The Prize (129 page)

Trailing Lindblom, she peered at her watch. She had arrived at 11.05. It was now 11.55. The zero hour that she had set herself loomed close. The ultimate decision. Question One: Should she do it? There were two courses open: (a) mild flirtation, a holding of hands, an embrace, a kiss, romantic whispering, to be followed by similar meetings devoted to the same and no more; or (b) sexual intercourse.

Instinct advised her that moderation would not work. Claude’s infatuation—hypnotized as he was by Gisèle’s sexuality—would not be shattered by mere retaliatory flirtation. She could not play-act the pretence that it was more, and she knew that Lindblom was even less capable than she. Claude would view the flirtation as a juvenile’s revenge, rather ridiculous, rather foolish, a pathetic joke. On the other hand, illicit love had a sweeping power that could bring real response. Here, no play-acting would be demanded of Lindblom. He would be her lover and know it and show it. And real possession of her body, unviolated by another since her marriage, would be a shattering blow to Claude’s ego. If it was not, her marriage was done anyway, and nothing would be lost. But if his ego was injured, and what remained was jealousy, there was hope.

She followed Lindblom about the laboratory and continued to reason with herself. She was satisfied that Question One had been resolved. Should she do it? Yes, she should. Now Question Two: Could she do it? This was a difficulty. She had been raised a French Catholic. Her parents had been stern overseers. Yet, in young maturity, free of them and adrift from the Church, she had enjoyed three brief but earnest affairs with male students of the Sorbonne. But after she had met Claude, and made her vows, she had not once cheated, not once flirted, despite the legendary nonsense about the loose morals of French women. She had not even thought of such a thing.

She walked and deliberated: but now, it was all different, and Claude had made it so. What vow policed her? The vow had been mutual, in partnership, and he had broken it. What chastity need she preserve and for whom? And what fears need she have? She was a woman, and that made it easier. She was a woman scientist, and that made it far easier. She was a woman scientist of forty-two years, matter-of-fact, unromantic, not widely experienced but fully experienced, and that made it far, far easier.

Two factors made it possible and a necessity. Lindblom had halted to point out a beaker of liquid. Standing there, staring at it, by some curious metamorphosis, the beaker became a vessel, and the association was Gisèle Jordan’s young vagina given to Claude, to her husband, and his taking it, and she hated the image and drove it off, but her fury with the offenders in her life remained. Then, to forget the image, to please Lindblom, she had stepped beside him to lean closer to the beaker, and inadvertently, she had leaned forward across his outstretched arm so that her generous breasts, loosely bound in a thin lace bra, had pressed deeply against his arm. She had felt, with excitement at her power, the sudden rigidity of his arm, of his entire frame beside her, in fact, and she knew at once that he could be had with ease and that it would be painless. And so Question Two was answered. Could she do it? She could, indeed.

And now, hardly able to contain herself, she was ready for her plot to spin to its climax.

She had backed off, and she considered Lindblom with friendly pleasure. My collaborator, she thought, but said instead, ‘This has been absolutely fascinating, Oscar—if I may call you that?’

‘Please, please—to be sure—’

‘Now where can I get off my poor feet and have a cigarette and—’

‘Forgive me, Madame Marceau. I am afraid I was carried away by all of this. How thoughtless of me. Come, we will go in the next room—what Hammarlund calls my “think” room.’

Quickly, he led her into the doorless adjacent room, a small carpeted study, a modern desk to one side bearing a portable typewriter, a pile of charts, and an electric coffeepot. Against the wall was a sturdy sofa covered with heavy fabric and a bookcase packed with scientific journals. Two light chairs stood nearby.

‘Would you like to use the bathroom?’ He pointed it out.

She shook her head.

‘Coffee?’ he inquired.

She shook her head again. ‘No, I merely wish to sit and smoke—and find out all about you.’

She sat in a corner of the sofa, crossing her legs so that the short silk dress pulled provocatively above her knee. Lindblom tried not to see this, as he bent forward to light her cigarette.

She stretched backward against the sofa, inhaling deeply, so that her breasts bulged outward. Lindblom remained standing awkwardly before her.

‘Do you mind telling me about yourself?’ she asked.

‘Not at all. But I am afraid you will not find me very interesting, outside of my work, Madame Marceau.’

‘Let me be the judge. How old are you, Oscar?’

‘Thirty-two.’

Not too bad, she told herself. A respectable age, at least, she told herself. ‘And still a bachelor?’ she inquired. ‘How do you manage to keep free—with your good looks?’

Lindblom blushed at the compliment.

Before he could reply, she said, ‘You need not blush. In France, we are used to being frank in all matters. I understood it was the same in Sweden?’

‘Not precisely, Madame Marceau. We Swedes are quite a formal and inhibited people.’

‘What of all the wild reportage I have read about your open sex lives?’

‘Some is true, some is not.’

‘I see. But still, you have managed to escape the girls, Oscar?’

