‘Oh, one of those.’ She fiddled with her handbag, took out her compact, examined her face, then snapped it shut. ‘When you have a Hungarian for a friend, you don’t need an enemy.’
‘I beg your pardon, Miss Wiley?’
‘No offence. An American joke. There are hundreds about Hungarians. How does it feel to be a Hungarian?’
‘I would not know. I have always considered myself a man of the whole world.’
‘Yes? Well, what are you doing then, hiding in Sweden? A duller place I’ve never seen.’
‘Oh, you must not be too critical, Miss Wiley. One becomes accustomed to the quiet, and after a while, one appreciates and enjoys it.’
‘There’s enough quiet after you’re dead.’
‘True, but for a historian, it is valuable in life, too.’ He had decided upon his role early this morning, when he had thought about Andrew Craig. ‘One requires solitude.’
‘You can have it.’ Her hand accidentally tipped over the saltcellar, and she hastily retrieved a pinch of salt and cast it over her left shoulder. ‘Now, Mr. Daranyi, I’m not sure why I’m here, except you said on the phone you’d heard I was writing a Nobel series-’
‘Yes, a correspondent from London so advised me.’
‘-and you might have some useful material for me, in return for a slight favour. What favour?’
‘Before we go into that,’ said Daranyi suavely, ‘we must have at least a brief knowledge of one another, how I may be of assistance to you, and you to me. I am, as I have advised you, a historian. I have a contract with a British publisher to develop a thorough book on the Nobel Prize awards, and the personalities concerned, since 1901. However, much to my distress, the publisher has insisted that the history not be too-er, dry-that even, as regards the personalities, it be racy, and that emphasis be placed on the more recent laureates. Unfortunately, I am a scholar and not a journalist. I find it difficult to acquire such information on the current winners.’
Sue Wiley’s eyes blinked steadily. ‘So that’s where I come in?’
‘I had heard you were well acquainted with the current winners.’
‘You bet your life I am. I’m loaded. Are you? What’s in it for me?’
‘I have devoted two years to my researches, Miss Wiley. I have a mountain of important information on the past.’
‘My kind of information, Mr. Daranyi?’
‘It depends. What exactly is your kind of information?’
‘One paragraph’ll do it for you. You want to know the lead to my opening article next week? Now, sit tight.’ She squeezed her eyes shut and recited: ‘ “Part I. Exploding the Nobel Myth. By Sue Wiley, CN’s Special Correspondent in Stockholm. Paragraph, lead. That late gadfly, George Bernard Shaw, once stated, ‘I can forgive Alfred Nobel for having invented dynamite, but only a fiend in human form could have invented the Nobel Prize!’ Ditto, say I from the capital of Sweden, source of the world’s greatest and most dangerous give-away circus. Paragraph. I have been where few men or women have ever ventured, behind the scenes of last week’s Nobel awards, and for months I have done firsthand spade-work into past awards, and I am here to prove that the dignified, solemn prize-giving is, and always has been, an explosive, as deadly, as harmful, to giver and taker alike, and to the world, as the donor’s invention of dynamite. Exclamation point.” ’ She opened her eyes. ‘How’s that?’
‘Provocative, to say the least.’
‘You can say that again. It’ll be a sensation. Now then, I’ve laid it on the line. I’m not interested in any high falutin’ scholarship. I’m interested in dirt, as one writer to another. Can you help me?’
Even Daranyi, who had been forced into many disagreeable relationships in the course of his work, was repelled by this young person. But he saw at once that she would have what he required for Krantz. Business is business, he reminded himself. ‘I believe I do have much that would be valuable to you, Miss Wiley.’
‘Okay, you come across and I’ll come across. Your credentials first. For all I know, you may be a stringer for Associated Press.’
‘Credentials?’
‘How do I know you’re pounding out a book?’
‘Yes, of course, I do not blame you.’ From inside his jacket, Daranyi withdrew a folded, blue-bound publishing contract which he had carefully prepared for this occasion. He handed it to Sue Wiley. ‘I anticipated that you might ask. There is my contract. I trust that you will not divulge the-er, financial-financial details to outsiders.’
‘What do you think I am?’ She studied the first page of the contract, then riffled quickly through the other pages, then examined the last page. She handed it back. ‘Kosher,’ she said. ‘You want to see my press pass?’
‘That will not be necessary, Miss Wiley. I have been informed of your high standing.’
‘Okay, Mr. Daranyi, what do we do next?’
‘We exchange information. You give me a fact. I give you a fact in return.’
Sue Wiley blinked. ‘Not so fast, my friend. Let’s have a preview first.’
‘What does that mean-preview?’
‘Sorry-some samples. You throw me a couple of titbits, so I know you’ve got the dope. I’ll do likewise. If we’re both satisfied, we can go on from there. You’ve got everything with you?’
Daranyi nodded. ‘In my head, yes. All can be verified.’
‘Bravo for you. I keep my notes under lock and key in my hotel. If I’m satisfied, we’ll get this lunch over with fast, and you’ll come back with me. We can make our exchange and take down the information in my room. Suit you?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Let’s go, then. You first.’
Daranyi found himself inhibited. ‘I do not know exactly what you want. There is so much.’
‘Anything off the cuff,’ said Sue Wiley, ‘but make it juicy and keep it factual.’
He had prepared himself carefully, reviewing carbon copies of old assignments and writing down snatches of gossip overheard since his arrival in Sweden, and his knowledge had seemed formidable, but now, suddenly, he was less confident of pleasing her.
‘Frans Eemil Sillanpää-’ he began.
‘Frans Eemil who?’
‘Sillanpää,’ he repeated weakly, ‘the Finnish author. When he learned that he had won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1939, he immediately proposed marriage to his secretary and then went off on a fourteen-day drunk.’
Sue Wiley scowled. ‘Is that all?’
Momentarily, Daranyi lost his composure. ‘I-I think it is amusing.’
‘If that had happened to Red Lewis or Pearl Buck, sure. But who in the hell gives a hoot about Frans Eemil Whatever-his-name-is?’
Grieved, Daranyi tried to save Sillanpää. ‘There is more to it, Miss Wiley. The Swedish Academy was prejudiced for Sillanpää, because he had tried to make Swedish the official language of Finland. Also, when the voting started in 1939, Russia was invading Finland, and by honouring a Finn, the judges were making a gesture against Communism.’
Sue Wiley gave Daranyi no encouragement.
With quiet desperation, he slogged on. ‘Also-also-Sillanpää was a friend of Sibelius-no, I suppose that is not important. At any rate, he was poor and a widower with seven children, and when he heard that he had won the prize, he sent his seven children running through Helsinki shouting, “Father’s rich!” ’
‘Strike one,’ said Sue Wiley grimly.
‘I do not understand?’
‘It means you have one strike on you, and you’d better start swinging. Mr. Daranyi, I’ve got news for you-nobody, but nobody, in Kansas City or Denver or Seattle gives a damn what happened to Sillanpää. You’ll have to do better than that. What else have you got in the hopper?’
‘Sir Venkata Raman won the physics award in 1930-’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘The Raman ray, Miss Wiley. He discovered it. He came from the University of Calcutta, wearing a turban, and he created the most embarrassing moment in the history of the Nobel Prize. When he made his speech, after the Ceremony, he accepted a toast to his award by glaring at the British Minister and saying, “I accept not on my own behalf, but on behalf of my country and on behalf of those of my great colleagues who are now in jail.” ’