Prizes (27 page)

Raymond had scarcely anything more to give her. His storehouse of knowledge was almost depleted. The best he could offer was constant support and encouragement—and protection from external distractions. In other words, he had subtly been relegated from coach to cheerleader.

Yet Ray never relinquished the responsibility for Isabel’s inner equilibrium. After ascertaining that she was more than ready for the next day’s World Lit. exam, he suggested that they loosen up by going to the Holiday Bowl and getting a little exercise.

The cavernous bowladrome echoed with the clatter of tumbling pins and the cacophonous shouts of the spectators. As father and daughter sat on a bench lacing up their well-worn rented shoes, Raymond looked off into the distance and a sudden flash of anger crossed his face.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

“Who, Dad?”

“Your ‘swain,’ Mister Won’t-take-no-for-an-answer Pracht.”

Isabel’s eyes widened. “Is Jerry here?” she asked excitedly.

Ironically, Isabel had spent most of the lonely summer trying to come to terms with the fact that she
would never see Jerry again. And yet now, unexpectedly, he was scarcely a hundred feet away, ever joyful and ebullient, the obvious leader of his small pack. She could barely endure the tension. But before she could act, Raymond was back at her side, holding two large plastic cups.

The da Costa party was second in line and had at most five minutes to wait.

Jerry was in lane nine, and the groups in six and twelve seemed to be concluding their games. Either way, Isabel calculated, they had the chance of getting close enough to have him notice her. And if he did, Dad could not be rude to her adviser’s son in public.

Jerry was standing in the approach area, holding the ball next to his cheek, poised to let fly. His eyes were fixed intently on the head pin at the far end of the lane. Then he strode forward, firing the ball at the foul line as he pivoted gracefully to stop his motion. His follow-through was perfect, and instantly all the pins were scattered. It was a strike. His comrades cheered.

“Beautiful, Jerry!” “Way to go!”

Isabel, who had been captivated by his agility and skill, involuntarily cried out, “Great going, number one nine four.”

The hero of the moment looked up, spotted Isabel, and called enthusiastically, “Hey there, long time no see.” He started toward her. “How come you know my number?”

“I spent a dollar and bought the magazine. Sancho must be very pleased, because you’re right on schedule—over a hundred places higher.”

Isabel could feel her father smoldering as he demanded, “What’s all this nonsense?”

“Jerry’s taken a giant leap in the tennis rankings,” she explained as the subject of their conversation reached them.

“Hi, Mr. da Costa,” Jerry said breezily, offering his hand.

Raymond was too sensible to make a fuss, especially before so large an audience. He merely shook Jerry’s hand and said affably, “Hello, Jerry. That was quite a shot you made there.”

“Thanks,” the young man replied. “I didn’t know you guys were into bowling.”

That’s a minor miracle, Raymond thought sarcastically. It was about the only thing except ballooning that he hadn’t invited Isabel to do with him.

Just then a fresh-faced Japanese-American girl in a red-and-white-striped blouse called out, “Lane twelve ready for da Costa.”

Nudging his daughter slightly, Raymond tossed off a “Nice seeing you” to Jerry and began to move away.

“Me too. In fact we’ve just wrapped up ourselves. Would you mind if I watched?”

“That would be great,” Isabel interposed before her father could think of a politic refusal. “Maybe you could give me some tips.”

“Cool.” He smiled and signaled to the rest of his friends. “Take it easy guys, I’ll be there in a couple of secs.”

Raymond was so flustered that his first shot fell into the right gutter and rolled impotently to the pit.

“Tough luck, Mr. D.,” Jerry commiserated, “but I think you let go a little too soon.”

Still fighting to control his temper, Raymond acknowledged this unsolicited counsel with a barely civil, “Yeah. Right. I guess I’m just a little out of practice.”

“If you don’t mind my saying,” Jerry continued, “you’d probably do better with a lighter ball.”

Raymond deliberately ignored this advice and then fired his second shot with such effort that it curved swiftly into the
left
gutter.

Now it was Isabel’s turn. Without overtly acknowledging it, she took Jerry’s suggestion and chose the lightest ball she could find. Yet she did no better than walk awkwardly to the foul line and let go of it. Unlike
her father’s, it at least stayed on the lane, and when it finally arrived, knocked over three pins.

She looked at Jerry.

“Not bad,” he said with encouragement. “It’s just a typical beginner’s error, stopping short just before you release the ball. As a scientist you should’ve realized that this dissipates all the momentum you’ve built up in the approach. The whole point of the run up is to give more power when you let go.”

“Gosh,” Isabel remarked, “you talk like a physicist yourself.”

“I sure as hell hope not,” Jerry remarked, “but I guess I’ve been a little brainwashed.”

Suddenly they were interrupted by the appearance of an attractive blonde about Jerry’s age.

“Come on, Pracht, we can’t wait forever,” she called seductively. “Some of us have eleven o’clock curfews, you know.” Jerry nodded and then turned to the da Costas.

“Sorry about this, but I’ve got the only car, and I can’t mess up my buddies’ evening. Maybe some other time, huh?”

“Sure,” Isabel responded, masking her disappointment.

She and her father were left to bowl in their mutually inept way, although—after a while—they were at least able to laugh about it.

On the way home, Raymond felt that enough time had elapsed for him to make a cautionary comment.

“Well, Isabel, I guess now you see why I don’t want you hanging around with young people of that ilk.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Dad,” she said, genuinely baffled.

“Simple mathematics,” he replied. “Since that nubile creature had an eleven o’clock curfew, and it’s only twenty past nine, we can imagine what sort of mischief they’ll get into.”

Isabel understood only too well that Ray’s remark was another attempt to discredit Jerry Pracht.

Yet all she could think of was how much she would like to have been that other girl.

