Propelled by her dazzlingly creative work in the two graduate seminars, Isabel da Costa achieved her goal—or more accurately, Raymond’s—and in the late summer of 1986 became the youngest graduate in the history of Berkeley. Summa cum laude in physics, with a shining gold Phi Beta Kappa key hanging around her neck.
Once again the press was out in force, and once again Muriel and Peter reenacted their familiar roles of loving mother and admiring brother. Though some of the reporters were anxious to get photos of father and daughter, whom one of them had dubbed “the thermodynamic duo,” Raymond had outmaneuvered them and made certain that they were only photographed as a complete family.
Though the TV cameras concentrated almost exclusively on close-ups of Isabel, when she graciously thanked her family for their support, they intercut to close-ups of Ray, the man she singled out as “still the best teacher I ever had.”
Back in June, during her brief visit home for Peter’s graduation, she and her brother had forged a relationship that continued to strengthen, even when Peter—himself entering college that fall—was consigned to the status of wallpaper.
They went to dinner at the Heidelberg, and continued to talk about their futures as if they were on the same level of magnitude.
Peter told her that he was thinking of majoring in physical education. “What’s next for you, sis?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. His generous nature enabled him to admire Isabel without envying her.
“Do you have any suggestions?” she asked playfully.
“Actually, I do,” he replied. “I mean, my advice would be to take a trip around the world.”
“What for?”
“God, can’t you even guess? You know all the formulas that govern the movement of the universe but you’ve never even seen your own planet. A couple of buddies and I are using the money we earned washing cars on weekends to go backpacking in France. I’d invite you to come along, but I already know what Dad would say.”
“Gosh, I’d love to go, but it’s urgent that I start on my master’s thesis with Pracht right away.”
“Isn’t that a little bit premature, even for you?” Peter asked. “I mean, you haven’t even done the course work—or,” he said with a fond smile, “did you finish it all last night while I was sleeping?”
“I know it sounds strange,” she explained. “This is strictly between us—do you know anything about the Theory of Forces?”
“Only what I remember from Star Wars,” he joked. “Can you put it in language that a half-wit can understand?”
“Okay,” she began, “It’s like this. Conventional physics recognizes four different forces in nature. Most everybody is familiar with gravity and electrodynamics—they operate over large distances. But then there is a ‘strong’ force, which works over a short range and holds atomic nuclei together, and a ‘weak’ force—which is associated with the decay of neutrons outside the nucleus. Are you with me so far?”
“Let’s just say I believe you—but I wouldn’t like to take a test on it. Go on, I’ll keep straining my brain muscles.”
“Well, ever since Newton, physicists have made about a zillion attempts to develop things called G.U.T.’s, or Grand Unified Theories—some way of encompassing all four forces. Einstein tried, but even he couldn’t find an answer. Twenty years ago, a guy named Stephen Weinberg made the best unifying attempt so far by using a mathematical technique known as gauge symmetry. I won’t bore you with the details.”
“Thanks.” Her brother laughed.
“Lately, theoretical physics is evolving G.U.T.’s using principles of symmetry, but there’s still no definitive answer.”
“Which is where you come in—right?”
“Not yet.” She smiled. “Don’t be so anxious to get me onstage.”
“I can’t help it, I’m rooting for you to get there first.”
“Well, there’re a couple of guys still ahead of me on the track, including Karl. He’s collaborating with a team in Cambridge and one in Germany. They’re all gathering data in the field of high-energy physics which can only be explained by the existence of a fifth force. That might be the key to the whole picture. I’ve read their article in draft—and obviously so have the heads of a lot of Physics departments.
“If he’s right, it’s a mega-breakthrough, and that’ll mean mind-boggling job offers not only from MIT, but the other go-go schools who recruit potential Nobelists like trophies on a shelf.”
“But where do you come in?” Peter smiled.
“Your patience is rewarded. Here I am—really trying to get into this whole question. And since nobody is closer to the material than Karl, maybe you can understand why I want to start this while he’s still in our backyard.”
Peter nodded and said with affection, “Isabel, for once I find myself agreeing with you. Go for it. And may the fifth force be with you.”
Muriel had been a good trouper. But this was to be her last appearance as perfect wife and mother.
Her final conversation with Ray was strangely poignant. They sat at the round, dark wood table of the rathskeller, its surface etched with generations of initials of lovers and vandals.
“So this is it?” Raymond sighed.
To his own surprise, he was painfully reliving the early part of their marriage, the birth of the children, each christened with hope of increased happiness.
At this moment he took no joy in his victory. Perhaps it was the beer. Perhaps a moment of unguarded honesty in which he realized what a generous human being Muriel was.
