The atmosphere at the banquet was never quite the same after Janet’s conniption fit over a seemingly trivial comment, and the girls were definitely not the same after Daddy’s comment that he would up and move house to some undisclosed location to fulfil the dreams of a dead woman. Obviously he’d had too much wine and perhaps a little too much stress over the course of the day. They were among the first to leave the banquet once the last course was finished, thankful that the steady stream of anchovy-slathered salmon and sorrel-truffle goulash and pepperdashed shortbread drizzled with gooseberry sauce was finally over, washed down with a strong little cup of European coffee, worth three North American coffees in both taste and raw caffeine content.
Beth, though, came and went from the hotel room in just enough time to change into something warmer, as Kristoffer Grönberg had offered his services to show her the glittering lights of the city of Stockholm by night. She was all aflurry, revelling in the opportunity. The view from Skeppsholmsbron Bridge, with the lights reflecting off the water! The view from Montelius Vägen! Oh, the walking path, the romantic air! The old stone buildings, the history! The ghosts, maybe! Old ghosts of medieval courtesans, come back for vengeance on those who wronged them.
“Wear layers. Bring a warm jacket. It’s December. It’s Sweden.” Wicklow reminded. Too much imagination, too much wine.
“Dad, I’m 25. You don’t need to remind me of these things. I’m not stupid.”
“I’m just saying…”
“Anyway Beth, you’ve seen it all already. We’ve been here for a week,” Shannon added.
“Anyway, Kristoffer is probably waiting down in the lobby. See you later!”
Dad and younger daughter just laughed.
“Too bad Kristoffer doesn’t have any brothers,” Shannon commented, pyjamaed in her flannel and curling up into her bed with the TV remote in her hand. “European men are in a league of their own.”
***
The next morning, a report appeared in the newspaper about the Nobel Prize ceremony. Luckily the unfortunate incident at the banquet had not been remarked upon in the news article. In the sidebar, there he was, his name immortalized forever under the most prestigious header in the world, even if he did have to share the award with two others in a highly unusual turn of events.
*
Nobel Laureates 2006
[…]
Physiology or Medicine
Andrew Z. Fire and Craig C. Mello (USA)
“for their discovery of RNA interference - gene silencing by double-stranded RNA”
George R. Wicklow (Canada)
“for his discovery of a cancer inihibitor based on Taraxacum officinale derivatives”
[…]
*
Meanwhile, Beth had arrived back at the hotel at about 6 am, slinking the door open as slowly as she could, edging it closed again, and edging her way toward the bed by touch. She tripped over Shannon’s suitcase, which lay open at the foot of the bed, cursed before she caught herself, and finally lowered herself into the bed she shared with Shannon.
“So what’s the scoop?” Shannon whispered to her.
“Shut up,” Beth hissed. “I don’t even want to talk about it.”
“Let me guess,”
“Don’t even guess. I don’t want to talk about it, or hear it, or see one more goddamn Swede ever again!”
“That good, eh?”
“I said…”
“OK, OK. I’ll be quiet.” Shannon was quiet for a short pause. “Was he any good?” she whispered.
“Shannon, I will strangle you with my bare hands this very minute if you don’t close your fu–“
“OK, OK! I’ll be quiet for good this time.”
Beth stayed in bed til past lunchtime while the other two went souvenir shopping on their last day in Sweden before heading back to Ottawa. They bought bobble-headed vikings, a painting, postcards that wouldn’t get sent until they got home, Swedish stamps for a cousin with a stamp collection, and had to take a guess at what Beth might want to give her friends, or keep for herself as a souvenir.
They got back to the hotel mid-afternoon, where Beth was finally up and watching a very violent movie on TV.
"You OK?” Dr. Wicklow asked.
“Fine.”
“You sure? How was your evening with Kristoffer?”
“He’s an asshole. But thanks for asking.”
“Why is he an asshole?”
“Don’t ask.”
“It can’t be that bad. You only met him yesterday.”
“Men are jerks.”
“Oh, come on Beth, don’t say that. There are plenty of great men. You just need to find them.”
“Men are jerks. Sweden sucks. I can’t wait to get home. Don’t talk to me until we do, because I don’t want to remember anything about Sweden. On top of it all, you just won the most amazing prize on the planet, and he had to go ruin my memories of it by plunking his sorry ass there too! Now I can’t think of your career without thinking of him, and he’s ruined it!” She took off and locked herself in the bathroom.
“Beth,” Dr. Wicklow called from the other side. She turned on the hairdryer to blast out his voice.
YOU ARE READING
The Gingerbread Manifesto
General FictionWhen widower Dr. George Wicklow wins the Nobel Prize, he decides to build the dream house his wife never got to see on the lakefront land her family owned - only to discover the land had been sold to a developer. Follow the battle of wills as Dr. Wi...
