The Prize (108 page)

The blood seethed to Garrett’s cheeks, and he wanted to speak against the outrage of Farelli, but some restraint kept him from bringing up the matter before Ingrid P
ه
hl. Instead, he said, ‘Do you think those joint prizes are fair?’

‘So many candidates are often in the same field, it is impossible to credit only one.’
ض
hman had arrived at an elderly face on the wall. ‘My favourite since 1949. Dr. Antonio Egas Moniz, of Lisbon, Portugal.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Ingrid P
ه
hl.

‘In 1936, he introduced the prefrontal lobotomy,’ said
ض
hman. ‘There was no cure for certain cases of severe mental distress, apprehension, depression. Drugs would not help. Psychiatric treatment would not help. Dr. Moniz found that these acute fears, verging on insanity, came from the frontal lobes of the brain, certain grey matter in the skull above the eyebrows. By incisions in the side of the head, the size of a shilling, and severing the nerve fibres of the front lobes with a long thin knife, Dr. Moniz learned that a patient’s anxiety could be dramatically reduced.’

‘It sounds horrible,’ said Ingrid P
ه
hl.

‘It is to be preferred to suicide or insanity,’ said
ض
hman flatly. ‘It cuts away all apprehension and worry. It makes these patients happier. The only unfortunate aspect is that it frequently makes them into irresponsible dullards.’

‘But that’s like cutting away a man’s conscience, the soul that God gave him,’ said Ingrid P
ه
hl.

‘In medicine, we are less concerned with a man’s soul than with his life,’ said
ض
hman objectively. ‘Uhhh—I am sure that Dr. Garrett will not disagree with me. The brain is the unexplored Mato Grosso of the human body. For that reason, I have always respected Dr. Moniz’s find above all others—until lately. Now, I have a new favourite.’

ض
hman hurried back to his desk, opened, a drawer, and took out a photograph. He offered it to Garrett with a pen.

‘Will you sign your photograph, Dr. Garrett? It shall henceforth have the main place—above Dr. Moniz.’

Garrett accepted the picture and pen. ‘I hardly know what to say.’

‘You need say nothing. Your accomplishment speaks for you.’

Garrett signed the photograph: ‘To my favourite co-worker and friend. Dr. Erik
ض
hman, with best wishes, John Garrett.’ He returned the photograph and pen, and
ض
hman fondled the photograph with the reverence often given an early church relic.

‘Now,’ said Garrett, pointedly, ‘I’d like to talk a little shop.’

Ingrid P
ه
hl could not miss the meaning of Garrett’s remark, and she did not. She pushed herself from her chair. ‘If it is going to be shop talk, this is no place for me. I have some friends here I want to see. When do you want me to pick you up, Dr. Garrett?’

‘Well—’

‘Not for an hour anyway,’ said
ض
hman. ‘Uhhh—there is much I want to show Dr. Garrett. I want to take him through my ward and discuss various problems.’

‘An hour, then,’ said Ingrid P
ه
hl, and she waddled out of the room.

The moment that they were alone, Garrett began to adhere to his battle plan. ‘When do you perform your next transplantation?’ he asked
ض
hman.

‘We go into surgery at seven in the morning of the tenth. I am still making tests on the patient, and still trying to find the correct-sized young bovines or sheep, in order to acquire the best fresh hearts available. The case is an interesting one. Uhhh—I should say, in some respects, the most challenging and important one I have yet undertaken. The patient is a Count in his early seventies, a distant relative of His Royal Highness. Much public attention will be given to the result.’

Garrett’s heart leaped. This was what he had hoped for, this was the main chance.

‘Will there be any difficulties?’ Garrett inquired.

‘Uhhh—frankly, some aspects of the case worried me, but now, I am confident again—since yesterday, when Dr. Farelli was in to examine the patient.’

Garrett felt the blood siphon from his face, and he thought that he would faint. ‘Farelli?’ he gasped.

ض
hman’s brow wrinkled with surprise at his guest’s emotional reaction. ‘Why, yes—Dr. Carlo Farelli. He appeared yesterday with a newspaperwoman who had been interviewing him—a Miss Wiley from America—and without protocol, he introduced himself and said that he wanted to see my ward, my patients—all most flattering—’

‘And you—you took them through—both of them?’

‘Why, certainly. And he was kind enough to study the patient’s history and charts and offer some advice. As I said, it was flattering and generous of him—’

‘You fool!’ shouted Garrett.

ض
hman stood stunned. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You heard me. Generous of him? What a laugh. He’s an arrogant, vain publicity monger and a thief.’

ض
hman looked as if he had been slapped. He swayed, speechless, the pupils of his eyes dilating. ‘Dr. Garrett, I—uhhh—uhhh—uhhh—are you referring to Dr. Farelli—?’

‘None other,’ said Garrett, rising, all restraint cast aside. ‘I suppose the reporter, Miss Wiley, I suppose she took notes? She did, didn’t she?’

‘Why, of course.’ He lifted the newspaper from his desk. ‘She filed the story last night. The Swedish papers picked it up today.’

‘And it’s all about that bastard Farelli?’

