by Erich Segal
“You had other things on your mind,” Isabel allowed.
“Yes, I certainly did,” her mother answered, and then inquired tentatively, “You will invite me to the wedding, won’t you?”
“Listen, you’ll be pleased to know that Jerry and I agree we’re both too young to get married—which is such a grown-up decision we’re thinking of changing our minds. Anyway, if and when, I promise I’ll invite you.”
In the silence that ensued, Muriel’s relief was palpable. Then she asked, “And Edmundo?”
“Mom, Jerry and I have talked ourselves hoarse about this. He’s made me see that I’m foolish to be angry at—your husband. On the other hand, I’ve made him see that I only want one father. Am I making any sense to you?”
“I’m afraid so, darling.” Muriel paused and then said softly, “Anyway, I’m really glad you called.”
“So am I.”
The moment she hung up, a broad smile of joy and relief crossed Isabel’s face.
“I did it, Jerry. Thank you.”
“I’m glad, Isa. You look very happy.”
Her next volley of words caught him off balance.
“Now it’s your turn.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean now you’ve got to grow up.”
“What are you talking about?” he demanded.
“Well, you allege you want to marry me …”
“What do you mean allege? Don’t you think I’m serious?”
“I’m perfectly willing to love you as a tennis pro—or even as a high school coach if you want. But I refuse to marry a scatterbrain who doesn’t know what he’ll be doing in two weeks. Honestly, Jerry, it’s unsettling.”
As he listened to her scolding, a broad grin crossed his face.
“I knew this would happen,” he said histrionically. “You’ve gone totally bourgeois on me.”
“You’re right. Deep down I’m a very conventional person.”
“Want to hear a terrible confession?” he offered. “I’ve discovered that I am too. So I’m going to hang up my racket—that is, until we have kids to teach—and join the family business. Now, you can’t get more bourgeois than that.”
“You mean you’re going into physics?” she asked excitedly.
“Not the theoretical kind,” he replied with emphasis. “I’ll leave it to the likes of you and my father to hang around dreaming up theories. I like to go hands-on.”
“You mean like microwave radiometer tapes?”
“Yeah, that kind of stuff—and of course telescopes. I mean, look at it this way: If I grow up and get a degree, I might actually get to work in a grown-up observatory.” He smiled sheepishly. “Have I succeeded in glossing over the fact that I’m selling out?”
“It doesn’t matter if you have a good reason,” she answered affectionately.
“Well, I can’t think of a better one than you, Isa—except I have one non-negotiable demand.”
“I tremble—what is it?”
“To get my goddamn bachelor’s, I actually have to go through intermediate physics. And I want you as my instructor.”
She began to laugh. “All right, but I’m warning you right now, fool around in my class, I’ll flunk you without mercy.”
He took her in his arms. “That’s the way I want it, Isa, without mercy.”
“Yes, Jerry,” she answered. “But with all my love.”
Several weeks later, with profoundly mixed feelings, Isabel received an inscribed advance copy of Avilov’s article scheduled to appear in the Journal of Genetic Therapy. Though of course none of the patients was mentioned, she could still deduce from the data curve that since the procedure had been successful on several subjects of Edmundo’s age, it had clearly worked on Edmundo himself. But then, her mother had already supplied even more substantiating evidence.
From a strictly professional standpoint she could not fault the science of the paper. The man would not win any personality awards, but he certainly knew his stuff. Even without the use of emotive adjectives, he could make his achievement sound so dramatic that it reached the front page of the New York Times.
The article also speculated on the ramifications of his accomplishment. Without question, the ability to create a retrovirus that would not only arrest the progress of such a grave disease but also restore health, brought the possibility of cures for such catastrophic illnesses as Alzheimer’s that much closer.
The profile also made it clear that the former Soviet academician had proven to be a quick study in the ways of capitalism.
Though no figures were specified, it was obvious that the Swiss pharmaceutical giant underwriting Avilov’s work had been more than generous. And although the interviewing reporter had admired his subject’s work, he could not totally conceal that he regarded Avilov as devoutly materialistic. He quoted the scientist’s description of himself as a man “with a beautiful wife, three gorgeous kids, and four vintage sports cars.”
By happy coincidence, the most important event in the scientific calendar was about to take place. The various committees in Stockholm were meeting to choose laureates in Medicine, Chemistry, Literature, and Physics. Their official announcements would be made in October, and the awards themselves presented on December tenth, the anniversary of Alfred Nobel’s death.
Nomination forms had gone out to the usual constituencies—previous recipients, heads of departments in the outstanding universities of the world, and assorted other dignitaries.
There were also self-propelled candidates who did not wish to leave anything to chance and who openly solicited letters of recommendation from influential colleagues. This was the inevitable topic of conversation whenever scientists gathered.
One evening when Jerry and Isabel, MIT freshman and assistant professor respectively, were having dinner with the elder Pracht, Karl remarked, “It’s unbelievable, but that Russian at Harvard has been shameless enough to write unctuous letters to all the Nobelists on the MIT faculty. God knows why, because he doesn’t know any of them personally.”
