Prizes (55 page)

Avilov eyed his visitors and then pronounced, “Well …”

Neither woman could fathom the significance of this portentous monosyllable.

The great man then launched into a kind of lecture, punctuated with patronizing repetitions of, “as I am sure you already know.”

“Huntington’s is, as I am sure you already know, one of the real ‘nasties.’ No cure. No remission. No hope. Nothing. Up till a few years ago they did not even know where in the human genome it was to be found.”

He addressed Muriel with groveling condescension.

“All of this must be very familiar to your daughter. But if there is anything you wish me to explain, do not hesitate to ask.”

“No, no,” she replied softly. “Please go ahead.”

“Work done in this very lab by my distinguished colleague
Professor Gusella determined that the Huntington’s disease gene resides on a strip of Chromosome Four. It was the first time in history anyone had used DNA markers to figure out roughly where a gene was located when they had no other clue.

“From this auspicious beginning, a cooperative effort was organized, including some participants from Dr. da Costa’s own MIT. Our strategy hinged on a new type of DNA marker called Restriction Fragment Length Polymorphisms—or RFLPs, as we refer to them in the lab.

“After our painstaking explorations, we now had the Huntington’s gene, so to say, in our clutches.

“It was here that I myself, a minor player in this great drama, stepped briefly into the limelight. I was fortunate enough to clone the offending gene, and by using recombinant DNA, produce a protein which seems—at least in the laboratory—to restore the structure of Chromosome Four to its normal healthy state.”

He ceased emoting to the world and once again addressed Muriel. “This, I take it, dear lady, is the reason for your visit.”

“Yes, Professor,” she answered as deferentially as she could, aware that the way to this man’s heart was through his ego.

Avilov propped his chin up on his right hand. He emitted one of his random “Well’s” and began to ponder. A moment later he became voluble again.

“As you must realize, Mrs. Zimmer, you are not the first … petitioner I have received. Huntington’s is a dreadful malady, and my heart goes out to the many sufferers whom I hope someday to help. Yet imagine the irony when I, as a former Soviet citizen, say I am strangled by what is here called ‘red tape.’ Unfortunately it is true.

“I am certain my restructured gene would work as well with humans as it has with mice. But in the past, our appeals have fallen on deaf ears.”

Muriel lowered her head.

“And yet,” Avilov boomed suddenly, “I see here a potential advantage.”

“What, Professor?” Isabel asked, breaking her long silence.

The Russian suddenly pointed his finger at her and uttered yet another single syllable: “You.”

“I don’t understand,” she responded.

“Perhaps, Dr. da Costa, you are not aware of your own eminence. But the outside world regards you as a scientific giant and—speaking proudly as a newly naturalized American—a national hero. If the authorities in Washington were led to believe that you were in fact Edmundo Zimmer’s child, they would surely consider this appeal with new—and dare I say—favorable eyes.”

Muriel dissolved into tears. Isabel embraced her mother while continuing to address the eminent scientist.

“But that’s absurd, Professor Avilov. Anyway, how could they see
his
life or death as being relevant to me?”

Muriel’s sobs now became more audible.

“But surely, Dr. da Costa,” Avilov replied with raised finger, “you are aware of the genetic dimension?”

“Frankly, no.”

“Well, let me put it to you in the proverbial nutshell. Huntington’s is one of the primary autosomal
dominant
disorders. Affected individuals have a
one in two
chance of passing it on to their offspring. Were it known that a scientist of your magnitude were in such jeopardy, I am sure we would get, so to say, the green flag to treat the patient.”

“My God,” Isabel whispered, and then asked Muriel, “Do Francisco and Dorotea know about this?”

Muriel nodded. “They both insisted on being tested. I tried to persuade them not to. Francisco was lucky, but now Dorotea knows she’s living out an inescapable death sentence.”

“Oh, that’s horrible,” Isabel gasped.

Avilov could not keep from smiling inwardly at what fortune had so unexpectedly brought to his office—not only a surefire method of accelerating government approval, but a world-famous patient to publicize its success.

“Dr. da Costa, if this therapy were sanctioned, you would be helping not only your stepfather and stepsister, but countless others who could be saved if it proved efficacious.”

Isabel clutched Muriel by the shoulders and said passionately, “Mom, I’ll go along with it. It’s our one chance to save them.”

At this moment Muriel, overcome with emotion, grasped Isabel’s hands. “There’s something you have to know,” she said. “This affects you in a way you never realized.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re in danger, darling. I mean, it’s my fault.” She began to weep. “I don’t know how to say this.”

Isabel grew alarmed. “Mom, for God’s sake, what are you trying to tell me?”

“It’s actually the truth, Isabel. Edmundo is your natural father.”

At first, praying she had misunderstood, she gaped at her mother.

“Darling, try to understand. My marriage was falling apart and Edmundo was so warm and caring. He genuinely loved me.…” She hesitated. “We had an affair and”—her voice lowered to a barely audible whisper—“you were conceived. After Ray became so obsessed with you, there was no way I could ever tell him.”

“Stop it! I don’t want to hear any more of this.”

