Prizes

by Erich Segal

  Sidney emptied the glass and recounted the final moments of his professional life.

  “When I went to see the rushes, she was there waiting. At first, I was flattered. Wow, I thought to myself, the head of the studio’s barely moved in and she comes down to see my stuff.”

  “And?”

  “And so we ran the film. It wasn’t terrific, but it wasn’t terrible either. Then the lights go up and she turns to me and says, ‘This is crap, Sidney, total crap. And what’s more, it’s sixties crap.’ She kept repeating that word again and again.”

  He shook his head in agony and then continued, “She told me I wasn’t with it, I was out of touch. And then she said something even worse.”

  Sandy, sick at heart, did not want to hear it, but he knew his father needed the catharsis.

  “What was it, Dad?” he asked.

  “She called me a dinosaur. She said I was extinct and didn’t even know it.”

  “Jesus—the bitch. Didn’t she have any respect for your career?”

  The older man shook his head.

  Sandy’s voice grew louder. “And what about the fact that you were the guy who started her off in the first place?”

  “Come on, kiddo. This town has the highest amnesia rate in the world.”

  Sandy felt outraged and helpless. He could not imagine such behavior even among the most barbaric tribes in the jungle.

  Though his worst fears had already suggested the answer, he felt compelled to ask, “So, what’s going to happen? Will she put you on another one of those so-called ‘youth’ pictures?”

  “Get serious. I’m over twenty-five, and what’s left of my hair is gray. My kind of people don’t get work in this business anymore.”

  “Don’t be silly, Dad, you’re exaggerating.”

  “I wish, I wish.” Sidney sighed. “But believe me, sonny boy, you’re too old for this game. If things end up like they’re going, in a year or two every studio will be run by a squeaky-voiced high school kid—at a salary of twenty-five million a year.”

  “Listen, you’ve got every right to be upset,” Sandy said soothingly. “But don’t let her break your spirit. I’ll buy you that chili dinner and we can go for a drive along the ocean.”

  The older man nodded.

  Sandy beckoned to the waiter, who could not conceal his disapproval of Sidney’s untidy appearance.

  Watching his father eat mechanically, simply moving the spoon back and forth between the bowl and his mouth, Sandy realized he was a broken man.

  And now he had an overwhelming reason for contacting Rochelle Taubman.

  He had misgivings about leaving Sidney alone, and decided to sleep in the guest bedroom that he and Judy had once shared—so many traumas ago.

  Paradoxically, Sandy was more agitated than his father. He tossed and turned all night, wondering what he would say to Rochelle when he confronted her—if she would even speak to him.

  He was in the kitchen drinking a cup of black coffee when Sidney entered wearing a bathrobe.

  “Hey, what are you doing here? You’ve got a lab to run.

  “I know, Dad, but I was too bushed last night to drive home. So, if I can borrow a shirt and a razor, I’ll head back. Will you be all right on your own?”

  “Sonny boy, I’ve been all right on my own since the day I was born. Believe me. The past is past and today is the future. As Claude Rains said to Bette Davis in Deception, ‘I’ve always had a great sense of tomorrow.’ So I’ll just sit here and make some phone calls.”

  Though his father’s optimism was not convincing, Sandy was confident that he would at least be able to cope with the routine of life on his own.

  Sandy shaved very quickly, arranged the thin strands of hair endlessly and finally, when he was satisfied, sprayed them. Before leaving, he gave his father a pep talk and promised to check in later on.

  During the anguished hours of the previous night, Sandy had pondered whether it would be best to call Rochelle and straightforwardly ask for an appointment. He concluded that this tactic would then allow her simply to look at her agenda, protest its fullness, and sweetly suggest that he call another time.

  No, Sandy had decided. It would be far better to appear at the studio entrance and have the guard announce his arrival. She might still refuse to see him, but somehow he felt his physical presence would add weight to his request.

  And then he would face her and say what had to be said.

