The Prize (126 page)

Despite the headache, her mind ranged for some hope of survival. How could she contest this superior opponent, survive this uneven match? Continuing anger would only drive Claude away, for as it was, she had become for him the embodiment of guilty conscience. What if she thwarted his rendezvous on the ninth, followed him, exposed him, or, less crudely, revealed to him what she had just learned? Impossible, her intuition warned her. It would enforce upon him the ultimate decision, and she dreaded an ultimate decision now. Inevitably, she believed, proceedings for divorce would follow. If it must be black or white, she was lost. Yet she could not go on in this directionless fog of grey. More important now was the impact of one decision made, or made for her by some second self: Claude must not be lost to her; she must not be deserted, condemned to embittered and solitary confinement. The question mark remained, but what preceded it now was different. No longer how to punish him—now how to hold him?

At once, Denise remembered where she was. She could not remain rooted in the corridor another instant, brooding, for Claude would appear and find her. Not only her location, but her face, might give her away. That could drive him to the choice too fast. Or worse, might induce pity in him. She shuddered, dropped her compact into the bag, and then returned to the masquerade in her guise of imperturbability.

Scanning the room, seeking for someone, anyone, to attach herself to, and to be busy and vivacious with when Claude came back, her eyes came to rest on Lindblom, that ridiculous, sallow chemist—whatever was his first name?—standing off to one side, nearby, shyly isolated and sipping a drink.

While she studied him, unseen by him, something clicked in Denise’s head. No hypothesis, and experiments, and trying and discarding, and formulating, and deducing. Simply—click—a find—idea—discovery. But she was scientist still. She never leaped. Always the magnifying microscope first. She put her mind’s eye to the invisible microscope and enlarged the image of Dr. Lindblom—Oscar Lindblom—Dr. Oscar Lindblom, boy chemist. She enlarged and enlarged and studied the validity of the idea.

As specimen for use, he was not her ideal. Quite the opposite. Too weak, yet there was strength in this, for he would bend with her strength, he would comply. Also, another fault, too lacking in distinction. He had definitely taken on Hammarlund’s absence of coloration, the pallor of the face chalky, and all else, features and frame and personality tentative, inconclusive. For such an experiment, one wanted strength, caring, dash, masculinity. Still, the microscope was unerring, the virtues were evident, also. His face, for all its monotony, was well made, even pleasing, the features regular. Despite his thinness, there must be six feet of him, with the limbs finely proportioned if not muscular. He was single, she remembered, and unattached. And most favourable quality of all—potentially troublesome, but now favourable, nonetheless—he worshipped her.

With an incisiveness that she had not known since her laboratory period, she made her decision. It was this or nothing. In less than three days, Claude would be beyond retrieving. She must stake all on this, trusting her suspicions of Claude’s vulnerability and knowledge of the power of her own sudden ingenuity.

Boldly, she advanced on Lindblom. ‘Well, hello,’ she said cheerfully. ‘A handsome young bachelor like you all alone?’

Lindblom came around startled, recognized her and beamed, heard her and blushed. ‘I—I get this way sometimes at parties. Not exactly unsocial, but—’

‘I understand,’ said Denise softly, searching his eyes, which he quickly cast downward. ‘May I stay with you?’ she inquired.

‘May you? Why, Dr. Marceau—I cannot tell you—this I esteem. It is a glory for me.’

She decided not to waste time. Elaborations and seductive dances were not necessary to win over this callow youth. ‘Dr. Lindblom, do I remember correctly—did you invite me to inspect your laboratory?’

‘Yes, I did. It is what I wish more than anything. You said that you and your husband might someday—’

‘I am a woman. Do I possess a woman’s privilege—?’

‘Privilege?’

‘—to change my mind?’

Lindblom’s grey eyes were wide with revival of a lost hope. ‘Would you? It it possible?’

‘My husband and I have another Nobel function in the morning. But it is unimportant. He can manage it himself. I have had enough of those formal duties. I plan to have a migraine headache tomorrow morning. Once I have got out of the engagement, my headache will vanish. And I will be quite free to do as I please. And you? Will you be free, Dr. Lindblom?’

‘I will see that I am free,’ said Lindblom with rising enthusiasm. ‘I have nothing but my work. Besides, Hammarlund will be so pleased.’

‘Forget Hammarlund,’ she said curtly. ‘I find him tiresome and opportunistic. No, not Hammarlund or anyone, for that matter. If I am to have a busman’s holiday, I wish to have it on my terms. It is you I want to see, quite alone, undisturbed by others. You will show me your experiments, charts. We will go over them together in peaceful quiet—’

‘Oh, Dr. Marceau, I cannot express to you my joy!’

‘Perhaps we shall find ways to be useful to one another.’

‘For me, it will be memorable—’

‘Yes,’ said Denise with a faint smile, ‘I expect so.’ Then she added in a crisper tone, ‘Let us say eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Where will I find you?’

‘The private laboratory is a half kilometre from the house, back in the small forest. I will tell you what I can do. I shall send a car for you, with instructions, and I will wait for you at the forest path.’

‘At eleven?’

‘I could not forget in a million years.’

From the corner of an eye, Denise observed Claude re-enter the living-room with studied casualness. She pretended not to see him. With an elaborate show of gaiety, she slipped an arm inside Lindblom’s arm.

