STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN, That Same Day – Ottawa native Dr. George Wicklow stood on the stage of the Stockholms Konserthus, closed in by both his itchy white bowtie, and a crowd of politely excited academics, plainly excited family members, and the overly excited media. The rich red leather of his award folder felt tacky in his clammy hand, and he wasn’t sure if it had gotten more clammy or less since his handshake with the blue-sashed Swedish king, His Majesty King Carl XVI Gustaf. Just to his right, novelist Orhan Pamuk posed for a photograph with his curly-haired daughter Rüya, both of them cool and classy, the epitome of good taste and breeding. Beth, Wicklow's eldest, was around here somewhere and Shannon, the younger, was standing front and centre on the stage, planted on the off-white stylized “N” which sealed and stamped the blue carpet of the stage, and basking in the attentions of whoever would take her photograph, as though she’d just won a Nobel Prize.
“Shannon, for heaven’s sake, don’t make such a spectacle of yourself,” Dr. Wicklow chastised as soon as he could make his way over to her, whispering his words and smiling a pasty smile into the Japanese TV camera that had been filming her as she stood there in her lavender gown, swaying to her own inner nymph.
“Daddy, it’s a show. It’s national TV. It’s international TV. I could be famous! I – “
“I’m famous, if you remember. This is my life’s work we’re talking about here. Whose name does the certificate have on it, anyway?”
“What does that have to do with anything? I was on TV! Do you know how many people would have been watching me?”
“Exactly. Which is why I don’t want to go on record as being related to the official jester of the 2006 Nobel Award Ceremony. The ceremony is over. National TV coverage is over. This guy is just filming you for a lark. As soon as we find Beth, we’re heading to the hotel room to freshen up before the banquet starts.”
They found Beth speaking with Mr. Nils Grönberg of the Swedish Academy, who had graced the ceremony with his eloquent droning introduction of Dr. Wicklow’s work and commedation for the award.
“Mr. Grönberg,” Dr. Wicklow greeted.
“Ah, Dr. Wicklow. Congratulations once again!”
“Thank you, Mr. Grönberg. I see you have already met my daughter Beth.”
“Yes, a pleasure, a pleasure. Allow me to introduce my family: my wife, Elsa – “ he touched the elbow of the mousy-haired woman with the elegant diamond chandelier earrings – “and Kristoffer, my son,“ indicating the tall young man standing across from Beth, whose tuxedo draped off his skeletal shoulders. Kristoffer awkwardly shook Dr. Wicklow’s hand, half busy with pulling out a business card, and passed Beth the card when he hand finished untangling himself from the handshake and from his own breast pocket.
“Pleasure to meet you both,” Dr. Wicklow concluded. They made small talk for as short a time as Dr. Wicklow felt he could get away with, though not without hearing the intricacies of Elsa’s ear candling business (after all, as a medical doctor, Dr. Wicklow was expected to be most enthusiastic about all things physiological) and about Kristoffer’s degree work in Anthropology at Stanford.
***
The banquet at Stockholms Stadshus was quite the lofty affair, with the constant hum of polite conversation, silver forks clinking against white plates dabbed and drizzled with dainty gourmet foods. In the darkness barely kept at bay by the dim golden lights high above his head, Dr. Wicklow could hardly identify the foods, and had lost his salad fork entirely until it was spotted by the sharp eyes of Ms. Janet Edelstein, a mid-fifties New York attorney who had been seated across the banquet table from Dr. Wicklow.
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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...
