Authors: Erich Segal
Prizes (5 page)
His every attempt to elicit personal details of her life—except for what she had told him about her marriage—was met with a perfunctory rendition of her curriculum vitae, until finally he said in frustration, “This is supposed to be a conversation, not a job interview.”
One evening, as they were walking home from a performance of
Swan Lake
at the Kennedy Center, he was in a carefree mood and actually danced for a few seconds in imitation of the prince. She surprised him by executing several steps in response.
The whole incident was out of character for them both. Their defenses were suddenly down and they confessed to one another that, as children, they had each studied ballet.
“What made you quit?” he asked. “I mean, you have a perfect dancer’s body.”
She smiled. “Thanks for the compliment. The stupid truth is that I was always so tall that none of the boys could lift me. What stopped you from becoming the American Baryshnikov?”
“Actually,” he answered, trying to sound mysterious, “I had an ulterior motive for taking lessons.”
“Which was?”
“I’ll tell you another time.” He grinned. And then, a few paces later, he scolded her, “Now can you see what a pain in the ass it is when you deliberately classify harmless information?”
That night, Boyd Penrose phoned at three
A.M.
Without apology or preface he reported, “Coopersmith, I’ve just read the Boss’s numbers, and those lymphocytes
are definitely making a comeback. I think we’ve turned the corner, old buddy.”
Overflowing with euphoria, Adam called Boston and conveyed the good news to Max. As he hung up, there was another ring.
“Hi, I got Boyd’s message too, your line was busy,” Toni said ecstatically. “Were you on with Max?”
“Yes, I just reported to him.”
“I figured as much. Would you like to report to
me
for an impromptu party?”
“Why not,” Adam agreed.
Toni was intoxicated with joy. “Oh, Adam,” she wept, hurling her arms around him as he entered her apartment. “You’ve done it—you’ve saved my father!”
Suddenly she was kissing him on the lips.
It was unexpected, but far from undesirable. He’d been happy to begin with, but this amorous gesture added a new dimension.
Which he welcomed wholeheartedly.
The next morning, Toni put her arms around him and pleaded, “
Now
will you tell me why you took ballet?”
“Two reasons. To begin with, my mother was the pianist for the class and I joined as an act of loyalty. Also it was a way to hurt my father for the shabby way he treated her. I punished him—imagine an Indiana steel-worker having to tell his buddies that his son was a fruitcake who pranced around in tights.”
“Well, I can vouch for your masculinity,” she said, beaming. “And I’ll be happy to sign an affidavit. Anyway, what happened to your mom?”
“She died when I was twelve. He killed her.”
“What? You can’t be serious.”
“She was trying to bear him another kid, and she got toxemia in the late stages of pregnancy.” His anger was emerging now. “I mean, it was a heartless thing from start to finish—when she got into trouble, he bullied the doctor to hold off delivery to make sure the baby she
was carrying would live. In the end they lost both of them.”
“Who took care of you?”
“I took care of myself.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Yes. I found that out. So, unlikely as it sounds, I took up a sport—platform diving.”
“Ah-ha,” she replied with admiration. “I guess you wanted to flirt with danger, huh?”
“Sort of. But it meant that for at least a couple of seconds—in my head—I could be completely alone, thirty-three feet above the rest of the world.”
“I knew you were a kindred spirit,” she murmured. “We’re both closet loners.”
She continued her interrogation at breakfast.
“Did your dad ever find out you were really a daring young diver?”
“Yes,” Adam said, his face revealing some of his deeply repressed sadness. “He was studying the only section of the paper he ever read, and discovered I was competing in the state championships. He showed up with two of his drinking buddies. But they had never been to a meet, and cheered in all the wrong places. It made me so nervous, I dove like a whale and really screwed up my point total.”
She could tell from his eyes that the memory of his failure still plagued him.
“After that, all I wanted to do was get the hell away from home. And at that point my only chance was getting an academic scholarship. My grades were better than my diving. Ever hear of Shimer College?”
“Frankly, no.”
“Nobody has. But it’s a small, progressive offshoot of the University of Chicago. They believed if you could pass their test, you were ready for college. It was a kind of incubator for premeds anxious to save a few years. I was so keen to be a doctor that I worked as an orderly in Michael Reese Hospital in the summers—which
gave me a respectable excuse for not going home. I channeled my anger into studying, and by some miracle I got into Harvard Med.”
“No doubt with the goal of keeping women from dying of toxemia,” Toni suggested gently.
“And saving babies,” Adam added. “I was a grand old man of nineteen. I may have been academically prepared, but I was a social misfit. Especially among all those smooth Ivy League graduates who’d never even heard of Shimer. I suppose that’s why I only felt at home with the other lab rats.”
“Is that how you met Max?”
Adam nodded. “I finally found a father I respected. While I was finishing my residency in OB/GYN, Max wangled me a research fellowship. He didn’t just teach me immunology, he taught me life. I mean, the first time I was invited to his house for dinner, I knew that Max and Lisl had the kind of relationship that gave marriage a good name.
“She’s a Kleinian analyst—does wonders with children. They took me under their wing. She introduced me to the late quartets of Beethoven.”
