Irving Wallace - The Prize

‘It will all be quite natural.’

‘Natural?’

‘You will see. You will remain in Sweden longer-you will move in here-we will work together on your outline until we are both satisfied.’ She saw his frown, and then amended her wish. ‘If you prefer, I will take you to my place on the Riviera, or even accompany you to New York, where I keep an apartment ready. In the day, we will work-and at night, we will love.’

He threw the towel aside. ‘And that’s all there is to it?’

‘I will not intrude upon your work. I am an artist. Our minds are alike. When you are ready to be alone, resume creation, I will let you go your way. If you still prefer my presence, you may have it.’

He squatted beside her, and then sat, wondering how he could reach a mind so foreign to his own. ‘Märta-I will call you that now-’

She smiled. ‘We’re making progress.’

‘No, listen to me. I think-l really think-you believe this is possible. I want the money you offer. You know the facts. I can use it. And I think you believe that this novel I am writing, intend to write, my first since the Nobel Prize-a book that is a naked representation of me, of all I hold holy-can be falsely twisted and wrenched to satisfy your needs. Don’t you see how wrong that is, how corrupting? You say we are both artists, our minds alike. If you were right, you would understand how I feel. What you mean is that you are the artist, and nothing else matters, and I am less an artist and should sublimate my individuality and craft in yours. When you made the offer to buy me, the cash offer, my answer was an automatic no. What made me hesitate-and you knew it would make me hesitate-was your added offer of an affair, of possessing someone every man on earth would give his soul to the devil to possess. So, indeed, I hesitated, because I was astonished, I was unnerved, and-I confess-I was curious and excited. But let us say this-let us pretend that this cold offer so dazzled me that I reversed myself and made the deal. What would happen? I would have my fun in bed, and you would have your book, your comeback property tailored by a name currently exploitable. But what would either of us have really? You would have a lousy book, it would have to be lousy. And I would have-what? Memory of a virile conquest? How could I tell myself it was a conquest, when it was only a cold-blooded legal clause? Memory of an unforgettable love? Helen and Paris? Dante and Beatrice? Nelson and Emma? Or the memory of a mechanical, loveless union, dearly paid for, purchased, and in the end distasteful, because it was an extravagance I could not afford after all?’

She had listened, never removing her eyes from him, not attempting to interrupt, her features emotionless, her figure immobile. When he had talked himself out, she rippled the water with her toes.

‘Make me a vodka, Craig,’ she said.

He lifted himself to his feet, grateful that she had not contended with him, and went to the table to pour the drink for her, and the whisky he now needed more than ever for himself. When he turned around with the filled glasses, she was standing, waiting. He avoided looking at her bikini, her limbs, and handed her the drink.

‘You can look at me,’ she said. ‘Why do you avoid it?’

‘Why torture myself with something I can’t have?’ He tried to keep bitterness out of his tone, and made a lame attempt to be amusing. ‘I don’t like to press my nose against shop windows.’

‘Craig, I want you to look at me, right now. How do I strike you?’

‘Female. Quite the opposite of male.’

‘I’m more, don’t you think?’

‘Granted.’

‘Much more,’ she said definitely, ‘and the much more of me is the propaganda of me and the legend of me, and that is attractive. But don’t be deceived. Even without all that, there is much more to me. Not merely my beauty, either. If I were to undo my bra right now and remove this strip of cloth down here-what would you see of me? First, two breasts. I’m realistic. There are better breasts to be seen in every half-dollar art magazine. Second, my nakedness below. No rare or exotic contour, no different down there from what you can see on any chippy you pick up for five dollars or fifty dollars. That’s not the much more of me I speak of, Craig. What I speak of cannot be seen, must be intimately known. When you buy me, you are, it is true, paying a bigger price than ever before for lesser physical endowments than can be had at a fairer market price, but you are buying two marvellous things. One is, as you’ve guessed, the fame of me, the right to remember, when you are old and old memories are important, or when you are merely older and ribald with others, that once you possessed the flesh of Märta Norberg, yes, the Märta Norberg. That is important to men, of course. Imagine to be a man and to know that once you had enjoyed the favours of Ninon de Lenclos or Madame Du Barry or Eleanora Duse. That is the obvious pleasure you buy. But there is another that is better, far superior. Do I titillate you?’

‘Go on,’ said Craig, drinking his whisky, and keeping his gaze shoulder high, and wishing that they were dressed and elsewhere.

‘Do I titillate you?’ she repeated.

‘Yes.’

‘Of course, I do. I have told you I am a good buy for two reasons. One is my desirability as a conversation piece, The other is this, Craig-my desirability as an experience. Do you know what that means?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Do not regard what I am going to tell you as extraordinary vanity. I’ve simply equated myself against all others, I know my worth, and I am practical. When you come to bed with Märta Norberg, you eliminate the remembrance of every other woman you have known since adolescence. I will explain, Craig. Only a handful of others, in the world, know what I am to tell you. The act of love is my other gift-the one I have brought along with my acting. Those are my two perfect skills. You have known experienced women, no doubt, active, intelligent amateurs, and prostitutes and call girls. Often such women have considerable knowledge of love, and are infinitely superior in their pleasure-giving to any housewife drab or dull-assed starlet. But the gifts of prostitutes are tarnished by their ready availability and the unspoken feeling of degradation. Nowhere can similar gifts be found untarnished, except in my bed. You will take my word when I say that I know more of love than any prostitute or courtesan or backstreet Bovary. Your face tells me nothing now, but you may be secretly doubting me. I am sure you are. I pride myself on being a psychologist of men and their minds. You may be saying to yourself-what more can this boastful woman know of love than any other? How many ways can a woman lie with a man-on her back, on her side, on her stomach, sitting, standing, upside down, whatever you guess or know. You may be saying to yourself-how many erotic movements are there, and words, and pressures, and erogenous zones? All is limited and repetitious, and nothing can be new. You may even assure yourself that the ways of love, beyond intercourse, are restricted to six or sixteen. And so you will doubt me. And to that I can only say, Craig, say this-try me-find out.’

She sipped her vodka.

Except for her profound, humourless sincerity, Craig would have been embarrassed. He did not know quite how to respond. ‘That’s quite a sales talk,’ he said at last.

She smiled. ‘I’m rarely called upon to make it.’

‘But you have made it. And now I’ll tell you something-I still don’t believe it.’

‘Are you daring me? Is that what?’

‘Nothing so childish. I simply will not accept your statement that you can please, entirely through physical skill, without one iota of emotion, passion, love given from the heart-’