The Prize (20 page)

Momentarily, Daranyi lost his composure. ‘I—I think it is amusing.’

‘If that had happened to Red Lewis or Pearl Buck, sure. But who in the hell gives a hoot about Frans Eemil Whatever-his-name-is?’

Grieved, Daranyi tried to save Sillanp
نن
. ‘There is more to it, Miss Wiley. The Swedish Academy was prejudiced for Sillanp
نن
, because he had tried to make Swedish the official language of Finland. Also, when the voting started in 1939, Russia was invading Finland, and by honouring a Finn, the judges were making a gesture against Communism.’

Sue Wiley gave Daranyi no encouragement.

With quiet desperation, he slogged on. ‘Also—also—Sillanp
نن
was a friend of Sibelius—no, I suppose that is not important. At any rate, he was poor and a widower with seven children, and when he heard that he had won the prize, he sent his seven children running through Helsinki shouting, “Father’s rich!” ’

‘Strike one,’ said Sue Wiley grimly.

‘I do not understand?’

‘It means you have one strike on you, and you’d better start swinging. Mr. Daranyi, I’ve got news for you—nobody, but nobody, in Kansas City or Denver or Seattle gives a damn what happened to Sillanp
نن
. You’ll have to do better than that. What else have you got in the hopper?’

‘Sir Venkata Raman won the physics award in 1930—’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘The Raman ray, Miss Wiley. He discovered it. He came from the University of Calcutta, wearing a turban, and he created the most embarrassing moment in the history of the Nobel Prize. When he made his speech, after the Ceremony, he accepted a toast to his award by glaring at the British Minister and saying, “I accept not on my own behalf, but on behalf of my country and on behalf of those of my great colleagues who are now in jail.” ’

Sue Wiley looked off with irritation. ‘Where are those meatballs? Are they growing them?’

‘This Raman—’ said Daranyi.

‘You can keep him. That’s two strikes. One more to go.’

Daranyi, in disorderly retreat, scrambled through his memory, brushing past the great names he had waiting in line, until he found one and brought him forward. Andrew Craig. Andrew Craig and Lilly Hedqvist. He, alone, by lucky chance, knew of their love affair. What if he revealed it now? Ah, how Miss Wiley’s mouth would water for every detail. This would win the day. But then, he saw, this act of revelation would make him as detestable as was Miss Wiley in his eyes. It would also make him a traitor to friendship, his only fatherland on earth. He had liked Craig enormously, and he regarded Lilly protectively, as a child of his own. Not Wiley, not Krantz, were worth losing her. Ashamed for having even considered the betrayal, aware of his guest’s impatience, he hastily located another author of the same nationality and led him to the assassin. It was all or nothing now. ‘Americans—’ he said, and hesitated.

Sue Wiley was attentive. ‘Americans? What about them?’

‘They were not always favoured in the Swedish Academy. There was strong resistance to Sinclair Lewis, the first American author to—’

‘I already heard that from Gunnar Gottling.’

‘Did you hear that Sinclair Lewis’s publisher in New York, Alfred Harcourt, had been secretly promoting Lewis for a long time to win the prize?’

‘You mean Harcourt was lobbying for him? In what way?’

‘I do not know. It is only something I heard. I cannot prove it.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Sue Wiley. ‘That’s good, that’s more like it.’

In that instant, Daranyi realized what she wanted of him, not bold human-interest sidelights but stupid slivers of modern gossip. Immediately, he consolidated his short gain. ‘There is the other one with a similar name—yes, Upton Sinclair. He was nominated for the Nobel Prize in 1932 by seven hundred and seventy famous people.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Oh yes, Albert Einstein, Bertrand Russell, Harold Laski, they all nominated him, but he was defeated by John Galsworthy. And W. Somerset Maugham, he was once nominated for the Nobel Prize, but he lost because a majority of the judges said that he was too popular.’

Sue Wiley clapped her hands. ‘Wonderful. Home run, Mr. Daranyi. And you’ve got more where that came from?’

Daranyi felt the tension go out of his shoulders. ‘Much, much more, Miss Wiley.’

‘Good. We’re in business.’

His confidence came hobbling back. ‘Not quite, Miss Wiley. This is a two-way proposition. I have not yet heard what you have to offer.’

His sudden lack of timidity surprised not only himself but Sue Wiley as well. ‘You don’t have to worry about my end of it,’ she said. ‘I’m loaded. When we get back to the hotel—’

‘I must know now,’ he said, more than ever pleased with himself. ‘I must have what you call the preview sample.’

‘All right,’ she said generously, ‘fair’s fair. Let me see—’

He recalled the names on which Krantz had placed emphasis. ‘Dr. John Garrett?’ he suggested.

‘Garrett?’ Sue Wiley nodded. ‘Sitting duck. He and Dr. Carlo Farelli hate each other.’

‘I know all about that, Miss Wiley.’

‘You do?’ Her eyebrows had shot up, and now she was suddenly respectful.

‘Indeed I do. They had an altercation at the Royal Banquet. And on another public occasion.’ He was pleased to retaliate in this way, and silently he thanked Hammarlund’s secretary.

