Prizes (47 page)

“Good morning, Professor Raven. Nice to see you.”

“Good morning, Mitch.”

But this time he did not automatically lift the barrier. Instead, he came out, clipboard in hand, and inquired, “Who’re you gonna see today?”

Sandy’s heart began to pound. Struggling to keep his composure, he asked as offhandedly as he could, “Would you mind calling Miss Tower’s office and asking if she could give me a few seconds?”

The guard did his best to camouflage his surprise, then asked with extreme politeness, “Do you have an appointment, sir?”

“Not exactly. It’s sort of a last minute thing. But I’ll be glad to wait for as long as necessary.”

“Right, Professor. I’ll call her office.”

He returned to his booth and closed the glass window so that Sandy could not possibly hear the conversation. Yet he tried to decipher its contents by analyzing Mitch’s body language. All he managed to recognize was discomfort at the beginning and a sigh of enormous relief at the end.

Then the sentry emerged. “A-okay, Prof. She’s gotta watch the morning rushes from Europe, but she’ll do her best to fit you in before then. Do you need directions to her office?”

Heartsick, Sandy was on the verge of exploding. Come off it Mitch, cut the obsequious crap. This is where my father spent half his life.

He simply nodded to the officer, who continued, “Very fine. And guest parking is—”

“I know,” Sandy snapped.

He quickly rolled up his car window and proceeded around to the main building. There were V.I.P. spaces with the names of the executives stenciled on the asphalt. Though his father had parked there for many years, the caretakers had never allowed the paint to fade. Yet this morning—as Sandy had half expected—the
name was completely effaced. Indeed, it had already been reallocated to one “F. F. Coppola.”

He angrily drove to the visitors’ lot, and leaving his car, slammed the door behind him.

Marching back toward the main building, he passed through familiar sets which were now ghost towns. Relics of the time when half a world separated him from Rochelle Taubman. And he could worship her in secret.

He stormed up the stairs to the first floor, stopped to recomb his hair and straighten his jacket, then proceeded to the double doors that bore a gold plaque:

KIM TOWER
HEAD OF PRODUCTION

As he turned the knob, he realized to his embarrassment that his palms were sweaty. Hopefully, she would not offer to shake hands.

Two secretaries—one male and one female—guarded the inner sanctum: the first was a blond beach-boy type, the second an elegantly groomed woman in her mid-thirties.

“Well, hello, Professor Raven,” she greeted him with an expert smile. “I’m Eleanor, Miss Tower’s secretary. My my, you’re just like your father. The family resemblance is quite striking. Miss Tower is tied up in a phone call, but you’re next on her schedule. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

“No thank you,” Sandy replied tersely.

“Tea? A soft drink perhaps?”

In his anger, Sandy wanted to refuse even the tiniest gesture of hospitality from anyone associated with Rochelle. Yet, feeling inexplicably tired, he nodded at the suggestion of a Diet Coke.

“With or without caffeine?” Eleanor asked.

Sandy opted for the stimulant, thinking it would help him in what he expected would be at most a ninety-second encounter.

Moments later the intercom buzzed and he heard Rochelle’s voice asking whether he had arrived.

“Yes, Miss Tower. Shall I show him in?”

“No, no,” said the voice. “He’s an old friend. I’ll come out and greet him personally.”

One deep breath later, the inner door opened and there, in all her power and glory, stood Rochelle Taubman.

Sandy had never paid much attention to women’s fashions. His sartorial observations had been limited to telling Judy that she looked nice or, under extreme duress, responding with candor as to why he really did not like what she was wearing.

But he knew from all the interviews that Rochelle bought her clothes at a place called Milestones, which specialized in making good bodies look better, and great bodies radioactive.

She smiled. “Sandy, what a marvelous surprise. I’m so happy to see you. Do come in.”

Thankfully, she did not offer her hand, nor—as he had worried during the nigh—did she offer her cheek to kiss.

“Sit down,” she said, motioning to one of the Barcelona chairs that formed a semicircle in front of her enormous marble desk. She returned to her own leather throne. “Gosh, it’s nice to see you,” she remarked, a smile playing on her face. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No thanks,” Sandy answered quietly. “Eleanor was a charming hostess.”

There was a sudden silence, during which Sandy stared at her, wondering if she would give the minutest sign of anxiety. Or
any
emotion.

Finally, she asked, “What brings you to Tinseltown?”

Christ, he thought to himself, the
L.A. Times
announced my university appointment, but she probably doesn’t read anything but
Variety.

“Actually, I’m based out here,” he replied. “I mean, I’m at Cal Tech. In fact, I’m part of their new genetic engineering program.”

“Genetic engineering? That must be thrilling work. I wish I had the time to read more, but I’m fascinated by the whole subject of DNA.”

“You know about DNA?” he asked with surprise and a tinge of condescension.

“Just a bit. We had Jim Watson’s
Double Helix
in development. But the screenwriters couldn’t lick it.”

The second silence was longer.

Even Rochelle could sense that the magic of her beauty, the opulence of her office, its shelves lined with Oscars, was ceasing to mesmerize Sandy.

Wisely, she took the initiative. “I’m sorry about your father.…”

Unbelievable, he shouted inwardly. She’s acting as if he was in a car accident, when she was the one who ran him down.

“I’m sorry too.” Sandy frowned. “But neither of us feels as bad as the man who gave twenty years of his life to this studio.”

“And lost almost that many millions,” she added in subdued but emphatic tones.

“I don’t believe that, Rochelle,” he countered. “I mean, those pictures he made during the first years were real gushers—and on a tight budget.”

“I’ll give you that,” she said. “Sidney
was
an asset to the studio—in a different era. Sandy, you work in science. God knows that’s changed since we were kids.”

