The Prize (92 page)

‘Like our time.’

‘—yes, like our time, and that frightens me.
Armageddon
was exciting and moving, but it scared me, too.
The Black Hole
was almost a classic, I think, though I assure you it didn’t sell well in Georgia. I remember the bookdealer trying to talk me out of it. “That’s a No’thern book, ma’m,” he kept mumbling. But this one on Plato peddling his Utopia—I think it’ll live. Uncle Max was saying it came out not long ago in Scandinavia, and that’s what got you the prize. You deserve it.’

His instinctive affection for her had become adoration. ‘I’d like to bring you to my publisher’s next sales meeting.’

‘It’s not necessary. You don’t need puffs any longer.’ She stared at him. ‘It’s odd, meeting the author,’ she said, finally. ‘I couldn’t imagine what to expect. Two of the books, three actually, were so violent—no, I mean indignant—furious. You’re not like that at all.’

‘My gift for outrage is well hidden, and only brought out for special occasions, like when I write a book.’

‘Why? It’s a virtue, not a fault.’

‘Outrage is a red flag—it invites conflict—it invites grappling with life—and the obvious part of me is withdrawn and scared and wants no trouble. Do you understand?’

‘Completely.’

‘Maybe that’s why I retreat into history, where my real self won’t be spotted and forced to fight. It’s cosier. It’s a weakness, a kind of flight, but there you are.’

‘I understand that, too. I’d wondered.’

He looked about the salon, and realized that either he was myopic or a haze had fallen over the occupants. Too much to drink, he thought, far too much, and now he regretted the escape. He wanted to belong here, faculties intact, but it was too late. ‘Enough of this talk,’ he said to her, ‘the wrong note for the eve of the Royal Banquet.’ He drained his glass of champagne in a final flagellation. ‘Now,’ he said, setting the goblet on a marble-topped commode, ‘I want to show you something.’

He took her arm, but she held back. ‘Show me what?’

He pointed off. ‘See that chamber door down there? Count Jacobsson was telling me it leads to one of the historic state apartments—Sofia Magdalena’s state bedchamber—he said it’s worth seeing if I have a chance. Let’s look.’

She hesitated. ‘I don’t know—’

‘Be adventuresome.’ He divested her of her drink, and placed it on the commode, and then swiftly led her across the French rugs to the chamber entrance.

‘Follow me,’ he said, and she went after him through a dim passage into a tiny, bright drawing-room. He opened a door, peered inside, and announced, ‘Sofia Magdalena awaits within.’ She crossed into the state bedchamber, and then he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

The majestic bedchamber, dimly lit by a single lamp, was white and gold with a baroque ceiling. The pilasters bore the feminine touch of rose laurels. The ceiling represented an overwhelming allegory of the four continents. The rest was lost in the shadows.

Craig remained weak-kneed inside the door, his reddened eyes following Emily as she went directly to an alcove to examine two Gérard portraits of Eugène Beauharnais, Napoleon’s stepson, and Eugène’s wife, Princess Amalia Augusta of Bavaria. In the salon, Craig had been aware only of Emily’s face, but in these private quarters, he saw, as if for the first time, her slim body, accentuated by the black evening sheath slit up to the knee. Then, when she turned in profile, and next, three-quarters, he realized that she was not slim at all. The flesh of her shoulders, above the protruding breasts, appeared warm and soft, and the hips and thighs spread generously out from the tiny waist.

Rocking uncertainly, he realized with a pang that he had not been absorbed by a female body, as he was now, since the time of Harriet. Discounting, that is, his dream of Lilly last night, But that was different, fleeting. Now it was as if he had been revived from a long sleep of death. He wanted a claim on Emily’s physical comeliness, and the need, which was desire, and so long foreign to him, now was the strongest unreasoning part of him.

Drunkenly, he traversed the bedchamber, and planted himself in front of her. She looked up, with surprise, at his face. His head was a turmoil, and his heart pounded, and he felt wild and extravagant.

‘I wanted to be alone with you,’ he said.

Her eyes showed alarm, but she did not move. ‘We are alone.’

‘You’re so beautiful—it makes me shake inside—you’re beautiful—I have to say it—’

‘Thank you,’ she said, stiffening. ‘Now, I think we’d better—’

‘Emily, I want to kiss you. I haven’t touched a woman I cared for—someone beautiful—since—’

He placed his hands on her arms, felt their softness beneath his palms. He tried to draw her into him, but she was suddenly all resisting sinew and bone.

She tore free, and backed away. ‘Don’t you touch me!’

‘Emily, listen, I’m trying to tell you—’

‘Get away! Go away!’ She started past him, almost running, but he caught her shoulder and spun her to a halt.

He saw her then, as he had not seen her before, breathless, quivering, cornered and at bay, and then he perceived a secret damage in her that he had only known in himself. The enormity of the new hurt that he had inflicted overwhelmed him, and his shame was suicidal.

