“I’ve been back to New Walden. Klapper wanted to go back for a Shabbes.”
“What? Without me? How could you?”
“I didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter.”
“That I can believe. So how was it? Did you see Azarya again? Did you get to speak to him?”
“Just a little bit, when I dropped Klapper off at the Rebbe’s house. Azarya let us in. He asked for you.”
“You’re kidding?” She still looked like hell, her face disarranged from her jags of crying, but she was smiling.
“I think he has a little crush on you.”
“Oh!” And her eyes, not entirely dried out yet, began to well anew.
“Listen, Roz, here’s something to cheer you. He knows how to read English.”
“They taught him?”
“He taught himself. From your map of the U.S. You said all the words as you wrote them down, and he memorized them and used the map to teach himself how to read.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me.”
“Did you test him? Did you see whether he really knows how to read?”
“Roz, I believe him.”
“What is it? What’s that look on your face?”
He told her about how the Valdeners had assembled in celebration as the sun sank, and about how the child, in his little shtreimel and pale-blue kaputa, was lifted up onto the enormous table-“it was bigger than your apartment and mine put together”-and how he had spoken about his angels.
“He calls the prime numbers ‘prime angels’ now. Prime maloychim. Roz, he knows that every composite number can be factored into primes.”
“How do you know he knows that?”
“Because, Roz, because…” Cass had to take a breath to control his voice and face before going on. “Azarya proved that there’s no largest prime number. He proved that there are an infinite number of primes. He used the factorization theorem to prove it. I’m pretty sure I was the only one there who had any idea of what he was talking about. His father didn’t get it. Azarya was so happy, thinking that he was showing all the Valdeners the wonderful thing that he had found and sharing it with them, but he was all alone. It was the most exhilarating and the loneliest thing I’d ever seen in my life.”
They were both churned up by emotional turmoil. Cass had never been able to resist Roz’s laugh. He wouldn’t have known, until tonight, that her tears had the same effect.
“You can laugh at me all you want,” she said in between their tears, “but I’m terrified for that kid. The fragility of children is the most terrifying part of this whole terrifying world.”
“Terrifying world? Come on, Roz! What happened to my fearless warrior woman, Suwäayaiwä? The wild Rastafarian who could set the Extreme Distinguished Professor of Faith, Literature, and Values jiggling with terror?”
“How is the Klap?” Roz asked when she could find her voice again. “He enjoy himself in New Walden?”
He hadn’t planned on telling her anything at all about the irregularities of his professor’s behavior during the Shabbes at New Walden. But the poor girl so clearly needed a laugh that he poured it out to her, starting with his pulling up in the Lincoln Continental in front of the faux-English manor on Berkeley Place and beholding the emergence of Jonas Elijah Klapper in full Hasidic drag.
“No! You’re making it up!”
“I’m not capable.”
“Oh God! Did you get a picture?”
“I only wish! If I’d only known, I’d have brought a camera.”
“And send it to the Frankfurter Board of Trustees. Show them where their money is going!”
“The shtreimel was sable, Roz. Russian sable, with thirteen tails!” It was a long time before either of them could say anything again.
Roz had to have noticed that Cass’s attitude toward Jonas Elijah Klapper was not as reverential as it once had been. But Cass held off speaking of his more particular and personal misgivings. The topic was depressing. For the second time since coming to study at Frankfurter, he had to consider what to do with his life if he was no longer going to be Jonas Elijah Klapper’s student. He wasn’t ready to air his doubts with Roz. He knew that to bring them up with her was-“ipso facto,” as the Klap would say-to have made the decision to leave Klapper. And at this point, he realized, the hardest aspect of that decision was his abandonment of the group. Gideon had urged him, that first day, to quit while he was ahead, but that was so long ago, before Cass had become woven into the texture of their shared devotion.
He had shoved the books that Klapper had assigned him under his bed. He didn’t want to see them, and he most certainly didn’t want Roz to see them.
But, with her unerring instincts for fieldwork, she located them by herself. It was late morning, the light in Cass’s basement apartment the dirty gray of twilight that it achieved at its brightest. Roz called Cass’s digs “Suicide Manor” and claimed to be able to make out the chalk outlines of the body of the last tenant.
Cass was in the bathroom, and Roz was searching for a black thong that she had flung off an hour before.
“What are these?” she asked Cass as he emerged in his shorts. He only shook his head.
“Is this Hebrew?” she demanded.
“Yiddish.”
“You know Yiddish?”
“No more than you.”
“I know mishegoss.”
“Me, too.”
“Craziness, right? That’s what mishegoss means? What’s it about?”
“I think he might be going off the deep end.”
“Might? Going?”
She was stark naked, having still not located the thong. She must have gone pretty skimpy in Venezuela, judging by her tan line.
“At least you’ve only wasted a year. Look at poor Gideon. He’s wasted almost thirteen. He lost his poetry. He’s probably going to lose his wife.”
“Lizzie?”
“She’s had it. All that elaborate exegesis about every cockamamie thing the Klap says or does. Lizzie’s poured her heart out to me.”
“Fuck.” Cass sat down on the bed, dazed.
“Wow. I’ve never heard you curse. It’s disturbing.”
“Fuck. Fuck.”
“Really, really disturbing.”
“I can’t believe Lizzie would leave him. He’s going to be devastated. Lizzie is the center of his world.”
“No, she isn’t. That’s the problem. Klapper is.” She paused, but Cass made no response. “Seven good minds gone bad, wasting themselves on trying to figure out the Kabbalist meaning for why Nut Boy switched offices with his secretary. How long do you think a woman can listen to that?”
“Six minds. Six minds going bad. There’s no way I’m writing a dissertation on the hermeneutics of potato kugel.”
Lunatic. That had been the word that had occurred to him in Klapper’s office. The Liminal, the Luminant, and the Lunatic. Cass had hastily disowned it.
But now the thought wasn’t just being thought.
Cass was thinking it.
XXIV The Argument from the Ethics of the Fathers
The phone rings, and Cass is relieved. It must be a response to his desperate summons. But when he answers, he’s momentarily confused. It’s Lucinda. He calculates quickly. It’s 9 p.m. in Santa Barbara. Rishi must have given the keynote, and Cass hears the triumph restored to Lucinda’s voice. She had fanged the sucker. She had fanged him but good.
“And you’re not going to believe this, but you actually helped me out here!”
“Me?”
“Believe it or not! Or maybe your ne’er-do-well brother.”
“Jesse?”
“None other. You remember how I’d mentioned the Saint Petersburg Paradox to you, tried to explain that that’s what did Jesse in?”