Prizes

by Erich Segal

  In the normal course of events, joint recipients always make some polite reference to one another’s accomplishments. But the feelings between Avilov and his former wife were anything but civil. Indeed, during their entire appearance center stage, both had managed to smile at the king and the audience, but not each other.

  The press was disappointed but not despairing. They could not keep their feelings bottled up forever. Sooner or later, their true emotions would show.

  During the early part of the week, Anya had been numbed by ceremony. Though she had steeled herself for this awesome moment, she nonetheless felt a wrench in her soul. And a feeling of pain beyond words. At that moment she missed Adam more than ever. If she could, in some way, she would have given her life for his.

  The presentation was followed by a magnificent banquet for thirteen hundred guests in the Blue Hall of the Stockholm Statshus.

  For Isabel, the best moments were those that appealed to the child in her. She was transported by the almost make-believe moment when she stood before the eyes of the world, facing a real king to receive a certificate and a twenty-three-carat gold medallion whose obverse showed a profile of Alfred Nobel, and whose reverse depicted the Genius of Science uncovering the veil of Nature. As on all the medals, there was a Latin quotation drawn from Virgil: “Those who have enhanced life by newfound skills.” A check for one million dollars was at that moment being wired to her bank in Boston.

  But for her the money was less exciting than the fabled Ice Cream Parade.

  At the conclusion of the banquet, a seemingly endless phalanx of white-gloved and epauletted waiters marched across the marble floor, bearing scoops of pink on silver platters.

  Isabel even insisted that Ray break his rigorous diet so they could all enjoy this delicacy.

  Avilov had hounded Isabel for days, desperate to establish his personal credentials with her. Ever on the lookout for an opportunity to inform the world that he had saved this girl’s stepfather from certain death.

  As his behavior was unsettling Isabel and impinging on her unsullied enjoyment of this high point in her life, Jerry buttonholed the Russian at one of the elegant receptions.

  Wearing an expression that belied his words, he said, “Professor, I’d be very grateful if you would keep the hell away from my future wife.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Avilov responded, eyebrows raised.

  “Perhaps I can put it more scientifically so that someone of your intellectual level can understand,” Jerry countered. “How about ‘keep your slimeball hands off my girl or I’ll break every bone in your goddamn body’? Am I getting through to you, Doctor?”

  Avilov nodded and moved away with extraordinary speed. To Jerry’s enormous satisfaction, he made no further attempts to engage Isabel in conversation.

  In a real sense, Jerry had also acted in Ray’s defense as well—if not as a bodyguard, as a soul guard. For in establishing a barrier between the da Costas and the Avilovs, he would be certain that Ray would never learn the truth about his daughter’s paternity.

  At the dinner, Anya and Dmitri were once again diplomatically separated. After the extravagant dessert and toasts, the guests repaired to the Gold Hall, where an orchestra was tuning up to play for dancing.

  It was at this point that Dmitri made a final attempt to force Anya to acknowledge his scientific apotheosis.

  As the musicians struck up a waltz, he strode over to her and with a deferential bow murmured, “May I have the honor of this dance, Anya Alexandrovna?”

  She smiled beatifically. And a part of her, she had to admit, felt an irrepressible surge of triumph.

  “I’m afraid I’m not allowed to,” she answered politely. “Doctor’s orders.”

  Her glance indicated the physician in question, who was seated at her left.

  “Hi there, Dmitri,” Charlie Rosenthal called affably. “I hope you’re enjoying the party—I mean, it’s your night too.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Rosenthal,” Avilov answered grudgingly. “May I ask what brings you to Stockholm?”

  “I’m here in a professional capacity,” Charlie declared. “Dr. Coopersmith’s my patient. May I tell him, Anya?” he asked.

  She nodded her permission.

  “It’s this way,” Charlie explained to the professor. “Anya’s pregnant.”

  Avilov’s jaw dropped. “What? That is impossible.”

  “No,” Charlie explained. “It’s completely possible. Idiopathic reversals of ovarian failure are well-documented in the literature. I’d give you the references—but the proof is right here.”

  The Russian was flustered. “Oh, yes, of course,” he babbled. “But I mean, I …” He composed himself and forced a smile in Anya’s direction.

  “You must be very happy, Dr. Coopersmith,” he said.

  “I am, academician Avilov,” she replied, deliberately recalling his former status.

  Anya’s announcement had the anticipated effect on Dmitri’s pride. Even after so many years, he felt obliged to explain what now paradoxically could be regarded as his failure.

  “Well, Dr. Rosenthal,” he proclaimed, “another triumph for medical science.”

  “No,” Anya corrected him. “It is quite simply a miracle.”

