The Prize (28 page)

In the bathroom, she discarded her
négligé
, and then, after giving the matter some thought, she decided on limited provocation. She unclasped her brassière, pulled it off, and allowed her full breasts to drop unhampered. With care, she washed and dried, improved her face bit by bit from eyebrow pencil and eye-shadow to powder and lipstick. Then she doused herself with Arpège, behind the ears and neck, across her shoulders and collarbone, under her armpits, between her breasts and beneath them.

She had just pulled on her
négligé
, and was drawing it about the pink nylon pants, when she heard the door buzzer. Hastily, she secured the
négligé
, and went, in a trot, to the door.

The minute that Lindblom came into the room, hair dishevelled and eyes too bright, and she closed the door and realized that he was staring at the movement of her breasts, she knew that she might not have everything her way.

‘Denise—’ he panted, and clutched at her, holding her so tightly to him that she could hardly breathe, pressing her bosom deep into his chest and running his hand down the arch of her back and across the curve of her buttocks.

In their previous two assignations, he had shown none of this impulsive aggressiveness, and now she tried to fathom it. Either she had aroused him to this pitch with her telephonic promise, or the combination of her attire and the dangers inherent in his visit had stimulated him beyond reason. Whatever lay behind his excitement, there was going to be a bout.

‘Denise,’ he was whispering, ‘I could not come to you fast enough. I must have you at once.’

She tried to push him away. ‘Oscar, what has got into you? Not so fast—’

‘I must—I must—immediately. You do not know how it is!’

She was separated from him, and she saw his face and stance, that of an an
و
mic Mellors who was a keeper of white mice, not game.

‘Denise, you said you loved me.’

‘I do, silly boy, of course I do. It is just that I am no longer in the mood for—’

‘Denise, on the telephone—’

‘You have my affection, Oscar, but understand—I have been upset all day, so worried about you, what my husband might do to you—to you, my precious one, and no one else.’

‘Please, Denise—’

You give a teetotaller his first two drinks, thought Denise, and look what happens. She must put a stop to this. It was Claude who was on her mind. She must know about Claude. ‘Oscar, listen. I want to hear—’

‘
Jag vill att du skall ligga med mig
—come to bed with me.’

‘I told you—I am not in the mood.’

‘A kiss at least—an embrace—’

‘Very well. But first you must tell me everything that passed between my husband and Hammarlund.’

‘Anything.’

‘All right. No, wait—not here where the chambermaid may—’ She squirmed out of his arms. ‘Come along. But remember—behave.’

She went into the bedroom, and he hurried after her. She secured the door, wondering what he would have to say of Claude, but at once Lindblom was upon her, his hands on her
négligé
, his moist lips and short breath on her face. She favoured him with a single kiss, then pushed at his arms, and slipped free.

‘You must behave, Oscar—you promised,’ she said, distractedly. ‘Now, no more of this until you tell me what happened. Be a gentleman. Keep your distance.’ She began to pace the room, avoiding his hot eyes, his fervour, determined that he cool down, become rational, give her what information he could. She strode forth and back, still not looking at him. ‘Now, go ahead, Oscar,’ she said in her practical voice. ‘What did my husband say about me?’

‘Only what I told you.’ Tie.

‘Nothing more—you are certain?’

‘Only that he would break my neck if he found me with you. Not another word.’ Shirt.

‘I cannot believe it.’

‘I only tell you what Hammarlund told me. Dr. Marceau was there an hour and a half, and all he talked about was synthetic foods.’ Shoes.

‘He does not care a bit about synthetics. Why should he spend an hour and a half—?’

‘Because something Hammarlund was saying suddenly got him interested.’ Socks.

‘What do you mean? I do not understand. Be more explicit.’

‘Denise, I cannot think!’ Trousers.

‘You must think. I have to know.’

‘Hammarlund said your husband got an inspiration—’ Shorts.

‘Inspiration about what? Synthetics?’

‘What? I do not know. Yes. Please, Denise, stop running—stop ignoring—look at me.’ The compleat man.

‘Oscar!’

‘You see, Denise, I must—I am out of my mind.’ The compleat lover.

‘I will not have it. . . . No, stop—you promised. Now, please, stop. Put on your clothes. Oscar, take your hands off—you will tear my beautiful new—’ Sash.

‘I have never desired you more. I will devour you. I will not live without you.’

