by Erich Segal
Feeling somewhat fuzzy-headed, Sandy was temporarily released from his normal inhibitions. “Judy, I had the craziest dream last night.…”
“Tell me,” she urged. “I’m majoring in psych, so maybe I can interpret it for you.”
“I had this ridiculous fantasy that I kissed you,” Sandy joked. “But I guess I was imagining it, huh?”
“I’m sorry, Sandy,” she responded with a pseudo-Teutonic Freudian accent. “But I must know whether this vas a pleasant experience.”
“To be frank, Judy—it was wonderful. I was sorry to wake up.”
“I’m glad,” she responded. “By sheer coincidence, I thought of you a lot too. Only I know it wasn’t a dream, ’cause I couldn’t fall asleep until nearly four.”
Sandy was suddenly short of breath. Never, in his twenty-two years of life, had he savoured the sublime experience of reciprocated affection.
He tried to disguise the fact that his heart was doing somersaults, and remarked matter-of-factly, “I’m afraid I have to talk business, Judy. I mean my roommate’s on my back about the car and I’ve got to return it to her before she goes through the ozone layer. I was thinking I might bike out to your place.”
“No. Actually, I planned to bring the car in and pick you up so we could have lunch.”
“That sounds fine to me,” Sandy responded with enthusiasm. “What time would be good for you?”
“Well,” she answered, “unless you want me to drive naked, I’d better put on some clothes, and have a cup of coffee first. Is an hour okay with you?”
“Great.” To which he quickly added a remark that surprised him: “And you don’t have to put on clothes on my account.”
She was even more attractive than Sandy remembered. Instead of ragged jeans and T-shirt, she wore a sleeveless, off-the-shoulder summer dress that plunged boldly.
They bought colossal submarine sandwiches and picnicked on the banks of the Charles.
They had scarcely been sitting for a quarter of an hour when he blurted, “When do you have to go back to school?”
She laughed. “Are you trying to get rid of me already?”
“On the contrary,” he declared, “I just want to know how much time I have to snow you.”
“What makes you think you haven’t snowed me already?”
“Well, frankly,” he confessed, “I’m not exactly Robert Redford—”
“Why are you so obsessed with external beauty?” she chided.
“Is there any other kind?”
“Maybe not in Hollywood, but there is where I come from. I mean, even if I hadn’t heard my father mention you a couple of dozen times this summer, just talking to you for a few hours last night convinced me that you’re smart as hell. And, if you must know …” She leaned closer and whispered, “I really think the sexiest part of a man is his brain.”
Incredulous, Sandy thought, Jesus, I might even stand a real chance with this girl.
The sleek, white, stretch Lincoln Continental glided up to the Beverly-Wilshire Hotel. Seated in the back, wearing an ermine coat and glistening with jewels, was Kim Tower. The chauffeur hurried around and bowed as he let her out. As she walked gracefully toward the portals, the doorman greeted her with a deferential salute.
Suddenly, a pair of menacing figures appeared, each brandishing Magnum .38 revolvers.
“Okay, lady,” growled the larger of the two. “This’ll teach you not to play in the big leagues.”
Kim had just enough time to register shock and cry out, “No! No!”
In the next instant both assassins fired. Struck in the neck and chest, Kim recoiled and fell back onto the sidewalk, rivulets of blood staining her white coat.
“My God, Sandy,” Gregory Morgenstern cried out in astonishment. “They’ve just killed your old girlfriend.”
Sprinting so fast that most of the coffee in the paper cups he was carrying splashed onto the floor, Sandy raced toward the lab table where the television, normally reserved for athletic events, had been turned to a “Movie of the Week.”
“That’s impossible,” he protested. “They were just showing the titles when I left.”
“I’m sorry,” Greg commiserated. “It doesn’t look like she had a very big role.”
“Did she at least get to say something?” Sandy asked with disappointment.
“Just a couple of words,” Morgenstern answered. “And then a kind of last gasp before she hit the deck.”
