Prizes (62 page)

“Good evening, Fitz. Sorry to disturb whomever you’re doing.”

“That’s okay, my captain. What can I do you for?”

“Sell my calls.”

“You mean Corvax? All of them?”

“You read me well, Fitz.”

“Damn,” the stockbroker muttered half under his breath.

“Listen, if you put your other clients on to my little speculation in longevity, that’s your tough luck. Oh, and use the proceeds to buy Clarke-Albertson at the market price. Good night, Fitz.”

The scope of Adam’s life had been reduced to the one room on the ground floor that contained his bed. The two upper stories stood empty of furniture, as if emphasizing the hollowness of his earthly triumph.

It was a little after four
A.M.
in the Coopersmith house on Brattle Street. Anya sat talking quietly to Charlie Rosenthal. She had long since given up hope of getting a night’s sleep, refusing medication because she
worried that Adam might regain consciousness while she was in a drugged slumber.

“He seemed pretty stable to me,” Charlie remarked with more hope than conviction. “I mean, I’m almost positive he knew me just then.”

“He did, he did,” Anya insisted, anxious to assuage Charlie’s fears that he was no longer able to convey his compassion to his best friend.

To buttress her reassurance, she took him into her confidence and confessed, “Do you know the most amazing thing? Up until a week ago we still had the remnants of a … sexual relationship.”

“Yeah. That’s one of the paradoxical aspects of the disease. While it’s insidiously closing down all the systems, it keeps the sex drive intact for a long time.”

“You know,” Anya said hoarsely, “it doesn’t matter if he recognizes me or not. The important thing is,
I
know him. If we never have another conversation, as long as I can watch him sleep or look in his eyes—even when they’re looking past me—that’s enough. Can you understand that?”

Charlie nodded. “Absolutely. It’s like so many of the mothers with sick newborns I’ve treated through the years. It doesn’t matter if their baby’s not aware …”

His voice trailed off, for he had suddenly remembered he was talking to a woman who had been afflicted not only with a terminally ill husband, but with the tragedy of childlessness.

Anya understood. But she now had an outlet for her maternal instincts.

“No,” she said kindly. “You’re right. In a way, Adam has become my child. And as long as I can give him my love, nothing else matters.”

The phone rang. “My God, who could it be at this hour?” Anya wondered aloud.

“It might be my service,” Charlie explained apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’ll take it.”

He walked over to the phone, answered, and then
said immediately, “I was wrong. At crazy four in the morning somebody wants you, Anya.”

She moved slowly. After all, there was nothing that important in the outside world. And she did not care who wished to communicate with her from that alien territory.

“Mrs. Coopersmith—I should say Dr. Coopersmith—this is Professor Nils Bergstrom of the Karolinska Medical Institute in Sweden. Forgive me if I’ve awakened you.”

“That’s all right,” Anya mumbled absently. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

“I assume you have some idea of why I’m calling,” he said gently.

“I can guess,” Anya whispered, wondering if she would have the emotional strength even to thank this man for what was clearly intended as a gesture of kindness.

“It gives me deep satisfaction to inform you—in strictest confidence—that at noon today in Stockholm, two hours from now, we will announce this year’s Nobel Prize in Medicine. And the academy will honor the invention of MR-Alpha as first put forth in the
New England Journal
by you and your husband and his team.”

Professor Bergstrom continued to speak, but his words were merely a meaningless flow of syllables pouring over Anya’s consciousness.

She once again thanked him and hung up.

Now, with tears streaming down her face, she stared at her husband’s friend. “He’s won—Adam’s won the Nobel Prize.”

The impulse to rejoice was so strong in Charlie that he succeeded momentarily in forgetting his friend’s terrible affliction. He bounded from the chair. “Fan-tas-tic! Have you got any champagne?”

“Yes,” she replied diffidently. “But I don’t feel it’s proper before—you know—Adam is told. I mean, made aware.”

Immediately chastened, he agreed. “You’re right. So what I’ll do is stay with you till he has a clear moment. If you don’t mind, Anya, I’d really like to share his happiness. It would mean a great deal to me.”

“Of course.” She nodded. A moment later they were in Adam’s bedroom looking down at him. His face—still unlined and still handsome—wore an expression of tranquility.

“Should we try to wake him?” Charlie asked.

“We both want to, so let’s take a chance,” she replied.

Anya touched him and said softly, “Adam.”

Her husband’s eyes slowly opened. He gazed at her and for a moment said nothing. His glance then fell on Charlie. Then back to his wife.

“An-Anya,” he murmured. “How are you, darling?”

She exchanged glances with Charlie. “He’s lucid. We can tell him. He may forget it in half an hour, but at least he’ll understand now.” She took his hand.

“Adam, we’ve got something wonderful to tell you,” she began. “You’ve won the Nobel Prize. It won’t be officially announced for another two hours, but you’ve won.”

He looked at her incredulously and shook his head. “No, no, you’re wrong,” he objected. “But Adam—”

“No,
we
won,” he corrected her. “Without you …”

And then, abruptly, there seemed to be a short-circuit in his brain. His eyes glazed and he became silent as a stone, no longer present.

“He knew,” Charlie insisted. “He was all there when you told him. Don’t you agree?”

She nodded. Then the two of them helped settle the disoriented patient back in bed.

Later, Anya was scrambling some eggs for Charlie before he left for the hospital, when the phone rang again. It was Prescott Mason.

“Have you heard?” Triumph colored his voice.

“Yes,” she responded quietly.