‘You must. We cannot do this. Please behave. You promised to tell me, tell me—is Claude actually contemplating the beginning of actual research in—’
Négligé
.

‘Ah, Denise, what divinity—your breasts—no woman on earth—’

‘Oscar, wait. Oh, why did I let you in here? This is impossible. Let me off the bed. Will you stop? I refuse to let you take them off. No—no—’ Nylon panties.

‘Denise, my love—my only love—’

‘Let go. . . . Are you mad? . . . I cannot breathe.’

‘Denise, be mine forever—leave Claude—’

‘I will not leave Claude. I will not be so cruel. Oscar—Oscar—this is wrong.’

‘What?’

‘This is wrong.’

‘It was not wrong last night, my love—not wrong in the laboratory. Love is never wrong.’

‘But this is different. Poor Claude . . . I cannot . . . no, we will talk. You have not finished telling me. You implied he has some new project. Has he, Oscar? Has he something—?’

‘Something—what?’

‘Do you think he has found something at last?’

‘Oh, yes, of course he has—oh, Denise, I must—it is too painful.’

‘Contain yourself, Oscar—stop it.’

‘Live with me, Denise—leave him—forever us—like this.’

‘You say a project—a discovery? Could it be that—has he an idea about a new discovery—a hypothesis—?’

‘What? I cannot hear you. Oh, Denise—’

‘Oscar, wait.
Ralentiez
—let go, you are hurting me.’

‘It is my love—I cannot control—’

‘I demand to know of my husband and his hypothesis.’

‘His hypothesis—?’

‘Go on—go on—tell me.’

‘He and Hammarlund argued—synthetics—possibilities—everything—oh, Denise—debated all the while—your husband—fascinated—suddenly inspired with a concept on synthesis of foods—then—oh, Denise, my love, my love—
jag
ن
lskar dig
—I love you.’

‘You are nice, Oscar, yes. But talk—only talk.’

‘He kept saying we are all wrong—imitating nature—copying—must strike out to create new foods—not make substitutes for—’

‘And you are sure he was sincere—completely absorbed—interested?’

‘Hammarlund said he has never—seen—a scientist more excited—is sure—is sure—is sure—’

‘What? What, my darling—?’

‘Oh, Denise—yes, is sure your husband will embark on the greatest exploration of synthetics yet—yet—yet—’

‘Go on, Oscar.’

‘—yet attempted by a science—scientist—in fact, he—Denise, I cannot—I must have you. Enough of this—’

‘No, stop it, Oscar. I will not permit this—you are simply over-sexed. You should be thinking of work, day and night, not this—’

‘But in the laboratory you said—Denise, Denise—’

‘Where is your honour? I am a married woman.’

‘You are body-starved. You are withering for love.’

‘Respect—respect. Release me.
I am a Nobel laureate.
’

‘You are a woman—not embalmed in history books—not mummified by a prize. A woman—a woman.’

‘With a husband—with Claude.’

‘He is impotent—we are alive. He has his new inspiration. In fact, he—Denise, love me now—’

‘You must tell me, Oscar. You were saying that “In fact he”—’

‘He was late for wherever he was going—for his date—he was so filled with his inspiration—’

‘
No?
Is it true? Tell me—is it true?’

‘Yes, for heaven’s sake, Denise, I cannot talk. I cannot—’

‘But—’

‘He will explain it all—all to you—himself. He told Hammar—ah—lund he would discuss it with—’

‘With me? With me?’

‘Yesss—oh, Denise—’

‘I adore you, Oscar! You have said so much. I am happy—I have never been happier.’

‘At last, at last—’

‘
Oscar!
I only meant—’

‘At last, at last—’

‘
Mon Dieu!
’

‘At last, at last—’

‘
Voila, c’est la guerre. . . . N’importe
, Oscar, only be quick. I think my husband may be coming back earlier than I thought. I am not sure, but there is a chance.’

The Hotel Malmen, an imposing white square building on busy Gِtgatan, proudly advertised that its 250 guest rooms, equipped with bathtubs or showers and four-station radios, were among the most modern in all Sweden. For many tourists, the only disadvantage to the hotel was that it was some distance removed from Stockholm’s centre. For Gisèle Jordan, out of consideration of her lover’s position, and her relationship with him, this isolation was a major advantage, and once she learned of it, she had reserved a double room on the second floor for the afternoon of December ninth.