“Isabel, you’ve gotta grow up.”
The twenty-three-year-old star of the MIT physics faculty laughed. “I’m doing the best I can, Jerry,” she responded. “If you’ve noticed, you pay full price for me at the movies.”
“You know what I’m talking about,” he protested. “You’ve held out long enough. It’s time to pick up that phone and call your mother.
“I can understand you feel this urge to ‘punish’ her. But whatever the messy circumstances, there’s no question about her loving you. Think about how much she suffered when you and Ray walked out on her.”
Isabel sighed. “Dammit, Pracht, you’re so maddeningly mature—at least when it comes to other people.” She paused for a moment and said softly, “I’m scared.”
Jerry took her by the shoulders. “I can see that. You’re worried she might already be a widow, and wonder how you’ll react if … Edmundo is dead.”
“Are you thinking of taking up psychiatry?” she asked, half serious.
“I just want to help straighten out your head so you can transfer that emotional energy you’re wasting on worry—to loving me.”
“Jerry, I couldn’t love you more.”
He smiled. “How do you know if you haven’t tried? Call her, Isa—call her now.”
Jerry kept his hand affectionately on the nape of her neck as her trembling fingers dialed area code 619 and the other numbers. There were several rings, and then—
“Hello?”
“Mom, it’s me.”
“Oh, Isabel, how wonderful to hear your voice. How are you, darling?”
“Never mind me,” she protested, inwardly relieved by the affectionate welcome her mother had given her. “How’s everybody at your end? I mean, especially … Edmundo.”
“Would you believe that we’re all fine? So far the gene therapy’s worked wonders, and there don’t appear to be any side effects.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“How’s that young man of yours? You won’t believe how angry Peter is that I didn’t get his autograph. I didn’t know I was in the presence of such a sports star.”
“You had other things on your mind,” Isabel allowed.
“Yes, I certainly did,” her mother answered, and then inquired tentatively, “You will invite me to the wedding, won’t you?”
“Listen, you’ll be pleased to know that Jerry and I agree we’re both too young to get married—which is such a grown-up decision we’re thinking of changing our minds. Anyway, if and when, I promise I’ll invite you.”
In the silence that ensued, Muriel’s relief was palpable. Then she asked, “And Edmundo?”
“Mom, Jerry and I have talked ourselves hoarse about this. He’s made me see that I’m foolish to be angry at—your husband. On the other hand, I’ve made him see that I only want one father. Am I making any sense to you?”
“I’m afraid so, darling.” Muriel paused and then said softly, “Anyway, I’m really glad you called.”
“So am I.”
The moment she hung up, a broad smile of joy and relief crossed Isabel’s face.
“I did it, Jerry. Thank you.”
“I’m glad, Isa. You look very happy.”
Her next volley of words caught him off balance.
“Now it’s your turn.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean now you’ve got to grow up.”
“What are you talking about?” he demanded.
“Well, you allege you want to marry me …”
“What do you mean allege? Don’t you think I’m serious?”
“I’m perfectly willing to love you as a tennis pro—or even as a high school coach if you want. But I refuse to marry a scatterbrain who doesn’t know what he’ll be doing in two weeks. Honestly, Jerry, it’s unsettling.”
As he listened to her scolding, a broad grin crossed his face.
“I knew this would happen,” he said histrionically. “You’ve gone totally bourgeois on me.”
“You’re right. Deep down I’m a very conventional person.”
“Want to hear a terrible confession?” he offered. “I’ve discovered that I am too. So I’m going to hang up my racket—that is, until we have kids to teach—and join the family business. Now, you can’t get more bourgeois than that.”
“You mean you’re going into physics?” she asked excitedly.
“Not the theoretical kind,” he replied with emphasis. “I’ll leave it to the likes of you and my father to hang around dreaming up theories. I like to go hands-on.”
“You mean like microwave radiometer tapes?”