“That’s all? Just a lousy walk-on?”
“Well,” his teacher jested amiably, “I’d call it more of a ‘die-on.’ But I tell you, she looked like a million bucks.”
“Damn it,” Sandy railed. “She must have gotten typecast. I mean it always looked like whenever they had a part where someone croaked they gave it to her. I’m telling you, that’s what killed her career before she had a chance to prove herself.”
“Well, show business isn’t my area of expertise,” the scientist replied. “Why don’t we get the electrophoresis under way and then call your father on the university’s penny?”
Sandy nodded, and the two men used pipettes to place droplets of silver-stained gel into the small squares at the end of what looked like a miniature, clear plastic bowling-alley. They then placed the closed tray into a small tank and turned on the electrodes, which activated the migration of particles.
“Mind if I join you, Sandy?” Morgenstern asked. “I’d like to take five on the couch. I promise I won’t listen.”
“Well, Greg,” Sandy retorted with a grin, “it’s only your office, so I guess you’re entitled.”
Morgenstern kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the couch, opening the latest issue of Cell and placing it over his face as Sandy dialed Hollywood.
“Good to hear from you, sonny boy,” Sidney Raven chimed. “How’s life in the lab?”
“Fine, Dad. I—”
“Hey,” his father interrupted, “I just looked at the time. It’s late as hell back East. Why aren’t you in bed—alone or otherwise?”
Sandy blushed inwardly and prayed that Gregory Morgenstern was really napping. Having long since acquired the techniques of Hollywood hype, Sidney always shouted on the phone for emphasis.
“Dad, I’ve just watched the CBS ‘Movie of the Week’—”
“Yeah,” his father commented, “that South American drug caper. We passed on it.”
“Did you know that Rochelle was one of the guest stars?”
“Of course, I read Variety every day. That was the last picture she made before her contract ended.”
“Well, how come her part was so small?”
“Jeez, you’re starting to talk like her agent. But to give you an answer in a nutshell, her Q-ratings were lower than the Dead Sea.”
“God, that’s terrible, Dad.”
“On the contrary, kiddo. She retired before rigor mortis set in,” Sidney consoled him. “Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about that young lady. Not only is she taking over the Story Department, just as she predicted, but she’s also dating Elliot Victor, the head of Paragon.
“It looks like her next career move will be a quickie Mexican divorce from Lex—and another trip to the altar. Now tell me about you. Have you got a girlfriend yet?”
Sandy glanced furtively over at the couch where Morgenstern appeared sound asleep.
“I can’t talk now,” he said as softly as possible. “But I think I’m in love.”
“Great,” his father cheered. “Now maybe you’ll get your mind off Ms. Tower and have a normal relationship. Tell me about her.”
“Dad,” his son replied, “she’s so nice, I can’t understand why she would settle for a guy like me.”
“Hey,” his father chastened, “where’s your confidence? As Clark said to Vivien in Gone With the Wind, ‘With enough courage, you can do without a reputation.’ How far do you want to go with this girl?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Sandy answered, hoping his father did not mean what he feared
he meant.
“Is it someone you’re serious about?”
“Could be. It’s fairly possible.”
“Then marry her before she gets away.”
“Don’t you think I’m a bit young for that?”
“You’re never too young if it’s the right woman,” Sidney counseled. “Then you’ve got to reach for the brass ring and grab it. Otherwise,” he finished wistfully, “you’ll end up like me.”
31
ADAM
The doctors were anxious to discharge Anya Avilov—not least because her medical insurance was running out.
From the second of January, Adam had visited her every day during his lunch break. Though he agreed that she was strong enough to cope with the outside world, he had misgivings about letting her go back alone to the dingy, cramped apartment in Watertown.
The psychiatrists overruled him. But at least he convinced them to delay her release until Saturday—which enabled him to take her home.
