 5 P.M. sharp His Majesty the King, with the members of the royal family accompanying him, is expected to leave the parlour reserved for them in Concert Hall and enter the large assembly hall. Their arrival will be announced by trumpet calls, thereafter they are to be greeted by the royal hymn.
When the King and the members of the royal family have occupied their seats, the Nobel Prize laureates will enter the platform of the assembly hall through the centre doors, conducted by the representatives of the various Nobel committees. This procession will be joined, as well, by the Nobel Prize laureates from previous years present at the Ceremony, and the other members of the Nobel committees which have proposed the award of the Nobel Prizes for this year, their arrival being likewise announced by trumpet calls. The members of the procession will please proceed in the following order-the Nobel Prize laureates to the right-Professor Max Stratman, Mr. Andrew Craig, Dr. Claude Marceau, Dr. Denise Marceau, Dr. Carlo Farelli, Dr. John Garrett, with respective representatives of the matching Nobel committees to their left.
The laureates, after making their reverence to the King, will please occupy the seats reserved for them on the right-hand side of the platform, looking from their entrance door to the centre.
After the salutatory oration by Count Bertil Jacobsson of the Nobel Foundation, the proclamation of the laureates will take place in speeches held by one representative of each prize-giving academy. The speeches are to be held in Swedish but followed by a short address in the language of the respective laureates. The laureate thus addressed will please rise, and will be asked at the end of the short speech to step down from the platform in order to receive from the hands of H.M. the King the Nobel gold medal, the diploma and an assignation for the prize. Due to a change in schedule, the acceptance speeches of the laureates will be made upon their return to the platform, instead of at the banquet held afterwards in the City Hall, as had been customary.
After the ceremony the laureates may, before leaving the assembly hall, deliver their medals and diplomas to the head attendant, who brought them into the hands of H.M. the King and who will afterwards bring them to the City Hall, where they are to be exhibited during the evening. At the conclusion of the Ceremony, cars will be in waiting to convey the laureates and their families to the farewell banquet in the City Hall.’
Having finished the official announcement uninterrupted, Jacobsson returned the duplicated schedule to his manila folder. From the pitcher before him, he poured a glass of water, drank, then set down the glass.
‘Now, if you have any questions concerning the afternoon Ceremony at Concert Hall-?’
A hand went up, and Jacobsson acknowledged it.
‘Will the proceedings be televised?’
‘Yes,’ said Jacobsson, unhappily, for he remembered better days and felt the modern monstrosity of the camera as intrusive as a circus act. ‘This is an innovation begun by the Swedish Broadcasting Company in 1957. The entire Ceremony will be shown on government television.’
Another hand went up. ‘How many people have been invited to attend the Ceremony? To whom were the invitations sent?’
Jacobsson took another sip of water. ‘Besides His Royal Highness the King and his family, the laureates and their families, members of the Nobel academies and committees and their families, winners in previous years, invitations have been posted to members of the diplomatic corps-with priority to those nations represented this afternoon by prize-winners-and to accredited members of the press. That is the limit of the invitations. The general public is allowed to apply for tickets to extra seats on a first come, first served basis. By five o’clock this afternoon, there will be approximately twenty-one hundred persons in the assembly or auditorium of Concert Hall.’
Sue Wiley was standing, one arm half lifted, and Jacobsson nodded in her direction and braced himself for a livelier question. He was not disappointed.
‘Count Jacobsson,’ said Miss Wiley, ‘this is my first visit to a Nobel Ceremony. I am told, by those who have previously attended, that the occasion is always impressive but very stuffy and exact. Doesn’t anything exciting ever happen?’ A titter went through the conference room, and Sue Wiley smiled to those around her, and then added, ‘I mean, are there any embarrassing moments or any blunders o
r anything like that?’
Everyone waited now upon Jacobsson’s reaction, and he, eager to have the friendliness of the press, ransacked his memory for something harmless and yet possessed of colour.
‘Well, Miss Wiley, there is never perfection,’ he said. ‘From time to time, we do have our-our trifling embarrassments. I do recall the time that our late beloved King Gustaf V, who had known Queen Victoria and was giving out Nobel medallions and diplomas when he was in his nineties, and who had become extremely near-sighted in his advanced years, gave a Nobel Prize to his own secretary instead of the laureate by mistake.’
There was friendly laughter in the conference room, and Jacobsson felt encouraged. ‘King Gustaf-the Mr. G. of so many tennis tournaments-presented more Nobel medallions and diplomas than any other one of our monarchs. Every laureate left with admiration for his obvious nobility yet democratic bearing. I remember that Anatole France had just become a Communist when he met King Gustaf. It was thought that Anatole France might have some resentment for royalty. But King Gustaf’s simplicity won the old laureate over completely. Afterwards, Anatole France said, “The King of Sweden is a Bernadotte. He is accustomed to power. A President, on the other hand, always strikes one as a little new at the game.” As a sidelight, it may interest you to know that of all the many laureates that King Gustaf met and awarded prizes to, his favourite was the Irish poet, W. B. Yeats. On more than one occasion, I heard the King say that he admired Yeats the most because the poet had “the manners of a courtier”.’
Jacobsson realized that Sue Wiley was still standing, and he addressed himself to her. ‘But you were inquiring about excitements and embarrassments, were you not, Miss Wiley? I can think of one excitement where embarrassment was cleverly avoided. You know, on Ceremony afternoon, this afternoon, it is protocol that a laureate, after receiving his award from the King, retire backwards from the orchestra and up the steps to his seat on the platform. I remember that Mrs. Pearl Buck was much concerned about this. Dr. Enrico Fermi had received his award before her, and had made his way backwards to his seat with no difficulty. Pearl Buck wore a gold evening gown with a long train, and was distinctly handicapped. Nevertheless, her backward march from the King was made successfully amid thunderous applause from the audience. She had managed it, she told a friend later, by memorizing the pattern of the Oriental rug at her feet and following the design to her chair on the platform. However, another embarrassing incident took place at one Ceremony when two British laureates-it would be improper to identify them-accepted their awards from the King, forgot protocol, and turned their backs on the King as they went back to their seats. The Swedish people in the audience were deeply offended. In surprising contrast to omissions by democratic laureates, the Russians have always been unfailingly correct, their courtesy impeccable, their bows to His Majesty the deepest. I recall distinctly that in 1958 the Soviet nuclear authority, Dr. Igor Tamm, who was one of the three physics laureates, bowed so deeply that he almost dropped all his awards. Beyond such trifles, I fear I have nothing else, Miss Wiley. Our Ceremony usually takes place without incident, as you shall see for yourself at five o’clock this afternoon.’ He looked about him. ‘Are there any more questions?’
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