Prizes

by Erich Segal

  He opened a desk drawer, withdrew some hotel stationery and scribbled some basic principles.

  “As a woman reaches the end of the fifth decade, her mid-cycle peak gradually diminishes and then disappears. Now we’ve already got the knowledge and drugs to stimulate moderately older women to produce at least occasionally promising ovulations. But you can’t do this forever, and there are obvious hazards.”

  He then tossed the ball to her.

  “How would you handle it, Doctor?”

  “Well, since we have the luxury of speaking only theoretically, why don’t we posit the ‘simplest’ scientific solution, namely defer the menopause altogether?”

  “Good. A solution that women would welcome for other reasons as well, and it’s no longer science fiction. Naturally, we’d have to hook up with a geneticist. Anybody come to mind?”

  “Avilov,” she quipped jokingly.

  “I doubt if he’s smart enough,” Adam countered, his natural male rivalry aroused. “Actually, I was thinking along the lines of gerontologists like Raven, the Time magazine cover boy who’s into reversing the genetic clock.”

  “I’m sure he would be flattered to work with you, darling,” Anya offered.

  “Actually, Raven’s the least likely guy to want to embark on any collaboration. He’s already been royally screwed out of one Nobel Prize. But maybe if we meet and he sees your honest face …”

  He smiled at his wife and then suddenly remarked, “But isn’t this supposed to be a vacation?”

  “Come on, Adam, you thrive on challenge. Why not indulge yourself?”

  He laughed. She read him like a book. Lately, despite the lectures, which he disparagingly referred to as “ideas from the freezer, defrosted for the occasion,” he had begun to feel like a malingerer. Since the moment he met Max Rudolph long ago, he had never ceased to wrestle with apparently insoluble problems. Now he missed the excitement.

  Adam borrowed his host’s secretary the next morning and dictated a long letter to Dr. Sandy Raven, sounding out his willingness to participate in a project that was, as he put it, “down both our scientific alleys.” Perhaps, Adam thought, despite Raven’s justifiably misanthropic reputation, the biogeneticist would agree to put his anger on hold.

  They broke their journey to Australia in Fiji, where only a third of the three hundred tropical islands were inhabited. At Suva he took advantage of their modern technology and called Heather to touch base. Though Anya had tried to write at least a postcard every day, this was their first live contact. Then they changed to a small two-propeller shuttle that took them to an islet which had more coconuts than people.

  They arrived exhausted, and spent their first day sleeping late, strolling on the beach, and sleeping some more.

  It was to battle fatigue that Anya ascribed the first incident.

  The setting sun gave the sand a roseate glow as they walked back toward their palm-thatched bure, letting the waves lick gently at their feet.

  Adam suddenly glanced at his watch and said, “Jesus—what time’s my lecture?”

  Anya laughed. “We’ll order one of those delicious cocktails, and you can address me on any topic that suits your fancy.”

  Counter to her expectation, Adam did not smile. “No, seriously, I’ve forgotten what time I’m speaking. I seem to recall your saying something about five-thirty—I’d better hurry and get my slides.”

  There was something in his tone of voice that gave Anya a frisson. She sensed that he was not joking, that he was genuinely confused.

  “Darling, I knew you shouldn’t have taken on so many commitments. I’m happy to say that you gave your last lecture two days ago in Maui.”

  His answer chilled her. For he gazed at Anya with the look of a little boy lost and asked, “Isn’t this Maui?”

  “No, my poor tired husband, this is Mana, one of the Fiji Islands, and the only obligation for this evening is rest and recreation.”

  Adam looked about him with an initial expression of mistrust. There was the endless beach, the undulating palms that had convinced him they were in Hawaii.

  Then he retrieved the reins of his mental processes and joked, “I was just checking you for jet lag, Annoushka. I’m happy to say you passed.”

  Anya confidently dismissed her husband’s harmless lapse and they proceeded to consume enough rum and coconut juice to make their geographical location irrelevant.

  Five days later, tanned and relaxed, they boarded a Qantas jet to begin what would be a triumphal tour of Australia.

