‘Go on, Oscar.’
‘-yet attempted by a science-scientist-in fact, he-Denise, I cannot-I must have you. Enough of this-’
‘No, stop it, Oscar. I will not permit this-you are simply over-sexed. You should be thinking of work, day and night, not this-’
‘But in the laboratory you said-Denise, Denise-’
‘Where is your honour? I am a married woman.’
‘You are body-starved. You are withering for love.’
‘Respect-respect. Release me. I am a Nobel laureate.’
‘You are a woman-not embalmed in history books-not mummified by a prize. A woman-a woman.’
‘With a husband-with Claude.’
‘He is impotent-we are alive. He has his new inspiration. In fact, he-Denise, love me now-’
‘You must tell me, Oscar. You were saying that “In fact he”-’
‘He was late for wherever he was going-for his date-he was so filled with his inspiration-’
‘No? Is it true? Tell me-is it true?’
‘Yes, for heaven’s sake, Denise, I cannot talk. I cannot-’
‘But-’
‘He will explain it all-all to you-himself. He told Hammar-ah-lund he would discuss it with-’
‘With me? With me?’
‘Yesss-oh, Denise-’
‘I adore you, Oscar! You have said so much. I am happy-I have never been happier.’
‘At last, at last-’
‘Oscar! I only meant-’
‘At last, at last-’
‘Mon Dieu!’
‘At last, at last-’
‘Voila, c’est la guerre… N’importe, Oscar, only be quick. I think my husband may be coming back earlier than I thought. I am not sure, but there is a chance.’
The Hotel Malmen, an imposing white square building on busy Götgatan, proudly advertised that its 250 guest rooms, equipped with bathtubs or showers and four-station radios, were among the most modern in all Sweden. For many tourists, the only disadvantage to the hotel was that it was some distance removed from Stockholm’s centre. For Gisèle Jordan, out of consideration of her lover’s position, and her relationship with him, this isolation was a major advantage, and once she learned of it, she had reserved a double room on the second floor for the afternoon of December ninth.
Now, in that double room on the second floor, Claude Marceau sat lost in thought, sipping an Armagnac that Gisèle had so considerately brought for him, and listening to the distant splash of the water from the tap in the bathroom to which Gisèle had just retired.
Except for the first few minutes after his tardy arrival, Gisèle had been, he had to admit, admirable. In the first few minutes, when he had entered her room in a trance, after the mechanical embrace and kiss, she had pouted and shown dissatisfaction, rare in one so even-tempered.
‘But so late?’ she had said. ‘I did not fly all the way up here to the North Pole simply to sit for hours alone in some dreary hotel room. You had promised-the least you could have done was to call me, explain, I did not know what to think.’
‘I was tied up,’ Claude had said.
‘With what? What could be more important than us?’
To explain to her what could be more important, or at least as important, was plainly an impossibility. Could he convince her that his brain, stultified, almost atrophied, these last months, had begun to grow, to burst forth with life this day? Could he tell her that until this afternoon he had been alive only from the neck down, and that this afternoon he had found his head? Could he tell her that one of the next great miracles of the chemistry laboratory would not be found in trying to synthesize carbohydrates through imitation of nature’s sunlight, but by developing the photosynthesis process in glass tubes? Would his mannequin consider glucose molecules as more important than himself or herself?
It was no use, for this was the part of him that she had never known or even met, ‘Gisèle,’ he said instead, ‘nothing is more important than we are, and I apologize once more. I tried to warn you on the long-distance call-this is Nobel Week, and people throughout Stockholm, from all over the world, are tearing at me, demanding my time, my opinion, my attention, and I-’
This had seemed to touch her, his fame and her petty demands, and she had immediately become contrite and gone into his arms. ‘Claude, I am the one who is sorry. I know how important you are, and how proud I am of it. I know you cannot belong to me alone. That is what bothers me always, I think, the realization that you are not all mine. I suppose that is part of what worries a woman when a man is late-that she does not matter enough-and so she becomes insecure.’ She had kissed him. ‘It is only that I have missed you so and looked forward to every minute of this. Do you still love me, Claude?’
He had kissed her gently, in return, and then had held her off, studying her, and for a moment the glucose molecules, the chain of them, had disintegrated before her beauty. Yes, he had almost forgotten her beauty-the beauty that had made him lose his head-in the finding of his head this afternoon. She had stood so tall and chic before him, pleased with this attention, her crocheted brown wool tweed displaying her lissom and supple showcase figure at its best.
She had taken his hand. ‘Come, Claude, let us sit and talk. You must tell me everything.’
They had settled side by side, on the two-cushioned love seat, holding hands, fingers intertwined, and she had spoken of Paris, and of the preparations for Copenhagen, and of Copenhagen itself. And then she had asked him about the week in Stockholm, carefully avoiding any mention of his wife, and he had spoken of Stockholm, the officials that he had met, the other laureates, the sights he had visited, the appearances he had made, the dinner at the Royal Palace and the dinner at Ragnar Hammarlund’s mansion, and he, too, had carefully avoided any mention of his wife.
As he spoke, he had retreated from her. It was as if he had addressed the room, and not her. Except for the play of her slender fingers between his own, he might have been unaware of her presence. And even when he had related an anecdote about Max Stratman, he had done so inattentively, with no conscious effort to please her and keep her by this sharing, so that their histories might become one. His deeper mind had churned with the entire protein question, the necessity of proteins at all in synthetics, the probability that development of chemically produced amino acids might be sufficient. Was this possible?
His consciousness of her presence had returned when he realized that his hand was empty, and he looked down and saw that she had removed her hand and was twisting the ruby on one finger. He had looked up, sheepishly, knowing her sensitivity to his every mood and to any withdrawal, and her pale blue eyes and usually emotionless mouth had offered him the briefest smile of understanding.
‘You look so far away, Claude,’ she had said. ‘Let me change into something more comfortable. Maybe I can find a way to bring you back to me.’
She had slid out of the seat with fluidity, and then, with her erect carriage, her lazy, teasing mannequin walk that had always aroused him, she had made her way to the bathroom and out of his sight.
Now he had finished two Armagnacs in his waiting, and poured a third, and wondered where they would begin-the experiments, that is-and had almost decided that, perhaps to avoid discouragement, they should begin where advances had already been substantial-with fat acids, employing petroleum to develop a stearic acid that might be wedded to already synthesized glycerol.
He heard the bathroom door open, and when he lifted his head, she was standing in the middle of the room. She was staring at him curiously. He observed that she had brought the sheer peignoir from the rue du Bac, a street that now sounded unfamiliar, and that the flat moon breasts beneath the peignoir had been more promising when she had worn the crocheted tweed.