‘What do you mean? I do not understand. Be more explicit.’
‘Denise, I cannot think!’ Trousers.
‘You must think. I have to know.’
‘Hammarlund said your husband got an inspiration-’ Shorts.
‘Inspiration about what? Synthetics?’
‘What? I do not know. Yes. Please, Denise, stop running-stop ignoring-look at me.’ The compleat man.
‘Oscar!’
‘You see, Denise, I must-I am out of my mind.’ The compleat lover.
‘I will not have it… No, stop-you promised. Now, please, stop. Put on your clothes. Oscar, take your hands off-you will tear my beautiful new-’ Sash.
‘I have never desired you more. I will devour you. I will not live without you.’
‘You must. We cannot do this. Please behave. You promised to tell me, tell me-is Claude actually contemplating the beginning of actual research in-’ Négligé.
‘Ah, Denise, what divinity-your breasts-no woman on earth-’
‘Oscar, wait. Oh, why did I let you in here? This is impossible. Let me off the bed. Will you stop? I refuse to let you take them off. No-no-’ Nylon panties.
‘Denise, my love-my only love-’
‘Let go… Are you mad?… I cannot breathe.’
‘Denise, be mine forever-leave Claude-’
‘I will not leave Claude. I will not be so cruel. Oscar-Oscar-this is wrong.’
‘What?’
‘This is wrong.’
‘It was not wrong last night, my love-not wrong in the laboratory. Love is never wrong.’
‘But this is different. Poor Claude… I cannot… no, we will talk. You have not finished telling me. You implied he has some new project. Has he, Oscar? Has he something-?’
‘Something-what?’
‘Do you think he has found something at last?’
‘Oh, yes, of course he has-oh, Denise, I must-it is too painful.’
‘Contain yourself, Oscar-stop it.’
‘Live with me, Denise-leave him-forever us-like this.’
‘You say a project-a discovery? Could it be that-has he an idea about a new discovery-a hypothesis-?’
‘What? I cannot hear you. Oh, Denise-’
‘Oscar, wait. Ralentiez-let go, you are hurting me.’
‘It is my love-I cannot control-’
‘I demand to know of my husband and his hypothesis.’
‘His hypothesis-?’
‘Go on-go on-tell me.’
‘He and Hammarlund argued-synthetics-possibilities-everything-oh, Denise-debated all the while-your husband-fascinated-suddenly inspired with a concept on synthesis of foods-then-oh, Denise, my love, my love-jag älskar dig-I love you.’
‘You are nice, Oscar, yes. But talk-only talk.’
‘He kept saying we are all wrong-imitating nature-copying-must strike out to create new foods-not make substitutes for-’
‘And you are sure he was sincere-completely absorbed-interested?’
‘Hammarlund said he has never-seen-a scientist more excited-is sure-is sure-is sure-’
‘What? What, my darling-?’
‘Oh, Denise-yes, is sure your husband will embark on the greatest exploration of synthetics yet-yet-yet-’
‘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.