‘Today, almost everyone wishes to live here in the Old Town,’ Mr. Manker was saying. ‘To live here is what you call in America a status symbol-is that right? The exteriors of the apartments are the originals. They cannot be renovated. They are left as they were in the beginning, and are now beaten by weather and chipped and peeling, and that is their charm. However, inside the apartments, I assure you, most of the quarters are spotlessly modern, with all the latest appliances, including oil burners for these winter months.’
Slowly, Mr. Manker led them back to the ancient well in Stortorget’s centre. ‘This is a hallowed place,’ he announced, as the party gathered more closely about him, and several Swedes on the benches looked up curiously. ‘This is the very spot of the infamous Stockholm Massacre or Blood Bath. In 1520, a Danish king, who controlled all of Scandinavia, offered amnesty to eighty rebellious Swedish aristocrats, invited them to this square for a celebration, then betrayed them by beheading all eighty.’ Mr. Manker pointed off. ‘Now, there is a more pleasant object for sightseeing.’
The members of the party turned to examine, once more, the rococo Stock Exchange Building before which the limousine was parked. ‘That palace was built in 1773,’ said Mr. Manker. ‘On the ground floor is the Exchange, but upstairs are the offices and library of the Swedish Academy, where André Gide and T. S. Eliot and Andrew Craig were voted the Nobel Prize in literature.’
Leah took Craig’s arm. ‘Isn’t it exciting, Andrew?’ Craig grimaced at his sister-in-law’s display, and then, worried that his hosts would be offended, he summoned forth a slight smile of pleasure.
‘Alfred Nobel is not your only benefactor,’ Mr. Manker told Craig. ‘There is another, and he is King Gustavus III, who came to our throne in 1771 and fifteen years later founded the Swedish Academy. For all of his faults, and they were many, ranging from a disinterest in the poor to a lavish spending on himself, Gustavus III has our high regard because he gave us much of our culture before he was assassinated at a masquerade ball in 1792. He gave us our opera. He gave us works of art from every corner of the world. And finally, to promote literature, he imitated the French by establishing the Swedish Academy. Because he superstitiously favoured the number eighteen, he founded the Academy with eighteen members, taken from Sweden’s most respected authors and scholars. Gustavus III’s number has survived to this day. Eighteen members, Mr. Craig, voted you the Nobel Prize.’
Jacobsson came forward and touched Craig’s shoulder. ‘Perhaps it would interest you to see the place where you were elected?’
‘I’d enjoy it,’ said Craig sincerely, ‘but I’m afraid the others might be bored. Maybe one day I can come alone-’
‘Nonsense,’ interrupted Stratman. ‘All of us would like to see the inside of the Academy.’
The members of the party fell in behind Count Jacobsson, and with him crossed the square, and turned the corner into the side street. They followed Jacobsson up the street, until he came to a halt before two giant, timeworn doors at Källargränd 2. To the of the entrance, fastened to a granite block, was a plate bearing the legend: SVENSKA AKADEMIENS NOBEL-BIBLIOTEK.
They all went inside. Mr. Manker and Jacobsson led them through a gloomy hall, up wide stone steps to the first floor above the one at ground level, and then through a beige door into a long corridor, which was cheerfully lighted and awesomely scholastic. To their immediate right was a librarian’s desk, now unattended, and next to it the portal to the Nobel Library, whose stacks bulged with the literary produce, in almost every language, of the Nobel winners, contenders, as well as associated material.
With a possessiveness that came from familiarity, Jacobsson took them along the corridor, lined with shelves of books on either side, to another door that opened into a colossal auditorium. As they passed through the auditorium, Jacobsson said, ‘We are approaching our Kaaba, the holy place where the Academy members convene annually to elect a Nobel winner. The secret chamber is called the sessions room. And here we are.’
They entered one more door and found themselves in a bright, broad room, high-ceilinged, with tall windows looking down on the historic square below. Beneath a sparkling crystal chandelier rested a rectangular table, which seemed to fill the room, and drawn up neatly around the table were twelve ornate chairs, their seats, backs, and armrests covered with blue plush. The glossy table was bare, except for a wooden tray holding a pen set that had belonged to King Gustavus III almost two centuries before, and a pewter pitcher and a glass vase. Against the walls were a blue-covered sofa and additional easy chairs, and on one wall hung a gleaming gold medallion engraved with Gustavus III’s royal symbol, bound wheat stalks. At the head of the table, behind the Permanent Secretary’s chair, stood the Academy’s ever-present conscience-a marble bust of the founder, Gustavus III, perched on a circular stone pedestal.
‘Yes,’ Jacobsson was saying, as he patted the marble bust, ‘ever since 1914, when the Academy took over this room, His Majesty has sat here listening to secrets the entire world would like to know. Before that, the voting was held in the Permanent Secretary’s home on Skeppsbron, then in a rented apartment at Engelbrektsgatan, and then in the old Nobel Library at Norra Bantorget. But since Romain Rolland was selected in 1915, every literary laureate has been voted the prize right here.’
‘How often do the Academy members meet in this room?’ Emily inquired.
‘I will explain the modus operandi,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Let us take the case of our current winner-Mr. Andrew Craig. Nominations for the Nobel Prize in literature this year, as always, were closed this last February first. Nominations, usually in writing, were submitted to the Swedish Academy. There were forty-nine this year. Thirty came from properly accredited sources-previous winners in any category or recognized academies throughout the world-and nineteen came from unaccredited sources, such as authors’ publishers or wives or the authors themselves, and were thrown out. Mr. Craig’s name was formally submitted, not from a foreign source, but by eligible admirers in our own Swedish Academy, led by Miss Ingrid Påhl, a voting member. I think Mr. Flink can better tell you how that came about.’
Indent Flink addressed himself to Craig and Leah. ‘I claim no credit,’ he insisted with false modesty. ‘I am in the business of publishing, and I have a part-time book scout in New York, just as I have scouts in Paris and London. Mr. Craig’s last novel, which had been overlooked in Scandinavia, was sent to me with a bushel of other books. I was impressed-it’s a rattling good story-and I bought the Swedish rights on Armageddon for five hundred dollars. I believe that was the price?’
‘That was the price,’ said Leah.
‘I had the translation made, and brought the novel out in September of-let me see-four years ago. The reviews were so overwhelming that, I believe, many of the eighteen members of the Academy read it and became acquainted with Mr. Craig.’
‘Quite so,’ said Jacobsson.
‘Well, to make a long story short,’ Flink continued, ‘I bought up two more of Mr. Craig’s novels, the sales were gratifying, but the enthusiasm in literary circles was even greater. Then I acquired a copy of The Perfect State, and it was the best of the lot. I translated it myself, and published it early last year. This time, I had my cake and ate it, too. It was a runaway best seller, and it was a critical rave. Well, I think that did it. An Andrew Craig cult had sprung up in the Academy-not only Miss Påhl, but others-and he was nominated for the prize in February.’