Irving Wallace - The Prize

Craig was silent, for there was nothing to say.

She glanced about the room absently and then looked at Craig. ‘When Uncle Max brought me to America,’ she said, ‘I made up my mind that I was just born and had come from nowhere. I never spoke German again, or read it, or even thought in German. I extinguished it through sheer willpower from my life. To this day, I won’t read a book by a German author or buy a product made in Germany. If this award had not been so important to Uncle Max, I would not have made this trip with him-because Sweden is so near to Germany. Being here, a few hours away, I can’t tell you how it makes me feel. It makes me vengeful-and it makes me afraid-both, at the same time. Why am I vengeful? Who is there any longer to punish? Why am I afraid? Don’t I have a United States passport? But anyway, there it is. And now, I have talked too much. Let us put away the past and speak of the present.’ She tried to smile. ‘I had a happy day today, Andrew. I’m grateful. I don’t think I’ll ever forget Stockholm.’

‘I don’t think I will, either,’ he said. ‘Let’s wait and see.’

It was almost eleven o’clock in the evening when Craig returned to his Grand Hotel suite.

The spell of the evening, of Emily’s allurement, was still upon him. Their dinner at Den Gyldene Freden had stretched lazily over three hours. There had been comfortable talk and comfortable silences. They had discussed the better parts of their pasts, and dreams and desires half forgotten, and, several times, they had timorously made mention of their separate futures. All through dinner, the cellar had filled with customers, and when dinner was over, encouraged by the lute player, they had blended their voices with a hundred others, humming melodies that were international.

Afterwards, they had promenaded through the Old Town, and when it became too cold, they had made their way more quickly over the bridge that led them to the Grand Hotel. Although they had been close all the evening, Craig deliberately took no advantage of it when they reached the door of the Stratman suite. He was not sure what Emily expected, but the first experience with her and a sure instinct told him that she would be apprehensive. As she put the key in the door and opened it, his demeanour changed to one of friendly formality. He had said that he hoped he could see her tomorrow, and she had replied that she hoped so, too, although she did not know what her uncle’s schedule would be. She had extended her hand, thanking him for their sightseeing and the dinner, and he had taken her cool fingers and palm, thanking her for her company. And then, swiftly, he had departed.

Now, entering his suite-their suite, he remembered, and this brought Leah back into his life-he saw that the entry hall was lit, but the sitting-room darkened except for a single lamp. Leah was nowhere to be seen, and he guessed that she had retired. He went to her bedroom door, to observe if the crack below showed light, but he could not tell. He was tempted to knock, to reassure her that he was home safe and proudly sober. But he resisted the temptation. He was no little boy who must parade virtue and observance of curfew before Mother. He owed Leah none of this. Moreover, his appearance at this hour-had not Stratman warned him that Leah had been irritated by his flight with Emily?-might only bring on a scene. He wanted no scene. He wanted no defect in an almost perfect day.

Stealthily, he tiptoed across the carpeted sitting-room, held aside the drawn drapes, and entered his bedroom alcove. The soothing yellow light on the bedstand showed the bed neatly turned down, and his pyjamas folded and lying across the blanket. He wondered, briefly, if the floor maid or Leah had prepared this.

He was as peacefully tired as he had been in the long-ago morning, after he had left Lilly’s apartment. The bed would be welcome. He would lie in it, and review the day, not his past but the day, and eventually, he would rest without a drop of Scotch. He considered writing a short victory note to Lucius, but realized that he would be home almost as soon as the note, and he decided that he would relax in a warm bath instead.

After undressing, he took up his pyjamas, turned off the bedroom lamp, and went into the bathroom. He closed the door softly, and then drew the water, adjusting the taps until the water was exactly right. At last, he immersed himself in the water, not washing, merely soaking, sometimes splashing and rubbing the water over his face, shoulders, and chest.

His writer’s mind fastened on the day, and outlined its wonders in specific categories. The major elements of the day had been Lilly Hedqvist, the Swedish Academy, Emily Stratman. Each had served him with the stuff of life. His writer’s mind went on-the anatomical categories-Lilly had served his torso below the waist, the Academy had served his head, Emily had served his heart-but that wasn’t quite it, and he continued to refine the categories. Lilly had given him sexual release and comfort, and knowledge that he was worthy of love and was not alone. Jacobsson had restored his pride in his work and past, and had given him a solid sense of achievement. Emily had offered him a romantic hope for the future, a vision of normality, a goal for living. And together, unwittingly, all had combined to prove to him that he might survive a day unaided by drink or drug.

After he had dried himself, and pulled on the bottom half of his pyjamas, he was ready for sleep.

He opened the bathroom door, flipping off the bathroom light, padded into the bedroom, sat on the bed, and stretched his bare arms, yawning.

In the dark, he lifted the blanket, and eased himself under it, and then squirmed to the centre of the bed. Suddenly, as he moved, his leg and hand touched a solid object. At once, he knew that it was heated flesh and bone-a human body.

His heart leaped to his throat, throbbing uncontrollably at the surprise and shock of this presence.

‘Who is it?’ he gasped in a strangled voice.

There was no reply, and then there was a reply, almost inaudible. ‘It’s me.’

The voice was Leah Decker’s voice.

He lifted himself to an elbow, waiting for the thump of his heart to lessen and his incredulity to recede.

‘Lee?’ he whispered.

‘It’s me,’ she repeated.

‘What in the devil are you doing here?’ He had recovered his wits. ‘Let me put on the light.’

He sat up in the bed to grope for the lamp, but quickly she rose in the darkness beside him and fell across his chest, fumbling for his outstretched arm. ‘No, Andrew!’ she cried. ‘Don’t, please don’t-’

He was pressed back against the headboard by her body, and felt the weight of her loose pendulous breasts, flaccid and milky, against his eyes and mouth. Their enormousness and sag confounded him, for they had always been bound tight and flat, in the Japanese manner, inside her dresses, and he had never imagined them released. Her hair was undone, he knew, for he felt its mass brushing his forehead as she tried to recover balance. For a moment, she tottered over him, and he smelt the whisky on her breath. Before she could fall on top of him, he reached up in the darkness to help her, gripping her ribs so that his hands were enfolded beneath the swinging breasts. He pushed her across to her side of the bed, and felt her convulsive movement as she slid beneath the blanket.

‘Lee, for Chrissakes, are you drunk or what?’

‘I am not drunk,’ she replied in a shaking voice. ‘I-I had some drinks, because I needed courage, but I am not drunk.’ She paused. ‘Andrew, I have nothing on. I’m naked.’

‘I know you’re naked,’ he said with distress.

‘Andrew, don’t talk, please don’t talk, don’t say a word. Let’s not spoil it. Listen to me. Are you listening?’ She went on breathlessly. ‘You know how hard this is for me. It’s taken me three years to get up the nerve. I know it was wrong of me to be so prim. I couldn’t change my nature, much as I knew you needed me. But since we got here-seeing what’s happening to you, knowing the crisis you face-I made up my mind-I made up my mind tonight-I must think of you-it’s the right thing-’