by Erich Segal
Since Muriel had badgered her to remember her promise, Isabel diligently brought her violin and, on Christmas Eve, the Zimmers had a real soirée musicale. Francisco Zimmer, while not a professional, had become a fairly accomplished pianist. And Dorotea bravely took up the cello, having for a time played in the Buenos Aires Symphony.
Despite his handicap, Edmundo could, as he put it, “at least make a tolerable noise” on all of the stringed instruments. Now that Isabel had joined them, the happy family gathered around the Christmas table as a piano quintet—with one spectator.
As Peter joked, “When I was growing up, a conspicuous failure at every instrument, Mom taught me that somebody has to be in the audience. I’ve developed my claps and bravos to a virtuoso standard.”
Indeed, the evening was so joyful that it made Isabel feel pangs of sadness that Raymond had been left to celebrate on his own.
December 28
Naturally, I would never tell Dad that this was the happiest Christmas I ever spent in my life. Though I had some intermittent qualms about him being on his own, I rationalized that he was being well looked after by the Prachts, who had invited him over
When I asked him on the way home from the airport how their celebration had been, he confessed that he had called Karl and canceled at the last moment. He mumbled something about having felt under the weather when he woke up that morning.
But I think he was afraid to face Jerry, who might have given him some subtle—or maybe not so subtle—heat about “keeping his little bird locked in her cage,” as he once said on the phone.
But then of course there was the chance that Dad’s illness really wasn’t psychosomatic. He’s been kind of lax on the jogging lately, and he’s put on weight. Most mornings he just walks me to the track and waits while I do my laps.
I can’t help feeling guilty at not having been there. Yet I somehow sense there was a part of him that wanted me to feel that way.
Isabel’s remorse for having abandoned her father during the holidays was magnified when she learned that he had spent the time cleaning up her computer—organizing the interim results of some of the experiments she was doing on the Fifth Force.
Ray tried to downplay his sacrifice, lightheartedly insisting, “That’s my job.” Indeed, he seemed to have slaved nonstop, for he had also spent hours in the library, photocopying everything he could find on Lóránt Eötvös’s publications.
“Gosh, Dad,” she said gratefully, “in return for all you’ve done, I’m going to wash all the dishes myself for the next year.”
“Come on, Isabel, I was just a simple gofer. All these theoretical physics types based their work on the experiments of this unpronounceable Hungarian. But there’s no question that the guy was a major figure at the beginning of this century. His work on gravity provided one of the major principles of Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity.”
“Well, he’s certainly the flavor of the month—at least in our lab,” Isabel agreed. “Everybody seems to be getting on the bandwagon—although I think Karl has a definite game plan. He agrees with Eötvös’s argument that the gravitational force depends on the baryon number of the material. Now, if that’s true—and Karl is pretty sure it is at short distances—that really cuts the grass from under Einstein’s principle of equivalency.”
Just watching his extraordinary daughter walk surefootedly through the labyrinth of complex thought made Raymond beam.
“I don’t know if Karl is helping me, or vice versa,” Isabel rushed on, “I mean, he’s given me some of those experiments to repeat. And of course if my data matches his, that will make him the king of the hill.”
“It’s called paying your dues,” Raymond commented sagely. “You’ll do his spade work, he’ll get the credit, and then—if I’m any judge of the man at all—he’ll find a way to pay you back.”
“Just working next to him is reward enough,” she replied with equanimity. “Besides, I’m not the only player on his team. The key to the whole theory is to prove that gravitational force isn’t constant.
“So would you believe that Karl has gotten two of his graduate students working down a mine in Montana? And another two taking the same measurements on top of the Transamerica Pyramid in San Francisco? Their results ought to come through any day now. Karl can hardly wait.”
“Yes,” Raymond allowed. “And I bet those miners didn’t stop work for Christmas.”
Isabel felt a stab of remorse. “You know something?” she confessed. “I’m feeling so bad about it that I wish I could go to the lab right now.”
“Why not?” Ray reacted eagerly. “I’ll drive you over. After all, science never sleeps, so why should scientists?”
December 29
By the time I’d spent two hours with Dad, the sparkling colors I thought I had perceived in Mom’s house had faded into a monochrome gray memory.
There’s no greater joy than a carnival of intellect, and I spent the hours of last night and all today in the lab, running new experiments that I worked out to test the Fifth Force hypothesis.
The Prachts had never been known as party-givers, so, when they decided to throw a big New Year’s open house, tongues began to wag. The corridors buzzed with rumors that MIT had finally signed him up and his gathering was, as one wag put it, a “fěte accompli.” This conjecture was certainly supported by the professor’s extraordinarily high spirits.
Ray had misgivings about their attending the celebration. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to keep young Jerry from at least a minimal social contact with his daughter.
Jerry himself was in a state of anticipatory ecstasy, oblivious to the dozens of guests already present, his eyes fixed unswervingly on the front door, waiting for Isabel to arrive. The moment he caught sight of her, he moved through the crowd like a broken field runner.