‘Well, do you know that Garrett is in psychoanalysis in Los Angeles?’

‘No, that I did not know. Most interesting. I would be pleased to hear more.’

Sue Wiley glanced about her. ‘Not here. But soon enough. Are you satisfied?’

‘What about Professor Max Stratman?’

‘There’s not too much new on him. You know about his background during the war?’

‘I do.’

‘Mmm. But in Stockholm?’

‘I know nothing.’

‘Well, then,’ said Sue Wiley, ‘for one thing, he’s apparently got a heart condition, been seeing a heart specialist at the Southern Hospital. Also, he had lunch at Riche the other day with some big-shot German Commie—I don’t know who yet, somebody who just checked in from East Berlin.’

Daranyi’s veins swelled in his temples. This was good, too good. He tried to think: was this armament for Krantz or against Krantz? He wondered. Then he remembered that he had his role. ‘Yes—yes—interesting, Miss Wiley. Of course, not exactly material of enduring quality for a staid historian—yet, one never knows. I think you will be a useful contributor. Indeed, I shall acknowledge your help in my book.’

‘Just leave me out of your book,’ said Sue Wiley. She observed the waitress coming with their tray, and beyond the waitress, just being seated, the famous actress, M
ن
rta Norberg, and a rather severe woman who resembled a governess and whom she suddenly identified as the writer Craig’s sister-in-law. ‘Here’s lunch,’ she said to the Hungarian. ‘About time. The place is getting too crowded. Let’s make it fast and get back to the hotel. Our afternoon’s work is cut out for us.’

Emily Stratman hummed softly as she rode the elevator to the third floor of the Grand Hotel. Although she had long ago banished all that was German from her life, the tune that she now hummed, a stray wisp of recall from childhood, was
Du
,
du
,
liegst mir im Herzen
,
Du du liegst mir im Sinn
.

It was 4.10, and Emily’s frame of mind was mellow and quietly happy. The late luncheon given by several members of the Nobel Committee for Physics, and their wives, in the large apartment on Ringv
ن
gen, had been more pleasant than she had expected. The wives had spoken so adoringly of their husbands, their children, their home lives, that Emily’s desire to see Andrew Craig again, as she would in several hours for dinner, had been heightened. It was comforting, in a way she had always dreamed but never known, to have someone calling on her, attentive to her, protective even, someone with whom she felt safe and in whom she was emotionally absorbed.

Except for the brief exchange at noon the day before, Emily had not been alone with Craig since that natural embrace on the Hammarlund terrace, when he had kissed her. Or, in truth, had she really kissed him? She wondered what would have happened, been said, if they had not been interrupted by the summons to dinner. She wondered how he would behave tonight and what he might say and what she would say in return. Her constant devotion to him, in the privacy of her hidden fantasies, had at first alarmed her, but now if he was even briefly missing, she was bereft. In her world of make-believe, she had never been closer to any man. Her need for him, and trust in him, dominated her inner existence. How surprised he would be if he could know this! For she knew the reality of her presence in his presence, her withdrawn and withheld inarticulate presence, her aloof and cold untouchability. Well, she would try to represent to him her truer self tonight—that is, if there was a truer self.

Inexplicably, she found herself before the door of the suite, and still humming idiotically. She opened the door with the heavy hotel key, left it on the entry-hall table, hung her coat neatly in the cupboard, then, fingers knitted together behind her head, through her hair, she stretched her shoulders and chest before the mirror, studied the fit of her new wool cardigan suit, and was satisfied.

A bath, she decided, a bubble bath. She would soak and soak, and dream a little, and perhaps nap briefly, before dressing for Andrew.

She strolled lazily into the sitting-room, noticing that the maid had turned the lamps up—outside it was already dark—and then suddenly, turning fully into the room, she froze.

At the opposite end of the room, like a granite statue in a chair, sat Leah Decker.

Involuntarily Emily brought her hand to her mouth, and emitted a gasp. Her heart raced—the occupant had been so unexpected in a room that she had thought only her own—and then she closed her eyes, and animated herself with a shudder, and looked at Leah Decker.

Leah remained unmoving. ‘I’m sorry to have scared you, Miss Stratman,’ she said, but the voice was unusually hard and bore no inflection of apology.

Emily laughed nervously. ‘How silly of me. It was just that I didn’t expect—’

‘I know this is improper,’ Leah said. ‘I fetched the maid and told her who I was and asked her to let me in. It was important to see you. I wanted to take no chance of missing you.’

Emily felt confusion at her visitor’s conduct and her bitter tone. Her mind leaped to Craig. This was his relative. Emily moved a few tentative steps towards Leah. ‘Is there anything wrong, Miss Decker?’

‘Should there be?’ said Leah laconically. ‘As a matter of fact, yes, that’s what brought me here. I think you’d better take a seat, Miss Stratman. You and I are going to have a short talk.’

Leah Decker was totally in command, her voice so imperative (so familiarly Germanic to Emily’s oldest memory), that Emily obeyed without question. Hastily, she took the chair nearest Leah, and gripped the arms, and waited in befuddlement.