“He’s just ruthlessly ambitious,” Isabel commented, without revealing her personal relationship with him.
“No, he’s more than that, he’s incredibly astute,” Pracht replied. “You’d be amazed, but one or two of the boys actually felt their egos being stroked and dropped a little note to Stockholm. I don’t have to tell you that when it gets down to the nitty-gritty, every letter helps.
“But of course, this year it’s a foregone conclusion in physics,” he stated, smiling at his future daughter-in-law. “I hope your Swedish is good enough to give an acceptance speech.”
“But I was just beginning to enjoy the bliss of semi-anonymity, dammit,” Isabel protested.
“You can always turn it down.” Jerry grinned. “I mean, Jean-Paul Sartre refused the Literature Prize in 1964.”
“Yes,” his father agreed, “only that got him even more publicity.”
“But I genuinely don’t want it,” Isabel said plaintively. “I mean, it’s the traditional grand finale to a career, and I’ve barely started.”
Jerry smiled. “Don’t sweat it, honey. Remember, Marie Curie won it twice—and that was at a time when women were barely allowed to win it once.”
63
ADAM
Behind every Nobel Prize there is not merely a lab book, but a saga. Of personal sacrifice, of pain, of disappointment, and rarely—very rarely—of unadulterated joy.
Isabel da Costa defied all the odds, growing more human as she became a legend.
It could be argued that, considering the nature of her discovery—and the early recognition by the Italian Academy—there was really no doubt that the Nobel would be hers. And there was no reason why the Swedish Academy should defer it.
Her achievement completed the final dimension of Einstein’s theory of the universe, and there was no hesitation among the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences about giving her the prize. The vote was almost unanimous, with only a single d
issenter raising the issue of her tender age. He was immediately overruled.
As one elder statesman put it, “We shouldn’t argue by actuarial tables. For once let’s honor Alfred Nobel’s words and give it to the achievement without worrying about the nature of the achiever.”
The meeting lasted less than forty minutes. Isabel’s victory was secure.
Everyone in the Stockholm establishment knew that the big battles to be fought that year would be for the award in Physiology or Medicine. In this category, the procedure differed radically from all the others.
Despite the initial canvassing of names, the soliciting of further information from knowledgeable individuals—and yes, the discreet inquiry into private lives—the names on the Nobel Committee’s list are treated as suggestions and are far from final. For its job is merely to propose five candidates as guidelines to the Nobel Assembly, which would do the actual voting.
The assembly consisted of fifty Swedish doctors of all specialties, who had the right to reject all the nominees of the Nobel Committee and pick a candidate purely of their own choosing.
Of course, some aspirants to the award saw this as an advantage.
Naturally, those working for Prescott Mason on Adam’s behalf also exploited this idiosyncrasy. A number of medical practitioners totally unknown on the international scene found themselves wined and dined to an unprecedented degree.
The lobbyists for Clarke-Albertson concentrated on lighting the fires of doctors with known rhetorical gifts, for after the nominating committee went through the motions of presenting its short list, the floor would be open and the battle would commence.
As one jovial Swede put it, “If the meeting ran long enough into the night, you probably could wear them down into giving the prize to Dr. Dolittle.” But in any case, the results would very much be in the hands of the local physicians.
Dmitri Avilov had laid the groundwork with foresight and patience. As early as the days when he had been a Soviet academician, he had paved the way to personal honor by visiting Sweden every year and giving generously of his time, both socially and scientifically.
He had also continued a long and steamy relationship with Dr. Helga Jansen, a microbiologist at Uppsala University, which so simmered in her memory that she would have gone to the barricades for him even had he not already been one of the leading nominees.
Not only did Avilov have grass roots support, but the timing of his paper’s appearance could not have been better.
Adam Coopersmith was not personally known to any of the electors, but the drug company had succeeded in disseminating the “secret” of his grave illness.
Moreover, beyond the obvious sympathy for the brilliant scientist dying young, there was another important consideration that could not be ignored. By giving the award to Adam, they would also be honoring the work of Max Rudolph, who had been cruelly denied the kudos he deserved.
There were, of course, three other names on the nominating committee’s list, and the meeting traditionally took on an air of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta when a local boy named Gunnar Hilbert would annually nominate himself.
By any standards, there was an extraordinary amount of lobbying. In the early stages Sandy Raven’s name was mentioned in fleeting conversation. Yet it was the unspoken consensus that he had already enjoyed his fair share of recognition and reward.
Then suddenly Lars Fredricksen, a respected senior member of the panel, demanded the floor and turned what seemed to have been an inevitability into bedlam.
“Honored colleagues, with all the sympathy in the world, I think we should not allow the Nobel Prize to become like another Oscar—which has been known to have been awarded to actors simply because they were suffering from grave diseases,” he said. “I don’t believe that scientists should be swayed by either pity—or, for that matter, jealousy.”
He looked at his audience. His presence and his argument had checked them.
