Prizes (45 page)

Anya breathed a sigh of relief.

“He was sort of glassy-eyed, so security thought he might be on some kind of drug. He didn’t resist or anything when we asked him to come along with us, and one of the chaps recognized him from the television. He was in a bit of a state. But when he calmed down, he asked us to contact you as soon as possible. It took us a bit of time because …” He faltered, and in an embarrassed tone confessed, “Uh, he couldn’t remember where you were staying.”

She found Adam addressing a small, respectful audience of policemen on the wonders of scientific research.

He was overjoyed to see her.

“Annoushka,” he called out, “I’m so glad to see you. I’ve been telling these nice people how worried I was when you didn’t turn up at the opera.”

Anya tried to mask her feelings of embarrassment and worry by replying softly, “I’m sorry if I misunderstood. But I thought we were meeting at the hotel. I mean, the officer told me you’d forgotten where we were staying.”

“Calumny,” he retorted. “We’ve been in so many damn hotels these past few weeks, it slipped my mind for a second. I know we’re staying at the Regent Hotel and it’s room 1014. I bet you don’t even remember the phone number: 663–2248.”

She shook her head immediately, inwardly aware that he was desperately trying to prove his mnemonic power to the police.

“No, you’re right,” she said as calmly as she could. “But then, as long as I’ve known you”—she paused for a breath, to keep control of her emotions, and concluded with a heavy heart—“you’ve always had a photographic memory.”

47
 

Buoyed by her Italian coronation, Isabel returned to Boston and immediately went to see Karl Pracht.

“Welcome home, Champ. How was Italy?”

“Very Italian, Karl. In fact, with what’s left of the prize money, I’m gonna take you for the finest meal of your life.”

“The
New York Times
picked up some nice quotations from your acceptance speech. I’d say you had a promising future in science.”

“Speaking of the future …” She hesitated and then began to fidget. “Uh … I’m not so sure you’re gonna believe this, Karl.”

“Well, unless you’re setting out to prove that my own Ph.D. should be revoked for malpractice, I think I’m ready for anything. So, what is it?”

“I was thinking about the Unified Field Theory,” she murmured.

“Whose version? There’re a lot of contenders.”

“Uh … mine. I mean, I would like to try and see if I can formulate a complete hypothesis that interrelates the various energy forces.”

“You’re right,” Pracht answered. “I don’t believe it.” He looked at her and continued, “Isabel, in another life you must have been a tightrope walker. No one respects your talents better than I, but as you’re aware, Einstein was working on this when he died. Is there something perverse in you that wants to unravel the mystery that Albert left unsolved?”

“Karl,” she countered, “I only said I’d give it a shot. There are a zillion other thesis topics, any of which
would take me a year or eighteen months at the outside. Tackling the Grand Unified Theory is a real challenge. Besides, if I fail, won’t it be at least character building?”

“Isabel,” he responded. “I have to tell you that in my opinion, all G.U.T’s are just hypothetical constructs—people talk about them, but nobody believes they’re really possible.”

“Let’s say I waste a year or two,” she said urgently. “I’ll hardly be eligible for a senior citizen’s pass on the bus.”

Pracht reflected a minute and then pronounced, “I suggest you go out and buy a lot of aspirin.”

“How come?” she asked.

“Because you’re going to be hitting your head against a stone wall.”

Unfortunately, Raymond did not share her enthusiasm.

“You can’t be serious, Isabel. It’s a pipe-dream concept. I can’t even imagine any theory that could possibly unite gravity, electromagnetics, and the strong and weak nuclear interactions—they’re so different.”

“Come on, Dad, if I don’t go for broke, somebody else will. After all, Weinberg and Salam got the Nobel in ’79 for best effort so far.

“Their rest-mass energies are on the order of fifty to a hundred times the mass of a proton, but their theory can’t be absolutely proved until the next generation of high-energy accelerators. Suppose I came up with a theory that everybody bought beyond any doubt? I mean, I’ve never been wrong yet, have I?”

“Well,” Ray said sardonically, “I wouldn’t call your Roman extravagance an intelligent decision.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! When are you going to stop hitting me over the head with Mom’s violin? I mean, after all, it was my prize, I had the right to spend it in any way I chose. And, for the
nth
time,” she protested. “I’d gladly have spent the money on
you
—all of it—but
there’s nothing you need. I mean—” She was trapped in her own rhetoric.

“And besides,” he went on, taking the initiative, “I’ve just about outlived my usefulness as far as you’re concerned, haven’t I? It’s a pity I’m too young for an old folks’ home.”

No one knew better than Raymond da Costa the potency of guilt in winning an argument with a child. Isabel ended the debate.

“Don’t ever say that, Dad,” she rejoined with emotion. “I could never forget how much you’ve sacrificed for me. If you’re dead set against my doing it, I’ll find another topic.”

The guilt had crossed the net onto Raymond’s side. His instinct for survival told him that his only alternative was magnanimity. He walked over, took her by the hands, and said in the most affectionate of tones, “Isabel, you’re my little genius. Aim for the stars. If anyone can do it, you can.”

At first Muriel was speechless. And then she exclaimed, “Darling, you shouldn’t have. I’m overwhelmed. I’d be afraid to touch something so valuable, much less try to play it.”