“They’re really difficult,” Toni remarked.
“Yeah,” Adam agreed, again impressed by the breadth of her knowledge. “And most especially since I didn’t even know the
early
quartets.”
“Do they have any kids?” Toni asked.
“Me, I guess.”
“Then you gave them something very special too.”
“I hope so, and if I ever qualify for the title of human being, it’s because of their generosity.”
“And?” Toni queried.
“And now it’s your turn to be up close and personal,” he responded, hoping his candor had eased her own inhibitions.
But she suddenly pleaded lateness for work, she had to be at the Department of Justice in fifteen minutes. They would talk again that evening. Adam let go reluctantly,
half suspecting that she would use the day to rebuild her psychic barricades.
He was right. It had been like dancing with someone at a costume ball who went home without taking off her mask. And, ironically, though he knew the intimate details of Toni’s life, he knew less than nothing about the woman herself. Indeed, when the time came for him to go back to Boston, he could not resist venting his frustration with a farewell dig:
“Well, Toni, it’s been nice
not
knowing you.”
Naturally, he did not leave until the third blood tests came through. They were—in Penrose’s words—“squeaky clean.” He and Adam agreed that it was safe to tell the patient that his recovery was certain.
Hartnell was overwhelmed. After spending an hour with his beloved “Skipper,” he summoned Adam for a private conversation.
“Now you listen, Coopersmith, and listen good. I’ve got a hell of a lot of influence, and thanks to your chief, I’m going to be around to wield it for a long time. I owe him. Now tell me, what would Max Rudolph want most in the world?”
Adam moved closer to the bed and said almost in a whisper, “The humanoid mouse is just one of Max’s many scientific achievements. I don’t think anyone alive deserves the Nobel Prize more.”
“No problem,” the Boss murmured.
ISABELOnce more the demons had been awakened in Raymond da Costa. After his son had gone off to school and his wife to work, he was free to nurture his daughter’s genius.
One of the advantages of his nonacademic appointment in the Physics Department was that he was not obliged to punch a time clock. Therefore, except for his obligatory presence during certain afternoon lab hours, he could build the apparatus for use by the physics professors even late at night if he wished. And, indeed, this freedom was an important aspect of the new regimen he began.
He was constantly testing Isabel, desperate to see how far the horizon of her intelligence stretched.
When they were on the floor playing with various blocks, he placed half a dozen of the red wooden cubes in a row, under which he placed another line with three white ones.
“Isabel, how many red boxes are there?”
She counted to six cheerfully.
“How many white ones?”
“Three.”
“But how many are there altogether?”
She pondered for a moment and then answered, “Nine.”
“I’ve read the books, honey,” Raymond reported that evening to Muriel. “And the association of different
colored shapes as a group is a skill they expect from a seven-year-old.”
Muriel smiled. “Are you sure you didn’t coach her?”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll let you see for yourself.”
Isabel had been playing in the living room when he summoned her, and placing a big leaf of drawing paper on the table, wrote:
6
+
5
=
She took the paper and immediately scribbled
11.
Raymond glanced at his wife. “Well,” he remarked with pride, “we have a budding Einstein, don’t we?”
“No,” she corrected him, “we have a flowering Isabel da Costa.”
At first both of them took delight in Isabel’s gift. Except now and then Muriel felt a twinge of guilt at the thought of her poor, sweet but ordinary Peter, who was sent off to school every morning like a package.
This time, having been blessed with a truly gifted child, Raymond intended to encourage her learning as much as possible. He resented having to surrender Isabel to some brainless nursery for three hours each morning. But since her mother insisted that she needed the playtime for her social development, Ray disguised his displeasure and rescheduled his afternoon commitments at the lab.
He reread Piaget, which made him passionately curious to learn when his daughter’s mind would be capable of making the connection to abstract thought. He devised a simple test.
“Isabel, I’m picking a number, but I’m not going to tell you what it is. I’ll call it
x.
”
“Okay,” she replied enthusiastically.
He took a piece of paper and scribbled:
x
+
5
=
12
x
=
12
–
5
x
=
7
“Do you understand, darling?”
“Sure.”
“Now I’ll write a secret formula:
x
+
7
=
4
+
11
“So—what does
x
stand for?”
The little girl pondered for a moment and then blithely announced, “Eight.”
Raymond gaped. She had not merely crossed the threshold of abstract thought, but pirouetted through it like a ballerina.
From this apocalyptic moment onward, life in the da Costa household changed. Isabel became like a princess in a fairy tale—an almost divine creature guarded by a fierce dragon. And Raymond breathed fire on anyone who dared approach Isabel with the innocent hope of becoming her friend.
Muriel concurred that their daughter was a prodigy, but was determined that she would not become a freak. She tried to insulate Isabel’s genius with as much normalcy as possible. This intensified her confrontations with Ray.
They were at loggerheads on the question of sending her to elementary school.
“Elementary school will just hold her back,” he argued. “Don’t you think that would be unfair to her?”
Yet, at this point, his wife had misgivings. “Raymond, I don’t doubt that Isabel would learn more with you as a teacher. But what’s she going to do about friends?”
