Irving Wallace - The Prize

Hammarlund addressed Denise. ‘Count Jacobsson tells me you were brilliant at the press conference this afternoon.’

‘He is unnecessarily flattering,’ said Denise, with a smile for Jacobsson and a triumphant sidelong glance at her husband.

‘It is so,’ said Jacobsson enthusiastically. ‘I have heard many chemistry laureates, but few more articulate than Madame le docteur .’ He turned to Claude. ‘I hope you are having a pleasant time this evening.’

‘It would be more pleasant,’ said Claude lightly, ‘if I could have a Swedish drink instead of champagne. For a Frenchman-champagne is like milk for an American.’

‘But of course, you may have anything,’ said Jacobsson, fussing nervously.

‘Also, where is the lavabo? ’ Claude asked. He nodded to his wife. ‘Darling,’ he said, and then to Hammarlund, ‘Mr. Hammarlund, do excuse me for only a minute. I shall be right back.’

He backed away, and then went hastily off with Jacobsson.

Denise watched him leave, more annoyed than ever with him for having stranded her with a perfect stranger, and wondering if he could no longer endure her company and merely wanted a respite from her.

‘I have followed your work in the journals for years,’ she heard Hammarlund saying. ‘No chemists on earth more deserved this recognition.’

‘And I have read about you for years,’ said Denise with effort. ‘Is it true you were once with Ivar Kreuger?’

‘An early and instructive phase of my life. It convinced me that honesty is, indeed, the best policy.’

‘I was a little girl in Paris when the scandal unravelled,’ said Denise. ‘I remember my father pointing out the apartment in the Avenue Victor-Emmanuel where he shot himself. What happened to you after that? And to all Kreuger’s holdings?’

‘I had got out months before,’ said Hammarlund. ‘I left Kreuger with his matchstick empire and made a connection in munitions. Much less breakable, and much more in demand. As to Kreuger’s holdings, only his home firm, the Swedish Match Company, survived the scandal. It still owns, I believe, over one hundred factories in three dozen countries. However, I have little interest in matches-though several of my researchers have laboured several years trying to produce a permanent match, one that will last its owner’s lifetime.’

‘I did not know you were interested in research,’ said Denise, and because she was too impatient to be polite, she added, ‘I thought men like yourself were only interested in money.’

‘But we are,’ agreed Hammarlund, without humour. ‘Men such as I also have foresight. In the end, research means money. I own nine industrial laboratories in Sweden alone. I even have two in your native France. They do not carry my name, but they are supported by my endowments.’

‘This is not altruistic, I presume?’

‘Not one bit. We work towards a practical end. Most of the alchemy is hopeless and wasted, but one day, one of my laboratories will produce a perfume that stays on the skin indefinitely or a textile that never wears out or an automobile tyre that lasts forever-and my enormous investment in improbability will pay off. Right now, I am interested in synthetic foods. I still have an old paper, in my files, that you and your husband published. It concerns experiments you made with a certain strain of algae, as a possible food substitute.’

‘Yes, that was shortly after our marriage.’

‘Why did you abandon the work?’

‘We saw no future in it, and we were young and filled with a thousand hopes. We worked at a dozen projects until we found the one we could fully embrace.’

‘I cannot say you were wrong. After all, here you are for the Nobel Prize.’

‘Yes.’

‘But from a selfish point of view, I wish you had gone on in synthetics. I believe it is the most promising field of the immediate tomorrow, and there are too few genuises in the field. Although, I must say, I do have one excellent analytical chemist working directly under me, in my private laboratory behind my villa. His name is Dr. Oscar Lindblom, an unknown young man who will one day have a reputation. This very morning, we were preparing a homogenate together. Food synthetics are rather a hobby of mine. Would you care to know why I became so interested in the problem?’

Denise did not care to know. She searched off for Claude, seething at him, and then remembered her companion’s question. ‘Why you became interested? Money, I suppose.’

‘This time, in all honesty, no, at least, not at first. You see, Dr. Marceau, I am anticreophagous-anti-flesh eating-a lifelong practising vegetarian.’

Somehow, aware of his bizarre appearance again, she was not at all surprised. ‘Is that sensible?’ she asked.

‘Oh, I enjoy good company. Plutarch was a vegetarian, and so were Voltaire and Schopenhauer and Tolstoy and our own Swedenborg. I have never gone as far as Shelley, who would not eat crumpets because they were likely to be buttered-but I simply will not eat anything that I can pet. Curiously, this attitude made me speculate on synthetic foods-including algae, which I classify with the synthetics, and then, gradually, I saw that the commercial importance of such products was more important than the aesthetic benefits. One day, soon, no one on earth will go hungry or be ill-nourished, thanks to cheap synthetic foods.’

‘Which you will manufacture?’

‘It is my dream. At any rate, I hold almost a hero worship for superior chemists, and since it was announced that you were coming to Stockholm, I have looked forward to meeting you.’

‘You are kind, Mr. Hammarlund.’

‘Not kind, never kind.’ He dabbed his face with his silk handkerchief. ‘If you have read your programme, you know, perhaps, that I am having a dinner this week for the visiting laureates-’

‘Of course. I had forgotten.’

‘We would be honoured-’

‘You say “we”. You are married?’

‘I am quite alone, by choice. I hold with our Ibsen, “A strong man is strongest alone.”’

‘And a strong woman?’

He stared at her, the flat mirror eyes catching a vision of her dissatisfaction and bitterness. ‘I am not so certain about a woman-a woman is different.’ He waited for her comment, but she was contained again. ‘By “we”,’ he went on, ‘I mean my friends and I will be honoured to receive you. Dr. Lindblom will be at the dinner, of course-I think he will interest you-and Miss Märta Norberg will graciously act as my hostess.’

‘Märta Norberg-the actress?’

‘None other.’

‘I am not a dévote of the stage or cinema, but when I have attended, it has most often been to see her. I have not seen her for several years. Is she in retirement?’

‘An actress is never in retirement. She is always awaiting the proper role. It is like asking an actress about her comeback. Inevitably, she will say, “Comeback? But I have never been away.” You and your husband will be my guests?’

‘I never speak for my husband,’ said Denise. ‘You must invite him yourself. As for me, yes, I will be delighted-on two conditions-that you do not insist that I visit your laboratory, and that you do not serve me a meal either synthetic or vegetarian.’

Hammarlund patted his glistening albino face with the handkerchief, almost merrily, and then replied, ‘I promise you-no laboratory-that would be rather a busman’s holiday, would it not?-and the meal, strictly food you can pet.’ He studied her a moment. ‘If your husband is otherwise occupied, and you come alone, I assure you, you will not be sorry. Our Swedish young men are most gallant and attentive-and appreciative of the best France has to offer.’

Her face grew suddenly grim. ‘Mr. Hammarlund, I may have my problems, but a need for gigolos is certainly not one of them.’