‘I—I—uhhh—yes, I mean—naturally, the new Nobel laureate comes to our hospital to pay his respects—offers to advise us on an important patient, a royal patient in critical condition—it is a story, naturally—uhhh, Dr. Garrett, I cannot understand—you are so upset—what is it? Is there something I should know?’

‘You’re damn right there’s something you should know.’ Garrett’s lips worked, and steadily he pounded a fist of one hand into the palm of the other. ‘You sit down,’ he commanded. ‘I’m going to give you an earful about that charlatan Farelli—trying to use you—making fools of both of us—and the Nobel Committee besides—now, sit down.’

Dazed, Dr.
ض
hman sat down, staring up at his deity, who had so suddenly been transformed into a vengeful Mars, and slowly, with relentless hatred, Mars began the case for the prosecution.

Carl Adolf Krantz, who, among other human frailties, was a hypochondriac, had fortified himself against the freezing weather with earmuffs beneath his hat, a swath of knitted muffler, a bearish overcoat, and it was with difficulty that he was able to manœuvre the Mercedes-Benz sedan into the parking area outside the vast glass-and-metal Bromma Air Terminal.

He knew that he was late, and the moment that he left the car, this disgraceful fact was confirmed by the Arrival and Departure Board. The Czechoslovakian Airlines four-engine plane—an early morning telegram had informed him that it was leaving two hours earlier than scheduled, and so would arrive two hours earlier—had taken off from the Schِnfeld Airport in East Berlin at 9.55 in the morning and was expected in Stockholm, en route to Helsinki, at 12.55. It was now 1.06. An immediate inquiry calmed Krantz’s nerves. The passengers from East Berlin were still going through customs.

Outside, near the rows of windowpanes and the Royal Waiting Hall, Krantz removed his earmuffs, fearing their absurdity, and tucked them inside his coat pocket. He wondered if Dr. Hans Eckart had looked for him, before going into customs. Had Krantz been able to hire a chauffeur for the morning, as he had wished, there would have been no tardiness. But he knew, understanding his visitor, that Eckart would have severely disapproved. He and Eckart had private matters to discuss, and Eckart was, above all things, cautious, and a third party in the car would have been inhibiting. It was too bad, because a chauffeur would have readily fixed the flat tyre of the Mercedes that Krantz had so lavishly hired on Klarabergsgatan at twenty kronor for the day (minus ten per cent discount for the winter season) plus twenty-five
ِ
re for every kilometre to be driven. Without the chauffeur, Krantz had wasted precious time hunting for a garage and, beyond that, he had probably driven the rim through the deflated tyre, which would force a costly penalty upon him. Still, these expenses were minor, and the irritations minor too, when he considered the importance of his meeting with Eckart.

As he thought of their reunion, Krantz’s spirits lifted. The assignment that Eckart had so mildly suggested in East Berlin, more than a year ago, one that had seemed so impossible at the time, had now culminated in complete success. Krantz had done his job magnificently, and Eckart must deliver what he had promised. In that sense, the German physicist’s arrival in Stockholm was today not only a congratulation but a guarantee of payment. Severe as the day was, Krantz shivered with warm anticipation at the guttural assurances that would soon give him the prestige and security that had become his full-time obsession, ever since the vacant chair of physics at the University of Uppsala, rightfully his by accomplishment and seniority, had gone to another.

Waiting in the icy air of early afternoon, Krantz felt like any child on Christmas Eve. He knew, at once, that the simile was incorrect. He had never been ‘any child’ on Christmas Eve. This he could not forget. His gruff father had always been off to Frankfurt on holidays, and his mother had consequently been fretful and angry, so there had never once been a celebration. It irked him to remember the pointless past in this his maturity, when he had made his own cause for celebration.

As he smoothed his moustache and goatee with his gloved fingers, his earlier and happier mood revived. But that he was nervous there was no doubt. Automatically, his gloved fingers scratched for the metal puzzle in his coat pocket. He took the puzzle out, clumsily but absently twisting and turning it, and suddenly he heard his name.

Dr. Hans Eckart, a single light case in hand, was goose-stepping towards him. At least, his exact military stride gave the impression of a modified goose-step, and while it often made many heads turn, it no longer seemed surprising to Krantz, to whom it had been familiar since the war.

Depositing the puzzle in his pocket, tearing off the glove of his right hand, Krantz bolted forward to welcome Eckart with a hospitable handshake and relieve him of his case.

‘
Gutten Tag
, Hans!’ exclaimed Krantz exuberantly. ‘
Wie geht es Ihnen?
’

‘
Es geht mir sehr gut
,
danke—und Ihnen?
’ Eckart stepped back and surveyed Krantz. ‘You need not answer. I see you are fit. No older, you appear no older than the last time.’

‘How long has it been, Hans? A year—’

‘One year and twelve days,’ said Eckart exactly. ‘It is considerate of you to meet me, with all the duties you must perform in the Nobel Week.’

‘Receiving you is my happiest duty of the Nobel Week,’ said Krantz with sincerity.

‘Not quite, not quite,’ said Eckart with Wagnerian humour. ‘There was another I am sure you welcomed more.’

Krantz understood the dig, which was not meant unkindly but was their mutual pleasure, and he smiled. ‘Yes, Hans, it is true the other gave me pleasure, also. . . . I am sorry for the weather. Come, I have a Mercedes waiting.’