The Prize

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-’

Lindblom’s face was contorted, and the words choked before they came out. ‘I worship you,’ he cried. ‘I worship you above all women!’

Denise felt victory near. ‘If you could, Oscar, if it were possible-would you love me?’

‘I cannot allow myself to think of such a-’

‘Then you would!’ she said triumphantly. She turned, half faced him on the sofa, her manner at once businesslike. ‘Now, we will be sensible about this, while we can be. We are both, the two of us, adult persons of science. At the same time, we admit, we are both human beings. We are people with emotional needs, which require gratification, and that is often as important to us as our work, is it not? Do you grant that to be true?’

‘Oh, yes, yes-’

‘I have tried desperately to tell you-do not be misled by my public reputation, for I have a private life. I am as much a female woman as any. I have passionate needs, and one of them, the most enslaving, is love, physical love of a man who attracts me. I can no longer endure austerity, pretence. I must humble myself before you.’ Impulsively, as she had planned, she reached for his hands and gripped them tightly. ‘Oscar, I need you. Can you understand that? It is a terrifying hunger for a woman, because she must passively wait for fulfilment. For a man, it is so simple. When he has a need, he goes into the street, anywhere, finds someone, and is sated. For a woman, it is unendurable, especially for one in my public position. But today, I can contain myself no longer- because of you. Through these hands of yours, I feel the surge of passion. I am putty. Mould me as you wish.’

She closed her eyes, and wondered if she was going on too theatrically, like someone in Poetry of the English-Blake to Byron. Perhaps she was talking too much. But then, she decided that she must, for she was playing both roles, both woman and man.

She heard Lindblom’s small distant voice. ‘I would like to-but are you sure-I mean-your husband-’

Denise opened her eyes, about to speak rudely of Claude and to chastise Lindblom for his reticence, but she instinctively knew that either derogation might reduce her partner to impotence. The last word in her thought- impotence-gave her the clue to her reply. She must dissolve Lindblom’s fear and guilt potential, by explaining away Claude and her own behaviour.

She dropped her gaze and turned her head and furrowed her features in secret suffering. ‘My husband-my husband’-she was finding it an affliction that curbed speech-‘he is impotent. I must not speak of this-’

At once, Lindblom sought to comfort her. ‘Do not then, please do not torture yourself.’

She went on, nevertheless. ‘Five years ago-after many excesses-ill-using himself-abandoning me-he was stricken by a grave disease. In recovery, he lost his powers of manhood. I had planned to leave him, but now there was his pitiful need for companionship, and I could not. I knew my fate. I must forego all normal