He looked at her and whispered, “I’m very sorry it had to happen this way.”
“So am I,” she answered quietly.
“I mean, we’ve lived this sham so long, I can’t understand why it couldn’t have gone on a little longer until the kids were a bit older.”
“They’re both strong enough to find their way in this world. On the other hand, at my age a second chance for happiness doesn’t come along that often.”
“What do you mean?” Raymond asked, already sensing that the reply would destroy the gentle empathy of the moment.
She looked at him and murmured almost apologetically, “I want to get married again.”
He hesitated for a moment. Perhaps in his acute selfishness he had expected her to wait for him, like Patience on a monument.
“Anyone I might know?” he asked.
“I thought it was obvious,” she responded. “Edmundo and I have grown very close. Maybe it’s because we’re both cripples in a way, him physically, me emotionally. But at least we can listen to music and communicate without the need for any words.”
“Well,” Raymond remarked, trying to mask the feelings of jealousy that had gripped him by surprise. “I guess you’ve been in love with him for years.”
Muriel lowered her head. “I suppose so,” she conceded. “But never the way I loved you.”
When she heard that her mother was remarrying, Isabel burst into tears.
Peter tried to reason with her. “Isabel, you’re not being fair. Mom’s been alone for so long—and everybody needs a partner in life.”
He was suddenly self-conscious, realizing that his unpartnered father was present and might take offense.
But Raymond simply inquired phlegmatically, “Isn’t there already a Mrs. Zimmer?”
“Up till a few months ago,” Muriel replied. “Then she found love, with of all people, the church organist. And actually badgered Edmundo for a divorce.”
Then Muriel said softly, “Naturally, I want Isabel at the wedding.”
“I’m sorry,” Raymond objected civilly, “but don’t you think she’s a bit too young to ride the bus—or even a plane—by herself?”
Muriel smiled bitterly. “That’s an irony, Ray, and you do have a point. But Peter’s got his license now, and if you don’t mind the idea of his driving Isabel all the way down—”
“I can make it in one day easily,” Peter interrupted with a touch of pride, “and I mean sticking to the speed limits too.”
Now all eyes were focused on Ray, who sensibly realized that he had to accommodate the majority’s wish. It was clear even to him that Isabel wanted to go.
“Uh, what time is the, uh … ceremony?”
“Well,” Muriel replied, “we’re just going to go to the courthouse and have a few friends over for a drink. If it’ll make you feel any better, we could schedule it for mid-morning. Then Isabel could fly down on the first plane—”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Ray conceded. “There’s an eight o’clock flight from Oakland, and I’ll be glad to drive her to the airport. She can easily be back by dinnertime.”
Isabel herself was about to interject that she might want to spend the evening and even the night with the rest of the family.
But she could try and persuade her father later.
Maybe.
Upon her return to San Diego, Muriel wasted no time arranging the wedding. Two weeks later Isabel, in a frilly pink dress that she and her mother had bought in Berkeley, stood to one side with Peter as a magistrate formally decreed that henceforth their mother would be Mrs. Edmundo Zimmer.
Another pair of siblings stood on the groom’s side, a sister in her early thirties and a brother older still. Both Dorotea and Francisco had flown up from Argentina to honor their father as well as to serve as legal witnesses.
After the brief ceremony, all six of them repaired to a private room at the faculty club for drinks and a small but elegant nuptial meal.
Both Muriel and Edmundo were in buoyant spirits, and they seemed especially touched that Isabel had come. After the glasses were raised to them, Edmundo in turn proposed a toast to “the famously brilliant young lady who has traveled a long way to be here with us.”
Isabel was self-conscious, especially since Edmundo’s children had flown much farther. But she was soon completely won over by the conductor’s charm and the genuine affection radiating from his eyes.
There was a larger reception planned for that evening, at which various members of the orchestra would be playing solos, trios, and even a wind quintet.
“I really wish you could stay for it,” Edmundo remarked sincerely. “I was so looking forward to hearing you play the violin.”
“You won’t be missing much. I haven’t had a lot of time to practice lately.”
“Don’t be so modest,” he protested gallantly. “Muriel tells me you make your instrument sing. I want you to promise me that you’ll bring it down at Christmas.”
Isabel was so enchanted by Edmundo that she resolved to duke it out with Raymond if he tried to object to her visiting again at Christmas.
Her plane landed at Oakland just after nine P.M. And as she walked toward her loving father’s outstretched arms, Isabel felt an inexplicable sadness.
He was everything to her. Or almost everything.
But there was no music in Raymond da Costa’s life.