‘Now we must celebrate,’ she said. ‘Take me to the bar. We shall toast our—scientific assignation.’

Waiting for one more drink before dinner, Andrew Craig greeted Denise Marceau and Lindblom with a noncommittal smile, and gave his attention once more to the troublesome seating-plan placard on the easel at the end of the table. He had promised to look in, once more, on John Garrett in the bathroom, but he was sure that the ammonia and cold water had been sufficient to repair the medical researcher and revive his sense of propriety.

Since he had been separated from Emily for more than an hour, the prominent seating-plan took on even greater importance for Craig.

Nonchalantly, he drifted to the end of the table, pretending to have just noticed the placard bearing the legend
Placering
, scrutinized it closely, and then picked it off the easel and took it to the carved mahogany armchair against the wall.

Sitting, Craig held the placard before him as a shield. His pose was of absorption, but looking past it, he could see that no one in the room was paying attention to him. Quickly, he pulled the gold pencil from inside his jacket, uncapped the top with his thumb, and made two erasures and revisions. Now, no longer did Jacobsson and Vasilkov enjoy Emily Stratman between them. Instead, they had the pleasure of Leah Decker’s companionship. And Craig, now deprived of Leah, was soothed by the presence of Emily on one side and Margherita Farelli at the other. Craig was pleased with his handiwork. Signora Farelli was not meddlesome, not demanding, and Craig would have Emily at his elbow the entire dinner.

Getting to his feet, he brought the improved seating-plan back to the easel.

As he left it, Craig saw M
ن
rta Norberg step away from Leah, excusing herself, stare across the room, and then start directly for him. With Emily taken care of, Craig did not mind. He braced himself, and swallowed Scotch, and waited.

M
ن
rta Norberg, with a toss of her unruly hair and a disconcerting smile, was before him.

‘Have you been trying to avoid me?’ she said teasingly.

‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

‘I don’t know. You’ve been monumentally disinterested in your hostess.’

‘Quite the contrary. My hostess seemed well occupied.’

The superior feline smile came and went. ‘Occupied, yes. Well occupied, no. However, your sister-in-law was quite interesting.’

‘Was she?’

‘Her delivery may leave much to be desired, but her material is interesting,’ said M
ن
rta Norberg. ‘She talked a good deal about you.’

‘I see.’

‘At any rate, when I observed this paragon of hers all alone in the armchair, so forlorn, reduced to reading the seating-plan, I thought I might provide more amusing company.’

He wondered if she had seen him change the seating-plan. He decided that she had not. ‘To confess the truth, Miss Norberg, I am an avid and indiscriminate reader—anything I can find—railroad timetables, old telephone books, seed catalogues—dinner seating arrangements—and when there is nothing else available, I even read palms.’

She held out her slender hand, slowly revolving it until the palm was upward. ‘Read mine.’

He shaded his brow, set his face in a feigned trance, and touched Norberg’s palm with his forefinger. ‘I see one woman, majestically alone, and thousands at her feet.’

‘I hate crowds, Mr. Craig,’ she said quietly. ‘If you look closer, you might see more. Not the career line, the personal life line. You mean you don’t see a man coming into my life?’

Craig knew that she was frankly staring at him, but he did not lift his eyes. Was an invitation couched in the child’s play? It was possible, anything was possible, and the likelihood of it amused him. He remembered, at once, Gottling’s little speech: democracy had virtually swept away titled royalty, and then, to fill the gap, created a royalty of its own—the
élite
aristocracy of celebrity, wealth, and prize-winners. In this rare circle, background did not matter. A boy might come from New York’s lower East Side or Coney Island, be born of semi-literate parents with unfashionable ghetto accents, uneducated beyond grammar school or high school, or he might emerge from a farm in Iowa or a ranch in Idaho, be born of narrow peasant stock, unread and unlearned and unsophisticated, but if he could floor any man on earth with a punch, or crudely and savagely outwit all competition and amass vast wealth, or, yes, write a book that moved millions—if he could have his image before the world on magazine covers, or his name in print, if he could become a Success—he was of the
élite
. A single unique talent or sometimes luck alone, either one was enough. He was of the earth’s anointed. Overnight, he was in that higher place. Overnight, the ones who would previously not have deigned to look at him or speak to him, the ones who considered him of the herd, would now recognize his aristocracy and accept him as their equal. Overnight, what had so recently been impossible was all-possible. Overnight, he could banter with a King, share food with a millionaire, and know flirtation from an unapproachable sex symbol. So incredible. For he was no different than before the ascension. He had not changed in his eyes. He had changed in
their
eyes.

And tonight, M
ن
rta Norberg could say to him, ‘You mean you don’t see a man coming into my life?’

A month ago, he would have been timorous of asking for her autograph. Now she was asking for his.

He bent over her hand. ‘I see many men,’ he said.

‘Unlikely,’ she said, and instantly withdrew her hand. ‘You are a faker, Mr. Craig. Confine your reading to timetables and telephone books.’ Then her mouth smiled, as if to remove any hint of annoyance. ‘I read in the newspaper the other day that the things you like most about Sweden include Carl Milles, Ivar Kreuger, and M
ن
rta Norberg.’