The elder Pracht started the New Year with an act of paternal complicity. He locked Raymond in conversation, keeping him a prisoner of politeness while his tennis-playing son attempted to pursue his infatuation with the pretty scientific genius.
“Hey, Isa, you can’t imagine how desperate I am to see you. D’you know what number I am now?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” She smiled. “In less than half a year you’ve broken into the top fifty.…”
“And if I make the quarter finals tomorrow, which is the only reason I’m staying sober, I’ll jump thirty places. And if you come and watch me play, I might even be inspired to win.”
“Come on Jerry, you know I have … previous commitments.”
The young man sighed in frustration. “God, Isa. You’re going to slow down my career, do you know that?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ll have to wait till you’re eighteen so I can take you to watch me play at Wimbledon. And you’ve got to tell me before your father interrupts this conversation whether you’ll come if I wait.”
A strange new thought for New Year’s Eve—one that had never struck Isabel before. The notion of being grown-up and an adult, free to follow her emotions instead of just her curriculum.
“Say, do you think your dad would go ballistic if we took a walk in the garden to look at the view? It’s absolutely breathtaking.”
Isabel surprised even herself by answering, “Why don’t we go before he can stop us?”
To her right she noticed the outline of a wooden shack, with a long, conical shape protruding from its roof.
“Is that your observatory?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he answered. “It’s now known as the Darius Miller Memorial Planetarium. I want you to spend the night with me there sometime—with your dad, of course. But before he can find us …”
Isabel glanced over her shoulder and saw Raymond still deep in conversation with Karl Pracht.
Suddenly, Jerry’s fingers were enlaced with hers, which caused a little tingle at the back of her neck. She walked quickly with him to the edge of the garden, and they stood there, gazing down at the li
ghts of San Francisco.
“Isn’t it terrific?” Jerry exclaimed. “Look, you can even see the harbor, way over there.”
For all her mighty vocabulary, the best Isabel could respond with was a monosyllabic, “Wow.”
“I think Karl is crazy to give all this up for MIT, don’t you?” Jerry whispered.
“You mean it’s definite?” Isabel asked, unable to conceal her feeling of disappointment at the possible departure of the Pracht family.
Ignoring her question, Jerry turned to face her and murmured, “Isa, I can’t wait any longer. I’m going to kiss you.”
She remained silent and motionless.
“Thank you,” he said gently.
“What for?” she asked.
“For trusting me enough not to run away.”
Thus, at twenty-five minutes before midnight on the last day of the year, Isabel da Costa let Jerry Pracht take her into his arms and press his lips to hers.
She so enjoyed it that she lost all sense of time. For all she knew, it might have been several minutes. And a little tingle became a full-fledged shiver down her spine.
“What’s wrong?” Jerry murmured.
Isabel wanted to say nothing was wrong. Feeling as though she was about to drown in emotion, she reached out and grasped onto reality to save herself. “Jerry, we’ve got to stop. My father will find us.”
“So?” he murmured with defiance. “What we’re doing is perfectly innocent. Not doing it would be abnormal.”
Instinctively, Isabel knew he was right. But she was suddenly afraid. She was not sure whether it was fear of being discovered by her father, or her own growing ambivalence about her cloistered life.
She tried to break away, and he let go of her. As she hurried toward the house, he addressed her from a few paces behind.
“May I call you?”
“No,” she said without turning.
“Will you call me?” he persisted.
For a moment she did not reply, and then, for an instant, she stopped, looked over her shoulder, and answered, “Yes.”
33
SANDY
In the history of champagne, the most unusual bottles ever used were those reportedly made of genuine crystal and supplied to Czar Alexander II by his French purveyor, Louis Roederer. That is until the fall of 1975, when torrents of fine champagne were served in large laboratory flagons to the crowd of well-wishers gathered in David Baltimore’s lab at MIT to celebrate the announcement that he had just won the Nobel Prize for discoveries concerning the interaction between tumor viruses and the genetic material of the cell.
Naturally, all the teams from the neighboring labs were invited to join the festivities.
As one would have expected, the moment the prize was announced on the radio, Greg Morgenstern immediately sprang into action. He phoned Sandy to meet him at Martignetti’s Wine Store to help schlep the bubbly—a magnum of which he paid for out of his own pocket.
He also outsped all the other famous MIT professors, including the many Nobelists, and was the first visitor to congratulate the thirty-seven-year-old wunderkind.
After the celebration, as they were walking back to their own domain, Sandy remarked to Morgenstern, “I bet we’ll be drinking to you someday soon.”
“No,” the older man replied. “Not a chance.”
“But Greg, you’re close as hell to synthesizing that protein. Take my word for it, you’ll be in the history books too.”
“Sandy,” his mentor responded, “I wish you’d stop referring to me as a one-man band. If I hadn’t been lucky enough to find the other young Turks—especially you—I’d still be miles away.”
Though he had not revealed it, Sandy had been deeply affected by his father’s inability to establish a suitable new relationship. Neither of his parents, he sometimes reflected, would have qualified for passage on Noah’s Ark. Even Sidney, who was a professional success, had been a personal failure. He would love to have a woman of his own, but unfortunately it was never the same one. And Sandy was convinced that he had confused his priorities.
