The Prize (125 page)

He sat on the gravel path, whimpering, spitting blood and alcohol and, like a sand sucker, chewed for air.

He looked up, eyes crossed and maniacal, and suddenly, from some reservoir of strength, he lifted himself, groaning, to one knee, and then, throwing himself at Farelli’s legs, tried to pull the other down. Farelli kicked loose, with a curse in Italian, but when he attempted to retreat, Garrett was upright on his feet again, wobbling. Garrett threw himself upon the larger man, bear-hugging him, attempting to wrestle him to the turf, attempting to destroy all that stood between himself and self-respect. Farelli fought to tear Garrett’s clawing hands from his shoulders, and in this way, into the frosted loam of the garden, they grappled and cursed.

It was then that Andrew Craig came on the run, having watched the altercation from the terrace. Craig pushed between them, and because he had will and no anger, his authority was felt, and Garrett released Farelli, and staggered backwards, panting, lips working, but speechless.

‘Are you insane? Are both of you insane?’ Craig demanded.

‘He insulted me,’ said Farelli with bedraggled dignity. ‘He struck first.’

Garrett found his voice, which was broken. ‘He’s a liar—a hoax—he provoked—’

‘I don’t give a damn what happened, or who’s right, or who’s wrong,’ said Craig furiously. ‘For Chrissakes, you’re two adults—holies—the great Nobel winners—behaving down here like two saloon brawlers. Now, cut it out and forget it. What if this got out? What if someone found out?’

He turned to Farelli. ‘You go first. Better comb your hair and straighten your jacket. The lapel’s ripped. I think you can disguise it before you get inside.’

Craig turned back to Garrett. ‘I’ll try to put you in shape. Here’s my handkerchief. Wipe the blood. It’s only a lip cut. I’ll clean you up and sneak you into the bathroom.’

‘
Benissimo
,’ Farelli said to Craig. Then he studied Garrett with contempt. ‘
Arrivederci
,
fratello mio
.’ He started to go.

Garrett glared past Craig, making a ball of his fist and shaking it at the Italian. ‘I’m not through with you, you quack. I’ll fix you yet—I’ll fix you—you wait and see.’

And then Garrett turned back into the dark of the garden, crying and vomiting at once, not out of physical pain, but out of humiliation and loss and gross injustice and inadequacy, all in one, and all in his bursting heart.

There were six in this group now, near the improvised bar, Denise Marceau between Hammarlund and Evang, and then Leah Decker and Jacobsson and Mrs. Lagersen.

Hammarlund, to impress the Marceaus, had given the familiar cue to Mrs. Lagersen. He had mentioned, proudly, the latest original Monet and Sisley oils that he had acquired, through his agents, at a Paris auction, oils now on their way to Stockholm, and soon to enrich his living-room walls and gallery beside the other Impressionists. What he missed the most was a Gauguin. He had always desired a Gauguin. This was the cue, and Mrs. Lagersen was on.

She remembered Paul’s death in distant Dominica, and how she had been with Mette in Copenhagen the week the news came, and Mette’s resentment of a life so irresponsibly wasted. She remembered how Paul’s personal effects—furniture, paintings—had been auctioned off in Papeete to pay a court fine. There had been great fun, that day, over the effects of the demented and deceased French painter and when Paul’s last oil came up for bidding, the auctioneer had turned it upside down. ‘What will you give for Niagara Falls?’ he had called out, and someone gave seven francs, and that was the end of Paul Gauguin, they thought, even Mette in Copenhagen thought but now Ragnar Hammarlund, with all his fortune, could not find an available Gauguin.

Listening, Denise had become absorbed in Mrs. Lagersen, museum piece, living link to an immortal. The first-hand stories, along with the drink, and the music, had drawn off the poison of Denise’s anger somewhat. How much fun all this might have been, she thought, studying Claude’s profile. Another anecdote had begun, and Denise gave it her attention. It was near the end of this that Motta, the butler, materialized, and hovered behind Claude. He seemed anxious, but kept his distance with phlegmatic respect.

Then the anecdote was finished, and they all laughed. With this intermission, before a new story could begin, Motta quickly sidled up to Claude, and touched his arm. Claude leaned sideways, towards the butler, and Motta whispered in his ear. Evang was speaking, and no one took notice of Motta and Claude, no one except Denise. She saw her husband’s brow furrow, and his nod, heard him murmur an indistinct apology to no one in particular, and then watched him hastily leave, following the butler out of the room.

Denise lost her interest in Evang and Mrs. Lagersen and their anecdotes at once. Her mind was on Claude. What was the message? She pondered the mystery of where he had gone and what was happening.

Evang had been telling a long story, and this was followed by an interlude of broken chatter. Hammarlund bent towards Denise.

‘Do you like the music?’ he inquired politely.

‘Most enjoyable, both orchestra and vocalist,’ she said absently.

‘I flew them in from Paris for you. I thought they would make you feel at home.’

Denise cocked her head at Hammarlund with surprise. It would dismay him to learn that while she lived in Paris, she was not of Paris, not these last laborious years, no part of the city’s night life, its song, and that she could not tell a French orchestra from a Swedish one. But why had he done this? ‘You did it for me?’