The Coopersmiths were having Sunday brunch with the Rosenthals. As Joyce and Toni studied the new fashions in the magazine section of the New York Times and Boston Globe, and the kids were in the den watching “The Mark of Zorro” on TV, Charlie convinced Adam to go out for a walk.
The moment the two men were alone, Rosenthal demanded, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Adam insisted. Yet his feelings about Anya were raging within him, and he had to tell someone for the sake of his sanity.
“Listen, you know I’m not bullshitting when I tell you that in all the years Toni and I’ve been married, I never so much as looked at another woman.”
“I know, I know,” his friend cut him off. “But have you done anything more than look at Anya Avilov?”
“Who told you—”
“Schmuck!” His friend exploded. “Have you forgotten I’m the guy you referred her to? The second day we were back from Canada, I had a patient in prodromal at the Lying-in. Since I had a couple of hours to kill, I walked down the block to visit Anya. She was in surprisingly good humor, and it only took me about three seconds to realize that it wasn’t the effect of the medication, but a visit from you at lunchtime.”
Adam felt trapped, but he was anxious to know more. “What exactly did she say?”
“Oh, nothing compromising,” his colleague answered with an amused smile. “She just wouldn’t stop talking about you. I mean, she thinks you’re a combination of Dr. Schweitzer and Warren Beatty.”
“Don’t joke,” Adam responded with annoyance. “I’m serious.”
“You don’t seem serious to me,” Charlie countered with disapproval. “I mean this isn’t teen time, baby. You’re an adult with grown-up responsibilities.”
“I know, I know,” Adam said, his voice full of pain. “Honest to God, Charlie, I adore Heather—and I still love Toni. It’s only that …”
“You love Anya more,” his friend concluded sarcastically.
Adam looked helplessly at Charlie, asking without words what his friend thought he should do.
“Well, Coopersmith, you might go to Saudi Arabia and become a Moslem, which would even give you two more conjugal slots to fill. Or you can take the only decent way out.”
There was a sanctimonious tone in Charlie’s voice that began to irritate Adam. “What makes this whole complicated mess so simple to you?” he lashed back in annoyance.
Charlie replied with quiet sympathy. “For the very reason that I’m not involved. I can look at this objectively. And it’s clear that you don’t have any real choice.”
“How can you say that? Dammit, Rosenthal, don’t you see I’ve got to choose between two women?”
His friend stopped walking and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Two women, yes,” he acknowledged. “But only one kid. You’ve got to think about Heather.”
“Do you seriously imagine that I don’t? The very thought of leaving her breaks my heart.”
“So de-infatuate yourself with this Russian woman.”
“It’s not that easy. What’s supposed to happen to Anya?”
“Whatever would have happened if you hadn’t gotten involved. She’s not the first decent woman to get a raw deal from a lousy husband. But from what I know of her as a patient, there’s an inner core of real strength. She’ll brush up her English and pass the damn qualifying exams.” His voice grew louder, as if competing with the cold, harsh wind that was now blowing in their faces. “She’ll be all right, Coopersmith.”
“Can’t I make you understand?” Adam said in desperation, “I’m in love with her.”
“No, dammit,” Charlie shouted back. “You pity her. That’s not the same.”
Adam was furious. “Just for a minute, suppose this were happening to you—”
“But it wouldn’t,” Charlie said cutting him off. “It couldn’t. For the simple reason that no matter how beautiful the woman was, how terrible her circumstances, I have my priorities. My job is bringing kids into the world. I know how fragile they are. If I had it my way, this sort of behavior would be classified as a crime.”
Then the two were silent, gusts chilling them as they stood there unmoving.
Finally, Adam asked helplessly, “What if I can’t break it off?”
“I’ll help you.”
“What if I still can’t?”
Charlie paused and then stated categorically, “In that case, I won’t help you.”
By now, the compulsion to see her was so great that Adam sped to Watertown just to be with her for a few minutes, his behavior bordering on recklessness.
