The Prize (29 page)

Now, in that double room on the second floor, Claude Marceau sat lost in thought, sipping an Armagnac that Gisèle had so considerately brought for him, and listening to the distant splash of the water from the tap in the bathroom to which Gisèle had just retired.

Except for the first few minutes after his tardy arrival, Gisèle had been, he had to admit, admirable. In the first few minutes, when he had entered her room in a trance, after the mechanical embrace and kiss, she had pouted and shown dissatisfaction, rare in one so even-tempered.

‘But so late?’ she had said. ‘I did not fly all the way up here to the North Pole simply to sit for hours alone in some dreary hotel room. You had promised—the least you could have done was to call me, explain, I did not know what to think.’

‘I was tied up,’ Claude had said.

‘With what? What could be more important than us?’

To explain to her what could be more important, or at least as important, was plainly an impossibility. Could he convince her that his brain, stultified, almost atrophied, these last months, had begun to grow, to burst forth with life this day? Could he tell her that until this afternoon he had been alive only from the neck down, and that this afternoon he had found his head? Could he tell her that one of the next great miracles of the chemistry laboratory would not be found in trying to synthesize carbohydrates through imitation of nature’s sunlight, but by developing the photosynthesis process in glass tubes? Would his mannequin consider glucose molecules as more important than himself or herself?

It was no use, for this was the part of him that she had never known or even met, ‘Gisèle,’ he said instead, ‘nothing is more important than we are, and I apologize once more. I tried to warn you on the long-distance call—this is Nobel Week, and people throughout Stockholm, from all over the world, are tearing at me, demanding my time, my opinion, my attention, and I—’

This had seemed to touch her, his fame and her petty demands, and she had immediately become contrite and gone into his arms. ‘Claude,
I
am the one who is sorry. I know how important you are, and how proud I am of it. I know you cannot belong to me alone. That is what bothers me always, I think, the realization that you are not all mine. I suppose that is part of what worries a woman when a man is late—that she does not matter enough—and so she becomes insecure.’ She had kissed him. ‘It is only that I have missed you so and looked forward to every minute of this. Do you still love me, Claude?’

He had kissed her gently, in return, and then had held her off, studying her, and for a moment the glucose molecules, the chain of them, had disintegrated before her beauty. Yes, he had almost forgotten her beauty—the beauty that had made him lose his head—in the finding of his head this afternoon. She had stood so tall and chic before him, pleased with this attention, her crocheted brown wool tweed displaying her lissom and supple showcase figure at its best.

She had taken his hand. ‘Come, Claude, let us sit and talk. You must tell me everything.’

They had settled side by side, on the two-cushioned love seat, holding hands, fingers intertwined, and she had spoken of Paris, and of the preparations for Copenhagen, and of Copenhagen itself. And then she had asked him about the week in Stockholm, carefully avoiding any mention of his wife, and he had spoken of Stockholm, the officials that he had met, the other laureates, the sights he had visited, the appearances he had made, the dinner at the Royal Palace and the dinner at Ragnar Hammarlund’s mansion, and he, too, had carefully avoided any mention of his wife.

As he spoke, he had retreated from her. It was as if he had addressed the room, and not her. Except for the play of her slender fingers between his own, he might have been unaware of her presence. And even when he had related an anecdote about Max Stratman, he had done so inattentively, with no conscious effort to please her and keep her by this sharing, so that their histories might become one. His deeper mind had churned with the entire protein question, the necessity of proteins at all in synthetics, the probability that development of chemically produced amino acids might be sufficient. Was this possible?

His consciousness of her presence had returned when he realized that his hand was empty, and he looked down and saw that she had removed her hand and was twisting the ruby on one finger. He had looked up, sheepishly, knowing her sensitivity to his every mood and to any withdrawal, and her pale blue eyes and usually emotionless mouth had offered him the briefest smile of understanding.

‘You look so far away, Claude,’ she had said. ‘Let me change into something more comfortable. Maybe I can find a way to bring you back to me.’

She had slid out of the seat with fluidity, and then, with her erect carriage, her lazy, teasing mannequin walk that had always aroused him, she had made her way to the bathroom and out of his sight.

Now he had finished two Armagnacs in his waiting, and poured a third, and wondered where they would begin—the experiments, that is—and had almost decided that, perhaps to avoid discouragement, they should begin where advances had already been substantial—with fat acids, employing petroleum to develop a stearic acid that might be wedded to already synthesized glycerol.

He heard the bathroom door open, and when he lifted his head, she was standing in the middle of the room. She was staring at him curiously. He observed that she had brought the sheer
peignoir
from the rue du Bac, a street that now sounded unfamiliar, and that the flat moon breasts beneath the
peignoir
had been more promising when she had worn the crocheted tweed.

‘Claude—’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘—you have not moved since I left you.’