  It was hard to tell who enjoyed his lectures more—Adam or the medical faculties he addressed in Perth, Adelaide, Melbourne, Sydney, and Brisbane. Beyond the sheer charisma of his physical presence, there was his ability to spellbind an audience by looking straight at them for several minutes at a time, rarely, if ever, glancing at one of his index cards.

  They returned to Sydney for a few days of idleness and opera. Yet by this time they were beginning to realize the extra cost of fame.

  For all its physical size—almost as large as the continental United States—Australia has a kind of small-town mentality. Not only were Adam’s lectures written up in every city where he appeared, but since the nature of his achievement was so emotive—every person could sympathize with the trials of a childless woman—in the mere fortnight they spent down under, he became a celebrity.

  He was invited on television shows he had never heard of, and to parties by people he had never met.

  “You know, Anya,” he confessed as they were returning in a taxi after a late-night fete, “I thought I was the most ambitious guy in the world. And now that Clarke-Albertson has taken care of our financial future, I would feast myself on adulation. But I’ve discovered I hate the publicity, like going into a store and being greeted with ‘Hi, Doc!’ and all that groveling I imagined would be so terrific.”

  “Well, you’d better get used to it, darling. Think of how much more famous you’re going to be when you win the Nobel Prize.”

  As the cab pulled up to the Regent Hotel, the doorman rushed to welcome them. A few seconds later, when Adam took out his wallet to pay the driver, the man insisted, “Not a bit of it, Doc. It’s been an honor to have you as my passenger. All I want’s your autograph to give my kids.”

  As they walked arm in arm into the hushed luxury of the hotel lobby, Anya whispered lovingly, “Come on, Adam, tell the truth—you enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

  He smiled broadly. “You didn’t even need to ask.”

  Thus ended the last happy day of their lives.

  They spent the next morning shopping, and lunched on the Australian answer to New England lobster, Mortin Bay Bugs, in a restaurant looking east over Darling Harbor.

  A good night’s sleep had restored Adam’s effervescent spirit. He enjoyed Anya’s breathless excitement at the prospect of seeing Eugene Onegin in Russian at the Opera House that evening.

  “You know, I sometimes forget how hard it must be for you to have to live constantly in a foreign language.”

  “You mean Australian?” she joked.

  Later that afternoon, he put on his “U.S. Drinking Team” track suit—a farewell present from the lab staff—to go out jogging, while she descended to have her hair done by the hotel coiffeur.

  Yet when she returned to the room two hours later, she was puzzled to find it empty—with no note from Adam. Surely he couldn’t still be running.

  There was plenty of time, so Anya did not begin to worry—that is, until she was dressed and ready and there was still no sign of Adam.

  At six o’clock she was concerned enough to want to call the police. At which moment they called her.

  “Mrs. Coopersmith,” the constable explained, “we picked up your husband wandering a bit dazed around the opera lobby, in his running gear.”

  Anya breathed a sigh of relief.

  “He was sort of glassy-eyed, so security thought he might be on some kind of drug. He didn’t resist or anything when we asked h
im to come along with us, and one of the chaps recognized him from the television. He was in a bit of a state. But when he calmed down, he asked us to contact you as soon as possible. It took us a bit of time because …” He faltered, and in an embarrassed tone confessed, “Uh, he couldn’t remember where you were staying.”

  She found Adam addressing a small, respectful audience of policemen on the wonders of scientific research.

  He was overjoyed to see her.

  “Annoushka,” he called out, “I’m so glad to see you. I’ve been telling these nice people how worried I was when you didn’t turn up at the opera.”

  Anya tried to mask her feelings of embarrassment and worry by replying softly, “I’m sorry if I misunderstood. But I thought we were meeting at the hotel. I mean, the officer told me you’d forgotten where we were staying.”

  “Calumny,” he retorted. “We’ve been in so many damn hotels these past few weeks, it slipped my mind for a second. I know we’re staying at the Regent Hotel and it’s room 1014. I bet you don’t even remember the phone number: 663–2248.”

