From the realistic splendour of Camus’s phrases, Craig had turned to the courageous power of William Faulkner’s uncharacteristic optimism in Stockholm during 1949. ‘I decline to accept the end of man,’ Faulkner had announced in his formal speech. ‘It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure; that when the last ding-dong of doom had clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet’s, the writer’s, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honour and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past…’
Long after Craig had laid Faulkner’s speech aside, the majesty of his predecessor’s words rang in his ears. He had remained motionless, moved by one who had possessed the strength to raise and shake a fist at Fate. Finally, because it must be done and because Emily would be there to judge it, Craig had tried to prepare his own speech. ‘Your Royal Highnesses,’ he had written, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen.’ That he had written, and then he had written no more. What cramped his hand had not been the literary brilliance of Camus and Faulkner, although their words had, indeed, been inhibiting, but rather their assurance and their authority. For all the progress that he himself had made since his arrival in this place, Craig still had no sure understanding of his role, his value, and his integration in his time. He still had not fully escaped Camus’s ‘kingdoms of death’. He had still the suspicion, as Faulkner had not, that man would be lucky to endure, let alone prevail.
And then, as he had attempted to explore what he did truly believe, he had heard the door open and seen Leah, arms filled with parcels, come through it.
‘It’s about time you were up, Andrew,’ she had said, and had then stared at the pencil in his hand. ‘Don’t tell me-let me guess-you’re writing!’
He had thrown the pencil on the table and stretched. ‘Nothing like that. Just some notes.’
She had dropped her parcels in a chair. ‘I’ve got to rush, or I’ll be late.’ She had started for her bedroom. ‘Märta Norberg invited me to lunch.’
Immediately, Craig had been attentive. ‘Who? Did you say Norberg?’
‘Yes. What’s so unusual about that? She’s very plain and friendly if you get to know her.’
‘Where did you get to know her?’
Leah had shown exasperation with him. ‘My God, Andrew, what a memory you’ve got. The night before last at the Hammarlund dinner. I spent a good deal of time with her.’
‘Oh, yes.’ He had almost added, ‘She told me,’ but had held his tongue in time.
‘As a matter of fact,’ Leah had gone on, ‘we talked about you. She wanted to know what you were writing, and I mentioned the new book, and I think she’s very interested in it for a movie or play. You may be hearing from her.’
Craig had not replied to this. Instead, he had inquired, ‘When did she invite you to have lunch with her?’
‘When? Why, at Hammarlund’s. She said there’s a wonderful restaurant called-it’s a crazy name-Bacchi-Bacchi Wapen, and she wanted me to see it. I’m sure she really wants to talk about you. I think she’s very impressed with you. Isn’t it wonderful-all the excitement here-the people-’ She had peered at her watch. ‘My God, the time. I’ll be late. I wouldn’t dare keep Märta Norberg waiting.’
She had hurried into the bedroom, and ever since, Craig had felt a vague uneasiness. He had speculated on the outcome of this lunch. Originally, Norberg had probably made the date to learn more of his project, and had then taken the initiative to act faster and got in touch with New York. Now, she would have no use for Leah, yet she had not cancelled the meeting. What did Norberg want? Would she mention to Leah, at all, the events of last night? And if so, how much would she reveal of them?
The questions had persisted inside him as he had gone down to the lobby in the elevator, and they persisted still as he sat at his table awaiting the Marceaus. His mind had strayed far from the Marceaus, the purpose of seeing them, and now he tried to recollect clearly what it was that he wished to pass on to them.
He had no more than half a minute to think, when he saw Denise Marceau, alone, looking less plump than usual in a smart charcoal suit, walking towards him. He leaped to his feet, welcoming her with social smile, and she beamed at him cheerfully and took the chair that he held, and placed her bag and gloves on the table.
‘How nice of you to invite us, Mr. Craig, but I hope you will not mind if it is me all by myself?’
Craig sat down. ‘I couldn’t be more pleased.’
‘Poor Claude,’ she sighed. ‘He cannot say no to invitations. He had agreed for us to speak to the United Societies, and I prayed for any excuse to be out of it, and, mon Dieu, you gave me the excuse, so I thank you doubly, for that and for the invitation to lunch. Claude is off to his appearance, furious with me and sending you his regrets, and I am happy and festive. Would it be dreadful of me to ask you for a drink? A Bacardi cocktail, I think. Be sure to emphasize cocktail, or they always give you straight Bacardi.’
Craig summoned the waiter and ordered a Bacardi cocktail and a double Scotch, and then lit Denise’s cigarette.
‘Well,’ she said, exhaling smoke, ‘here we are. I owe you an apology at once, Mr. Craig.’
‘For what?’
‘I have never read a book of yours. Is that not shameful? Normally, I do not read novels, except the French classics. We have so many scientific papers to keep up with. But when I learned that you had won, and we would be together here, I determined to buy your novels and studiously read them so that if ever I was thrown in your company, I would have something intelligent to say about your work. But here we are, and I have nothing to say.’
Her good humour surprised Craig. On the few occasions that he had seen her before, she had appeared highly-strung and vexed. Now, at lunch, she seemed transformed and entirely at ease.
‘You’re forgiven,’ he told her. ‘After all, what do I know of spermatozoa?’
‘Then we are equal,’ she said, as the waiter set the drinks before them. She lifted her Bacardi. ‘Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité.’
He touched her glass with his. ‘Entente cordiale,’ he said. They drank, and then he said, ‘Actually, we do have something to talk about. That was primarily why I invited you to lunch.’
‘Your note was very mysterious.’