He released her. ‘I’m sorry, Emily. I apologize, believe me. I’m—I’m not like this at all—not at all—I had too much to drink. I lost my head. Can you forgive me—forget it? Please forget it. It was all the drinking—all day long—and now—and more than just that—’

A sudden, loud creak broke his plea, and a shaft of brighter light from the drawing-room laid them bare. As one, they whirled towards the doorway. It had been flung wide open, and in its frame stood Leah Decker, stern as conscience.

She advanced slowly, mouth compressed, looking from one to the other, until she was a few feet from them.

It was Craig whom she addressed coldly. ‘I saw you go in here. I thought I should tell you—you’ll be missed. The King is making his appearance.’

Craig inhaled, straining for composure. ‘This is Miss Emily Stratman—Professor Stratman’s niece—my sister-in-law, Miss Leah Decker.’

‘How do you do,’ said Emily, in a voice flat and dulled. She took several steps away. ‘If you’ll both excuse me—my uncle—’

She exited quickly, head high, not looking back.

Leah watched her speculatively, and then turned to Craig. ‘Well,’ she said.

‘Well what?’

‘Never mind . . . Good Lord, you’re a mess. Your eyes all bloodshot. Your tie. And you need a comb. Here’s mine.’

‘Don’t waste your time.’ He felt funereal, and wanted to chant a dirge. ‘ “All the King’s horses and all the King’s men—couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again.” Remember? Come on, let’s curtsy.’

As Count Bertil Jacobsson’s cane rapped three times on the floor, the occupants of the salon fell back against its walls, forming a long, irregular semi-circle, waiting. No sooner had the echo of Jacobsson’s cane ceased than the King of Sweden entered through the arch. Behind him came the elegant royal princesses and princes. While the retinue remained stationary, the King, in severe evening dress without ornament, moved ahead and surveyed the room with the briefest smile.

Jacobsson jumped forward, crossing the carpet towards his ruler. When he reached the King, he stamped to a halt, stood rigidly at attention. The King proffered his hand, and Jacobsson, inclining his head, took it—touched it, really, and no more.

Now the King moved towards the semi-circle of guests, with Jacobsson half a step behind, whispering introductions as His Royal Highness welcomed each guest, male and female, with a handshake, a nod, a muted word.

Andrew Craig, situated beside Leah in the first third of the semi-circle, had observed all of this through bleary eyes, steadying himself by leaning against the commode behind him. Just as the King had done, moments before, now Craig too surveyed the guests. The majority were counting the progress of His Royal Highness. The rest, mostly Scandinavians, stared straight ahead, as if soldiers at an inspection. Craig explored the visible faces of the women rising and falling from focus, seeking the one from which he wanted understanding and forgiveness. But Emily was nowhere in the range of his vision.

He was conscious of an extraordinary movement beside him. He investigated, and was amused to see his sister-in-law dipping and lowering herself, in what seemed jerky and convulsive motions made more awkward by the straight lines of her gown, and then he realized that this was her interpretation, recently acquired, of the curtsy. He saw her rise again, slowly, laboriously, like something reaching upward from a launching pad, and then she was once more perpendicular.

That moment, he heard his name distinctly spoken, and the words ‘literature’ and ‘laureate’, and like a Pavlov dog, without thought and by reflex, he pushed himself from the commode and straightened and faced the King of Sweden.

The King extended his hand. ‘Welcome to our country, Mr. Craig.’

Woodenly, Craig took the King’s hand and released it. ‘Thank you’—he was about to add the word ‘King’, banished it, sought frantically for the lesson of protocol, and found it—‘Your Majesty.’

The monarch lingered. ‘I enjoyed your novel,
The Perfect State
. Its sentiments coincide with my own.’

‘I appreciate that, Your Majesty.’

‘I look forward to the completion of your next work.’

Supported by the battalion of bottles consumed, Craig felt as reckless as a young Socialist. ‘Is that a command, Your Majesty?’

The King was amused. ‘If you wish so to regard it, Mr. Craig.’

‘I am sincerely flattered and inspired. You shall have the first copy, Your Majesty.’

The monarch moved on, to the continuous hand shaking and curtsying, and Craig realized that he had, indeed, been flattered by the ruler’s interest, but not inspired, not inspired at all, for the King’s sovereignty was temporal and earth-bound to this land, and Craig paid obesiance only to the Muse—once Clio, now Calliope. With regret, he resigned from his promise to the King of Sweden.

He heard Leah’s troubled whisper. ‘How could you joke with His Royal Highness like that?’

‘He didn’t seem to mind.’

‘How do you know? Oh, Andrew, I’m so mortified—’

‘He enjoyed it,’ said Craig between his teeth.

‘Even if he did, you’re so irresponsible when you drink—what’ll you do next?’

‘For Chrissakes, Lee, we’re the hit of the evening. I won’t criticize your curtsy, and don’t you knock my dialogue. Now, please behave.’

‘Everyone saw you go in that corridor to the bedroom—’

‘What of it? It’s not a whorehouse.’

Leah gasped, blushing and pulling back. Her eyes darted around the room, seeking to learn if Craig had been overheard. She saw that he had not been, and she started to speak again, and then held her tongue, and settled into sullen taciturnity.