Her civility was killing him. He was determined not to be the one to raise his voice.

“Excuse me, Miss Taubman, but to the best of my knowledge, motion pictures are not an exact science.”

“That’s just the point.” She leaned over her desk for emphasis. “In this business the most important quality is intuition. Our statistics tell us that the vast majority of our audience are teenagers. Now how can you expect
a man in his sixties to understand today’s youth culture?”

Sandy was outraged by her sophistry—and yet amazed by her resilience and the dexterity with which she continued to hit the ball over the net.

“By that reasoning, Rochelle,” he rejoined, “all pediatricians should be little kids.”

She was stymied for a moment, then chose humor as the medium of response. “That’s very clever, Sandy. I mean that.”

She glanced at her Rolex and stood up.

“Oh my God, I’m late for a screening, and I know Sergio hates to be kept waiting. Give me a ring sometime and we’ll do lunch.”

Then Sandy exploded. “Rochelle!”

There was a barely susceptible flash of triumph in her eyes: she had finally cracked him. And dealing with hostility was not only her forte, but one of the prime secrets of her success in Hollywood.

“Yes?” she answered primly.

“Forget his loyalty and all the years he broke his back for this studio. Think about just one thing—your own career.”

She did not react, leaving him off balance to continue his tirade.

“I mean if it hadn’t been for my father, you wouldn’t be in this office right now.”

Perhaps she was unaccustomed to being told the truth. But suddenly her temper flared. “That’s your opinion,” she said with a hostile smile. “Personally, I think it’s a considerable overstatement. Anyway, it was nice seeing you, Sandy.”

With that she disappeared. Leaving him still consumed with rage.

How could he have ever loved this monster?

50
 

Some of the greatest scientific discoveries are not made, but stumbled upon.

Columbus, seeking a new route to the Indies, and happening upon America. Sir Alexander Fleming, finding that a mold he had left in his lab over the weekend accidentally contaminated a staphylococcus culture and stopped the bacteria growth, thus giving the world penicillin—and earning him the Nobel Prize.

Many investigators report sudden apocalyptic answers to questions that have plagued them for years—when they are least expecting them: on the golf course, in the shower … and still more mundane places.

Isabel would forever ascribe her great brainstorm to some scientific fairy godmother.

Rising early one morning in her third summer at MIT, she splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth, made a cup of coffee, sat down at her desk, pencil in hand, and began to think.

With her mental faculties still half slumbering, Isabel started to doodle, just to bring thoughts into focus. Then, suddenly, she began to write figures, which gradually became equations.

Continuing to work furiously, she felt a sudden craving for carbohydrates. Padding barefoot into the kitchen, she took out two frozen waffles, toasted them, saturated them with maple syrup, and carried them back to the desk for a high-calorie breakfast.

Gobbling the rich food, she glanced at the paper again. It suddenly looked like someone else’s work. She could scarcely believe that the entire formulation had come to her complete, in a single burst of inspiration, like a great melody coming whole to a composer’s imagination. As flawless as a snowflake.

She thought to herself: This could be it.

But how could it be so simple? I made a few basic calculations and it all poured out. Did everyone just overlook such an obvious idea?

Forty-five minutes later she poked her head into Pracht’s office.

“Karl, can you spare me a few minutes?”

“Sure, of course.” He smiled. “What brings you here so bright and early?”

“An idea has just popped into my head. Can I walk you through it?”

“Be my guest.”

Without another word she hastened to the whiteboard, picked up a colored marker and began by setting out the first principles from which she developed the theory, explaining all her assumptions and showing where she had deviated down a new path.

Finally she concluded. “Well, what do you think, Karl?”

“Frankly, I’m having trouble making it sink in. I mean, a theory in physics always tries to be the simplest explanation, and your hypothesis is an exquisite example. It’s also extremely elegant and self-consistent and agrees with earlier work. In other words, it’s magnificent.”

“Thanks.” Isabel smiled with elation.

And yet, Pracht’s brow was furrowed.

“What’s bothering you, Karl?” she asked.

“Well actually, Isabel, my mind’s already rushed to phase two. I mean there’s no question this will cause a stir because of its sheer beauty. But there’ll always be doubters. After all, there were objections to Einstein’s
Theory of Relativity, only it was verified by a solar eclipse in 1919. And you don’t make any predictions that are observable. If only we could come up with a way of demonstrating that you’re right.”

“Well,” she replied, not daunted, “we’re neither of us on the experimental side. But if you’ve got time, we could kick around some ideas.”

“Isabel, for you, I’ve always got time.”

Just then Pracht’s intercom buzzed. “What is it, Alma?”

An unexpected voice preempted his secretary. “Dad, Isa’s not in her office.”

She fairly bounded from her seat. “My God, Karl, it’s Jerry—isn’t he supposed to be flying to England?”

“Are you out there?” the professor shouted into his machine.

“No, I’m right here.” His smiling son practically walked through the door without opening it.

Isabel was so excited she unabashedly threw her arms around him and they kissed.

Without letting go, Jerry smiled mischievously. “Hi, Dad. Am I interrupting?”

“On the contrary. I think
I
am,” his father joked. Then: “Aren’t you supposed to be in Wimbledon?”

“I routed myself through Boston so I could see my special friends here. I’ve got till the day after tomorrow.”

“Great. By the way, nice going with Becker.”

“Thanks, but don’t expect an encore. I was just lucky. Anyway, were you guys working?”

“We certainly were,” Karl pronounced. “You arrived at a historic moment—Isabel has just come up with a new Unified Field Theory.”

Jerry was staggered. “You’re putting me on.”

“Have I ever exaggerated as far as Isabel is concerned?”

“No,” Jerry conceded. He turned to her. “This is fantastic, Isa. Congratulations. Can I take you to dinner?”