Irving Wallace - The Prize

Leah had become separated from Craig by Saralee Garrett, who felt safe with Leah, and now they were intently discussing Swedish shopping bargains. With relief, Craig turned away and sought Emily. He had not seen her all day. After Daranyi had left him at the hotel, Craig had tried to call Emily but learned that she was out with her uncle. During the drive to the Hammarlund dinner, Jacobsson and Leah had dominated the conversation, and Craig had been unable to do more than smile at Emily. Now he was impatient to speak to her.

He beheld her at last. Jacobsson had her arm, and had brought her into a group that contained Baron Stiernfeldt and his wife, Mrs. Lagersen, and the Farellis. Craig knew that he could not extricate her, not yet. That left one immediate alternative.

He made his way to the temporary bar and ordered a double Scotch on ice.

Waiting, he observed on the end of the table a placard propped against an easel. It bore the legend Placering . Beneath the legend was the seating plan for dinner. Craig studied the table arrangement etched in pencil. He would be seated between Margherita Farelli and Leah Decker. He frowned, and studied the chart further. Emily would be seated between Jacobsson and General Vasilkov.

Craig accepted his drink, and pursed his lips, as he glanced at the seating plan once more. It was unromantic. It would require one rewrite. He promised himself that he would take care of that later.

Briefly, flanked by Lindblom and Märta Norberg, the evening’s host stood apart from his guests and surveyed the room.

Every important Swede-that is, a Swede with social position-was expected to sponsor three formal dinner parties a year, usually in the dark winter season when life was monotonous and unbearably dull, but Hammarlund always preferred to exceed this requirement. Essentially, he was a lonely man. This, however, was not the motivation behind his formal party-giving. He hosted his expensive dinners because, from an Olympian height, he looked down upon smaller men, regarding them as being helpless as insects, and the antics of the species Homo sapiens amused him and later filled his reveries. This was Hammarlund’s ninth formal dinner of the year, but only the third time in his life that he had invited Nobel laureates as guests.

The first two Nobel dinners had been, for him, disasters, because he had found the scientists dreadful and dogmatic bores. He had vowed to avoid another Nobel party, and limit his guest lists to the people that he enjoyed the most-fellow industrialists who spoke the common language of legalized piracy, and the foolish, crazy children of the entertainment world. What had changed his mind this year, and prodded him into one more Nobel feast, was the award of the prize to the Marceaus of Paris. He had seen, at once, how they could be valuable to him, in a way beyond their understanding or beyond the conception of ordinary beings. Knowing that it would have been unseemly to honour only the Marceaus in Åskslottet, he had taken on the responsibility of his third Nobel dress dinner. So far, he decided, all had gone well. Soon he must instigate the business at hand.

Märta Norberg was speaking. ‘That author person, Craig, has a certain charm. I daresay he could be fun.’

‘Forget Craig,’ said Hammarlund curtly. ‘I have told you to devote time to Claude Marceau.’ He addressed Lindblom. ‘And as for you, Oscar, you know your duties.’ Hammarlund took Lindblom and Märta Norberg by their arms. ‘Come. Let us begin before they are involved.’

The three advanced across the room to where the Marceaus stood together, moodily drinking, speaking neither to each other nor to anyone else. Irritation between the Marceaus had mounted in the past twenty-four hours. Claude chafed under the relentless new speaking schedule Denise had imposed upon him, through the Foundation. And Denise was tense because she had read of the arrival of the French mannequins in Copenhagen early that morning. Under these circumstances, the appearance of Hammarlund, with glamorous Märta Norberg and young Lindblom, was not entirely unwelcome.

When he put his mind to it, Hammarlund was a master of social tactical diversion. With practised ease, he paired Märta Norberg and Claude Marceau, and pointed them towards the sideboard-bar to obtain a cocktail for Märta. Relieved to be free of his wife’s abuse, and, indeed, impressed by the attentions of the renowned actress, Claude had gone off too willingly to please Denise.

Alone with Hammarlund, and his skinny, youthful employee whose name she could not remember, Denise decided to make the best of a bad thing. She imbibed her dry martini and left the burden of sociability to be borne by her repulsive host.

‘You met Dr. Oscar Lindblom, I believe,’ Hammarlund was saying.

‘Yes, of course I remember,’ said Denise. ‘He was the one who blushed when we were introduced tonight.’

Now that Lindblom had once more been identified, Denise considered him objectively, as he stood beside his employer. Lindblom and Hammarlund were physical opposites-one an ectomorph and the other an endomorph-yet they seemed to blend because of one characteristic held in common. Both were supremely colourless. If Hammarlund resembled a mound of mash, Lindblom’s aspect was that of a blank human figure outlined in a juvenile colouring book, not yet filled in with crayon. Except for a mop of dark brown hair, and insomnia traces under his grey eyes, Lindblom’s regular Nordic features, thin but handsome, were bleached out by a personality that was tentative and and introverted.

At once, Denise realized that Lindblom’s blanched face was tinged with pink, and she remembered that she had accused him of blushing, and here he was blushing again. He had started to say something gallant, stuttered, and then said to Denise, ‘It is not every day, Dr. Marceau, one can meet a genius in one’s own field whom one idolizes.’

Denise inclined her head. ‘I thank you, Dr. Lindblom.’ She gave regard to Hammarlund’s pleased reaction. ‘You must be lax with him, Monsieur Hammarlund. When a chemist has time to learn pretty compliments, he cannot be giving enough time to his test-tubes and mice.’

‘Good,’ said Hammarlund. ‘Then you recall my telling you that Dr. Lindblom is head of my private laboratory?’

‘Certainly I remember.’

‘But you do not recall my telling you that he is one of the most promising chemists in Scandinavia? Mark my word, he will one day have the Nobel Prize like your husband and your-’

Lindblom blushed once more, and his bow tie danced nervously on his prominent Adam’s apple. ‘Mr. Hammarlund, really-’

Hammarlund brushed aside his protest with a gesture, even as he would brush aside a gnat. He continued addressing Denise intently. ‘You are quite wrong about the time he gives his test-tubes and mice. He gives all of his time to his experiments. He is on the verge of an important breakthrough in synthetic foods. Only now, just recently, he has become bogged down.’

‘I am sorry, but it happens,’ said Denise to Lindblom with fervent disinterest.

‘I do hope he will tell you all about his work,’ said Hammarlund energetically. ‘I know he wants to. And as for gallantry, you will find him charming.’ He looked off, as he had planned. ‘I see I am wanted by General Vasilkov. Excuse me for a moment, please. You will enjoy each other.’

Quickly, Hammarlund left Denise and Lindblom. He had grafted them. He hoped the graft would take.

Denise watched her host depart with a relief that she made no effort to disguise. But what she was left with was equally boring. She considered the straw man before her, a Swedish oaf, a science amateur, and she wondered how long it would be before she could gracefully escape from him.