  She shook her head immediately, inwardly aware that he was desperately trying to prove his mnemonic power to the police.

  “No, you’re right,” she said as calmly as she could. “But then, as long as I’ve known you”—she paused for a breath, to keep control of her emotions, and concluded with a heavy heart—“you’ve always had a photographic memory.”

  47

  ISABEL

  October 25

  On the flight home, Dad was as sober as a judge. He also wasn’t very talkative. I had the distinct impression that, had it not been such a monumental occasion, he would’ve exploded at my buying Mom that gift.

  know I hurt him, but is it my fault that he can’t recognize that a person has two parents and it’s possible, even normal, to love both of them?

  In any case, I had a sip or two of Chianti in a kind of farewell party to my old self.

  For I know, whatever the future holds, my life will never ever be the same.

  Buoyed by her Italian coronation, Isabel returned to Boston and immediately went to see Karl Pracht.

  “Welcome home, Champ. How was Italy?”

  “Very Italian, Karl. In fact, with what’s left of the prize money, I’m gonna take you for the finest meal of your life.”

  “The New York Times picked up some nice quotations from your acceptance speech. I’d say you had a promising future in science.”

  “Speaking of the future …” She hesitated and then began to fidget. “Uh … I’m not so sure you’re gonna believe this, Karl.”

  “Well, unless you’re setting out to prove that my own Ph.D. should be revoked for malpractice, I think I’m ready for anything. So, what is it?”

  “I was thinking about the Unified Field Theory,” she murmured.

  “Whose version? There’re a lot of contenders.”

  “Uh … mine. I mean, I would like to try and see if I can formulate a complete hypothesis that interrelates the various energy forces.”

  “You’re right,” Pracht answered. “I don’t believe it.” He looked at her and continued, “Isabel, in another life you must have been a tightrope walker. No one respects your talents better than I, but as you’re aware, Einstein was working on this when he died. Is there something perverse in you that wants to unravel the mystery that Albert left unsolved?”

  “Karl,” she countered, “I only said I’d give it a shot. There are a zillion other thesis topics, any of which would take me a year or eighteen months at the outside. Tackling the Grand Unified Theory is a real challenge. Besides, if I fail, won’t it be at least character building?”

  “Isabel,” he responded. “I have to tell you that in my opinion, all G.U.T’s are just hypothetical constructs—people talk about them, but nobody believes they’re really possible.”

  “Let’s say I waste a year or two,” she said urgently. “I’ll hardly be eligible for a senior citizen’s pass on the bus.”

  Pracht reflected a minute and then pronounced, “I suggest you go out and buy a lot of aspirin.”

  “How come?” she asked.

  “Because you’re going to be hitting your head against a stone wall.”

  Unfortunately, Raymond did not share her enthusiasm.

  “You can’t be serious, Isabel. It’s a pipe-dream concept. I can’t even imagine any theory that could possibly unite gravity, electromagnetics, and the strong and weak nuclear interactions—they’re so different.”

  “Come on, Dad, if I don’t go for broke, somebody else will. After all, Weinberg and Salam got the Nobel in ’79 for best effort so far.

  “Their rest-mass energies are on the order of fifty to a hundred times the mass of a proton, but their theory can’t be absolutely proved until the next generation of high-energy accelerators. Suppose I came up with a theory that everybody bought beyond any doubt? I mean, I’ve never been wrong yet, have I?”

  “Well,” Ray said sardonically, “I wouldn’t call your Roman extravagance an intelligent decision.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! When are you going to stop hitting me over the head with Mom’s violin? I mean, after all, it was my prize, I had the right to spend it in any way I chose. And, for the nth time,” she protested. “I’d gladly have spent the money on you—all of it—but there’s nothing you need. I mean—” She was trapped in her own rhetoric.

  “And besides,” he went on, taking the initiative, “I’ve just about outlived my usefulness as far as you’re concerned, haven’t I? It’s a pity I’m too young for an old folks’ home.”