She had let go of her mother who, by now, was weeping uncontrollably.

“In fact, if you must know, one of the reasons I let him manipulate you was because I felt so guilty.”

“I can’t believe this, I simply can’t believe this,” she repeated in a paroxysm of denial.

She was staggered, stricken with self-doubt, racked with a terrible uncertainty as to who she really was. For emotionally, she had always defined herself as Raymond da Costa’s daughter. She had lived with him. And for him.

At this point she again grew aware of the Russian doctor’s presence.

“My dear Dr. da Costa, I am a physician. I will hold all of this in confidence.”

“Professor Avilov,” Isabel declared. “I’ve changed my mind. I won’t be a party to this unethical travesty.”

He straightened himself, manifestly taking offense. “But it is now urgent that you yourself be tested.”

“I don’t give a damn,” she snapped.

“But Isabel,” her mother pleaded, “don’t you realize you’re in danger?”

Abruptly, Isabel buried her head in her hands.

“You owe it to the world,” the Russian argued unctuously. “You are perhaps the greatest scientific mind in modern physics, and have a fifty-fifty chance of carrying the gene for Huntington’s disease.”

“Thank you,” Isabel retaliated furiously. “You’ve just cast a giant shadow over my entire life.”

“Not necessarily,” Avilov remarked with an incongruous grin. “I can draw your blood and within a week you will know your fate. After all, it could be good news.”

Though Isabel stood motionless and silent, he could sense that his words had struck home.

She still did not reply.

“Perhaps I should leave you two alone to talk about this,” he suggested, feeling a sudden urge to retire.

She glared at her mother, who was living in her own private hell.

“You expect me to talk to the woman who screwed
up my life—and my father’s? What she did was unforgivable.”

“But if there hadn’t been Edmundo,” Muriel said pleadingly, “you wouldn’t be you!”

Isabel seared her mother with eyes of fire. “Do you expect me to thank you for that?”

She stormed out of the doctor’s office.

57
 

Though the heat was sweltering, Isabel walked the entire distance home from Avilov’s office.

What she had experienced was like the turning point in a Greek tragedy. In a matter of seconds she had gone from a person whose whole life had been blessed to one not only cursed, but possibly doomed to death.

She didn’t hurry. There was so much to think about.

Curiously, it was not her own uncertain destiny that was preoccupying her most, even though it was possible that on some day in the future she would turn a corner and come face-to-face with the Angel of Death. At this moment her principal concern was the fate of the man who, from her earliest memories, had loved, cherished, and protected her.

And she was not even his biological daughter.

Isabel knew in some sense it would no longer matter to him. After all, love is not genetically transmittable, and he had lavished it upon her for years. And reciprocally, she had given him all the affection a natural father could have dreamed of.

During the lengthy exploration of her thoughts, she resolved to make things right again. To give Ray what he had earned by sacrificing his own life.

She swore a fervent oath that he would never, never learn of Muriel’s betrayal.

And now when she thought of Jerry, she was pierced with aching loneliness.

The happiness he had brought her was real. Yet how could their relationship continue? She felt tainted, no longer worthy of him.

She arrived back at the flat—overheated and drenched with sweat.

There was an eerie feeling that the apartment was somehow emptier. Her father’s bedroom door was closed. Perhaps he was escaping from the brutal Cambridge heat by taking a siesta.

Suddenly, feeling parched from her long hot walk, she went into the kitchen, opened up the fridge, poured some lemonade, and went back to the main room, which was the coolest because they had kept the shutters closed.

She sat down, took a swig and looked around. The place looked unusually tidy. Magazines and journals that were normally scattered everywhere were piled up neatly.

Glancing at the table they used for work and meals, she noticed a long sheet of lined yellow foolscap propped up between the salt and pepper.

Knowing instinctively what it would say, she picked it up with dread.

Isabel was at a loss for words. She knew—the way a patient on a local anesthetic knows—that a part of her flesh was being torn away. But all she could sense was the anguish she would feel when the shock wore off.

She put her head in her hands. Suddenly her world was spinning in a centrifuge, whirling all her thoughts asunder. She, who had always played the indomitable Miss da Costa, ever cheery and composed even in the most pressured of circumstances, fell apart and began to sob.

She was not aware of the passage of time, and was jolted by the piercing ring of the phone.

“Isa, I waited so long the breakfast rolls got stale. Did you meet some cuter guy or something?”

She was overwhelmed with relief to hear his voice. “Oh, Jerry, am I glad to speak to you.”

“Well, you didn’t give me that impression all day,” he chided playfully.

“Please, Jerry, listen. It’s been the worst day of my life. Traumatic would be an understatement. Can you come over for dinner?”

“Why don’t you let me take you out for a change? I mean, we could be alone.”

She paused for a moment and then said softly, “We’ll be alone. Dad’s gone.”

“What the hell happened, Isa?”

“I’m still in such shock. I’m not sure I understand yet, but I think he had a sudden attack of guilt. Anyway, he’s taken a job in a prep school.”

“Well,” Jerry argued, trying to see the bright side, “this could be the best thing that ever happened to both of you. Is that why you’re so upset?”