Tom's hand-eye coordination was non-existent. He was always the last to be picked for any team sport at school. He did have a certain amount of kudos for having a brother who won every cup there was to win, but that didn’t detract from his own humiliation of being left on the sidelines. Instead, he found solace in science.
‘Matt. Hi, it's Tom. How do you fancy a shopping spree this weekend, just the two of us?’
Matt could never resist an invitation from his little brother and caught the next plane out of JFK to Boston.
The resulting transformation, from dour professor to stylish academic, was remarkable. Out went the cardigans, beige chinos and loafers, and in came merino wool sweaters, Armani trousers and designer shoes. His black, thick-framed glasses were replaced by rimless Gucci bifocals.
Tom had to admit that the makeover did give him a certain gravitas, as he caught his reflection in the mirror on the way out of his apartment to start his morning jog.
‘How did it go?’ The voice on the other end of the line came straight to the point.
‘Good. I think he was taken a little aback by our offer, but I could tell he was definitely intrigued,’ Frederick responded. He was now back in his hotel room, having spent the afternoon since leaving Tom at the Hayden Planetarium, a short walk from where he was staying.
‘Did he ask about Professor Morantz?’
‘No. He had read about his death in the papers, but I suspect, with his inquisitive mind, that that won't be enough to satisfy his curiosity,’ Frederick replied.
‘There is nothing that…’
‘Just one moment, I've another call coming through,’ Frederick interrupted, putting the call on hold.
‘Hello, Frederick Volker here.’
‘Frederick, it's Tom Halligan.’
‘Tom! Nice to hear from you, although I have to admit I didn’t expect you to call so soon.’
Tom gave a short laugh. ‘When you left, it took me all of ten minutes to make up my mind. It would be a privilege and a pleasure to accept your offer. When do you want me to start?’
CHAPTER 5
The flight from Logan Airport in Boston to Geneva had taken a little over ten hours, with a scheduled stop at London Heathrow.
Tom was relieved to be finally on his way, as the endless goodbyes and parties were taking its toll. By nature he wasn’t used to being the centre of attention; but, when he announced his departure to friends, family and colleagues, he had no choice and was thrust into the limelight. The university delivered a moving eulogy of the academic contribution he had made to his department, which was applauded by students and fellow lecturers alike; his brother professed his undying love for him in a bar downtown after far too many brandies, while his close circle of friends organised a French-themed party (he didn’t have the heart to tell them that Geneva was actually in Switzerland), which involved a French maid kissogram, a meal in Brasserie Jo’s and far too many brandies.
His parents invited the whole extended family around — including Susan, his ex, but not Jeff, her new partner — for a lavish Sunday roast dinner. His mother didn’t have the greatest culinary skills, but she could certainly pull out all the stops when it came to a family gathering.
His anxiety about starting a new life in Switzerland was tempered by the university offering to keep his position open for as long as he needed it, and his brother promising to visit him at every opportunity, ‘outside the baseball season, of course’.
Susan, on the other hand, was more apathetic. However, the fact that he didn’t have to keep bumping into Jeff at work, who had once said to him, rather melodramatically, ‘This University isn’t big enough for the both of us’, more than compensated for her lack of interest.
All in all, it had taken him a month to say his goodbyes and tie up any loose ends at work. CERN had provided him with an American Airlines First Class ticket to Geneva and told him that he would be greeted at the airport on his arrival. He had managed to get a night flight and was able to grab a few hours’ sleep, in between the turbulence; as a result, when he landed in the morning, he was feeling relatively fresh.
He collected his suitcases from the carousel and headed for the ‘nothing to declare’ channel, dreading the solitary walk down the line of waiting relatives on the other side of the glass partition. He always felt like he was emerging onto a catwalk. As the glass doors slid open, he self-consciously scanned the apprehensive crowd, searching for his name on a plaque. It didn’t take him long to spot the CERN logo on a laminated card being held aloft by a genial-looking man with a dark complexion, who smiled expectantly at each of the disembarking passengers as they approached him.
‘Hi, I’m Professor Halligan. Are you here to meet me?’ Tom, unsure of his new organisation’s preferred salutation, reverted to his formal title.
‘Yes, Professor, sahib,’ beamed the man, using the Indian word as a mark of respect for his master.
‘Please, call me Tom,’ said the professor, putting his suitcases down and extending his hand.
‘I am Anjit Gopal Bose,’ said the man, shaking the proffered hand vigorously. ‘But most people call me Ajay. Welcome to Geneva, Profess… er, Tom,’ Ajay said, still holding onto Tom’s hand. ‘Please follow me.’
Tom recovered his hand and reached for his suitcases, but Ajay was there first. Picking the luggage up with surprising ease, given his diminutive stature, he set off towards the car park at a brisk pace.
Tom followed on behind carrying his flight bag over his shoulder. He couldn’t help but notice that Ajay’s dark blue suit was slightly too big for him and suspected that it may be his only one, or borrowed to wear on special occasions, such as collecting visitors from the airport. His boyish face was made to look prematurely older by the thick horseshoe moustache he was trying to grow, but this too looked too big for his slender features. His shock of thick black hair was neatly groomed and as shiny as his suit.
‘Where are you from, Ajay?’ Tom enquired, trying to keep pace with him.
‘My family are originally from Kolkata, or Calcutta as you probably know it.’
‘You’re a long way from home. What brings you all the way to Switzerland?’
‘My father was a scientist and so was my grandfather. You could say it runs in the family.’
‘What did they specialise in?’ Tom was now intrigued.
‘Sub-atomic particles.’
‘That’s a coincidence, that’s my…’ Tom didn’t finish his sentence. He stopped dead in his tracks, mouth open, in the middle of the airport concourse. Ajay carried on walking and had managed to cover thirty feet by the time Tom realised that he was being left behind and was attracting quizzical glances from his fellow travellers. He sprinted to catch up with Ajay.
‘What did you say your surname was?’ Tom asked, grabbing Ajay’s arm to slow him down.
‘Bose.’
‘Have you heard of a man called Satyendra Bose?’ Tom probed.
‘Yes, he was my grandfather,’ Ajay responded matter-of-factly.
Tom could hardly contain his excitement. Within his field, Satyendra Nath Bose was regarded, by many, as one of the founding fathers of particle physics. At the age of 30, Bose was instrumental in a key statistical discovery. He’d sent a paper to Albert Einstein describing a statistical model that led to the discovery of what would later be called the ‘Bose-Einstein condensate phenomenon’. The paper described the two fundamental classes of sub-atomic particles — bosons, which he named after himself, and fermions, after the Italian physicist Enrico Fermi. Peter Higgs continued the research in the 1960s, using the theories set down by his predecessors, and purported the existence of a specific boson that would explain the very existence of the Universe. Simply put, without Bose there would be no Higgs, without Higgs there would be no God Particle, and without the God Particle there would be no Universe.