Prizes

by Erich Segal

“Come on, dollface,” she murmured sweetly. “Let me show you what a great cup of coffee I can make with just a few spoons of Nescafé.”

  He followed her into a room whose sophisticated machinery could well have surpassed the kitchen of the hotel at which they had just dined. Everything sparkled: glass, metal, hidden lights, the works.

  “You were married once,” she remarked offhandedly.

  “Yeah,” Sandy nodded. “It didn’t agree with me. Or to be more specific, it didn’t agree with her. But I’m certainly not bitter. I’ve got the most wonderful daughter.”

  “Oh, really?” she gushed. “You must tell me all about her.” Quickly adding, “Sometime. But for the moment, let’s be selfish.”

  “In what way?” Sandy inquired.

  “What about a little skinny dip?” she asked with nonchalant eroticism. Before he could respond, she gracefully undid the zippers and stepped out of her dress.

  Despite her long-ago appearance in Playboy, he was still self-conscious about seeing his childhood friend unclothed. Somehow he felt he was spying on the young and innocent—was she ever really innocent?—Rochelle Taubman whose homework he had cheerfully done and whom he had once dreamed of seducing. But whether it was the aerobics, genetics, or merely plastic surgery—her body was magnificent.

  “Come on, honey,” she coaxed. “What are you waiting for?”

  “I don’t know, Rochelle,” he answered softly. “But I think I’d prefer to pass.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “What’s the matter, Sandy? Scared you’re not man enough?”

  Her taunt helped him at his moment of indecision. He stood up. “No, Rochelle,” he answered. “I think it’s the other way around. You’re not woman enough.”

  “What?” she shrieked with outrage. “I always knew you didn’t have any balls. You’re nothing but a chickenshit little eunuch. Go to hell.”

  At this point his soul had broken free.

  “Thanks a lot for the dinner,” he said.

  “Did you hear me?” she shouted furiously. “I said go to hell.”

  He stared at her with genuine indifference and answered, “You know the funniest thing, Rochelle—I’ve been there all this time, and only just realized it.”

  Sandy knew he had his work cut out for him that weekend, and drove straight to the airport without even going home. He made the necessary arrangements on his car phone.

  He called Kimiko to explain he had to fly urgently to New York and would try to return by the following evening.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “It will be by the time I get back,” he said warmly.

  “Do you want me to pick you up at the airport?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “I would like that very much.”

  The following Monday, since Kim’s first meeting of the day was off the lot, she did not pull up to the studio gate until nearly eleven. Usually the minute he caught sight of her red Lamborghini, the guard would lift the barrier so she could zoom through without having to change gears.

  Today, for some reason, the barrier remained in place.

  “What’s happening?” she called out in mock anger. “Have you lost your touch? Open the drawbridge.”

  “Uh, hello there, Miss Tower,” the officer said uneasily. “How’re you doing?”

  Kim had exhausted her patience and good humor with this minion. Instead of responding to his question, she merely barked, “Up, Mitch. Move your ass.”

  The sentry remained by the side of her car, a part of him savoring the moment. It was a role he had played on countless occasions, but never on so grand a level.

  “Miss Tower, I don’t know exactly how to say this, but …” He paused and then concluded, “you’re not on my docket.”

  “I … what?”

  The man nodded. “As you know, the lists are changed each morning. I guess you don’t work here anymore.”

  Kim had a short fuse, and she exploded. “Listen, mister, I’m giving you exactly ten seconds to cut this misplaced April Fool’s gag and let me in—or you’ll never work in this town again.”

  The security guard stood steadfast. In fact, his tone became more solemn. “With respect, ma’am, you’re blocking the entrance. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to move.”

  “Balls!” she snapped, reaching for her car telephone. “I’m going to get George Constantine on the phone right now and we’ll see who leaves this spot first.”

  Naturally, the studio boss’s line was preprogrammed number 1, and Kim immediately reached him on the other coast. After the tycoon said a brief hello, he remained impeccably calm as the wrath of hell poured into his ear.

  After a moment he took a breath. “Listen, sugar,” he explained cordially, “you of all people should know the way the system works. It’s a revolving door—one day you’re in, the next you’re out. I’m afraid this is your day to be out.

  “But as a token of my gratitude I’d like to give you some valuable advice. If I were you, I’d use the twenty-four hour hiatus before we make our announcement to fly to Paris and buy dresses or whatever makes you happy. You don’t want to be here when the spit hits the fan.”

  The phone went as dead as Kim Tower’s status in the town.