  The Nobel Prize ceremony is a concerto for numerous soloists. And its final chord is not sounded in the auditorium or Golden Hall.

  For early the next morning the victors, all lodged in the famous Grand Hotel, are awakened by the sound of singers heralding the advent of St. Lucia, the Swedish Festival of Light.

  To each of them standing at their windows, this moment had its own special significance.

  Dmitri Avilov delighted in the very name of this holiday as a reference to the site of his own triumph. But then, even the day after the banquet, he was already hungry again. And he could not comprehend that the larder of honors was bare.

  To Anya the gentle flutterings of new life within reminded her that Adam had not only been there in Stockholm, but would remain with her forever.

  Isabel and Jerry gazed out at the choristers, arms around each other.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she murmured.

  “Isa, this whole thing has been beautiful. But the best part is that it’s over. Now we can concentrate on something really important.”

  “Oh? And what is that, pray tell?”

  “Each other.”

  They had won the ultimate prize.

  To Karen,

  Francesca, and Miranda—

  my Prizes

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As a twentieth-century stranger in a twenty-first-century world, I owe many debts for the patient advice I received from experts at the cutting edge of science.

  It was a privilege to visit their labs and talk to the next generation of pioneers they are training. Excitement was in the air.

  Dr. Joseph Hill and his wife Dr. Deborah Anderson, both Professors of Immunology at Harvard Medical School, were a constant source of advice and information. It is, in fact, Joe’s own research on multiple-miscarrying women that he “lent” me for use by Adam. It was the opposite of plagiarism—an act of unprecedented generosity.

  Dr. Jack Strominger, Higgins Professor of Biochemistry at Harvard, was patient, hospitable, and generous with his time and expertise. He knew both the dynamics of science and the psychodynamics of the world of scientists. Merely to be in his presence and hear him discourse was an education—and a pleasure. Indeed, as I was concluding this novel, yet another of his students—Dr. Richard Roberts—received a Nobel Prize for Physiology or Medicine.

  One of the new breed of geneticists—Dr. Tali Haran of the Technion, Haifa—was exceptionally articulate in conveying the thrill of scientific revelation.

  A great discovery I made in the course of writing this book was that my Harvard classmate W. French Anderson ’58 had made medical history: on September 1, 1990, he performed the first official gene-therapy trial on a human patient.

  The Anderson team at
NIH successfully infused a four-year-old girl suffering from a severely compromised immune system with cells which had been altered, thus giving the promise of life to this otherwise doomed child. French has since gone on to other triumphs. He welcomed me into his lab, let me join his (unbelievably hectic) life and talk with his inspired and dedicated staff.

  How could I have known that the quarter-miler with the locker next to mine would someday prove to be the Doctor of the Class?

  The “humanoid mouse” that saved the Boss’s life is actually the invention of another student of Jack Strominger’s, Dr. Mike McCune of Systemix, Inc. Mike and I had many a conversation when it was five A.M. California time. True researchers, I suppose, never do sleep.

  For the astronomy, physics—and his constant friendship—I have Earl Dolnick of the University of California at San Diego to thank. He has the rare gift of being able to make the most complex ideas accessible to the simplest of laymen.

  And as for Stockholm, I am pleased to record my debt to Birgitta Lemmel of the Nobel Foundation—for whom no question was too difficult—or too trivial.

  By Erich Segal:

  Novels:

  LOVE STORY

  OLIVER’S STORY

  MAN, WOMAN AND CHILD

  THE CLASS

  DOCTORS

  ACTS OF FAITH

  PRIZES*

  For Children:

  FAIRY TALE

  Academic Books:

  ROMAN LAUGHTER: The Comedy of Plautus

  EURIPIDES: A Collection of Critical Essays (Ed.)

  PLAUTUS: Three Comedies (Ed. and Trans.)

  THE OXFORD READINGS IN GREEK TRAGEDY (Ed.)

  CAESAR AUGUSTUS: Seven Aspects (Co ed.)

  PLATO’S DIALOGUES (Ed.)

  THE OXFORD READINGS IN ARISTOPHANES (Ed.)

  PLAUTUS: Four Comedies (Ed. and Trans.)

  [THE OXFORD WORLD’S CLASSICS SERIES]

  *Published by Ivy Books

  Erich Segal is the author of seven novels. After the legendary Love Story came Oliver’s Story and Man, Woman, and Child, all of which were international bestsellers and major motion pictures. The Class won literary prizes in Italy and France; Doctors was #1 on the New York Times bestseller list.

  Erich Segal has published widely on Greek and Latin literature—subjects he taught at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton. He is married and has two daughters.