He was so dumbfounded, he wondered how he could offer any negative reaction without sounding less than adult, less than masculine. He decided to handle the offer as lightly as she had originally made it, and see what would come of their talk. ‘My dear, no man has ever been more flattered.’

‘Balls,’ she said.

The expletive was not coarse but business like, and he grimaced. ‘You mean it, then? How can you-?’

‘It’s easy,’ she said curtly. ‘I want what you have, and you want what I have. That’s all that matters. I will add this. What makes the trade more agreeable is that I find you attractive, and I’m sure you find me so. Even if you weren’t attractive, my offer would still stand.’ She read the lingering disbelief on his features, and solemnly took one hand from the ladder and patted his cheek. ‘Don’t make a federal case of a simple proposition. You creative people are all the same. You think too much. You introspect every pleasure to death. Obey your real impulse, Craig, and you will look back on this night as the beginning of the most memorable deal-relationship-in your life.’

With that, she turned back to the ladder and gracefully, sideways, in the way actresses are taught, climbed out of the pool. For a moment, she stood long and lean, high above him, water sliding down her concave breastbone and slight bosom and sleek flanks and dripping to the poolside. As she unclasped her bathing-cap, and then shook her hair free, she was transformed into femininity once more, and he became aware of her, almost for the first time this evening, as a love object. The wetness of her, the brevity of her attire, the posture of her, the knowledge of her legend, gripped him. She wore two strips of peppermint bikini, one strip of material unfilled and pasted by water to her button breasts, and the other strip, stopping several inches below her navel, water-sogged and caught up and drawn up tightly between her legs to two bows on her naked hips.

Craig did not deceive himself. He felt desire for this person, but the desire he felt was not unadulterated lust for an inciting female but passion for Märta Norberg, a love object the whole world of men coveted and were denied.

If you thought about it-and now he did-the invitation was unbelievable, and because it was unbelievable, it was irresistible. Here now, looking down at him as she dried herself, was the most popularly desired woman on the surface of the earth, kept in the public eye by continuous reruns of her classic films. This moment, in darkened community houses girdling the earth, men in endless number, of every size, shape, complexion, morality-men who were Roumanians, Bulgarians, Kurds, Afghans, Armenians, Siamese, Sudanese, Nigerians, Ecuadorians, Andorrans, and fellow Protestant Americans-sat glued to their theatre seats and benches, staring up at the elongated, enlarged, flat and bright image of this enigmatic Swede projected on white sheets and screens before them. This night, they were united in a common admiration and indulgence. One and all were vicariously subjecting Märta Norberg to physical ravishment, and enjoying the bliss of their cinematic rape. Only when the lights went on, and the screen went blank, and they knew the image was all illusion, did they feel briefly cheated-but the fantasy of Norberg remained in their minds, and the elusive legend continued immortal.

And now, incredibly, the flesh and not the image of all this vicarious seduction was before him. She was his for a single word. Yet he could not utter it.

Having dried, she sat down at the edge of the pool, dangling her legs so that her toes touched the water. ‘Well, Craig, what were you thinking?’

‘I was watching you.’

‘Yes, I know. Does it simplify your decision?’

‘It makes it more complicated.’ He moved to the ladder. ‘I want you, you know.’

‘Of course you do. I want you, too. So what stands between us?’

‘The deal. Do you really mean it?’

‘Certainly, I mean it. Do you doubt me for one second? Say yes, and you shall have the preliminary letter to sign, and the down payment in the morning, with the rest of the money when you have finished the novel.’

‘No, I mean the other part.’

‘Me? That, too, of course, with pleasure.’

‘I’m dumb. Spell it out.’

Her lips curled slightly in what he interpreted to mean a triumphant contempt for the inevitable weakness and surrender of all men. ‘What do you wish me to tell you, Craig?’

He grabbed the rails of the ladder, and pulled himself out of the water, and climbed the rungs to the poolside. He retrieved her towel and began to rub his skin under her gaze.

‘I’m an amateur at these matters, and I admit it,’ said Craig, working the towel. ‘How do I get the bonus payment? And how do I deliver my work to your satisfaction?’

‘It will all be quite natural.’

‘Natural?’

‘You will see. You will remain in Sweden longer-you will move in here-we will work together on your outline until we are both satisfied.’ She saw his frown, and then amended her wish. ‘If you prefer, I will take you to my place on the Riviera, or even accompany you to New York, where I keep an apartment ready. In the day, we will work-and at night, we will love.’

He threw the towel aside. ‘And that’s all there is to it?’

‘I will not intrude upon your work. I am an artist. Our minds are alike. When you are ready to be alone, resume creation, I will let you go your way. If you still prefer my presence, you may have it.’

He squatted beside her, and then sat, wondering how he could reach a mind so foreign to his own. ‘Märta-I will call you that now-’

She smiled. ‘We’re making progress.’

‘No, listen to me. I think-l really think-you believe this is possible. I want the money you offer. You know the facts. I can use it. And I think you believe that this novel I am writing, intend to write, my first since the Nobel Prize-a book that is a naked representation of me, of all I hold holy-can be falsely twisted and wrenched to satisfy your needs. Don’t you see how wrong that is, how corrupting? You say we are both artists, our minds alike. If you were right, you would understand how I feel. What you mean is that you are the artist, and nothing else matters, and I am less an artist and should sublimate my individuality and craft in yours. When you made the offer to buy me, the cash offer, my answer was an automatic no. What made me hesitate-and you knew it would make me hesitate-was your added offer of an affair, of possessing someone every man on earth would give his soul to the devil to possess. So, indeed, I hesitated, because I was astonished, I was unnerved, and-I confess-I was curious and excited. But let us say this-let us pretend that this cold offer so dazzled me that I reversed myself and made the deal. What would happen? I would have my fun in bed, and you would have your book, your comeback property tailored by a name currently exploitable. But what would either of us have really? You would have a lousy book, it would have to be lousy. And I would have-what? Memory of a virile conquest? How could I tell myself it was a conquest, when it was only a cold-blooded legal clause? Memory of an unforgettable love? Helen and Paris? Dante and Beatrice? Nelson and Emma? Or the memory of a mechanical, loveless union, dearly paid for, purchased, and in the end distasteful, because it was an extravagance I could not afford after all?’

She had listened, never removing her eyes from him, not attempting to interrupt, her features emotionless, her figure immobile. When he had talked himself out, she rippled the water with her toes.

‘Make me a vodka, Craig,’ she said.

He lifted himself to his feet, grateful that she had not contended with him, and went to the table to pour the drink for her, and the whisky he now needed more than ever for himself. When he turned around with the filled glasses, she was standing, waiting. He avoided looking at her bikini, her limbs, and handed her the drink.