‘Claude-’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘-you have not moved since I left you.’
‘What?’
She glided noiselessly towards him. ‘I thought you would be ready.’
‘Yes, that will take only a minute.’ He made as if to rise, but her hand touched his shoulder and kept him to his place, and she sat beside him and crossed her lean legs.
‘Tell me-sitting here all this while-of what were you thinking?’
‘Of you,’ he said.
‘You have always been truthful with me.’
He nodded, and then fell silent, and then, quietly, he tried to tell her. He had devoted so many years to vitrification of spermatazoa, and when that was done, there was nothing more, for he had been unable to consider another project seriously. What had saved him had been Gisèle, her love, her kindness. For a man, this was almost a great sufficiency, but there was always the parallel yearning. A job to do. An identity to be fulfilled. This had been missing, and yet he had not known its lack, because he had been so filled with Gisèle. But this afternoon, before their reunion, the miracle had taken place, and now he was filled with that, too. With rising intensity in his speech, he tried to clarify various aspects of the new miracle. He spoke of natural food and synthetic food, he spoke of carbohydrates and proteins and water and fats. He spoke of autoclaves and centrifuges and sublimation chambers. He spoke of freedom from want.
Gisèle listened diligently, hands in repose, the slightest curve of a set smile on her lips.
When she thought that he was finished, she said quietly. ‘I wish I had been born you.’
‘What an odd thing to remark.’
‘To be born you-and have many loves-equally loved-not one.’
‘You are mistaken, Gisèle, dearest. This is another matter, a different preoccupation. I have but one love, and that love is you.’
The smile remained set, unchanged. ‘No, Claude,’ she said.
‘But of course! What has got into you? I will prove it-you will see. Here, let me undress-’
Her hand darted out and restrained his hand. ‘No, Claude, not now. I do not feel you want to-to possess me now.’
‘But I do.’
‘You have no talent for deception. You are not in the mood, Claude. I can tell. Do not lie to me. And more important, do not insult what is between us by attempting to service me without love.’
‘Gisèle-’
‘You are in another world.’
‘Well, I have been excited-and besides, this has been a week-’
‘Claude, it requires no apology. You are exhausted-not from the week but from the new passion. You are forgiven.’
‘Gisèle, believe me from my heart-I would like nothing more than to lie down with you, but perhaps you are right-it would be best when my mind, when-it will be best when I am back in Paris again.’
She had risen. ‘You had better go now. I think you will want to discuss your new miracle with-with ones who can appreciate it with you.’
He rose quickly and took her hands. ‘It does not feel right.’
‘With me, it does. You must give me some time to myself now. I have never been here before. I want to shop, buy many things. There are only a few hours before plane time.’
‘I will go with you-carry your parcels-’
She shook her head. Often, the bereaved prefer solitude. Could he know? ‘I would rather be alone.’
‘Well, if you insist-’
‘I do insist.’
‘Voilà.’ He released her hands and took up his hat and coat. He hesitated. ‘I will see you next week in Paris.’
She walked to the door and opened it. ‘There will be no next week in Paris, Claude.’
‘Why do you say that?’ He had reached her side.
‘Because you are through with me. I know it. You know it. I am not a self-deluding youngster.’
‘I am not through with you. If you mean my wife-’
‘You know what I mean, you know exactly what I mean. You have taken back your passion. You have now given it to your work. I knew it would happen, Claude. Of course, I knew from the start. My pleasure was that I did not know when. But now I know when. It is now.’
She leaned forward and kissed him, and at once drew back.
‘Thank you for everything. Now, go to your work. Some day-some year-between jobs-you might look me up.’ Her smile was bittersweet. ‘I just may be around-if I am unlucky.’
He sighed and left, and she closed the door, and leaned against it. After a while, she went to the love seat, and saw his Armagnac, unfinished, and she finished it. Then she untied her peignoir and removed it, and walked in nudity-without provocation, for there was no audience-to the bathroom to clothe herself against the cheerless winter afternoon.
In the study of Carl Adolf Krantz’s apartment, Daranyi had finished reading aloud from his dossier on Leah Decker, considerably less interesting than those he had read on the Marceaus, but necessary to show evidence of his thoroughgoing method. Because he had read swiftly, he knew that Krantz had fallen behind him in recording his report, and so he sat back in the leather chair for a respite.
The watch on his wrist told him that it was past 7.30. Well, only Andrew Craig, Professor Max Stratman, and Emily Stratman, and he would be done and have his reward by eight o’clock. Where to celebrate his riches? Perhaps a late dinner at Stallmästargården, near Hagaparken, with Lilly. He could almost smell the steaks on the charcoal grill. Then, reconsidering the gourmet indulgence, he knew that he had more vital uses for the money. Well, he would see, his throat and lungs felt parched. Ilsa’s tea service still rested on the black table.
Daranyi pushed himself forward in the leather chair, and he poured the tea, now too dark and tepid, then took a cheese patty and munched it genteelly, and washed it down with some of the tea.
Krantz’s head lifted from behind the green fern.
‘I am ready for the next,’ he announced.
Daranyi put down his cup, and took up his sheaf of papers. ‘Next, we have Mr. Andrew Craig, your literary laureate.’
‘I will not require too much on him,’ said Krantz. ‘We have already investigated him. The high points will do.’
Daranyi was grateful. The investigation of Craig had pained him, for Craig was Lilly and therefore of his own personal life. This was the area of loyalty, and he would not abuse it, at least not too severely. Lilly, he had decided from the first, must be kept out of the report. She must remain removed from this and unmarked.
‘You will remember,’ said Daranyi, ‘the notice in one newspaper of an exchange between a female American reporter and Mr. Craig at the press conference? The reporter seemed to imply that Mr. Craig was a drunkard. I have checked this carefully. The reporter was inaccurate. Mr. Craig is by no means an alcoholic, but, at least before he came to Stockholm, was addicted to cycles of heavy drinking. A fine point, I know, but still, a difference.’
‘Go on,’ said Krantz.
‘He was in an automobile crash with his wife three years ago. The place? In the southern part of the state of Wisconsin, which is unfamiliar to me. His wife-her maiden name was Harriet Decker-was instantly killed. Mr. Craig was injured and a convalescent for several months. His wife’s younger sister, the Leah Decker of whom I spoke, has been his nurse and companion ever since.’
‘How has he comported himself this past week?’
‘I was not able to obtain too much information that would have any value to you.’
‘Again, Daranyi, let me make the judgments, and you please confine yourself to the facts.’
‘Yes, Dr. Krantz,’ said Daranyi, chastened. ‘I am told that Mr. Craig spent one night drinking heavily with Gunnar Gottling.’
Krantz made the ugly sound of spitting. ‘Gottling-pig!’
Daranyi waited respectfully, and then continued. ‘Mr. Craig spent another evening in the villa of Märta Norberg.’