“If Coopersmith’s illness qualifies him, why should Raven’s good fortune disqualify him? After all, on the scale of absolute scientific achievements, his—”
Suddenly his assistant was at his side, signaling for his attention. He eyed the young man, who handed him a slip of paper which he quickly examined. “Mr. Chairman, I have more to say on this matter but—for good and proper reasons—I request a fifteen-minute recess.”
“As a gesture of respect to the distinguished character of the speaker, the request is granted. We will reconvene in a quarter of an hour.”
The physician rushed to a telephone.
“This is Fredricksen—” he began.
“Yes, Lars, good to hear your voice. I hope I’m not too late?”
“Actually, if you had called in an hour or so, I would have been able to give you good news.”
“And what might that have been?”
“That your candidate had won the prize. I was making headway. I think I am very close.”
“Thank God—I mean, thank God you haven’t succeeded yet.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“It’s a long and complicated story, Lars. But briefly, I’ve changed horses. What would you say about Adam Coopersmith’s chances if you were to back down?”
The Swedish scientist was confused. “But if I understood my instructions, Coopersmith is precisely the candidate you wanted me to block. Believe me, it was not easy, there was enormous compassion for the man.”
“Good, good—that means you can go back in there and harness that sympathy.”
Fredricksen sighed wearily. “I know I’m in your employ—”
“Don’t make it sound so crass, Lars. Let’s just say I like to give tangible demonstrations of gratitude.”
“However you wish to phrase it, the end result is that I’ve done your bidding. If this is what you now wish, then I’ll do the best I can to urge the selection of Coopersmith.”
Though he sensed the conversation was about to conclude, the doctor felt impelled to make a statement of principles.
“Would you allow me to speak my heart, sir?”
“Why, of course. I would expect no less.”
“To be perfectly honest, if I had all the time been free to express my own sentiments, I would have voted for Coopersmith from the beginning.”
“I’m very glad, Fredricksen. So long.”
Tom Hartnell hung up and sat for a moment, staring pensively out at the pond on his Virginia estate.
That phone call had been one of the hardest he had ever made in his life. For he had abandoned a quest that had driven him intensively for years—revenge against Adam Coopersmith.
He turned to his daughter and said with a sigh, “And that’s really what you wanted, honey?”
Toni lowered her head and answered softly, “Yes, Dad.”
“After everything he did to you?”
“There are limits,” Antonia Nielson answered. “Adam’s suffered enough. Let him die with something. Besides, he deserves it.”
At this, her father would not suppress a grin. “Skipper, if people always got what they deserved, I’d have been out of business long ago.”
A moment later she rose, father and daughter embraced affectionately, and she left to catch her plane.
Seated once again at his desk, the Boss realized that he still had to dispose of the other thoroughbred in this horse race. He pressed a button on his automatic phone and a raspy voice answered, “Hi, Boss.”
“Good evening, Fitz. Sorry to disturb whomever you’re doing.”
“That’s okay, my captain. What can I do you for?”
“Sell my calls.”
“You mean Corvax? All of them?”
“You read me well, Fitz.”
“Damn,” the stockbroker muttered half under his breath.
“Listen, if you put your other clients on to my little speculation in longevity, that’s your tough luck. Oh, and use the proceeds to buy Clarke-Albertson at the market price. Good night, Fitz.”
Th
e scope of Adam’s life had been reduced to the one room on the ground floor that contained his bed. The two upper stories stood empty of furniture, as if emphasizing the hollowness of his earthly triumph.
It was a little after four A.M. in the Coopersmith house on Brattle Street. Anya sat talking quietly to Charlie Rosenthal. She had long since given up hope of getting a night’s sleep, refusing medication because she worried that Adam might regain consciousness while she was in a drugged slumber.
“He seemed pretty stable to me,” Charlie remarked with more hope than conviction. “I mean, I’m almost positive he knew me just then.”
“He did, he did,” Anya insisted, anxious to assuage Charlie’s fears that he was no longer able to convey his compassion to his best friend.
To buttress her reassurance, she took him into her confidence and confessed, “Do you know the most amazing thing? Up until a week ago we still had the remnants of a … sexual relationship.”
“Yeah. That’s one of the paradoxical aspects of the disease. While it’s insidiously closing down all the systems, it keeps the sex drive intact for a long time.”
“You know,” Anya said hoarsely, “it doesn’t matter if he recognizes me or not. The important thing is, I know him. If we never have another conversation, as long as I can watch him sleep or look in his eyes—even when they’re looking past me—that’s enough. Can you understand that?”
Charlie nodded. “Absolutely. It’s like so many of the mothers with sick newborns I’ve treated through the years. It doesn’t matter if their baby’s not aware …”
His voice trailed off, for he had suddenly remembered he was talking to a woman who had been afflicted not only with a terminally ill husband, but with the tragedy of childlessness.
Anya understood. But she now had an outlet for her maternal instincts.
“No,” she said kindly. “You’re right. In a way, Adam has become my child. And as long as I can give him my love, nothing else matters.”
The phone rang. “My God, who could it be at this hour?” Anya wondered aloud.
