The Prize (88 page)

Craig tried to identify Ossietzky in memory, and failed, and was about to inquire who he was, when the liveried servant materialized with a tray, freshly filled with goblets of champagne. Gratefully, Craig traded his empty glass for a full one. By the time the servant moved on, the thread of conversation had been lost.

He prepared to speak to Hammarlund, when he saw that Hammarlund was gazing intently off towards a far corner of the room.

‘Bertil,’ Hammarlund murmured, and Jacobsson was immediately alert. ‘Bertil, that couple over there before the fireplace—the handsome gentleman and his Gallic lady in light blue décolletage—would they be the Drs. Claude and Denise Marceau, your chemistry winners?’

Jacobsson squinted off. ‘Yes, the Marceaus.’

‘Introduce me,’ said Hammarlund. It was not a request, but a command. ‘Introduce me,’ he repeated. ‘I am keenly interested in them. I must know them tonight.’ He nodded at Craig. ‘Forgive me, Mr. Craig. It has been a pleasure.’ He glanced off at the Marceaus again, and then added enigmatically, ‘It is ever thus—business before pleasure.’

The moment that the Ambassador had left them, and they were alone for the first time this evening since leaving the Grand Hotel suite, Denise Marceau flung her accusation at Claude.

That same moment, as he stammered in his bewilderment at her charge, she saw two men approaching them. One she recognized as the Swedish Count who had been on the Nobel reception committee and who had welcomed them at the afternoon press conference. The other, a fantastic, so bald, so white, so singular, she had never seen before. Suddenly, nearing, the Count had whispered to the other, and they had veered off in another direction and attached themselves to a group nearby.

Immediately, Denise perceived what had kept the two men from joining Claude and her. They had seen her face, distorted with rage, when she had spat her accusation at her husband. They had deduced that a family quarrel was in the making. Tactfully, they had steered clear of the battle. Thank God, Denise thought. She wanted to settle this with Claude alone, uninterrupted, and right now, here and now.

‘You have not answered me,’ she challenged Claude. ‘Did you or did you not arrange an assignation with that girl, in Copenhagen?’ Then, without waiting for his reply, she went on angrily. ‘It is not enough to insult me in Paris. Now, you throw discretion to the winds. Now, you must have your favourite courtesan follow you through Europe, always near, always at your beck and call. I do not know what has got into you. I swear, you must be insane.’

Claude listened to the tirade in befuddled silence. What he had feared the most was happening before his eyes. Denise had been too distraught to reveal, in continuity, what new fantasy was troubling her. She was making charges that were not only riddles but utterly senseless.

‘Denise,’ he pleaded, again fearful of a scene, ‘what are you going on about this time?’

‘Do not lie to me. I am sick of lies.’

‘Denise, I swear, I simply do not know what you are talking about.
Qu’est-ce que c’est?
’

‘Oh, yes, I can imagine you do not know.’ She had unsnapped her sequin evening bag, and pulled out a crumpled envelope. She thrust it at him. ‘
Voilà
. Now tell me you do not know.’

He flattened the envelope in his palm. The envelope was addressed to him, typewritten. It bore a French stamp, and a Paris postmark, and the imprint
Par Avion
. He turned the envelope over, unable to guess its contents, and saw that the back flap had already been torn open. He fingered inside for the letter, and found only a short newspaper cutting. Across the top, in block lettering had been printed in pencil,
Figaro
.

With anxiety over an unknown threat, heightened by Denise’s accusing eyes, he read the cutting. It told him that the French government, in a gesture of goodwill towards Denmark, had arranged to transport ten of its foremost Parisian mannequins, and the latest Paris fashions, to a Copenhagen winter fair. The mannequins would be guests of the Danish government, at the Hotel d’Angleterre, for three days, commencing December 6. The names of the ten mannequins from Balmain, Dior, Balenciaga, Ricci and La Roche were listed. The fourth name in the list of ten read, ‘Mlle Gisèle Jordan, Balenciaga.’

The news of Gisèle’s impending nearness stunned Claude. He kept his eyes fixed on the cutting, to give himself time to regain his composure before the inquisition continued.

‘Well,’ Denise was saying, ‘how long ago did you arrange that little rendezvous?’

‘I arranged nothing. Can you not read? This was arranged by the French government.’

‘
Est-ce que tu veux me faire prendre des vessies pour des lanternes?
’

‘No, I am not trying to prove to you that black is white. I am simply saying I knew nothing.’ He held off the cutting as if it were contagious. ‘This is the first I know of it.’

‘
Parbleu?
’

‘I am sorry. It is the truth.’

‘That skinny
putain
sent it to you—you will not deny that.’ And then Denise added. ‘Or do you have some concierge for a go-between?’

Claude examined the envelope. There was no doubt that Gisèle had posted it. Such indiscretion was unlike her. Yet, no doubt, she had assumed, as a single person who knew privacy, that in all marriages this privacy was maintained. She had believed Claude opened his own mail, and Denise her own. She could not know that, in the long years of their work, with most of their correspondence scientific and technical and meant for their collaborative eyes, they had always opened each other’s mail. His bad luck, he told himself. It was done, and he would have to make the best of it.