‘To accommodate a great lady I admire.’

‘Well, I thank you, sir.’

‘Dr. Lindblom informs me that he had a most inspiring conversation with you.’

She found it difficult to recall Lindblom or the conversation. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, a promising young man.’ Her mind was gnawed by Claude’s sudden disappearance. What had taken him away? And then she was aware that Motta had reappeared, and was preparing to resume his duties.

She clutched her handbag. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ she said to Hammarlund.

She headed towards the butler, intercepting him before he could begin his inquiries of the guests about the next round of drinks.

‘I am Dr. Marceau’s wife. Is anything the matter?’

‘Nothing at all, Madame. It was merely the Grand Hotel. They had an urgent business call, long distance, for Dr. Marceau, and they wanted to speak with him, to know if he would take it. He is waiting for the call to be transferred.’

‘Long distance?’ said Denise mildly.

‘Copenhagen, Madame.’

Denise felt an immediate hot flash in her temples, and for a moment she was faint. ‘Where is Dr. Marceau taking the call? It may be of concern to me.’

‘In the rear library, Madame. If you will kindly follow—’

She followed the butler out of the living-room, along a corridor with several doors, and a turning, until they reached a rich oak door.

Motta put his hand to the brass knob. ‘Right in here, Madame.’

‘Never mind. I will let myself in. You can go back to the other guests. Thank you very much.’

Motta had already turned the knob, partially opening the door, but now he released his grip, bowed, and silently disappeared around the corridor corner.

Denise waited, frozen, for the servant to be gone, already hearing Claude’s voice. The second that she was safely alone, she turned back to the oak door. She wondered if it would squeak if she pushed it, and then she did not care. It opened a few inches and then a few inches more. Claude’s voice was low but distinct. She could not see him from this angle, but a trick of the subdued lamplight threw his shadow, elongated like a thief in the night, against the trophy-covered wall that was visible.

She stood hypnotized by his black silhouette on the wall, and clenching her dry hands together, she listened without shame. She felt dull and hollow, helpless and dreading, like an agent parachuted among the enemy for the first time, overhearing at some headquarters of a surprise attack, and girding herself with the advantage this knowledge gave her homeland, which was herself.

Her ear was sensitive, alive to every inflection, pause, remark.

‘I cannot hear you.
Répétez
,
s’il vous plaît
,’ Claude was saying, ‘Yes, yes, I am on the line. The connection is poor.’

Pause.

‘Yes, fine, Gisèle, fine. I am busy, but there is excitement. It is a great honour. And you, how are you, my dear? How was flight?’

Pause.

‘I am happy. You sound wonderful. It is rather difficult in this place. I will be missed.’

Pause.

‘Oh, it is a dinner party, formal. One of Sweden’s millionaires is giving it. But someone may come in. I am glad you called. But why the risk to call me here?
Qu’est-ce que c’est?
’

Pause.

‘You what? Here in Stockholm? When?’

Pause.

‘I know, I know, Gisèle. I miss you, too. But you do not understand. I am obligated—the schedule—everything, every moment, planned—it would be most awkward—what?’

Pause.

‘Well, you know how I feel. Of course, I want to see you. When would it be? For how long?’

Pause.

‘The ninth, you say?’

Pause.

‘Only the afternoon? I understand. But you will get back for the evening show in time?’

Pause.

‘Of course I want to, Gisèle, you know that. It will work out. I shall see you somehow. Of course, I will not be able to take you to the airport, but—oh, another thing. Remember this. You are not to stay at the Grand. . . . What? What did you say?’

Pause.

‘You have? Excellent. Then wait there for my phone call after you arrive. It will be before one o’clock. I may be a few minutes late phoning, but I will, and I will see you, be sure—’

Pause.

‘What gives you such ideas, my darling?
Je te trouve toujours ravissante!
Nothing has changed.’

Denise pulled back from the door as if it were a guillotine, and from within, Dr. Guillotin’s dooming voice.
Nothing has changed.
Nothing, nothing. Denise’s eyes brimmed with tears, and she could hardly keep from audibly sobbing.

Spinning away, she ran to the turning, and then up the corridor. Approaching the bright lights from the living-room entrance, she slowed, then halted, shaken, trying to collect her poise. She found a handkerchief in her bag, and carefully picked at her eyes, drying them without disturbing the make-up. Next, she found her compact, snapped it open and studied her reflection—so worn, so defeated, too old—in the circular mirror. Stalling for time, she touched powder to her pale cheeks and then added the slightest edge of rouge.

She had lost, she knew. The final
débâcle
was in the making. Three days from this night, less than three days, Gisèle Jordan would land from Copenhagen for an afternoon’s assignation in a hotel room, hidden and secure. And with some lie, carefully invented, Claude would leave her to carry out alone the hateful schedule she had wished upon them. He would leave her, the used, tiresome person known too long, leave her, the forty-two-year-old dowdy who smelled not of perfume but of chemical compounds, leave her with her unforgiving, curdled hostility; and he would go to the other one, so fresh, so unencumbered, so blonde and tall and perfect, so exciting with the fragrance of youth, flesh and high fashion and murmuring approval and secret skills; and after this exchange, Denise would suffer total obliteration.