True, Greg was not a giant in his profession, at least not yet. But he had a devoted family who worshiped him like a hero. Wasn’t this the most important aspect of life?
Thus Sandy fell in love not merely with the Morgensterns’ daughter, but with their values. Their sense of togetherness.
It was a heady new experience for him to join a happy cohesive family for occasions like Thanksgiving dinner, Christmas punch, and New Year’s Eve. All of them—Greg, his wife Ruth, as well as Judy—opened their home and their hearts to him.
It took Sandy much longer to realize that Judy’s feelings were, to an enormous extent, influenced by her father’s admiration for him. Greg Morgenstern had never felt so strongly, spoken so rhapsodically, of a scientific mind—even a senior colleague’s. It was never mentioned specifically, but it was clear beyond any doubt that the greatest gift she could give her father was Sandy Raven as a son-in-law.
Independence Day became a double celebration on their calendar: not only the declaration of American autonomy, but the anniversary of the first meeting of Sandy and Judy, who by this time were living together in Cambridge without benefit of clergy.
At first, when they discussed the possible housing arrangement, Sandy was worried about the effect it might have on his professional relationship with Greg. But she reassured him.
“The other day he told me he loved you so much, that if we hadn’t gotten together, he would have adopted you.”
If Gregory Morgenstern possessed a flaw, it seemed to be an almost fanatic sense of honesty. When a high-powered biotech company lured away his second-in-command, he insisted upon going through an elaborate selection process—even soliciting letters from other faculty members—so he could make the choice with his head, not merely his heart.
When Sandy finally received the seal of approval, he felt at once honored and exasperated. Greg was so maddeningly egalitarian that every paper coming out of their lab listed its authors not in order of rank, but alphabetically. It was almost as if Morgenstern had an aversion to eminence.
Sandy theorized that this was what drew Greg to the urgent yet scientifically unpopular scourge of liver cancer: he would be left alone.
The liver is the largest—and the busiest—organ in the human body. Not only does it metabolize carbohydrates, fats, and proteins, it also detoxifies the blood, filters its impurities, produces helpful clotting factors, and destroys exhausted red blood cells. Clearly, since it does so much, if it should be impaired, the body would be in grave danger.
There were many theoretical “cures” for hepatic cancer, the most obvious being transplants. But this was obviously impossible on a large scale, especially in areas where the disease had reached epidemic proportions.
Greg was leading a biochemical quest into uncharted territory. Since cancers occur when the usual checks and balances of cell growth cease to function, he hoped to produce an artificial protein that would restore the damaged gene to normal functioning.
Their “patients” were mice. More specifically, humanoid rodents developed in Max Rudolph’s laboratory at Harvard.
“Dad never explained to me why you guys always use little Mickeys and Minnies instead of more grown-up species,” Judy remarked over dinner.
“I know it doesn’t seem to make sense,” Sandy replied. “But a quirk of nature made those creatures’ systems more like ours than some primates’. By contrast, guinea pigs are completely different. Did you know that if they had been chosen for the first penicillin tests, we might never have had antibiotics? Because—for some strange reason—at certain times of the year, even small doses can simply kill them.”
“Wow,” Judy reacted. “That was a close call. Now, how about you guys—is it a state secret or are you near anything resembling paydirt?”
“It’s funny, I’m so close to the stuff, I find that question impossible to answer. But if it’s any indication, a film crew from ‘
Nova’ is visiting the lab tomorrow. Maybe they’re getting some vibes.”
“Super, be sure to wear your lenses. Would it be okay if I came and watched? I really like the way Dad fields all those difficult questions and explains them so ordinary people can understand. And I can be sure your hair’s properly combed.”
“Great,” Sandy enthused. “You could even do my part of the interview, since you’re so much better-looking.”
By the time Judy arrived the next morning, a large WGBH van was parked in front of the lab, two wheels up on the sidewalk, its cables reaching through the front door like electronic tentacles.
Inside, separate film crews were at work. One camera was set up in Morgenstern’s office, interviewing Greg as he spoke of his altruistic motives in attacking the liver cancer problem. Meanwhile, Sandy was leading the other camera on a tour of the rest of the plant, introducing the teams and the technology.
As he spoke, various techs could be seen in the background, performing different tasks like loading up the PCR machine, a device that “photocopied” individual segments of DNA in a heated test tube, and scurrying to and fro to check the contents of petri dishes under the various microscopes.
Though he too had an office, Sandy preferred to sit at a desk where the action was. “I like to be as close as possible to my hardware.” He smiled to the lens.
From off camera the producer, a frizzy-haired girl in jeans, fed him questions.
Sandy first tried to explain to the lay audience how DNA carries the genetic code. Then how they were working with it.
“There’s also a particular protein that acts something like a traffic cop. It supervises the cell division, and if something begins to go wrong, it can stop it immediately.
“Now, little mutations happen all the time, but they’re usually not dangerous. The one thing we worry about is if the duplication goes crazy and starts to grow cancer cells.”
