The Prize (133 page)

Night had fallen on the city, and a damp fog laced the frosty polar darkness. It was five past six in the evening when Andrew Craig reached the shrouded waters of Nybroviken, some blocks behind the Grand Hotel. The
portier
had given him exact directions to the Royal Dramatic Theatre, reminding him it covered an entire block near Strandv
ن
gen, on the iced bay of Nybroviken.

Now, in the fog, Craig was lost, and he waited for help. A Swedish youngster on a bicycle, whistling in the fun of the fog, bundled like a Lapp, approached the corner.

‘Young man—’ Craig called out.

The bicycle slowed.

‘—please, where is the Dramatic Theatre?’

The beet-coloured face was puzzled, and suddenly it beamed. ‘
Dramatiska Teatern?
’ He jerked his thumb behind him, and held up his forefinger—an improvement on Esperanto—and Craig understood that it was one block away.

He proceeded slowly, heading blindly into the blackness. His mind returned to—had really never left—the person of Emily Stratman. Her kiss, almost twenty-four hours old, was still on his lips. During the Hammarlund dinner, there had been no way to communicate with her, except with his eyes, nor had more been possible in the communal ride to the hotel afterwards.

This morning he had overslept, and had found her at lunch with her uncle and three Scandinavian physicists and their wives in the Winter Garden. He had joined the party, but there had been no opportunity to go further with Emily. Only afterwards, briefly, as they had all risen from the table, had he been able to ask when he might see her again. She did not know. In the afternoon, a social tea. And this evening, a performance of something or other—a pageant—at Drottningholm. Tomorrow then? She had hesitated, and worried, and he had perceived that she was again afraid, afraid she had gone too far on the Hammarlund terrace, afraid to be alone with him and take up from the last encounter. But he had been so pleading and kind that she had acceded, and almost with enthusiasm finally. Tomorrow she was free for dinner, and so that would be it. He had not seen her since, and he wondered if she and her uncle had reached Drottningholm this evening safely in spite of the fog.

He found himself before a stone building piled high and stretching upward through the layers of mist. There were indistinct yellow lights, revealing ornate pillars and a statue, two figures, to the left. This was the Royal Dramatic Theatre he was sure, and he hastened up the steps and inside to keep his meeting with M
ن
rta Norberg.

In the lobby, a plump, bandy-legged cleaning woman was pushing a carpet sweeper.

He removed his hat. ‘Pardon me. Miss M
ن
rta Norberg is expecting me.’

‘Not inside,’ said the cleaning woman. ‘She finish rehearsal—go upstair with Nils Cronsten.’

‘Can you tell me where upstairs?’

‘She go to—with young ones—Little Theatre of Royal Training Academy. Fourth number floor.’

‘Thank you.’

Craig took off his overcoat, and, carrying it over one arm, began the long climb up the staircase. When he reached the fourth floor, he was winded and overheated.

A big blonde, with the chubby aspect of an innocent milkmaid, and wearing a skintight red leotard that made her flaring hips and buttocks seem abnormally large, was hurrying down the corridor.

Craig intercepted her. Was it
frِken
or
fru?
‘
Frِken
—’

‘Yes, sir?’ Her accent was clipped West End.

‘—where can I find Miss Norberg or Mr. Cronsten?’

‘The small theatre down there.’ She pointed.

He considered the leotard. ‘May I ask—who are you?’

She dimpled. ‘Viola.
Twelfth Night
. William Shakespeare. I am overweight, but I am dieting.’

With that, she hurried away, an Amazon in haste, and Craig enjoyed her as he walked to the theatre and went inside.

It was, indeed, a small theatre, ninety-eight red plush seats, footlights ablaze, and a fair-sized stage now displaying three performers in costume, a slender Olivia, veiled, a refined and dignified Malvolio, and a jester, all gaudily attired. Accustoming himself to the auditorium, Craig listened. Olivia was addressing the steward, her voice rising and falling: ‘O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail—’ Craig thought of Gunnar Gottling, and tried to listen again.

‘Are you Andrew Craig?’

Craig pivoted in the direction of the inquiry, and saw a stocky, conventional looking gentleman of indeterminate but older years, a parted brown toupee, complacent respected banker’s face, bow tie, pin-striped neat suit, rise from a seat.

‘I am Nils Cronston, Miss Norberg’s director. She advised me earlier you were to be expected.’

They shook hands in the aisle.

‘I congratulate you, Mr. Craig, on your Nobel Prize. Indeed, I have admired your novels, and it is a pleasure to have you visit us. Please join me. I will send for Miss Norberg.’

Craig took the second seat from the aisle, and Cronsten settled beside him, lifting his hand and loudly snapping his fingers. Immediately, a young man with tangled hair and padding beneath the abdomen of his costume leaped from the front row and came racing up the aisle.

‘Sir Toby Belch,’ commanded Cronsten with mock severity, ‘an assignment for you.’

‘Yes, Mr. Cronsten.’

‘Go forth on winged feet to Miss Norberg’s dressing-room and summon the star of Sweden. Inform her that her caller from across the sea is present and waiting—the renowned Mr. Andrew Craig.’