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
“She needs playmates her own age. That is, if you expect her to grow up to be normal.”
He did not, as she had feared, lose his temper.
“Look, honey,” he reasoned quietly. “ ‘Normal’ is simply not an adjective that applies to Isabel. There are no real precedents for someone with her ability. Believe
me, she enjoys the time we spend together. In fact, her appetite is insatiable. She can’t seem to learn enough.”
Muriel did some painful soul-searching. Despite everything, she loved her husband and wanted to preserve their marriage. To continue disputing his every move would put an unnatural strain not only on them, but on both the children.
It was far from easy, but she realized there was no alternative. Though inwardly angry, she kept a stoic silence when Raymond took the inevitable step and informed the Board of Education that he would no longer send his daughter to school, but was himself assuming full responsibility for her education.
She simply stayed firm and, despite Ray’s grumbling, enrolled Isabel in grammar school with her peers.
With the proviso—and with Ray there was always a proviso—that the moment Isabel came home from school, she would be under his exclusive tutelage. With no distractions.
Of course, Muriel took pride in her daughter’s intelligence. But she was equally aware of Isabel’s ability to relate to children of her own age. She could still discuss Winnie the Pooh with her nursery school classmates. There was only one difference: Isabel had read the book herself.
Two afternoons a week, Muriel would see pupils at home—children who were learning the rudiments of the violin—sometimes lending them Peter’s long discarded quarter-size fiddle.
One day Muriel left the violin on the coffee table. And while Ray was grading lab papers and she was preparing dinner, Isabel picked it up. Copying the others she had seen taking lessons, she placed the instrument under her neck, grasped the bow, and scraped it across the strings.
The result was a raucous screech that brought Muriel
from the kitchen to the living room door. There she stopped to observe her daughter without being seen.
After a few more attempts, Isabel was able to bow an A string, which grew clearer with every stroke. She then began to explore the string with her first finger until she found a B. She did not, of course, know its name, but was satisfied that it sounded right.
It was not long before her experiments yielded a C-sharp—two steps higher.
At this point her mother could hide no longer. She entered the room and remarked as casually as she could, “That sounds lovely, dear. Now you can use just those three notes to play ‘Frère Jacques.’ Here, let me show you.”
Muriel went to the piano and conducted and accompanied Isabel in her melodic debut.
She was too ecstatic to keep this discovery from Ray. Although he was excited, he was worried that Muriel might now try to seduce the girl into the realm of music.
“Gosh, that’s fantastic, honey,” he murmured. “Do you realize that she’s not much older than Mozart was when he just picked up the violin and began to play?”
“I know,” she responded, regretting his allusion.
“But did you know that he was also a mathematical genius? His father made the crucial decision that someone of his son’s age could never have made.”
“Which you are now making for Isabel?” she asked.
“Precisely.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit unfair—not to mention presumptuous?” she said, fighting back. “Who’s to say that Isabel couldn’t go further in—”
Her husband slammed the table and stood up. “I don’t want to hear any more of this,” he thundered. “The girl’s a scientist, and maybe even—yes, I’ll say it—another Einstein.”
Muriel was incensed. “Did
you
know that Einstein was also a fine violinist?”
“Yes, darling,” he answered facetiously. “But it was a hobby, a kind of recreation from his God-given task of explaining the universe.”
“Am I hearing you right?” she asked, barely able to control herself. “Are you implying the Almighty has decreed that our daughter will become a scientist?”
“I’m not implying anything,” Raymond shot back. “I’m simply saying that I won’t let anything stand in the way of my daughter’s development. That’s it, Muriel, the discussion is closed.”
August 10
There are two invisible people haunting our house, and the way my parents talk about them, you’d think they were members of the family.
One is “Albert Einstein,” who’s come to mean the same as genius (another word I keep hearing and which makes me very nervous).
I looked him up in the Encyclopedia Britannica and read that his ideas were so extraordinary that at first people refused to believe them. Dad did his best to explain them to me—apologizing that he himself had trouble understanding some of them.
But I feel very uncomfortable when he predicts that someday I’ll make these kinds of discoveries.
Frankly—and I’m almost ashamed to admit this—I’d rather be compared to Brooke Shields.
If I could have my greatest dream come true, it would be to look like her. People say I already have her cheekbones, and now all I need is the rest.
Then, when I try to take refuge with Mom in the kitchen, she starts to “chat” about the music.
That’s where the other ghost comes in. His name is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
He lived in the eighteenth century and was—as people like to call me and make me cringe—a “prodigy.”
Mom told me he played in a violin trio with grownups
when he was only my age (which makes me seem slow, thank God).
Dad goes crazy whenever Mom mentions Mozart. And he must have been listening because about half an hour later, when we were practicing Bach’s Air on a G String, Dad came rushing in, all excited, carrying a very old book which describes Mozart covering all the furniture in his house with pieces of paper on which he had written his calculations.
Fortunately, Mom and Dad came to an agreement that I could do an hour of music a day and—as a special treat—two on the weekends.
Peter watched them fight without saying a word. Later, he came to my room and said, “Boy, am I glad I’m not smart.”