27
 

As she lay semiconscious in her hospital bed, Anya’s thoughts took refuge in the past.

It was lifetimes ago, and a million miles away.

To young Anya Litvinova, Moscow was the destination of a dream. All through her childhood, her mother and father had made it sound like some kind of earthly paradise. As she rode the bus and subway from Sheremetyevo Airport to the city, she was too exhausted to notice the gray blandness of postwar apartment blocks lining the road.

By a stroke of good fortune—or in the opinion of some, bad luck—she had managed to secure a place in the overcrowded dormitory at the university clinic.

She soon found out why the bed was available. It was the upper half of a bunk in a cubicle occupied by a bad-tempered future eye surgeon.

Olga Petrovna Dashkevich was so magnificently unpleasant that she had frightened off no fewer than six previous roommates in her very first year of residency. Anya had been warned, but she was still not prepared for her new companion’s opening salvo.

“What happened to your nose, Litvinova?”

Anya put her hand to her face, thinking she had inadvertently scratched it.

But Olga quickly elucidated, “I mean, it almost looks normal. I thought all Semites had oversized beaks.”

Anya tried to take even this with equanimity, and responded with a smile. “Olga Petrovna, can you explain why a Jew-hater like you chose Professor Schwartz to be your supervisor for Ophthalmic Surgery?”

“Sweetheart,” Olga retorted with a knowing grin, “I’ve never said you people weren’t clever.”

If Anya had learned nothing else in this obstacle course that had been her life, it was that for her, salvation came only from perseverance. Good humor could be a weapon strong enough to erode even wills of steel. The gift of seeing the best in everyone was ingrained in her nature, and she resolved, paradoxically, to help Olga with a problem that was obviously born of her own personal unhappiness.

The girl was not attractive. Nor, compared to the other med students, was she particularly bright. Until Anya came along, she’d had no friends of either sex. And, to top it all, she smoked like an aggressive chimney.

“Have you ever seen the lungs of a cadaver who died of cancer?” Anya coughed through the fumes.

“Don’t lecture me, Anya. I know it’s medically unwise to smoke,” she conceded. “But I intend to continue until I’m fully qualified.”

“Thanks,” Anya remarked sarcastically.

“What does it matter to you? You’ll move out next term anyway.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Everybody does.”

“You needn’t worry,” Anya countered cheerfully. “However hard you try, I’m going to learn to like you.”

A month into the term, Olga came down with a terrible flu and was forced to remain in bed. Not only did
Anya bring her soup from the refectory, but even volunteered to take notes at a lecture she would be missing.

“I don’t understand you, Litvinova,” Olga commented bluntly. “I’m beginning to think you actually want to be my friend.”

“I do.”

“But why?”

“Frankly,” Anya laughed, “I already have enough enemies.”

Although the Soviet Revolution successfully abolished Christmas, even the most tyrannical regimes could not suppress the spirit of the holiday.

Its universally attractive traditions were merely channeled into the celebration of Novy God—New Year’s Eve—a “secular” occasion for decking the halls with boughs of fir, trimming the tree, and exchanging gifts.

Naturally, good Socialists did not believe in Santa Claus. But curiously enough, on the night before New Year’s they awaited the arrival of Grandfather Frost, who comes laden with presents for the children.

This year, for the first time in her life, Olga was bringing a friend home for the holiday celebration.

As their subway train passed through a succession of gleaming marble stations, Olga casually remarked, “I think you’ll enjoy meeting my uncle Dmitri. He works in genetics. In fact, he’s an academician.”

Anya was amazed. “You mean you’re related to a member of the Soviet Academy of Science and never mentioned it?”

“How else do you think I got into the surgery program?” Olga answered with a touch of self-mockery. “I’m not as clever as you—I needed
protektsiya.
As a matter of fact, Dmitri is such a genius that he was elected when he was only thirty.”

In proudly disclosing the existence of her illustrious uncle, Olga neglected to mention that he was, if not
classically handsome, certainly vibrant and virile—and a bachelor.

As Anya respectfully shook his hand she could barely muster the polite words, “It’s an honor to meet you, Professor Avilov.”

“Please, please,” the tall, wide-shouldered man insisted. “You must call me Dmitri Petrovich. Also, I don’t think it’s such an honor.” He paused for a moment and then added with a grin, “But I do hope you’ll consider it a pleasure.”

The entire house was permeated with the smell of walnuts and tangerines as they sat down to dinner. There was Olga, her younger sister, her parents, her maternal grandmother, Anya, and Dmitri.

The meal was sumptuous and, by Russian standards, something of a fairy tale. There were no fewer than twelve cold appetizers, including the rarest of treats, fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, all highly salted and spiced. Vodka was torrential.

As they were eating the main dish, Olga’s mother announced to the gathering, “For this marvelous salmon, we have Dmitri Petrovich to thank.”

The grateful diners raised a toast to their benefactor, “
Na zdorovie.
”

As if to the spotlight born, the professor held forth on the relative beauties of various cities of the world—with particular attention to Paris, where he had just delivered a paper, and Stockholm, which he visited each summer at the invitation of the Swedish Academy of Medicine.

Had she been more cosmopolitan, Anya might well have found him arrogant. But as an exile returned in body, though not yet in spirit, she was totally captivated.

Later that evening, after they had welcomed the new year with goblets of champagne, Anya was helping Olga and her mother clear the table when she suddenly found her way blocked by the large frame of academician Avilov.

He gazed down at her, an unmistakable glint of mischief in his eyes, and whispered, “And you, my little dove, why have you said nothing of yourself?”

Anya felt awkward, and sputtered, “What could I possibly say that would interest a personage like you?”

“I am not a personage,” he responded. “I’m just a person who finds you enchantingly attractive. Furthermore,” he continued, “You’re not a Muscovite.…”