“Yeah, that kind of stuff—and of course telescopes. I mean, look at it this way: If I grow up and get a degree, I might actually get to work in a grown-up observatory.” He smiled sheepishly. “Have I succeeded in glossing over the fact that I’m selling out?”
“It doesn’t matter if you have a good reason,” she answered affectionately.
“Well, I can’t think of a better one than you, Isa—except I have one non-negotiable demand.”
“I tremble—what is it?”
“To get my goddamn bachelor’s, I actually have to go through intermediate physics. And I want you as my instructor.”
She began to laugh. “All right, but I’m warning you right now, fool around in my class, I’ll flunk you without mercy.”
He took her in his arms. “That’s the way I want it, Isa, without mercy.”
“Yes, Jerry,” she answered. “But with all my love.”
Several weeks later, with profoundly mixed feelings, Isabel received an inscribed advance copy of Avilov’s article scheduled to appear in the Journal of Genetic Therapy. Though of course none of the patients was mentioned, she could still deduce from the data curve that since the procedure had been successful on several subjects of Edmundo’s age, it had clearly worked on Edmundo himself. But then, her mother had already supplied even more substantiating evidence.
From a strictly professional standpoint she could not fault the science of the paper. The man would not win any personality awards, but he certainly knew his stuff. Even without the use of emotive adjectives, he could make his achievement sound so dramatic that it reached the front page of the New York Times.
The article also speculated on the ramifications of his accomplishment. Without question, the ability to create a retrovirus that would not only arrest the progress of such a grave disease but also restore health, brought the possibility of cures for such catastrophic illnesses as Alzheimer’s that much closer.
The profile also made it clear that the former Soviet academician had proven to be a quick study in the ways of capitalism.
Though no figures were specified, it was obvious that the Swiss pharmaceutical giant underwriting Avilov’s work had been more than generous. And although the interviewing reporter had admired his subject’s work, he could not totally conceal that he regarded Avilov as devoutly materialistic. He quoted the scientist’s description of himself as a man “with a beautiful wife, three gorgeous kids, and four vintage sports cars.”
By happy coincidence, the most important event in the scientific calendar was about to take place. The various committees in Stockholm were meeting to choose laureates in Medicine, Chemistry, Literature, and Physics. Their official announcements would be made in October, and the awards themselves presented on December tenth, the anniversary of Alfred Nobel’s death.
Nomination forms had gone out to the usual constituencies—previous recipients, heads of departments in the outstanding universities of the world, and assorted other dignitaries.
There were also self-propelled candidates who did not wish to leave anything to chance and who openly solicited letters of recommendation from influential colleagues. This was the inevitable topic of conversation whenever scientists gathered.
One evening when Jerry and Isabel, MIT freshman and assistant professor respectively, were having dinner with the elder Pracht, Karl remarked, “It’s unbelievable, but that Russian at Harvard has been shameless enough to write unctuous letters to all the Nobelists on the MIT faculty. God knows why, because he doesn’t know any of them personally.”
“He’s just ruthlessly ambitious,” Isabel commented, without revealing her personal relationship with him.
“No, he’s more than that, he’s incredibly astute,” Pracht replied. “You’d be amazed, but one or two of the boys actually felt their egos being stroked and dropped a little note to Stockholm. I don’t have to tell you that when it gets down to the nitty-gritty, every letter helps.
“But of course, this year it’s a foregone conclusion in physics,” he stated, smiling at his future daughter-in-law. “I hope your Swedish is good enough to give an acceptance speech.”
“But I was just beginning to enjoy the bliss of semi-anonymity, dammit,” Isabel protested.
“You can always turn it down.” Jerry grinned. “I mean, Jean-Paul Sartre refused the Literature Prize in 1964.”
“Yes,” his father agreed, “only that got him even more publicity.”
“But I genuinely don’t want it,” Isabel said plaintively. “I mean, it’s the traditional grand finale to a career, and I’ve barely started.”
Jerry smiled. “Don’t sweat it, honey. Remember, Marie Curie won it twice—and that was at a time when women were barely allowed to win it once.”