  Although he had not yet found the words.

  45

  ISABEL

  At last the gala evening arrived.

  Raymond da Costa donned the tuxedo he had bought for himself at Filene’s. Isabel had been unable to choose between a light blue taffeta and a peachy silk and had, at Raymond’s urging, bought both. Tonight, when she could vacillate no longer, Isabel resorted to a fundamental scientific method: she flipped a coin; the blue dress won.

  The Aula Magna was packed with dignitaries, all bedecked, bemedaled, and bejeweled. Isabel sat onstage at the center of a crescent of chairs otherwise reserved for the high officials of the academy. Raymond sat in the front row, radiating pleasure.

  Many of the distinguished guests could not help remarking how much tonight’s honoree looked like a pretty Italian schoolgirl. They adored her before she even opened her mouth.

  The actual presentation was made by Professor De Rosa. Both his voice and his gestures were fulsome. He praised Isabel’s achievements to the sky and reminded the “grown-ups” present that, just as science knew no national boundaries, the same objectivity should apply to the scientists.

  “In the quest for new discoveries, neither age nor gender should be considered. What counts is the achievement per se.”

  He then went into detail, describing the outstanding work that Isabel had performed, which had forced even the most eminent of physicists to rethink their conclusions about the Fifth Force.

  Then, with a verbal flourish, he introduced this year’s winner, “circondata d’onore.”

  To enthusiastic applause, Isabel gracefully approached the podium. Cameras flashed like fireworks as Professor De Rosa shook her hand, kissed her on both cheeks, gave her the plaque and an envelope, and returned to his seat, leaving her alone in the limelight.

  She laid her awards to one side as she prepared to make her acceptance speech. To everyone’s surprise, she had no sheets of paper, not even cue cards.

  With stunning poise she stood smiling at the guests, nodding her head to both sides of the hall in acknowledgment of their welcome.

  A sudden hush fell as she began.

  “Carissimi colleghi, gentili ospiti, desidero ringraziarvi per l’alto onore che mi fate assegnandomi questo premio, di cui mi sento indegna.” Esteemed colleagues, distinguished guests. Thank you for the great prize that you have accorded me and of which I feel unworthy.…

  At first the audience assumed that she had gone to the effort of phonetically memorizing a few words of Italian to flatter the country that was honoring her. But it quickly became apparent that Isabel would be speaking entirely in Italian.

  Perhaps the most dumbfounded spectator was her father. She had read him the draft in English, without confiding that she would ultimately be delivering it in a foreign tongue.

  Isabel began with some words of praise for Italian researchers, past and present, notably Rita Levi-Montalcini, who two years earlier had won the Nobel for her work on nerve cell growth. She then modulated skillfully into a history of the Fermi Prize itself.

  She concluded by offering her views as to the moral obligation of the modern scientist, “not merely to seek truth, but to share it.”

  Her select audience all understood her thinly veiled allusion to the selfishness in certain areas of the community. They knew that in the international rat race, many researchers were holding back their discoveries for the sake of personal glory rather than actually circulating them for the benefit of mankind.

  The applause was tumultuous. If they could have giv
en her yet another prize, they would have done so on the spot. The standing ovation lasted nearly five minutes.

  The instant she could free herself, Isabel rushed off stage, where she nearly collided with Professor De Rosa. There were tears in the older man’s eyes as he again kissed her on both cheeks and murmured, “You are the eighth wonder of the world. You—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” she interrupted urgently, “but I have to go somewhere for about a quarter of an hour. Will you please tell my father not to worry? I’ll be back in time to join you before dinner.”

  She was in such a hurry to get away that she did not even notice Raymond’s appearance in the distance.

  De Rosa offered Ray his congratulations and faithfully conveyed his daughter’s message. The information jolted Raymond into a sudden panic, and barely acknowledging the professor’s remarks, he dashed out into the cobblestoned Via della Lungara.

