The Prize

Waiting for one more drink before dinner, Andrew Craig greeted Denise Marceau and Lindblom with a noncommittal smile, and gave his attention once more to the troublesome seating-plan placard on the easel at the end of the table. He had promised to look in, once more, on John Garrett in the bathroom, but he was sure that the ammonia and cold water had been sufficient to repair the medical researcher and revive his sense of propriety.

Since he had been separated from Emily for more than an hour, the prominent seating-plan took on even greater importance for Craig.

Nonchalantly, he drifted to the end of the table, pretending to have just noticed the placard bearing the legend Placering, scrutinized it closely, and then picked it off the easel and took it to the carved mahogany armchair against the wall.

Sitting, Craig held the placard before him as a shield. His pose was of absorption, but looking past it, he could see that no one in the room was paying attention to him. Quickly, he pulled the gold pencil from inside his jacket, uncapped the top with his thumb, and made two erasures and revisions. Now, no longer did Jacobsson and Vasilkov enjoy Emily Stratman between them. Instead, they had the pleasure of Leah Decker’s companionship. And Craig, now deprived of Leah, was soothed by the presence of Emily on one side and Margherita Farelli at the other. Craig was pleased with his handiwork. Signora Farelli was not meddlesome, not demanding, and Craig would have Emily at his elbow the entire dinner.

Getting to his feet, he brought the improved seating-plan back to the easel.

As he left it, Craig saw Marta Norberg step away from Leah, excusing herself, stare across the room, and then start directly for him. With Emily taken care of, Craig did not mind. He braced himself, and swallowed Scotch, and waited.

Marta Norberg, with a toss of her unruly hair and a disconcerting smile, was before him.

‘Have you been trying to avoid me?’ she said teasingly.

‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

‘I don’t know. You’ve been monumentally disinterested in your hostess.’

‘Quite the contrary. My hostess seemed well occupied.’

The superior feline smile came and went. ‘Occupied, yes. Well occupied, no. However, your sister-in-law was quite interesting.’

‘Was she?’

‘Her delivery may leave much to be desired, but her material is interesting,’ said Marta Norberg. ‘She talked a good deal about you.’

‘I see.’

‘At any rate, when I observed this paragon of hers all alone in the armchair, so forlorn, reduced to reading the seating-plan, I thought I might provide more amusing company.’

He wondered if she had seen him change the seating-plan. He decided that she had not. ‘To confess the truth, Miss Norberg, I am an avid and indiscriminate reader-anything I can find-railroad timetables, old telephone books, seed catalogues-dinner seating arrangements-and when there is nothing else available, I even read palms.’

She held out her slender hand, slowly revolving it until the palm was upward. ‘Read mine.’

He shaded his brow, set his face in a feigned trance, and touched Norberg’s palm with his forefinger. ‘I see one woman, majestically alone, and thousands at her feet.’

‘I hate crowds, Mr. Craig,’ she said quietly. ‘If you look closer, you might see more. Not the career line, the personal life line. You mean you don’t see a man coming into my life?’

Craig knew that she was frankly staring at him, but he did not lift his eyes. Was an invitation couched in the child’s play? It was possible, anything was possible, and the likelihood of it amused him. He remembered, at once, Gottling’s little speech: democracy had virtually swept away titled royalty, and then, to fill the gap, created a royalty of its own-the elite aristocracy of celebrity, wealth, and prize-winners. In this rare circle, background did not matter. A boy might come from New York’s lower East Side or Coney Island, be born of semi-literate parents with unfashionable ghetto accents, uneducated beyond grammar school or high school, or he might emerge from a farm in Iowa or a ranch in Idaho, be born of narrow peasant stock, unread and unlearned and unsophisticated, but if he could floor any man on earth with a punch, or crudely and savagely outwit all competition and amass vast wealth, or, yes, write a book that moved millions-if he could have his image before the world on magazine covers, or his name in print, if he could become a Success-he was of the elite. A single unique talent or sometimes luck alone, either one was enough. He was of the earth’s anointed. Overnight, he was in that higher place. Overnight, the ones who would previously not have deigned to look at him or speak to him, the ones who considered him of the herd, would now recognize his aristocracy and accept him as their equal. Overnight, what had so recently been impossible was all-possible. Overnight, he could banter with a King, share food with a millionaire, and know flirtation from an unapproachable sex symbol. So incredible. For he was no different than before the ascension. He had not changed in his eyes. He had changed in their eyes.

And tonight, Marta Norberg could say to him, ‘You mean you don’t see a man coming into my life?’

A month ago, he would have been timorous of asking for her autograph. Now she was asking for his.

He bent over her hand. ‘I see many men,’ he said.

‘Unlikely,’ she said, and instantly withdrew her hand. ‘You are a faker, Mr. Craig. Confine your reading to timetables and telephone books.’ Then her mouth smiled, as if to remove any hint of annoyance. ‘I read in the newspaper the other day that the things you like most about Sweden include Carl Milles, Ivar Kreuger, and Marta Norberg.’

‘And Orrefors glass,’ said Craig mildly.

‘Yes, of course.’ She considered him. ‘Am I to feel complimented in that company?’

‘You all have this in common-divine artistry. Except that you and Orrefors have also beauty.’

‘Orrefors is transparent and hard. Whatever you think, I am neither.’ She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘But I have artistry and beauty, yes. I can see it is a compliment.’

‘I always looked forward to your plays and pictures,’ said Craig honestly. ‘Going to either, when you starred, was forever an event. I’ve missed you, and I know I’m not alone. Why did you quit?’

‘I didn’t quit,’ said Marta Norberg testily. ‘It is the creative writer who has quit. I have waited for one to invent a role worthy of my time. In the last four years, I have read nothing but trash. Why don’t men write about women any more-women as large as life, as tragic, as important? Why are men afraid? Where is Anna Karenina? Where is Emma Bovary? Where is Marguerite Gautier? Why have women diminished in size?’

‘Women are not smaller today,’ said Craig. ‘The problem is that men have shrunk-withered by complexity-and men are so busy growing up to women, they no longer have time to sing of them.’

‘You may be right,’ said Marta Norberg thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps it is up to us… At any rate, I’ve been made so desperate that I am involving myself in rehashing Rachel’s old repertory. I’m considering Eugene Scribe’s Adrienne Lecouvreur. Do you know the play?’

‘Not the play but the subject. Lecouvreur was the eighteenth-century actress Voltaire loved, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes. And Marshal de Saxe. It’s an old play, perhaps dated. But it has a woman. It has grand passion. At least the heroine is worthy of Marta Norberg.’ She measured Craig briefly. ‘Would you like to see me rehearse the role?’

‘I would like nothing better.’

‘Very well. I’m at the Royal Dramatic Theatre every afternoon. Cronsten is directing me. Why don’t you drop in tomorrow? As a matter of fact, there is a business matter I’d like to discuss with you. This is no place for it. But if you came by late afternoon tomorrow-five or six-when rehearsal is almost over, we can have a cocktail and talk in peace. May I expect you?’

‘I’ll be there, Miss Norberg.’

She glanced off. ‘Ragnar has his handkerchief out. That is his distress flag. It means he wants to be rescued. Very well. Tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Craig.’

‘Thank you, Miss Norberg.’

His eyes followed her to Hammarlund’s group. Her stride was a man’s stride, and her carriage slouched and poor, and yet there was utter femininity and provocation in her lanky figure. Around her, like the circles around Saturn, there was an atmospheric film of inscrutability. Or had that been manufactured in a hundred press agents’ typewriters? No, he told himself, you did not create such things. It was there. You wanted to know what she was