A Nobel Ending by Steven French

Frank paused as he left the hotel and looked up and down Skomakargatan. With the sky shading into a deeper blue, lights were already coming on along the narrow street. To the left was Stortorget Square and Stockholm’s famous Christmas Market which he and Ellen had strolled around earlier that day. Exhausted from the jetlag and needing some rest from the bustle of the crowds, she was fast asleep in their room but Frank had too much nervous energy still and had decided to burn some off with a brisk walk.

Taking a deep breath of the crisp, early December air he turned right and strolled up the alley towards the German Church, its verdigris-covered spire projecting above the yellow-fronted buildings. Walking down past the street with the bookshop where he’d spent a happy hour or so browsing the horror stories he loved so much, Frank made his way to the plaza that looked out over the water to Södermalm. He eventually found an empty bench and sat down to enjoy the early sunset. As he sighed happily in anticipation of the following day’s ceremony, he was surprised when a thin, pale figure with long black hair sat down beside him.

“Hello Frank,” the figure said, quietly. “It’s good to see you again.”

Shifting away slightly, Frank tried to get a better look at the face of whoever it was, silhouetted as they were by the setting sun.

“It’s me … Hylda! Don’t tell me you don’t remember me!” The figure leant forward and whispered conspiratorially, “I mean, really, I know we were only together for a short time but still …”

“Hylda? Hylda Anderson? But … “ Frank tried to get a better look, his hand shading his eyes, “… it doesn’t look as if you’ve aged a day!”

Hylda shrugged. “What can I tell you? Good genes I guess …”

Before he could say anything further, she stood up. “Why don’t we go grab a beer and catch up?”  Remembering Ellen, who would surely be waking up now, Frank demurred and started to say something about his wife waiting for him and how he also needed a clear head for the morning but Hylda insisted. “Come on Frank! Just one beer. For old times’ sake! Where’s the harm in that?”

#

And so Frank found himself in a small, crowded pub tucked away in one of Gamla Stan’s old alleyways, with a tall glass of beer on the table in front of him.

“So, Hylda, what brings you to Stockholm?” he asked, wiping some foam off his top lip.  

“Oh, just visiting for a little while,” she replied, leaning back on the bench opposite. “Thought I’d return to where my ancestors came from.” Frank nodded distractedly and took another sip of his drink. He’d told Ellen he’d only be gone an hour or so as he wanted to freshen up before dinner that evening. But Hylda’s clear, blue eyes, framed by that night-black hair, seemed to hold him in place. “But you don’t have to tell me why you’re here!” she continued. “Bagged yourself the Big One.  The Golden Ticket. The Prize to Beat Them All!” Making a face, Frank put his beer back down. “Well, you know what Newton said …” he began.

“Of course. ‘I stand on the shoulders of giants.’ Interesting you should say that now, Frank. Funny how winning the Nobel always seems to bring a hefty dose of humility along with it!”

“Sorry, what?” Frank asked, shaking his head a little.

“Oh, nothing. It’s great news, of course, a real coup. You must be so pleased.”

Frank nodded again and sat back in his chair, looking around. The noise level in the pub rose even further as the sky darkened outside and more streetlights came on. “In fact, I think we should celebrate with a proper drink,” Hylda told him and before Frank could say otherwise, a waitress placed in front of him a small shot-glass filled almost to the brim with pale amber liquor.

“To winning the Nobel!” Hylda announced. Frank half-heartedly raised the glass and took a sip, then coughed and spluttered as the aquavit caught in his throat. “To me,” he said, managing to finish the rest of the drink. It was the first time he’d tried the local spirit and to be honest, he felt pretty sure he’d soon be telling Ellen that it was also the last. Still, a not unpleasant warmth spread through him and the lights in the bar seemed to take on a golden haze. “I really should be going,” he said, but as he did so, he also thought it might be nice just to sit and not move for a little while longer.

