The Prize

‘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.’

‘What school of acting do you follow?’

‘We are still old-fashioned,’ said Cronsten. ‘We are still Stanislavsky. Norberg grew up with that method. I will never forget Norberg, when she came here over twenty years ago. She was gawky, strange, but she had inner beauty, burning ambition. Even then, we might have passed her over, except that Hammarlund had discovered her and recommended her, and he was already famous and one of the patrons of our Donor’s Fund for needy students.’

Craig swallowed the last of his drink. ‘How did Hammarlund find her?’

‘She was an usher in a cinema house, and Hammarlund saw her, and liked her voice and fire. He became interested in her. I suppose we can assume that he slept with her. As Ellen Terry used to say, “Men love unhealthy women.” When he found out that she wanted to become an actress, he arranged for some private coaching, and then entered her in our eliminations. Well, once she had the scholarship, she had her confidence, and she swept all before her. By her third year, she had the nerve to refuse to play the role of Queen Christina in a one-act play because-I remember her telling me-she felt that Christina was not a real woman. She would only play a real woman. You know what happened after that. We had her only one year on our big stage downstairs, and then she had that second lead on Broadway, and then Hollywood-and now, twenty years later, only one role is good enough for her-to play Marta Norberg.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘I would invite you for another drink, but you’ll be late.’

They slipped into their heavy coats, descended the stairs, and went into the chilled, foggy night. Once in the Saab, Cronsten drove slowly. Every corner was camouflaged by murky vapour, and when they entered Djurgarden, the mist enveloped them, and Cronsten slowed the Saab to a crawl.

They spoke little. Once Craig thought that he recognized Hammarlund’s mansion. Five minutes later, Cronsten said, ‘Here we are.’

He turned into a long circular driveway, and stopped, idling his engine, before a white two-storey Georgian house.

‘You will have an interesting time,’ said Cronsten with a riddle of a smile. ‘Not many men are invited here.’

‘Really?’

‘Only the high and the mighty.’

‘I hardly think of myself-’

‘Do not think of yourself as you see yourself, but as Marta Norberg sees you. Did she tell you why she asked you out here?’

‘No. Only that it was business and imperative.’

Cronsten nodded as if he were knowledgeable of this and privy to some secret. ‘It was good to meet you, Mr. Craig. I wish you luck.’

‘I don’t know how to thank you.’ He opened the car door.

‘Do not thank me for the ride,’ said Cronsten, ‘but thank me for some advice I will give you, because you are a nice fellow.’

Craig had left the car, but now he waited at the open door.

‘Have you ever heard of the Coral Island clams found along Australia’s Great Barrier Reef? They are the greatest clams in the world. They sometimes weigh one ton each, and are ten feet long, and they consume living things. An unsuspecting swimmer, coming upon such a clam, could easily be caught in it, have the shells close over him, and be devoured. It is a bit of natural history you may find valuable to remember in the next hour or two. Good night, Mr. Craig.’

Craig remained standing in the driveway a few moments, until Cronsten’s Saab had disappeared behind a bank of fog, and then he went thoughtfully to the huge door, touched the bell, and was admitted by a short, unsmiling Filipino houseboy.

‘I’m Andrew Craig.’

Entering the high-ceilinged entrance hall, Craig gave his hat and overcoat to the houseboy.

‘Right this way,’ the Filipino said in stilted English. ‘Miss Norberg is having her swim.’

Craig did not comprehend. ‘In this weather?’

‘The indoor pool in the lanai.’

Going through the vast living-room, across the muffling cropped-lambskin carpet, Craig took in the furniture. The pieces seemed definitely American and expensive, and Craig guessed that the actress had shipped her household effects from Bel Air or New York to this house in Stockholm. There was the flash of an elegant low sofa covered with yellow Venetian silk, fronted by a black lacquered table, and another sofa done in turquoise Thaibok, and scattered overstuffed chairs. On one wall, spotlighted from the ceiling, a towering, vivid oil of Norberg, full length, as Manon Lescaut. On a table, a piece of sculpture by Rodin, and another piece by Moore, and an eleven- by-fourteen Karsh photograph in a silver frame of Norberg as Heloise, probably, but too resolute for that role.

The houseboy had pulled back a glass sliding-door, and Craig went into the lanai and thought that, through a trick of time and space, he had landed in some primitive corner of Tahiti. He wished Emily were beside him to marvel with him at the sight of it. Three glass walls were almost entirely hidden by growing tropical plants and greenery the colour of aquamarine. The swimming pool was not like any standard pool he had ever seen, but designed to resemble a South Sea water hole, clear as crystal except at the farthest end where an artificial waterfall cascaded into it.

And then he saw off to his right, lolling on a webbed lounge, wrapped in a silk Japanese kimono of Tyrian purple, Marta Norberg.

‘I’m here, Craig.’

He advanced towards her. She remained horizontal, not stirring, but arched a thin hand upward. Since the hand was not in a position to be shaken, but to be kissed in the Continental manner, Craig kissed the fingers somewhat self-consciously.

‘I’m glad you could come, dear man.’ Lazily, her hand indicated the makings on the rosewood table near her. ‘Mix yourself whatever will make you happiest.’ She lifted her own drink from the artificial grass beneath her lounge. ‘I’m staying with vodka plain. You might freshen me up, while you’re at it.’

As Craig took her glass, and made the drinks, Norberg called off to the houseboy immobilized at the door. ‘That’ll be all for tonight, Antonio. On the way, tell cook we’ll dine at eight-thirty.’ When the houseboy left, sliding the door shut after him, Marta Norberg said, ‘Isn’t Antonio a doll? Utterly unobtrusive and efficient. I brought him with me from Hollywood, brought most of them, Antonio, and my masseuse, and my secretary. The rest, the menials, are easy to find here. But Antonio’s the one. My countrymen stare at him as if he’s a zoo. A Filipino in Sweden. Well-why not?’

‘He told me you were swimming. Were you?’ Craig handed her the vodka, and sat sideways on the lounge beside her.