‘I will not deny it is from Mademoiselle Jordan,’ he said at last. ‘There is no one else who could have sent it. But I assure you, Denise, I had no idea of her visit to Copenhagen. I suppose it just came up—’

‘—and now she lets you know she is waiting, flat on her bed, ready, your divine
sous-maîtresse
.’

‘I can endure anything from you, Denise, except crudeness.’

‘And I can endure anything from you except humiliation.’ Denise’s lips trembled. ‘When have you agreed to see her?’

‘Please. We have agreed to nothing. She will be in Copenhagen, at work with her friends. I am in Stockholm with you.’

‘Copenhagen is an hour or two from here. Like taking the
métro
.’ She paused. ‘You intend to see her, do you not?’

‘I am not seeing her,’ Claude said firmly.

‘If you humiliate me once more while we are in Stockholm, you can go on that stage yourself and take the whole damn prize for yourself.’

‘You are suddenly generous,’ said Claude, weary of his defensive position. ‘You were less so this afternoon.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘At the press conference,’ said Claude, bitterly. ‘You certainly did your best to castrate me—’

‘I would not do it with words—I would do it with a dull spoon, if I had one,’ Denise interrupted.

‘—to make a fool of me in public,’ Claude went on. ‘I would like to see a transcript of that interview. One would think you had won the Nobel Prize alone, and I had come along to help you carry the medallions.’

‘I told them nothing but the truth,’ said Denise.

‘We did the work together, and you know it. Since when do we say, “I have done this” and “You have done that”? What have we come to, Denise, even to have to discuss this? We are a team of two—’

‘I thought it was three. My roll call shows three.’

‘
Mon Dieu
, stop it!’

‘I married you to collaborate not only in work but in pleasure. When you take your pleasure elsewhere, and leave only the work part for us, then there is not enough for me. I am left alone. I have to think of myself alone, now and in the future, and so I spoke for myself.’

‘Denise, I told you we would work things out.’

‘How?’

‘I do not know yet,’ he said miserably, ‘but we will, I guarantee it.’ His hand took in the salon. ‘Surely this is not the time and place to make decisions.’

‘I am telling you this—I am not waiting for your decisions. Henceforth, I shall make my own.’

‘Then make your own,’ he said.

Her eyes blazed at him, and she wanted to say many cruel and important things, but she suppressed further combat. ‘Get me a drink,’ she said.

He searched the room until he located a servant, and then summoned him. When the tray appeared, and they took fresh champagne, Denise became aware that the pair of men who had originally approached them, and then detoured, had now decided that the family quarrel had ended.

Count Bertil Jacobsson joined the Marceaus with a slight bow. ‘How do you do? One of our most celebrated citizens is eager to make your acquaintance.’ He brought Hammarlund forward, as if from the wings. ‘Dr. Denise Marceau—Dr. Claude Marceau—our eminent industrialist, Mr. Ragnar Hammarlund.’

Hammarlund took Denise’s hand, prepared to kiss it, but since this was a gesture of greeting which she habitually resisted in France (as being archaic and insincere), she brought the industrialist’s smaller hand down sharply and converted the gesture into a masculine handshake. Having gripped his hand hard, she found that it squashed in her palm like a broken snail, and she withdrew quickly. Next, Hammarlund offered his clammy grasp to Claude, who took it without attention.

Hammarlund addressed Denise. ‘Count Jacobsson tells me you were brilliant at the press conference this afternoon.’

‘He is unnecessarily flattering,’ said Denise, with a smile for Jacobsson and a triumphant sidelong glance at her husband.

‘It is so,’ said Jacobsson enthusiastically. ‘I have heard many chemistry laureates, but few more articulate than
Madame le docteur
.’ He turned to Claude. ‘I hope you are having a pleasant time this evening.’

‘It would be more pleasant,’ said Claude lightly, ‘if I could have a Swedish drink instead of champagne. For a Frenchman—champagne is like milk for an American.’

‘But of course, you may have anything,’ said Jacobsson, fussing nervously.

‘Also, where is the
lavabo?
’ Claude asked. He nodded to his wife. ‘Darling,’ he said, and then to Hammarlund, ‘Mr. Hammarlund, do excuse me for only a minute. I shall be right back.’

He backed away, and then went hastily off with Jacobsson.

Denise watched him leave, more annoyed than ever with him for having stranded her with a perfect stranger, and wondering if he could no longer endure her company and merely wanted a respite from her.

‘I have followed your work in the journals for years,’ she heard Hammarlund saying. ‘No chemists on earth more deserved this recognition.’

‘And I have read about you for years,’ said Denise with effort. ‘Is it true you were once with Ivar Kreuger?’

‘An early and instructive phase of my life. It convinced me that honesty is, indeed, the best policy.’

‘I was a little girl in Paris when the scandal unravelled,’ said Denise. ‘I remember my father pointing out the apartment in the Avenue Victor-Emmanuel where he shot himself. What happened to you after that? And to all Kreuger’s holdings?’