  No one knew better than Raymond da Costa the potency of guilt in winning an argument with a child. Isabel ended the debate.

  “Don’t ever say that, Dad,” she rejoined with emotion. “I could never forget how much you’ve sacrificed for me. If you’re dead set against my doing it, I’ll find another topic.”

  The guilt had crossed the net onto Raymond’s side. His instinct for survival told him that his only alternative was magnanimity. He walked over, took her by the hands, and said in the most affectionate of tones, “Isabel, you’re my little genius. Aim for the stars. If anyone can do it, you can.”

  At first Muriel was speechless. And then she exclaimed, “Darling, you shouldn’t have. I’m overwhelmed. I’d be afraid to touch something so valuable, much less try to play it.”

  As Isabel watched ecstatically, her mother gingerly picked up the antique violin and the bow and then, lest she profane such an instrument, merely played some scales.

  “Oh my Lord,” she whispered. “This must have been made for the angels’ symphony.”

  Muriel threw her arms around her daughter and hugged her tightly.

  “You’re such a naughty girl. You must’ve paid a small fortune for it.”

  “That’s okay,” Isabel replied lightheartedly. “The Fermi Prize was a small fortune.”

  “That was a wonderful thing you did for Mom, Isabel,” Peter remarked that night when he and Terri, his live-in girlfriend, took his little sister out for a Chinese dinner. “Ever since you gave it to her, she’s been dancing on air—not to mention playing the thing day and night.”

  “I’ll bet Edmundo flips when he hears her play,” Terri offered.

  She was a pretty, blond coed, and clearly extremely fond of Peter. This added to Isabel’s happiness. For despite his father’s neglect, her brother had managed to keep his life on course. She had no doubt it would only be a matter of time before the two were married.

  “Isn’t it kind of hard,” Terri inquired, “to win such a big prize and still be working for professors who probably can’t even run a state lottery?”

  Anxious to deflect the topic from her relentless achievements, Isabel asked, “How come Edmundo’s in Argentina again? Has he got some kind of visiting conductor post?”

  “I don’t know,” Peter answered. “But there’s illness in his family. I don’t even know who it is. Lately he’s been going back there almost
once a month.”

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Terri smiled. “But he’s not playing Captain’s Paradise. There’s no other woman. He and Muriel are very devoted to one another. Actually, when he heard you were coming, he tried to postpone his trip, but you didn’t give us enough warning.”

  “Well, I’m giving everyone fair warning now. I’m going into hibernation, and I won’t be coming back out until I crack my thesis—or just crack. As I told you earlier, I’ve picked the toughest nut imaginable.”

  Peter reached over and squeezed her shoulder.

  “Sis,” he murmured lovingly, “from you I’d expect nothing less. Which reminds me—is your adviser still that guy Pracht?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  “Wow,” Peter enthused. “Do you hear that, Terri? That’s Jerry Pracht’s father.”

  At such astounding news, his girlfriend could only echo, “Wow,” and then, turning to his sister, ask, “He’s incredibly cute. Have you ever met him?”

  All Isabel could think of was, Am I blushing visibly?

  “Well, yes,” she temporized. “Once or twice.”

  “Is he as handsome in person?” Terri asked eagerly.

  Indeed, though her boyfriend’s sister was a worldwide celebrity, Terri had never before now evinced such interest in her academic life.

  “He’s absolutely gorgeous,” Isabel answered with secret pride. “And you know something else—he’s as smart as hell.”

  “I could tell that,” Peter said. “I mean, the way he talked in his interview the other night.”

  “What interview? What other night?” Isabel demanded breathlessly. “I feel like I’ve been off the earth in orbit.”

  “Oh well, unless his dad told you, you probably wouldn’t have heard about it, sis,” Peter offered. “I mean, sports isn’t exactly your bag. But in any case, two nights ago the guy played like there was a bullet up his—” Peter stopped abruptly.

  “That’s okay.” His sister smiled, bursting with excitement. “You can say ‘ass.’ Anyway, what did he do?”