‘Yes,
sir!
’

The young man was off, like a jack rabbit, and both Cronsten and Craig laughed. ‘Mart
ن
rehearsed a few hours late this afternoon,’ said Cronsten, ‘but then she tired of it—not in the mood—and we came up here to watch our future Norbergs. Don’t ever repeat that to her, Mr. Craig. She can imagine no past or future Norbergs, only one, and that one touched with immortality anyway.’

‘I guessed it,’ said Craig good-naturedly.

‘She finally went to the dressing-room to make some long-distance call.’

‘Last night she told me that you were directing her in
Adrienne Lecouvreur
. It will be exciting news to the theatre world. When will she open?’

‘Never,’ said Cronsten. ‘I’ve rehearsed her in four plays these last years, but they never open. At the final moment, she always quits and goes into hiding again—searching for properties, she says, searching for the foolproof hit. She will never find it. You see, Mr. Craig, her malady is historic greatness. When you attain her summit, become not an actress but a legend, when you are so high, you cannot top it again. So you become over-cautious. You must find the perfect vehicle for your perfect talent—there can be no possibility of failure—and, well, it is impossible to arrange such guarantees. So I play her fool—we have our little game of rehearsals. I delude myself over and over—maybe this time, maybe this time—but it will never be. I doubt if she will expose herself on the legitimate stage again. Someday, perhaps—just possibly—another film, but I would not wager on that. And so she goes on playing the enigma, the recluse, the unattainable—and since it is a better role than she will ever find, I suspect she will play it out for the rest of her days.’

‘What does she do with her time?’ Craig wanted to know.

‘She’s not social if that’s what you mean,’ said Cronsten. ‘She busies herself with herself. When you are Norberg, you don’t need anyone else. She devotes mornings to her appearance and health—she is a faddist, like so many actresses, so there is always something new. She spends afternoons reading properties or rehearsing. She gives evenings over to Hammarlund and his friends. Sometimes she travels incognito. She owns a villa in the hills behind Cannes and keeps an apartment in New York. Most of all, here or anywhere, she intrigues.’

Craig’s interest was piqued. ‘You say—she intrigues?’

‘It is too complicated to explain. When you know her better, you’ll understand.’ He looked off. ‘Here comes our runner with tidings.’

The young man with tangled hair and stomach padding trotted towards them, and saluted them with the note in his hand. ‘Sir Toby Belch reporting. The Norberg has flown. In her place, she left with Viola a note addressed to Mr. Craig.’

He handed the folded paper to Craig, waited for dismissal, and was dismissed by Cronsten.

Craig opened the note:

DEARLAUREATE, Rushing off to be home for a call from New York. It is imperative I see you tonight. Can you come to dinner at seven? I will expect you. I am a mile beyond Hammarlund. You need only tell the taxi-driver—NORBERG.

Craig saw that the director was inquisitive, so he explained. ‘She had to go, but she wants me to dine with her at seven.’

‘It’s twenty-five to seven now. I’ll tell you what we can do. Let’s go to my office and have a drink, and then I’ll drive you to Norberg’s.’

‘I wouldn’t think of imposing—’

‘Not far out of my way, so I will insist.’

They rose, and Craig followed the director into the corridor, and in a minute they were in Cronsten’s tiny, spotless office, with its dark teak desk and contrasting pale beech-framed chairs, carefully padded with thick foam-rubber cushions.

Opening a wall cabinet, Cronsten asked, ‘What will it be?’

‘No fuss. Plain Scotch. Don’t bother about ice.’

Cronsten poured, and brought the whisky to Craig, who was facing the opposite wall, examining framed photographs of Greta Garbo, Ingrid Bergman, Signe Hasso, Viveca Lindfors, Mai Zetterling, and half a dozen other Swedish actresses, all bearing affectionate autographs to the director. Above these, in solitary splendour, was a portrait of M
ن
rta Norberg. Across it was scrawled, ‘To Cronny—from his Trilby.’

Craig took his drink. ‘You seem to have known them all.’

‘Yes. I’ve directed them. They all have three things in common—Sweden, talent, and the Royal Dramatic Training Academy. They are all products of our Socialist-supported school.’

‘You’ve got a remarkable record.’

‘I’m proud of it. Every summer, we print and circulate a poster. It says, “
Kungl. Dramatiska Teaterns Elevskola Prospekt
.” It is an invitation to our young ladies, between sixteen and twenty-two, and young men, slightly older, to try out for our state Training Academy. After rejecting certain ones, we usually have over one hundred to judge. They all come to Stockholm, to the little theatre here, in August, and do scenes for us. We have an elimination tournament. There are sixteen in the final round, and of these, we select eight to be trained for the stage.’

‘By what standards do you pick the eight?’

‘When we watch a young girl, we think beauty is nice but only an extra asset. It is the least important factor. We do not watch for technique and tricks, either. We watch to see if the girl has emotional range, imagination, and courage. It will surprise you to know—I remember the very day—that when Garbo tried out, she was an extrovert, full of noisy confidence. The eight we select are given a three-year course here, tuition free, and the fifty teachers show them how to stand, sit, walk, move, train them in diction, Shakespeare, make-up, and the psychology of other peoples so that they will understand all roles, including those written by foreigners. For their third year, they each get a salary of two thousand kronor extra. After that, they are admitted to the Royal Theatre repertory, but the best of them go on to the cinema in London or Hollywood.’