  Just in time for the greatest shock of his life, for he glimpsed Isabel climbing on to the back of a Lambretta, driven by what looked like a slim young man, whose features were obscured by his helmet.

  Their chauffeur was waiting dutifully by the stage door and Ray hailed him.

  “Gino!” he called out, pointing to the top of the narrow street where the Lambretta was just disappearing.

  The driver nodded. “Sì?”

  Ray responded with the only word he knew in any foreign language: “Vamos.”

  Gino understood the message, and both men ran to the Mercedes to give chase.

  Some parts of Rome never sleep. Others rarely wake. And, as they followed Isabel and her companion, they passed brightly lit streets of crowded outdoor tables, with people laughing and singing as they drank and dined. Then suddenly they turned into a dark street behind the restaurants. Most of the stores and small work-shops, obviously only used by day, were boarded up for the night. Only occasionally did a pale glimmer emanate from one of the upper floors.

  Where the hell is she going? Raymond thought as his heart pounded. And is she going willingly? This was, after all, a country notorious for kidnapping.

  “What is this area?”

  “It’s Trastevere. By day, there are many artisans at work.”

  “But what’s she doing here at this time of night?” Ray growled. “She’s the goddamn guest of honor.”

  “If you want my opinion,” Gino offered in a heavy Neapolitan accent, “the young man may have caught her fancy.”

  Raymond nearly shouted that he had no interest in the driver’s philosophy of life. But at that very moment the Lambretta swung into a narrow alley. Gino sped up and brought the limousine to a near-silent stop.

  “I think is better we go on foot, signore,” he whispered. “I know this is a dead-end street.”

  They turned the corner just in time to spot Isabel and her escort illuminated by a sliver of light from an open door.

  The cyclist had taken off his helmet and flung back his head to remove the strands of long hair that had been covering his face.

  Both men instinctively realized that they could move more briskly, for Isabel and the mysterious man were now inside.

  In a moment the two men were standing in front of an incongruously open shop whose interior light shone onto the fading gilt letters on the windowpane that identified the establishment:

  GIULIANO

  STRUMENTI A CORDA

  They could hear the sound of several people talking, including Isabel saying, “I’m in a big rush, Mr. Carbone. I hope what you told Edmundo is true.”

  “It is, signorina, I promise you.” The voice was of a man of well-advanced years.

  Raymond and Gino now dared to take a closer look. The shop was small, with what appeared to be a work-room behind. Various colors and species of stringed instruments hung in every conceivable place, ranging from a delicate treble viola to several majestic double basses standing on the floor.

  They saw the elderly man move toward a glass-fronted cabinet housing several antique violins, and withdraw one of them. It was dark amber, and the surface, despite superficial cracks visible through the varnish, was smooth and unblemished.

  He handed it to Isabel, who held it as though it were a precious child as he continued his presentation.

  “It is a Giovanni Grancino, about 1710. An amateur collector has owned it for the past thirty years, but following his death, the estate is selling the instrument. If I cannot arrange a private sale, it will go to auction at Sotheby’s in London next week.”

  As Isabel placed it under her chin, he handed her a bow that seemed of the same era.

  She took a deep breath and began to sound the open strings. The violin instantly came to life.

  Isabel then launched into the Bach Third Partita. She was so enraptured by the voice of the instrument that she played the entire Preludio. At the end, the faces of Carbone and the young man were transported, and both clapped enthusiastically.

  “That was magnificent, signorina,” Carbone almost sang. “You played that instrument like someone making love.”

  “Well,” Isabel smiled, “you’ve lived up to your promise, and so will I. Here’s a banker’s check for thirty-five thousand dollars.”

  “What?” he responded with disappointment.

  “What’s the matter?” Isabel asked.

  “You haven’t bargained with me,” Carbone lamented. “Thirty-five was my starting figure. I assumed we would end up with somewhere in the high twenties.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the confused sixteen-year-old. “But I told you I had no experience in this sort of thing. What can I do? The check’s already made out.”

