Irving Wallace - The Prize

‘To have you run over by a car or maybe faint? Never. You will stay right here, until I say you are all right.’

‘And also I’m hungry. Haven’t eaten since noon.’

‘I will cook for you,’ she said gaily.

‘Only eggs. Scramble ‘em. And black coffee black.’

‘You are so easy to please.’

He had tried to find his pipe and tobacco, and did, and then dropped both. Quickly, Lilly picked them up.

‘I will fix it,’ she said. She dipped the pipe into the pouch, and packed it, and gave it to him. Then she lit it. ‘There. And do not burn my sofa.’

‘You’ll make some man a good wife,’ he said.

She started for the kitchenette. ‘I hope so.’

‘But I won’t let you,’ he said. ‘Because I want you to make me a good wife-me-not some man.’

She had slowed with this, and then stood still, her back to him, and now she came around, forehead knitted, and looked at him.

‘Are you making a joke, Mr. Craig?’

‘I’m perfectly serious. I’m proposing, young lady. I’m asking for your hand in marriage.’

‘You mean it,’ she said. It was not a question but a statement of fact.

‘Of course I mean it, Lilly. Never meant anything more. We can get married here, and then, you and your son, we can go back to the States, and-’

She moved towards him. ‘Mr. Craig, why do you ask to marry me?’

‘I don’t know why. You want to marry someone, and you ask them.’

‘But why-now-me?’

His mind dwelt on the incomprehensibility of all women, and he wanted a drink. ‘Because I care for you and need you, Lilly, and you can make me alive again.’ He was too sodden to concentrate in this serious vein. She liked fun. They had not often been serious. Fun. ‘I will buy you a Thunderbird and refrigerator and Bergdorf dress and nudist camp.’

She had circled the coffee table and was now on the sofa beside him, rubbing the back of her neck beneath her golden hair, face too solemn.

‘You do not want to marry me, Mr. Craig.’

‘Lilly, I know what I want. I’m asking you to be my wife.’

‘If you are asking so serious, it is bad then, because I must say no.’

He prickled and sobered slightly. ‘You said no?’

‘I do not wish to marry you.’

He was too drunk to be depressed, but he had recognized her reply as a phenomenon. He had made up his mind while drinking, and had imagined her pleasure, a famous and wealthy American Lancelot, Galahad, to rescue her from insecurity, work, unwed motherhood. Yet she had said no.

‘But I thought-’ he began. ‘What’s wrong with me? Am I too old?’

‘Oh, no. That is all right.’

‘Don’t you like me? I thought you liked me. We get along, and we have fun, and it would always be better.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Or is it that you have been sorry for me-the sad, middle-aged old man who is drunk and lonely-’

‘Of course not-never!’

‘Why did you let me love you, then?’

‘Mr. Craig, you are making that too much, I have told you, and Daranyi has told you. Because a woman sleeps with a man in Sweden is not the same as America-is not to prove eternal love-is not a pledge for marriage. Maybe I was sorry for you, but not so much. And I would not give you body love for that reason. I offered my body love, because you are in many ways the kind of man I enjoy-you are serious and silly, and handsome and tall, and grown up-and, most of all, fun. I wanted to enjoy you, and you wanted me, and there was no more necessary. It is the most important thing, maybe, to have pleasure when you feel like it and not always look and wait for something that maybe does not come or comes too late. That is enough, what we have. Must I give you my heart too? Must there be a legal ceremony? Does that make us happpier or better?

‘We cannot marry together, because the fun is all right for a while-but a marriage is more practical and formal, and we do not have common things. You are too intelligent for my mind. You would tire of me. I am like a young girl who is always a young girl, who likes only the outdoors and to be frivolous, and you are not so, and I would tire of you.’

A moment before he had ceased listening to her, because something else had entered his head. ‘Lilly, I know what is wrong. You know nothing about me, except I am a writer. You think I’m just another American tourist-a bad prospect-but that is not so. I could give you a fabulous life. Do you know who I am?’

It was like handing her an expensive birthday present, and he could not wait to open it for her.

But she was speaking. ‘You are Andrew Craig, the winner of this year’s Nobel Prize in literature.’

His mouth fell open. ‘You knew?’

‘Not at first, but I have known. Daranyi told me.’

‘And you can still say no?’

‘I respect you, Mr. Craig, and am proud to have been loved by someone so famous. But what has that to do with marriage? I cannot be happy because I have married a prize.’

He felt maudlin and also depressed, at last. ‘Then it’s no?’

‘There is one more reason,’ she said at last, ‘and it is one more reason why you would not be happy with me forever.’

He waited.

‘You are in love with another girl, and you really want to marry her.’

Lilly’s knowledge was startling and eerie, and he kept staring at her. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘Daranyi. He told me.’

‘How in the devil would he know?’

‘He knows everything, Mr. Craig. It is his business. He is making an investigation now for somebody connected with the Nobel Prize-Dr. Krantz-a bad man, Daranyi says, because he is always liking the Germans-and now he wants to know all about you and the other winners, and Daranyi helps and finds out everything-’

‘I don’t give a damn about Krantz,’ said Craig. ‘I want to know about this thing you heard about me.’

‘It is because Daranyi is like my father-always protecting me-and that is why he told me about you and about Emily Stratman.’

‘You even know her name.’

‘Emily Stratman. Her uncle is Professor Stratman. She is born in Germany. She is now American. She is beautiful and strange and not married. You met her at the Royal Palace. You took her on a tour of the city. You were with her at Mr. Hammarlund’s dinner. And Daranyi says maybe you love her like you did your wife.’

‘And that’s why you won’t marry me?’

‘No, Mr. Craig, I assure you. It is for all the reasons I give. You do love her, do you not?’

He hesitated. Her face was so open, her honesty and strength so plain, that he could not lie to her. ‘Yes, I do, Lilly. And do you hate me?’

‘Hate you? How foolish you are, Mr. Craig. Of course not. It is as always with us.’

‘Well, she hates me-because of you.’

‘I cannot believe it.’

‘All women are not like you, Lilly, and all are not Swedish.’

And then he recited to her, as briefly as possible, sobering all the while, some of what had transpired with Emily several hours ago in her bedroom. Lilly listened enrapt, sometimes clucking with incredulity. When he had finished, he awaited her comment.

‘She is most strange indeed,’ said Lilly.

‘All women are different, different problems and neuroses, different heredity and upbringing, and many women are like Emily.’

‘No, I do not like it. I think she loves you and commits suicide. It is terrible wrong.’

Craig shrugged. ‘There’s nothing to be done.’

‘I am sad for her,’ said Lilly. ‘But you are the main one I worry about. It is no good for you alone. You can be so much and enjoy so much, but you cannot because you are alone. Emily Stratman pushes you away. Now, Lilly Hedqvist will not marry you. I am worried about you, Mr. Craig. Maybe I must marry you.’