‘What?’

She glided noiselessly towards him. ‘I thought you would be ready.’

‘Yes, that will take only a minute.’ He made as if to rise, but her hand touched his shoulder and kept him to his place, and she sat beside him and crossed her lean legs.

‘Tell me—sitting here all this while—of what were you thinking?’

‘Of you,’ he said.

‘You have always been truthful with me.’

He nodded, and then fell silent, and then, quietly, he tried to tell her. He had devoted so many years to vitrification of spermatazoa, and when that was done, there was nothing more, for he had been unable to consider another project seriously. What had saved him had been Gisèle, her love, her kindness. For a man, this was almost a great sufficiency, but there was always the parallel yearning. A job to do. An identity to be fulfilled. This had been missing, and yet he had not known its lack, because he had been so filled with Gisèle. But this afternoon, before their reunion, the miracle had taken place, and now he was filled with that, too. With rising intensity in his speech, he tried to clarify various aspects of the new miracle. He spoke of natural food and synthetic food, he spoke of carbohydrates and proteins and water and fats. He spoke of autoclaves and centrifuges and sublimation chambers. He spoke of freedom from want.

Gisèle listened diligently, hands in repose, the slightest curve of a set smile on her lips.

When she thought that he was finished, she said quietly. ‘I wish I had been born you.’

‘What an odd thing to remark.’

‘To be born you—and have many loves—equally loved—not one.’

‘You are mistaken, Gisèle, dearest. This is another matter, a different preoccupation. I have but one love, and that love is you.’

The smile remained set, unchanged. ‘No, Claude,’ she said.

‘But of course! What has got into you? I will prove it—you will see. Here, let me undress—’

Her hand darted out and restrained his hand. ‘No, Claude, not now. I do not feel you want to—to possess me now.’

‘But I do.’

‘You have no talent for deception. You are not in the mood, Claude. I can tell. Do not lie to me. And more important, do not insult what is between us by attempting to service me without love.’

‘Gisèle—’

‘You are in another world.’

‘Well, I have been excited—and besides, this has been a week—’

‘Claude, it requires no apology. You are exhausted—not from the week but from the new passion. You are forgiven.’

‘Gisèle, believe me from my heart—I would like nothing more than to lie down with you, but perhaps you are right—it would be best when my mind, when—it will be best when I am back in Paris again.’

She had risen. ‘You had better go now. I think you will want to discuss your new miracle with—with ones who can appreciate it with you.’

He rose quickly and took her hands. ‘It does not feel right.’

‘With me, it does. You must give me some time to myself now. I have never been here before. I want to shop, buy many things. There are only a few hours before plane time.’

‘I will go with you—carry your parcels—’

She shook her head. Often, the bereaved prefer solitude. Could he know? ‘I would rather be alone.’

‘Well, if you insist—’

‘I do insist.’

‘
Voilà
.’ He released her hands and took up his hat and coat. He hesitated. ‘I will see you next week in Paris.’

She walked to the door and opened it. ‘There will be no next week in Paris, Claude.’

‘Why do you say that?’ He had reached her side.

‘Because you are through with me. I know it. You know it. I am not a self-deluding youngster.’

‘I am not through with you. If you mean my wife—’

‘You know what I mean, you know exactly what I mean. You have taken back your passion. You have now given it to your work. I knew it would happen, Claude. Of course, I knew from the start. My pleasure was that I did not know when. But now I know when. It is now.’

She leaned forward and kissed him, and at once drew back.

‘Thank you for everything. Now, go to your work. Some day—some year—between jobs—you might look me up.’ Her smile was bittersweet. ‘I just may be around—if I am unlucky.’

He sighed and left, and she closed the door, and leaned against it. After a while, she went to the love seat, and saw his Armagnac, unfinished, and she finished it. Then she untied her
peignoir
and removed it, and walked in nudity—without provocation, for there was no audience—to the bathroom to clothe herself against the cheerless winter afternoon.

In the study of Carl Adolf Krantz’s apartment, Daranyi had finished reading aloud from his dossier on Leah Decker, considerably less interesting than those he had read on the Marceaus, but necessary to show evidence of his thoroughgoing method. Because he had read swiftly, he knew that Krantz had fallen behind him in recording his report, and so he sat back in the leather chair for a respite.

The watch on his wrist told him that it was past 7.30. Well, only Andrew Craig, Professor Max Stratman, and Emily Stratman, and he would be done and have his reward by eight o’clock. Where to celebrate his riches? Perhaps a late dinner at Stallm
ن
starg
ه
rden, near Hagaparken, with Lilly. He could almost smell the steaks on the charcoal grill. Then, reconsidering the gourmet indulgence, he knew that he had more vital uses for the money. Well, he would see, his throat and lungs felt parched. Ilsa’s tea service still rested on the black table.