The Prize

5

IN a corner of his restfully quiet, lamp-lighted library, Count Bertil Jacobsson, attired in starched shirt, white braces, cummerbund, and formal trousers, sat at his antiquated walnut desk-a reproof to the new generation’s intense modernism-and thoughtfully tapped the capped end of his pen against the open green ledger before him.

He contemplated the shadows cast on the high ceiling, and across a wall of books, and on the nearby glass case that held his Nobel award souvenirs, and at last, knowing the hour was late and the limousine would soon arrive, he resumed his Notes. In his pinched chirography, he wrote:

– was one of the rare occasions in which I had to intercede between a laureate and the press. It may be true that Craig drinks-I do not know yet-but if it is true, his resultant behaviour could damage us and ruin him. The Knut Hamsun incident still haunts me. We shall see how matters develop tonight.

He read over what he had written, and was about to put the pen back in its holder when he decided to add a paragraph less speculative and more factual.

The Royal Banquet has been moved up to tonight, which is December 3, and will formally inaugurate Nobel Week. Except for the afternoon of the climactic Ceremony, and the Town Hall di

Carefully, Jacobsson blotted the page, closed the green ledger, and placed it in the middle drawer of his desk.

With an indistinct complaint, he stood up, pulled on his formal jacket, and then started for the bedroom to find the decorations that he must wear. The decorations, he knew, would soothe him. They would remind him of long experience and exemplary performance, in the service of the throne, in handling all ma

It was almost seven o’clock when Andrew Craig finished changing from his single-breasted tuxedo into his freshly pressed dark blue suit, and it was the second time he had dressed for the evening.

The half-bottle of Scotch that he had consumed through the late afternoon, sparingly and in the privacy of the bathroom, out of sight of Leah’s disapproving gaze, had made him forgetful of the duplicated instructions about attire for the Royal Banquet. It was only after he had answered the door earlier, and admitted Mr. Manker, the prim and punctilious young attaché with the high pompadour who had been assigned to him by the Swedish Minister of Foreign Affairs, that he had been tactfully reminded of protocol.

Mr. Manker had removed his felt fedora and overcoat, and placed both neatly on a maroon chair, and had sat stiffly on the sofa, while Craig, his mouth cottony from the drinking, had tried to think of conversation. The awkward pause had been filled by Leah’s zestful entrance from her bedroom.

‘Hello, Mr. Manker! Have you come for inspection? How do I look?’ She pirouetted once, gaily, rather clumsily, Craig thought. Her brown hair was swept back and bu

Mr. Manker had leaped to his feet, clucking approval, then gallantly clicked his heels and bent over her hand. ‘Exquisite,’ he had murmured, and Craig, watching hazily, detected false professionalism and disliked it. ‘It is a terrible bother, this protocol,’ Mr. Manker went on, ‘but it is the way of monarchies, no matter how democratic. I, for one, approve. It gives us islands of dignity in the drab land mass.’

‘I approve, too,’ said Leah with pleasure.

Mr. Manker took brief stock of Craig, and his lower lip worked in and out. ‘For the a

‘And a crown?’ asked Leah.

‘Heavens, no. The crown is there, but as a symbol,’ said Mr. Manker. ‘You shall see for yourself at the di

Craig realized that Mr. Manker had been addressing him, and suddenly he realized what was wrong. ‘I’m not supposed to have a tux on for this brawl, is that it?’

‘You will not be barred,’ Mr. Manker said with his trained smile, ‘but you may be mistaken for a member of the royal family. Yes, as you understand it, a plain dark suit is preferred.’

‘I’ll change,’ said Craig.

‘As you wish,’ said Mr. Manker, his face reflecting relief. ‘But before you go, while we have the time-I came early for this-a few words about further protocol. I hope you do not think me insufferable, but it is my duty. I extend this briefing to laureates every year.’

‘Go on,’ said Craig.

‘Cocktails will be served in one of the salons off the dining-hall. This will take place for half an hour to perhaps one hour before the di

‘I already met the other wi

‘Ah, yes, but this will be, it is hoped, a more social and relaxed meeting. After the cocktails, and immediately before di

‘I’ve never done that, I wouldn’t know what to do!’ Leah cried out. Her concern was genuine.

‘That is why I am here,’ said Mr. Manker calmly. ‘I will demonstrate the curtsy, and then we will rehearse it together while Mr. Craig is changing.’

Craig regarded the cue as a form of insolence, but his alcoholic intake allowed him to accept it with equanimity. He left the sitting-room, pulled the sliding drapes across his bedroom entrance, and began to undress.

Now he stood before the full length mirror in his dark suit and knew that only one thing was missing. One leg, he told himself, was still hollow. He went into the large bathroom, located the half-empty bottle of Scotch on the tile behind the bidet, unscrewed the cap, and swallowed once, twice, three times. This meant three ounces, and this meant he was fortified and informal.