‘I am not exactly a cinema star. Besides, I am devoted to my work.’

‘That I can understand,’ said Denise in a kindly way, to relax him. ‘But your social life—do you keep a girl friend?’

He seemed startled. ‘I am not sure what you mean.’

‘A mistress? Do not be annoyed with my candour or curiosity. It is simply, having come to know you a little more, I am intrigued. You are quite attractive, you know. So I wonder who the lucky young lady is.’

‘There is none,’ he blurted.

‘You mean no single one? Surely, you see women?’

He wriggled uncomfortably before her. ‘I go on dates now and then, but not too often.’

‘How are these Swedish girls of yours? Do they readily let you make love to them?’

His cheeks were crimson. ‘Oh, Madame Marceau—’

She smiled. ‘I
am
giving you a hard time. But I mean to know. Do you make love to your little friends? Or do you not? You can be perfectly honest with me . . . you are not undersexed, are you?’

‘Certainly not!’ he said indignantly. And then added, ‘I do not go out with women much because of this long research of ours. Ragnar Hammarlund pays me well, but he is exceedingly demanding. I work day and night—’

‘You have not answered me fully.’

‘Of course, I make love to certain women, when I must, when it is necessary.’

‘How often?’

‘I do not know. I do not think about it. Really, I admit it, I am embarrassed, Madame Marceau—’

‘Nevertheless, how often?’

‘Once a month maybe, sometimes more, when I can get away. These algae strains—’

‘Never mind that. I am truly sorry I have embarrassed you. I did not mean to.’

‘And I did not mean to be impolite to you, either,’ he said hastily.

‘You are a dear young man. You are not impolite at all.’ She smoothed the sofa cushion beside her. ‘Come, sit beside me. I have only been asking these questions because’—she waited while he lowered himself to the sofa, a foot or two from her—‘because,’ she resumed, ‘I am quite enchanted by your person, your intelligence, and—I warned you we French are candid—your physique. I cannot know too much about you. It is unfair to you, but I confess, I cannot control myself in your presence.’ She found another cigarette. ‘Here, light it.’ She offered him her lighter.

He snapped the lighter, and as he offered the long flame, his hand shook. She reached up and took his hand in her cool hand and steadied it. She moved her hand caressingly over his, closed the lighter for him, but did not release his hand, instead kept it in her own on the sofa between them.

She stared at him. ‘I must frighten you, Oscar. Do I?’

‘Not at all,’ he said tremulously.

‘My failing is that I do not know restraint. I am what I am. I confess what I feel.’

‘That is admirable,’ he said, his Adam’s apple as busy as a Geiger counter in the Congo.

‘It is my weakness, and my weakness is affected by you.’ She pulled his hand. ‘Come closer to me.’

Stiffly, he moved closer, until their hips and thighs touched. She did not take her eyes off his face. ‘You are the most handsome man I have known in years, and sweet—do all the girls tell you that?—so sweet, with your devotion to synthetics, with your gorgeous wavy hair and beautiful mouth. I cannot take my eyes off your mouth.’

She leaned against him, cupping his intimidated face in her hands, and bringing her lips to his. His lips were unyielding and withdrawn, but she worked her mouth until his lips parted and softened and began to respond. He did not touch her. His arms were limp at his sides, but now he responded with his mouth. She felt his thin body shuddering with excitement, and she feared what might happen, and withdrew from the kiss.

‘Now, was that so bad?’ she asked.

‘No—no—’

‘Is that the best you can say?’

‘It was wonderful. I am honoured—’

‘Do you like me a little, Oscar? You can be truthful.’

‘Madame Marceau, what can I say? You must know how I feel inside. You—you and your husband—you have been my idols. The thought of even meeting you, of daring to be alone with you—’

‘Do not be so foolish, Oscar. Make such speeches when you speak of historical figures like the Curies. I am not the Curies. I am not entombed in history books. The Nobel Prize has not mummified me—not my heart or flesh or emotions. I am a human being and young, and I am fortunate enough to be with a human being who is also young, a male who electrifies me. I do not want your admiration for my achievements. I want your admiration for my person. Am I attractive to you?’

‘I have dreamt of one like you—’

‘But am I attractive?’

‘Of course you are, Madame—’

‘Of course—who?’

‘Madame—’

‘Is that the best you can find to call me?’

‘But anything else—I could not—’

She considered the tense sallow face and the tic that had come to the corner of his right eye. He was as foolish, as incredible and introverted, as every Stendal hero, but his fear and inhibition whetted her appetite to bring the experiment to a successful conclusion.

‘Oscar,’ she said softly, ‘loosen your tongue and let your heart escape. Do you not see what I am trying to learn from you—what I want to hear—what every woman in the prime of life must know from a man who affects her? Do you care for me as a woman? Just as a woman—a female denuded of records and accomplishments and prizes—a female who is not above you, but your equal or less—who wants your admirations—’