As Isabel watched ecstatically, her mother gingerly picked up the antique violin and the bow and then, lest she profane such an instrument, merely played some scales.

“Oh my Lord,” she whispered. “This must have been made for the angels’ symphony.”

Muriel threw her arms around her daughter and hugged her tightly.

“You’re such a naughty girl. You must’ve paid a small fortune for it.”

“That’s okay,” Isabel replied lightheartedly. “The Fermi Prize
was
a small fortune.”

“That was a wonderful thing you did for Mom, Isabel,” Peter remarked that night when he and Terri, his live-in
girlfriend, took his little sister out for a Chinese dinner. “Ever since you gave it to her, she’s been dancing on air—not to mention playing the thing day and night.”

“I’ll bet Edmundo flips when he hears her play,” Terri offered.

She was a pretty, blond coed, and clearly extremely fond of Peter. This added to Isabel’s happiness. For despite his father’s neglect, her brother had managed to keep his life on course. She had no doubt it would only be a matter of time before the two were married.

“Isn’t it kind of hard,” Terri inquired, “to win such a big prize and still be working for professors who probably can’t even run a state lottery?”

Anxious to deflect the topic from her relentless achievements, Isabel asked, “How come Edmundo’s in Argentina again? Has he got some kind of visiting conductor post?”

“I don’t know,” Peter answered. “But there’s illness in his family. I don’t even know who it is. Lately he’s been going back there almost once a month.”

“I know what you’re thinking.” Terri smiled. “But he’s not playing
Captain’s Paradise.
There’s no other woman. He and Muriel are very devoted to one another. Actually, when he heard you were coming, he tried to postpone his trip, but you didn’t give us enough warning.”

“Well, I’m giving everyone fair warning now. I’m going into hibernation, and I won’t be coming back out until I crack my thesis—or just crack. As I told you earlier, I’ve picked the toughest nut imaginable.”

Peter reached over and squeezed her shoulder.

“Sis,” he murmured lovingly, “from you I’d expect nothing less. Which reminds me—is your adviser still that guy Pracht?”

“Yes, sure.”

“Wow,” Peter enthused. “Do you hear that, Terri? That’s Jerry Pracht’s father.”

At such astounding news, his girlfriend could only
echo, “Wow,” and then, turning to his sister, ask, “He’s incredibly cute. Have you ever met him?”

All Isabel could think of was, Am I blushing visibly?

“Well, yes,” she temporized. “Once or twice.”

“Is he as handsome in person?” Terri asked eagerly.

Indeed, though her boyfriend’s sister was a worldwide celebrity, Terri had never before now evinced such interest in her academic life.

“He’s absolutely gorgeous,” Isabel answered with secret pride. “And you know something else—he’s as smart as hell.”

“I could tell that,” Peter said. “I mean, the way he talked in his interview the other night.”

“What interview? What other night?” Isabel demanded breathlessly. “I feel like I’ve been off the earth in orbit.”

“Oh well, unless his dad told you, you probably wouldn’t have heard about it, sis,” Peter offered. “I mean, sports isn’t exactly your bag. But in any case, two nights ago the guy played like there was a bullet up his—” Peter stopped abruptly.

“That’s okay.” His sister smiled, bursting with excitement. “You can say ‘ass.’ Anyway, what did he do?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Peter said sarcastically. “He just knocked off Boris Becker in straight sets in the Australian Open.”

Momentarily allowing her guard to drop, she murmured euphorically, “Gosh, I wonder where I can call him.”

Peter and Terri laughed. “Becoming a groupie in your old age?” her brother teased.

“No—yes … I mean, he’s a sort of a friend. By the way, do you know what this will do to his ranking?”

“Ranking?” Peter inquired with eyebrow raised. “Have you become a tennis nut too, sis?”

“For gosh sakes, I was just asking a simple question,” she protested with embarrassment.

“To be perfectly honest, it was such an exciting
match that I didn’t even pay attention to Pracht’s new computer ranking. With the French Open and Wimbledon coming up, it doesn’t matter.”

“But it does,” Isabel insisted.

Peter grinned. “Well then, let’s put it this way, sis. All you have to do is spell T-O-R Because, right now, that’s exactly where your boyfriend is.”

48
 

Anya was in the grip of panic, uncertain what to do. She thought of calling Charlie Rosenthal, but wasn’t sure what time it was in Boston. Or if Adam would be angry.

He emerged from the shower in high spirits and insisted they go downstairs for dinner.

Though she fought to hide her concern, Anya was too upset by that evening’s experience to be able to eat. By contrast, Adam ate heartily.

“What’s wrong, darling?” he inquired cheerfully. He was almost manic now. “Are you disappointed about missing the opera?”

“No,” she replied. Then quickly emended her answer. “Yes.”

“I’m really sorry,” he continued. “But you know this sort of thing can happen to anyone.”

She nodded, thinking, No, not to anyone. And not
this.

That night, he made passionate love to her and she tried to reciprocate his ardor. But she could not help
wondering if his actions were an attempt to deny what had occurred.

Still later Anya could not sleep. Too restless to remain in bed, she got up and sat staring out the window with unfocused eyes. She had only been there a few minutes when her sleeping husband, sensing her absence, awakened.