Prizes by Erich Segal Page A

“Now sit back and listen to the second movement of this Schubert.” And with that he turned up the volume and hummed along.
    Adam relented. At that instant he took his attention off the road—a lapse for which he would castigate himself the rest of his life. As they reached the crest of Heartbreak Hill on Commonwealth Avenue and began to hurtle downward, two teenagers on bikes suddenly appeared directly in the path of the car.
    Max swerved to avoid them. Skidding on a patch of ice, he lost control and crashed violently into a tree.
    The silence after the accident belied its gravity. There was the crumpling of thin metal. Then the sound of the driver’s forehead striking the windshield.
    And then total quiet.
    For a moment Adam sat there motionless, in shock.
    He listened intently but could not hear any sound of breathing. Reaching over to feel the old man’s pulse, heknew this was merely a pretext to touch his mentor for the last time.
    Slowly he was gripped by an agonizing awareness.
He’s dead. My friend, my teacher—my father—he’s dead. And it’s all my fault.
    A cry emerged from him like the howl of a wounded animal.
    He was still sobbing when the squad cars came.
    The cyclists, though horrified, were able to give a more or less coherent account of what had transpired.
    The senior police officer wanted to get his paperwork over with. “Do you know about next of kin?” he asked.
    “His wife. Lisl. She only lives a few blocks away. I could walk right there.”
    “Would you like us to drive you?”
    “No thank you, Sergeant. I need time to collect my thoughts.”
    Lisl took the news bravely. She murmured a few words about the folly of allowing her husband behind the wheel.
    “He was so headstrong, my Max, I should never have let him drive.”
    She then realized how shaken Adam was and touched his hand gently.
    “Stop blaming yourself. You have to accept that terrible things like this happen.”
    But why to Max? Adam grieved. Why to such a saintly human being?
    Lisl called one of her close friends, with whom she had done her analytical studies. The woman was more than willing to sit with her while Adam went through the grim procedure of making the funeral arrangements—which, in case of accidental death, had to wait for the obligatory police autopsy.
    At six P.M. Eli Cass, the press officer from Harvard,telephoned for details of the accident to add to the release he was rushing to complete for the next morning’s
Boston Globe
and the various wire services. Eli was pleased to speak to someone who could update the list of Max’s awards.
    “Dean Holmes said it was only a question of time before Max got the Nobel,” Cass remarked.
    “Yes,” Adam replied numbly. “He was probably the leading immunologist in the world.”
    In the living room, Lisl had been joined by Maurice Oates, the Rudolphs’ lawyer.
    “I wouldn’t be discussing Max’s will so soon,” he apologized. “Except that it’s very emphatic about there being no speeches at his interment. In fact, no service of any kind. Otherwise the testament is straightforward.” He paused, and then looked at the tall young doctor standing ashen-faced in the corner. “He wanted you to have his gold pocket watch.”
    “I’ll get it,” Lisl offered.
    “No, no,” Adam said. “There’s plenty of time for that.”
    “Please,” she overruled him. “If I don’t give it to you tonight, you’ll have nothing of Max’s to go home with.”
    And now, suddenly, heedless of the others in the room, she fell into Adam’s arms. And they both began to sob for the terrible loss of the noblest human being they would ever know.
    Though it was nearly midnight when he left, Lisl was still surrounded by several friends and neighbors who had come to keep her company. In addition, the house was filled with palpable memories of Max: his office, his books, his clothes. His reading glasses placed neatly on the desk.
    In contrast, all Adam had was the silent gold