“Splendid news, isn’t it?” Mason shouted like a cheerleader, clearly angling for a pat on the head.

“Yes, yes,” she agreed. “You did a good job.”

“Listen, Anya,” Mason said emotionally, “I don’t deny that we lobbied. But they don’t give out Nobel Prizes without merit.” He hesitated, and then added softly, “Now comes the hard part. At least for you.”

“I don’t understand,” she protested.

“There’s no way Adam can face the press. We’ll have to convince them that he’s temporarily sidelined. I mean, you’ll have no problem fielding any questions, will you?”

Her heart sank. “Must I?”

“Listen, dear,” Mason urged, “this is for him. If you can keep saying that to yourself, it’ll help you get through it.”

She shrugged. “But what about the ceremony? I hate to think how he’ll be by December.”

“Be brave, Anya,” Prescott responded affectionately. “Let’s take this one day at a time.”

She hung up and looked at Charlie.

“I heard,” he said softly. “That guy’s voice is like a megaphone. Listen, Anya, I don’t know how the hell I can help, but I’ll get back here as soon as I make my rounds. You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

“Thanks, Charlie,” she murmured sadly.

“Yeah,” he answered. He then turned on his heels and left.

Once outside, Charlie breathed a sigh of relief and thought, Where the hell does she find the strength?

And felt glad that he was able to get away from all that ceaseless suffering.

The moment she was alone, Anya immediately called Lisl Rudolph, for in a real sense, this was her prize too. The older woman cried.

For Max.

For Adam.

For herself.

“Lisl, I want you here with me when the reporters come. And I don’t mean to help me out. I want you to be a living reminder of how much this prize belongs to Max.”

A few minutes later, Terry Walters arrived to begin his day of nursing. Anya had been so preoccupied that she hadn’t checked on Adam for nearly an hour.

Moments later she was startled to hear Terry roar, “Holy shit!” This was followed by the heavy tread of his footsteps as he raced into the kitchen. “He’s gone—your husband’s gone!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, he’s not in his bed. He’s not in the john. He’s not anywhere. What the hell could have happened?”

Anya was frozen with fear. Earlier in his illness there had been occasions when Adam had left his bed like a sleepwalker and wandered around the backyard. Lately he had not seemed well enough to go AWOL. And she could see through the kitchen window that he was not in the garden.

She and Terry thought as one. They opened the door to the garage and had their worst fears confirmed.

One of the cars was missing.

Alzheimer’s had slowly but relentlessly deprived Adam Coopersmith of all his faculties. Now and then he had revisited his old life with enough awareness to make him despondent. The only thing he had not dared tell Anya was that he had resolved not to surrender to the disease its ultimate prey—his dignity.

There was no doubt a neurological explanation for the sudden—and inevitably transitory—return of his rational faculties. And yet, though no scientist has discovered
the location of the human will, they all recognize its existence and respect its inscrutable power.

Adam’s whole life had been one of increasing mastery of his environment. As a youngster this was epitomized in his skills as a diver. He had trained his body to obey his thoughts and perform actions of extreme beauty.

His enormous inner strength prefigured the character of his scientific career, in which he strove to correct nature’s mistakes. The prize he had just received was ample testimony to his success.

Moreover, the news from Stockholm had provided a neural stimulus, giving him a physical renewal he was unlikely to experience again.

He knew this was the moment to act. He sat up in bed and, like an automaton, dressed himself and put on track shoes—an act he had not performed without assistance for several months. Car keys were strewn carelessly on the hall table. He picked up a set.

The garage door had been left open, so the only sound he created was the soft purr of Anya’s Ford Tempo as he backed out into the street.

As he drove toward the lab, Adam meticulously observed the rules of the road. He carefully stopped at red lights. He did not exceed the speed limit.

He even parked in the correct space in the garage.

He took the elevator to the eighth floor in hopes of making a final visit to his lab. But the moment he spied several night owls still at their benches, he turned and walked to the fire door.

Then, with dignity and grace, he mounted the steps and walked out onto the roof.

Adam knew where he was and why he had gone there.

He was not frightened.

He walked slowly to the edge and stood erect and proud as he surveyed the city bathed in the glow of the morning’s early light.

Then, calling upon distant but distinct memories of his body’s flights through space, he sprang forward.

And dove into the void.

EPILOGUE
 

Late on the afternoon of December tenth the nobilities of blood and mind packed the Grand Auditorium of the Concert Hall in Stockholm for the culmination of a week of celebrations: the climactic ceremony at which the Nobel Prizes were presented to the winners of the year.

Unlike most theatrical productions, this event had spectators on both sides of the footlights. For seated in several semicircular rows on stage were some 150 members of the Swedish academies, in their white ties and evening dress, for all to see.

The rows of black and white figures were only occasionally punctuated by colored gowns—a graphic illustration of how small a role women have played in Nobel history.

At precisely four-thirty, on a raised platform behind
them, Niklas Willen’s baton signaled the Stockholm Philharmonic Orchestra to begin the Royal Anthem. The audience rose as Their Majesties, King Carl XVI Gustav—young and regal, dressed in conservative black—and Queen Silvia, dazzling in a red dress, with a shining coronet on her auburn hair, entered from the right-hand side of the stage.

Exactly one minute later—the Foundation’s schedule is Swisslike in its precision—to the strains of the Rákóczy March from, of all things,
The Damnation of Faust,
the new laureates entered in procession through a curtain of flowers, passing as they did a dramatically lit bust of Alfred Nobel, the inventor of dynamite and presiding genius of this event.