  Mitch was staring at her, his face fully showing the satisfaction that his superior rank had now been established. Before retreating, Kim had to ask him the sixty-four-million-dollar question.

  “By the way,” she said with artificial sweetness, “can you tell me who’s head of production as of this morning?”

  “Oh,” said Mitch with a poker face. “I guess you mean Mr. Raven.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Sidney Raven, Miss Tower,” he replied. “Now you have a nice day.”

  61

  ISABEL

  Some clinics are born out of need, some out of philanthropy—and others out of sheer desperation.

  While the more medically sophisticated nations of the world continue to impose strict clinical protocols before ratifying experimental drugs for use on humans, the terminally ill refuse to wait. After failing to sway their own medical bureaucracy, they circumvent it by going to one of several special hospitals that have recently opened on tiny Caribbean islands previously known for their beaches and rum punch.

  Many establishment physicians denigrate these operations as heartless and exploitative. While in certain cases this is a valid accusation, in others genuine cures are being realized. Numerous hopeless cases are alive today having acted as human guinea pigs beneath the swaying palms.

  True, a large proportion of the “cures” offered by these institutions have been like Laetrile, an antitumor drug originally derived from apricot pits by two California doctors, which has produced little more than dashed hopes and large bills.

  The dubious benefits of this remedy did not dissuade a stream of patients whom more traditional methods had not helped.

  In other cases, for example under the Reagan and Bush administrations, while strict American legislation forbade the medical use of tissue from aborted fetuses, it became available in the islands. Brain surgeons were therefore able to try radical procedures that advanced the fight against such maladies as Parkinson’s disease and even Alzheimer’s.

  Although they did not broadcast their presence, representatives of all the multinational drug companies made regular, if low profile, visits to these farflung enterprises, and even major universities turned a blind eye when distinguished senior members of their faculties dashed off to the Caribbean for what they euphemistically referred to as “working vacations.”

  Now, Dmitri Avilov waited on the runway of the airport at St. Lucia, a lush and verdant paradise of volcanoes and valleys.

  Though only the second largest of the Windward Archipelago, it held two special attractions for the former Soviet scientist: the ultramodern facilities of its private Clinique Ste Hélène, and the compelling coincidence that this tiny country—one-fifth the size of Rhode Island—had already produ
ced two Nobel Prize winners, though none as yet in medicine.

  Uncharacteristically sporty in his open short-sleeved shirt, Avilov scanned the cloudless skies for signs of the Piper Comanche ferrying the Zimmer family from Caracas, where they had flown in from Buenos Aires.

  He was tense. For all his confidence before patients, he was deeply apprehensive about the new genetic therapy he was about to undertake.

  While one of the ancillary advantages of risking experimental techniques in faraway places was the fact that doctors could quite literally bury their mistakes, he was still frightened that if he failed, albeit in so remote a place, somehow the word would get out. And while his formal academic job would not be imperiled, his international reputation might be irreparably damaged.

  On the other hand, if he succeeded, his long-cultivated romance with the press would bring attention to the little island that had witnessed his major breakthrough.

  A moment later the drone of the small plane became audible. In another instant it was visible, circled the field, and gracefully touched down. The pilot jumped energetically from the cockpit and hurried to open the passenger door. A dark-skinned nurse in a blue cotton pantsuit came quickly down the steps carrying a small satchel.

  After scanning the various people waiting outside the terminal, she motioned to a white minibus. The orderlies who had been waiting in its air-conditioned comfort drove out onto the field and entered the plane. Then together they bore out Edmundo Zimmer, his face gray with impending death, placed him onto a stretcher, and carried him back to their vehicle.

  The other passengers—Muriel, Francisco, and Dorotea—followed, shielding their eyes from the harsh Caribbean sun.

  The local authorities insisted that the new arrivals go through an elaborate customs procedure that even the great professor could not circumvent.

  Finally, Muriel and the Russian went in the minibus with Edmundo, while Francisco and Dorotea followed in a rickety taxi that bounced them dizzy.

  When they regrouped at the Clinique Ste Hélène, Avilov proposed, “There’s no point in waiting. The actual ‘operation’ has already been performed on the samples I took from his bone marrow. We have merely to infuse the recombinant cells and set them to work transforming the murderous gene. I think we can get right on with that.”

  “I agree,” Muriel responded, then cast a glance at Francisco and Dorotea, who both nodded concurrence.

  “In that case,” the Russian continued, “I’ll see to it that he’s installed in a room and start the transfusion. Since there’ll be no immediate results, may I propose that the rest of you go to the hotel and unwind from the journey.”

  “I want to stay with him,” Muriel insisted.

