Irving Wallace - The Prize

Now, across the table from her, he sipped his drink, and enjoyed her sweet profile, and decided that Walther and Rebecca would have been gladdened. She was staring out to sea, at the whitecaps and the mist, and he wondered what she was thinking.

Emily’s thoughts, this second, were not far removed from her uncle’s musings. She too, had been reviewing her nine days aboard the ship. She was not displeased with the results of her effort to attain some degree of normality. At the same time, she was not entirely satisfied, either.

Her resolution had been to prove to herself, and to anyone, that she was a woman like any other woman alive, a paid-up member of her sex, as normal and as female as her contemporaries. She had succeeded partially, but not wholly, and this was her only source of dissatisfaction. This was why she had come on the deck at this hour, when most of the others were resting or dressing. She wanted to be alone with a man who wanted to be alone with her. To what exact purpose, she did not know. But somehow, the accomplishment would be a mighty one. And again, her mind turned to Mark Claborn.

She had met him, or rather been aware of him, for the first time on the first afternoon at lifeboat drill. Tardy, she had arrived after the opening few minutes of instructions. As she squeezed into line, she tried to adjust her cork jacket properly but became impossibly entangled. The dark young man beside her had laughingly lent a hand, and soon she was prepared against disaster. Only when the drill had ended, and she had seen him walk off, had she realized that he was handsome.

Thereafter, she was frequently aware of him, sometimes playing table tennis or shuffleboard with other young men, sometimes strolling with Swedish and Danish girls, and twice he had nodded to her with courteous indifference. Of the lot aboard, she had decided, he was easily the most attractive. He was of medium height, wavy hair as black as her own, straight features on a square face, with prominent jaw and muscular neck. His shoulders and chest were athletic, narrowing to flat hips. He was given to wearing expensive casual sport shirts and sweaters, with his denim trousers.

She wondered if they would meet, and on the fifth day, they did. She was seated on the deck beside the green horse-racing mat, clutching her tickets, watching the two women passengers shake the dice, one for the number of the wooden horse, the other for the number of moves. Someone gripped the empty chair beside her, and then pulled it into line and sat down.

‘Do you mind?’ It was he.

She automatically tensed, as she always did, and was less cordial than she had intended. ‘Public grandstand,’ she said, indicating the other passengers.

‘I’m Mark Claborn,’ he said. ‘Attorney-at-law. Chicago.’

‘How nice.’

She considered introducing herself, but before she could, he had solved that problem. ‘You are Miss Emily Stratman. Atlanta. En route to Stockholm to help your uncle cart off the loot.’

‘Well, I would hardly put it that way-’

‘No, no. I’m kidding. I’m very impressed with your uncle. He’s the only authentic genius I’ve ever seen close up, though once, when I was a boy, someone pointed out Clarence Darrow driving past. But your uncle-I always try to stand near him, when he’s surrounded, just to glean a few words of wisdom.’

‘How did you know my name?’

‘I asked the purser. It’s a long trip-my first time on a ship, to tell the truth, not counting the Great Lakes cruise I took two years ago. Is this your maiden voyage, too?’

She considered her reply. ‘In a way, I suppose so. Actually, I was born in Germany -’

‘Really? I would never have guessed it.’

‘Because I was brought to the United States when I was very young.’ She smiled. ‘Oh, I’m true-blue American by now. I’ve been through the Age of Truman, of Tennessee Williams, of Stan Musial-Rodgers and Hammerstein, Dr. Jonas Salk, Rocky Marciano, Joseph McCarthy-you see?’

‘You’ve just passed with an A-plus.’ He paused. ‘Where are you going after Stockholm?’

‘Home.’

His face reflected disappointment. ‘Too bad. I won’t be in Stockholm, but I’ll be in Copenhagen, Paris, Rome. Vacation. I was hoping we’d run into each other again.’

‘I’m afraid not.’

He nodded off. ‘You’ve lost this race. May I buy you a ticket on the next? What number will it be?’

After that they saw each other regularly, always in the proximity of others, but regularly. They had drinks in the bar. They attended a movie. They toured the ship. They played bingo. They shared the late night smorgåsbord . She found him flattering and amusing. He had defects, of course. He had read little outside of Blackstone. He was rarely serious. He lacked depth and sensitivity. But he was attractive, and he was fun. Now, this final day, she wanted to be alone with him.

Across the table, her uncle suddenly gulped the last of his drink, and pushed himself to his feet. ‘I must fill out papers,’ he said vaguely.

Intuitively, she sensed the reason for his leaving, and turned to see Mark Claborn approaching.

‘You don’t have to go, Uncle Max.’

‘I was only warming the seat for the young man, anyway. See you at dinner.’ He waved to Mark, and waddled off.

Mark Claborn came around the table and took Stratman’s chair. ‘Hello, Emily. I wondered where you were. What’ve you been doing?’

‘Staring at the ocean, hating to think I must leave the ship. I like it the way it is out there, the way I like rainy days and night time.’

‘You’re not exactly a bundle of cheer.’

‘But I am. I also like winter. Have you ever read Cowper?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘He liked winter.’ She hesitated, then recited, ‘ “I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness” and so forth.’

‘I’m not with your man. To me winter means nose-drops.’ He looked off. ‘I took the liberty of ordering drinks for us. What are you drinking?’

‘Schnapps.’

‘That’s what I ordered.’

‘Telepathy.’

‘No. Empathy-despite winter.’ Then, he added, ‘Because we’re getting in so late, they’re having a full-course dinner. There are some extra tables. Think you can join me at one?’

‘Why, I don’t know. Wouldn’t it be rude?’

‘The Captain never comes down the last night. You’ve been eight dinners at that table. Surely you can spend one with me?’

‘All right. I’d be delighted.’

The deck steward brought the Schnapps.

Mark Claborn took his glass. ‘Let’s do it the way the Swedes do it. Remember?’ She remembered. The bartender had taught them. They solemnly held their glasses rigid before their chests. Mark toasted their next meeting. They looked into each other’s eyes, and then swallowed their drinks all at once. They brought their empty glasses down to their chests again, eyes still meeting, and then set the glasses on the table.

‘Great custom,’ he said. ‘One toast is worth one thousand words.’

‘Only because it leaves you speechless,’ said Emily. ‘Must be a plot of the Schnapps cartel.’ She felt the heat of the drink in her temples, and now expanding through her chest and breasts.

In the next hour, they each had two more drinks, and then Emily called a halt.

‘I’m not drunk,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t know you brought along a friend. We’d better call it quits. I don’t want you to carry me in to dinner.’

‘I’d like nothing more.’

‘I prefer to stand on my own feet.’

‘I’m sure you do. The question is-can you?’ he said teasingly.

‘Always,’ she replied, squinting to see him better. ‘Watch.’ She rose, and stood at attention.