Irving Wallace - The Prize

‘I’ve had lunch, and we have a date. Don’t you know the programme, Andrew?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. We’ve been to the palace. What else is there?’

‘We’re doing Stockholm today. I haven’t seen a bit of the city yet. Mr. Manker and Count Jacobsson are taking us and one other couple, one of the other laureates. And, oh yes, your Swedish publisher is going to be along.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Mr. Flink. Don’t you remember? He had a funny first name. Let me see-margin-setback-Indent! I was associating. That’s how I remember. Mr. Indent Flink. I think that’s another reason Count Jacobsson phoned back. He wanted to be sure you’d be here for the tour-because he wanted you to meet your publisher.’

‘Lee, I’ve already seen Stockholm with Harriet-’

‘That was so long ago. Besides, you should meet your publisher. In a way, his editions helped you win the prize.’

‘I can meet him, and make some apologies, and just skip out. You go on the tour. I’d rather kind of browse through the city on my own-’

‘No, Andrew, it would be rude.’

‘You’re getting to sound more like Harriet every day.’

‘I hope so.’

It was a lie, he knew, and he did not know why he had said it. Harriet would have conspired with him to avoid a formal tour. Or at least he thought so, as best as he could remember her. Suddenly, he was unsure.

‘Okay, Lee, you win.’ He started for the bedroom to change. ‘HSB, here we come.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You’ll see,’ he said enigmatically, ‘you’ll see.’

‘Our first stop on this informal tour,’ said Mr. Manker, as he swung the Foreign Office limousine away from the kerb before the Grand Hotel, ‘will be the HSB co-operative housing units on Reimersholme island in the south section of the city. HSB, I am sorry to say, stands for Hyresgästernas Sparkasse- och Byggnadsförening, which means Tenants’ Savings and Building Society, a title I shall not further burden you with. Henceforth, I shall refer to this co-operative company as HSB.’

Craig squirmed in the jump seat, and glanced at Leah in the rear, and she acknowledged the clarification of enigma with a satisfied smile.

Mr. Manker fingered the brim of his fedora with his free hand. ‘If the ladies do not mind, I shall remove my hat and enjoy the full benefit of the sun, which Herr Professor Stratman has so recently tamed.’

‘No objections from Miss Stratman or Miss Decker, I am sure,’ said Stratman pleasantly.

Mr. Manker deposited his hat on the front seat, between Count Jacobsson and himself, exposing with relish his high pompadour, meticulously waved, to the solar rays.

Craig wished that Emily had not been seated behind him. His long legs were cramped in the jump seat, and it would take the limbs of a contortionist to wind around and speak to her.

The knowledge, received when he had entered the limousine with Leah, that Stratman and Emily were the other guests on the tour, disconcerted Craig completely. Without meeting Leah’s eyes, he sensed, from her greeting to the Stratmans, her immediate wariness. His own accosting of Emily had been cordial but brisk, as if to prove to her that he was a new man, the soul of sobriety, and that this was a new day. Her acknowledgment of him, in turn, had been distinct but detached, with no intimation of forgiveness or approval.

Now they rode in silence between the canal and the buildings, Leah, Stratman, and Emily in the rear seat, and Indent Flink, the publisher, in one jump seat and Craig in the other. Flink proved to be more probable than his name, a prosperous, corpulent man in his late forties, conservatively tailored in dark grey, a businessman who smelt of Danish beer and Baltic herring and was proud of his colloquial command of the American language.

‘I guess you’ve seen today’s papers,’ Flink said to Craig. ‘You got considerable space in all of them, and so did Professor Stratman. Rave notices. Count Jacobsson has clippings for Professor Stratman, and I have five for you.’ He pulled the newspaper accounts from his pocket and handed them to Craig. ‘See for yourself.’

Courteously, Craig leafed through the clippings, and found them as baffling as the inscriptions on the Kensington stone. ‘I’m sorry I can’t read Swedish,’ he said.

As he handed them back to Flink, Leah leaned forward and protested. ‘Andrew, keep them for souvenirs.’

‘Okay,’ said Craig, ‘but I’d like to know what’s in them. Don’t read them, for heaven’s sake-I don’t want to bore the Professor or Miss Stratman.’

‘I’m interested.’ It was Emily. Craig twisted to thank her, and was again fascinated, as he had been the evening before. Her brunette hair glistened in the dusty sun, and the loveliness of her green eyes and tilted nose was heightened by carmine lipstick, still moist and fresh, and the only make-up she wore.

Disinclined as he was, for he felt Leah’s scrutiny, he faced the publisher once more. ‘Just give me the gist of the stories,’ he said.

‘The gist,’ said Flink, ‘is this.’ He reviewed the leads of the stories in a monotone. Two newspapers played up the fact that, although Mr. Craig was the youngest literary laureate ever to win the prize, he approved of the award’s going to established authors, no matter how elderly. One newspaper featured Mr. Craig’s remark that Gunnar Gottling, the controversial Swedish novelist, was a ‘major talent’ who had been overlooked by the Swedish Academy. Another newspaper devoted its first paragraphs to the things Mr. Craig admired about Sweden and the things he did not like.’

‘What’s in that last clipping, Mr. Flink?’ Craig asked.

The publisher shrugged. ‘Nonsense. It speaks of an altercation between you and an American correspondent, Miss Wiley, which broke up the press conference.’

Craig scowled. ‘Does it say more?’

‘Well-’

Immediately, Craig realized that the article had sensationalized and gone into the argument about his alleged drinking habits. It was the last thing on earth he wanted brought up before Emily and Leah.

‘Never mind,’ he said curtly to Flink.

But Leah had pushed forward. ‘What’s this all about? What are they writing? What happened at the press conference, Andrew?’

Suavely, from the front seat, Jacobsson interceded on Craig’s behalf. ‘It was nothing at all, Miss Decker. We suffer at least one such incident annually.’

‘What incident?’ demanded Leah shrilly.

‘Miss Wiley writes for an American syndicate that lives by scandal,’ said Jacobsson, ‘and when there is no scandal, she must make it up for her bread and butter. She asked Mr. Craig some personal questions, and he felt-and correctly so-that his private life, his habits, his marriage, had no place in an interview. That was all. To prevent the woman from tormenting us, I called the interviews to a halt.’

‘The nerve of those reporters,’ said Leah, still confused.

‘And now, Professor Stratman, would you like to know about your clippings?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘A summary will do,’ said Stratman.

‘The emphasis,’ said Jacobsson, ‘was on the fact that the details of your discovery are being kept top-secret by the American government. Everyone quoted your predictions as to the future of solar energy. Two periodicals discussed your life in Germany and-’

Stratman, ever sensitive to Emily’s hatred of their homeland, held up his hand. ‘That is enough, Count Jacobsson. Who wants to relive the past when this day is so brilliant and Stockholm is before us?’ He called to Mr. Manker, ‘Where is your co-operative housing?’

‘Right ahead,’ said Mr. Manker.

The HSB co-operative housing village on Reimersholme consisted of nearly one thousand apartments that were occupied by three thousand middle-class Swedish citizens. The buildings were difficult to tell apart. All were clean and modern and seemed new, although they had been constructed in the latter years of World War II. All were set back from the canal, all were wood, concrete, and stucco, painted either white or beige, and all carried proud little balconies, most now filled with sun seekers.