  “So do I,” the two others echoed almost in unison.

  “As you wish,” Avilov acceded. “But I would insist that you be present only one at a time.”

  As the professor had predicted, nothing dramatic happened for several days. Avilov had returned temporarily to Boston to attend to other matters and other patients. When the rest of them weren’t visiting the hospital, they relaxed on the beach.

  One night at dinner Dorotea confided, “I’ve spoken to several doctors, and all of them seem to concur that Avilov is on the right track. I asked if—since we’re in a ‘rule-free’ zone—he would try the therapy on me as well. And he agreed.”

  “Isn’t that taking a big risk?” Muriel asked.

  “No,” the younger woman replied, her voice revealing both anger and fear. “I can’t live waiting to be sick. If he can’t cure me, I’d rather die immediately.”

  Francisco tried to dissuade his sister, but she was adamant.

  On his return, the Russian was delighted. “A very wise decision,” he trumpeted. “There’s still time for you to be a happy mother of children—healthy children.”

  He was so effusive that it almost seemed as if he was willing to help get her pregnant also.

  There was little to do on this distant paradise. The newspapers were all three days old. In her room, Muriel found a pamphlet with a brief history of the island, which mentioned as one of its tourist attractions a seventeenth-century cemetery whose residents provided a historical panoply of the various waves of emigrants to this island—thence to the North American colonies. According to the brochure, there was even a fellow with the exotic name of “Uriel Da Costa.”

  “Do you think he might be a relative?” Francisco asked.

  “I doubt it. But it would give us something to fill the afternoon.”

  “Okay, vamos.”

  It turned out to be a mixed blessing.

  Francisco was able to translate the epitaphs, which were all in Spanish or Portuguese. And yet, amid the worn and beaten gray stone slabs, they discovered three perceptibly newer ones.

  Upon investigation, they were staggered to see that this trio of graves dated not only from the twentieth century, but from the past five years. And the deceased were neither Portuguese nor Spanish. One headstone read, “Mary Donovan, 1935–1989.”

  Francisco, who read Muriel’s thoughts, immediately approached the caretaker and asked who these people were. The old man shrugged, and mumbled a few words.

  Francisco was furious when he returned, and Muriel asked anxiously, “What did he say?”

  Her stepson imitated the man’s French accent, “ ‘Zey ill—zey die—I bury.’ ”

  “Were you able to ask him what they died of?”

  “He said just two words—‘La Clinique.’ ”

  They were both alarmed and incensed, but during the interim had agreed not to impart this information to Dorotea. They were waiting on the runway to confront Avilov when his chartered plane from Boston touched down.

  He seemed offended by their attitude.

  “I do not wish to discuss such matters in public. Let me first get this vital genetic material to the hospital and then we will talk.”

  When they were finally back in the acceptable privacy of the doctor’s office, Francisco exploded. “Why didn’t you come clean with us about your failure rate?”

  “Because I have none,” he insisted coolly. “Don’t forget, there are doctors performing other procedures on this island.”

  Muriel fixed him with an intense gaze and demanded, “Was Mary Donovan a patient of yours?”

  The Russian fidgeted uneasily. “I regard that question as unethical,” he mumbled.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Muriel responded. “You’ve just answered it.”

  Avilov suddenly panicked. “But you don’t understand, Mrs. Zimmer,” he babbled. “The woman was practically dead when she got here. It was too late. But the treatment did her no harm—”

  “I would have believed that more readily had you told me in Boston.”

  “If I had, would you still have come?”

  “I don’t know.” Muriel shook her head. “I certainly would have thought twice.”

  “Have you told Dorotea?” he inquired.

  “No,” her brother answered. “Not yet.”

  “Then at least give me a week’s grace. I’ll keep her retrovirus in cold storage, and you can see for yourself if Edmundo makes any progress.”

  Muriel could not help wondering how many other human guinea pigs he had treated. And whether, in clinics on other islands, there had been more Mary Donovans. No doubt she would have to wait till his data was published. And yet her instinct told her that the Russian would be emphasizing the positive results and might even succumb to some selective amnesia when it came to patients who had been too sick to be helped.

  It took merely five days to discover that Dorotea’s fate would be reversed. Indeed, Avilov’s success was proof that even the devil himself could work miracles.

  Whatever his motivation, he was a superb scientist. With each passing day it became apparent that Edmundo had become a unique medical phenomenon: a victim of Huntington’s in remission.

  It was a momentous achievement.

  Perhaps even worthy of a Nobel Pri
ze.

  62

  ISABEL

  “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.”