“Don’t worry, Frank you’ve got plenty of time. All the time in the world in fact.” Hylda smiled across from him, then leaned forward. “But seriously,” she continued, “did you not think to even mention me, in all those articles that were written about you and your ‘great advance’, or in the interviews you gave, not to mention, what are they called, the podcasts?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Frank asked again. Maybe it was the alcohol, but he seemed to be having difficulty in putting his thoughts in order. “Well,” Hylda said, “we both know who it was that came up with the original idea. I mean, ok, you took it and ran with it and some might say kudos to you for that, but the initial thought, well, we both know, don’t we, that was mine.” She paused and looked intently at Frank before continuing, “I mean, everyone knows now, from all those interviews and articles and podcasts and whatnot, how you do like to compare yourself to the Great Men of Science but even the likes of Einstein acknowledged the contributions of others.”

Frank tried to get his eyes to focus on Hylda’s face and took a deep breath before asking, “Is that why you quit and walked away? Because you felt I didn’t give you any credit?”

“Walked away? Is that what you think happened?” Hylda replied, with a grim laugh. “Oh Frank, for all that you’re supposed to be brilliant, you really don’t have a clue do you?”

Rubbing his hand over his face, Frank tried to figure out what it was he didn’t have a clue about. It was all such a long time ago and all he could remember was that after that first ground-breaking paper appeared, the crucial initial stepping-stone in a long series leading all the way here, to Stockholm, Hylda was no longer around.  She stopped dropping by the office, stopped coming to seminars, just … stopped. And yes, maybe he should have asked around, tried to ‘reach out’, as everyone now puts it, but honestly, he was so busy back then, what with the conference presentations and the interviews …

“I said, how about another?”

Frank’s attention snapped back to the present. “Um, no, no, seriously, I do need to get going,” he said, trying to stand up but finding himself swaying in his seat.

“Oh, come on now Frank, Ellen won’t mind! I mean, it’s not like we’ve seen that much of each other since those ‘glory-days’. I’m sure she’ll understand!” And as Frank looked down, he found another full shot-glass on the table in front of him. “To us! As we were!” Hylda exclaimed. Frank’s throat seemed to balk over the fiery taste and he would’ve put the half empty glass back down if Hylda hadn’t encouraged him to finish it with a wave of her arm. “There y’go,” she told him, “all gone … that’s good.”

“Well,” Frank started, noticing that his tongue unaccountably seemed too big for his mouth. “Well,” he tried again. “I hope, y’know … no hard feelings or anything.” Hylda narrowed her eyes then looked down at the table. “No hard feelings,” she muttered. Then she looked back up at Frank. “Of course there were hard feelings!” she almost shouted. Frank goggled at her, trying to think of a coherent response, as she leaned forward again. “You stole my idea, Frank. You took credit for it … and all this,” Hylda waved her arm around the bar, as if encompassing not just the whole of Stockholm but everything beyond, “the Prize, the glory, all of it, it should all be mine.” She finished with a vehement hiss, glaring into Frank’s stunned face, then sat back. ‘But I do take some small comfort in knowing you won’t actually receive what you no doubt regard as your just reward.”

“What … what d’you mean?” Frank asked. The table seemed to be tilting away from him, as Hylda stood. “Wait … wait!” he added.  But Hylda was no longer there. As he struggled to his feet he caught a glimpse of her long black hair as she made her way easily through the crowded bar. Frank pushed after her, apologising for the spilt drinks as he went. Outside he looked up and down the alleyway and then briefly caught sight of her, illuminated by a streetlamp before she turned the corner.

“Hylda! Wait! What did you mean?” He hurried after her, bumping into passersby as he went, but by the time he turned the corner himself she was far ahead, on the other side of the plaza, close by the waters’ edge. Finally, as he emerged from the sidestreet, she seemed to have halted and was stood gazing out across the harbour.

Panting heavily, and feeling a little sick, Frank ran up behind her and put his hand out to grab her shoulder. There was no-one nearby to see the look of astonishment on his face as his fingers passed through into thin air and he toppled forward into the water.

#

Later, as the police-team fished the body out, one of the on-lookers said to the person standing next to her, “That’s such a shame. I heard he was about to be presented with the Nobel Prize!”

“Well, according to the rules, the prize is never awarded posthumously. So, he’ll be remembered as just another scientist. If he’s remembered at all, that is.” And with that the figure turned and walked away, her pale face and long black hair briefly caught in the lamplight before disappearing into the shadows.

Steven French

Image: Nobel medal in gold in a cushioned box IssamBarhoumi, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons share alike – cropped image.