  “I tell you what, sweet, naive lady,” he announced paternally. “For that price, I will add the splendid bow you have been using. Then you will have a real bargain. If you like, I can bring it around to your hotel tomorrow morning.”

  “I don’t know.” Isabel hesitated. “We’re leaving so early. Could you call me a cab so I can take it back with me to the banquet?”

  Then she suddenly remembered.

  “My God, the banquet. I’m really late now—”

  “That’s okay, Isabel,” her father interposed as he entered the shop.

  “Dad! How did you find me?”

  Ignoring her question, he went straight to the point.

  “You really should’ve told me about this, darling,” he chastised her. “I’m genuinely hurt. But we can talk about it tomorrow. For the moment, Gino’s waiting at the corner and we can just make it back in time for the dinner.”

  As they careened through the streets of Rome—Gino taking all the shortcuts he knew through the complicated maze of thoroughfares between the Campo dei Fiori and the Piazza Colonna, then on toward the Hotel Excelsior—Raymond continued to berate her gently.

  “After all, thirty-five grand is a big hunk of our winnings. You should have asked me so I could have had the chance to say yes. I would’ve felt a lot better.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Isabel said quietly.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Because I bought it for Mom.”

  46

  ADAM

  The Coopersmiths’ grand tour began auspiciously enough. They charmed the distinguished medical scientists (and doubtless Nobel nominators) from San Francisco to San Diego. During the week they spent in La Jolla, it seemed as if they had a meal with everyone at the Salk Institute for Biological Studies—not least its director, the legendary Jonas, conqueror of polio, and his wife Françoise.

  Salk, though into his ninth decade, had the lively mind of a zealous schoolboy and was fascinated to hear firsthand of Adam’s discoveries.

  He himself, it turned out, was far from resting on his many laurels and was deeply involved in finding weapons against the newest immunological scourge—AIDS.

  Anya had been nervous about this dinner.

  “I just couldn’t get out of my mind that Françoise had once been married to Picasso. And I’m ashamed to say that I actually asked her wha
t he was like to live with,”

  “What did she say?”

  “ ‘Interesting.’ ”

  “Well, I suppose that’s an honest answer,” he replied.

  “Actually, one thing puzzles me,” she continued. “Jonas Salk is one of the towering scientific minds of this century. He cured a disease that killed and crippled millions. Why didn’t he get a Nobel Prize?”

  Adam took a chilled bottle of Chardonnay and two glasses onto their balcony, which commanded a breathtaking view of the Pacific expanding into infinity.

  “Well, Annoushka, I can only give you my own off-the-wall theory.”

  “Yes?” She smiled, lifting a glass to her lips.

  “I think the boys in Stockholm sent their secret agents out to check on Jonas. They took one look at his institute and the paradise it’s built in and thought that was enough for one human being.”

  Anya fixed him with her large brown eyes and asked, “If you had the choice, which prize would you prefer?”

  “You,” he answered without a moment’s hesitation.

  Hawaii was intended to be a vacation, but Adam’s medical colleagues all pressured him for lectures—or at the very least, a state visit. He ended up working harder than ever.

  Two days before their departure to the South Sea isles, the wire services ignited with the controversial and—to many—grotesque story that a sixty-two-year-old Italian woman had just given birth to a child.

  Naturally, the sexagenarian mother in question was postmenopausal. But the doctors had fertilized a younger donor’s egg with the older husband’s sperm in vitro and transplanted it into Signora X’s uterus. There, with the aid of copious hormonal support, she carried the pregnancy to term.

  Adam was not impressed. As he told Anya, “I think it’s just a stunt. Since the ovum belonged to a young girl, the signora wasn’t much more than an incubator. It would have been a genuine accomplishment if she could have provided her own eggs.”

  “Absolutely,” Anya agreed. “And if you believe that passionately enough, we have a new project.”

  “I do and we have. In fact my mind’s been racing all morning.”