In the mere twenty-four hours since he had last seen her, Anya looked as if she had begun to grasp the tiller of her life. Charlie was right. The young Russian woman had enormous resilience.
Wearing jeans and a maroon turtleneck, she was busily cleaning the house when he arrived. To his amazement, there were even half a dozen books on the shelf that earlier had been totally empty. They ranged from a biochemistry text to English for foreigners, and from Julia Child to a campus love story.
“Where did you get these?” Adam asked.
“As usual, I was up at dawn,” she answered with a smile. “Maybe it is a good thing there are no curtains yet, because the sun awakened me. I had tea and walked all the way to Harvard Square. It is a wonderful place—nothing ever closes. Musicians were playing and the bookstores were full of people.”
“Good for you,” Adam said with admiration.
“On the way home I went into Star Market and bought croissants … in case you came. Would you like one now with a cup of coffee?”
“Yeah, that’d be nice.”
As he sat down in the armchair, he noticed a Russian periodical on the weather-beaten table by the couch.
“What’s the paper?” he called out.
“Pravda,” she replied from inside the kitchen. “I was surprised to find such a recent issue.”
“Did it make you homesick?”
“No,” Anya declared as she reappeared carrying a tray. “In fact it cheered me up immensely. Here in America newspapers also do not tell the truth, but at least you have a choice of liars.”
She sat down on the far side of the sofa, placing the food on the low table.
As he reached for a pastry, Adam could not help but notice the color in her cheeks.
“I’m glad to see you in such a good mood,” he commented. Then, at a loss for neutral topics to discuss, he inquired, “Have you thought of going back to work—when you’re ready, I mean?”
“Oh, I’m a little tired, but I feel I’m psychologically ready now. The only problem is …” She did not have to finish the phrase.
Adam voiced her thoughts. “Surely you still can’t want to go back to Dmitri’s lab.”
“Yes,” she replied, her anger rising. “I want him to see that he is not so all-powerful that he could make me disappear.”
“To what purpose?” Adam asked. “Hatred is such an unproductive feeling.”
Sh
e sighed. “I suppose you are right. But what else can I do? It was only Dmitri’s influence that got me a job in the first place.”
“Well, I’ve got a little influence of my own. And I’d like you to come and work in our lab.”
“But I know nothing about immunology,” she protested, trying to mask her elation.
“You’re a medical doctor. You already know the basics. It’s just a question of diving in at the deep end of the pool. It’d take guts, but we both know you’ve got plenty of that.”
Her eyes were now sparkling. She broke into what was indisputably a smile as he concluded, “And, of course, if you get into trouble, I’ll always be there to keep you afloat. Now, how does that sound?”
“It sounds lovely.” Her dark eyes radiated affection.
“Good. When do you think you’ll feel strong enough to begin?”
“I know you would want me to say tomorrow, and that is what my heart says too. But I do not want to look like an idiot before your colleagues. So if you could possibly give me a week—and some proper textbooks …”
“Done,” Adam agreed, and then fought the urge to put his arms around her.
It would be wrong now, when she was still weak and groggy.
“I’m afraid it’s getting late,” he murmured lamely. “I mean, I have a family.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “it is good that we both remember that.”
32
ISABEL
Isabel was making such splendid progress on her master’s thesis that Raymond paroled her for a brief Christmas return to San Diego. To her elation, she was able to get home in time to watch Edmundo conduct Handel’s Messiah with the University Orchestra and Chorus.
Perhaps it was an illusion created by the gray December weather, but to Isabel her stepfather seemed somewhat pale.
“It’s just fatigue,” Muriel explained when mother and daughter were talking at breakfast the next morning. “Edmundo has gone through hell with this production. Two weeks before the performance, the baritone soloist left to sing The Marriage of Figaro in Chicago. If Edmundo hadn’t been able to cajole José Mauro to come out of retirement and fly in from Argentina, we’d probably have had to cancel the whole concert.”
