All heads nodded. I ordered my husband out the door by handing him his overcoat. I hoped to spare our friends a final wacky monologue. My hand was already on the knob when he turned on his heels and reentered the living room.
“You all take me for an eccentric. Believe me, when it comes to logic, I don’t need to take lessons from anyone! I may have little proof for what I’ve said, but I see the pattern. I see it!”
43
“Pierre, I’d like you to meet Anna Roth. She directs the archives at the Institute. She is almost a daughter to us.”
Anna wondered what lay behind this show of affection and her abrupt promotion to director. Calvin Adams had been very insistent that she attend the dinner. She had the sudden suspicion that he wanted to offer her as a bonus to his prestigious guest. Lectures and young flesh: the local specialties. She admonished herself. Even she was starting to get paranoid.
She greeted the mathematician in his own language. He answered in impeccable English with the slightest trace of a southern accent. Pierre Sicozzi had some of the features of a Roman bust: an aquiline nose, a curly beard and hair. He looked like the profile of Archimedes engraved on the obverse of the Fields Medal. Casually elegant, he wore a simple white shirt. The rolled sleeves revealed tanned forearms: this scientist didn’t shy away from the outdoors.
The young woman knew him by reputation. He held a chair at the Institute of Advanced Scientific Studies near Paris and had in fact just received the prestigious Fields Medal, the equivalent of the Nobel Prize for mathematicians, awarded to scientists under forty. She thought back to her discussion with Adele on the precocity of mathematical genius. She wondered if Sicozzi considered himself a high-level athlete in retirement. A question she wouldn’t ask him. As to his research topics, von Neumann algebras in particular, she knew nothing beyond the name, though it drew on the work of another illustrious Princeton figure. The man had a reputation for being accessible and an excellent teacher.
“I apologize, Mr. Sicozzi, I’m no scientist. We won’t be able to discuss mathematics.”
“All the better. You’ll keep me from being ripped to shreds and eaten by those young sharks.”
He nodded discreetly toward the three Institute fellows with stiff manners who were ogling him hungrily, excited to be included at the table.
“It’s not every day they get to see a Fields medalist.”
“In this town, you bump into one on every street corner.”
The entourage of Director Adams was all present and accounted for, each having brought his partner. At the far end of the table, the Richardson heir appeared to be bored stiff under the rapid-fire questioning of Virginia Adams. Anna greeted several Princeton residents, among them a highly sought after Nobelist who often visited her department. All of a sudden, Leonard materialized beside her. He introduced himself to Pierre Sicozzi as “the prodigal son and child prodigy of the house,” then plunked himself down next to his childhood friend. His mother glared at him, which he ignored. Calvin Adams was forced to take the seat intended for his son, next to Richardson, and the arrangement gave him no view of the Roth girl’s neckline, nor of the more ample cleavage of the guest across from her. He consoled himself as he tossed back his whiskey: one was too skinny, the other too old.
Anna wondered how to start the conversation. The alcohol she had drunk on an empty stomach was tormenting her insides, and Leo’s stony presence on her right was hardly calculated to make her feel comfortable.
“Thanksgiving is a special day. We are meant to give thanks to God for all the year’s blessings.”
“And what do you do to punish him for everything else?”
“The same. Indigestion, drunkenness, and family tension.”
“In France, we count on Christmas to provide that kind of explosive chemistry.”
Anna fought her nausea by drinking a sip of water.
He leaned toward her. “I’m a bit worried at the prospect of eating turkey.”
“The French have so little faith in foreign cooking.”
“We do make certain assumptions. Just as the Americans make assumptions about us. But you and I share a sense of pessimism. You dread the ambience, and I the turkey.”
“Don’t worry. The cook has her own ideas about Thanksgiving. Our hostess tries to make her respect the traditions, but Ernestine can’t help herself, she always adds an exotic touch. I remember once a very spicy stuffing. All the guests were teary-eyed.”
She preferred not to mention the Thanksgiving when Leo had added a highly unusual substance to the stuffing. The “Space Turkey,” as he later dubbed it, had led to a memorable end of the day, with the survivors rambling on endlessly while sprawled across the couches. Anna had learned a lot that afternoon about the big bang. This practical joke had earned Leonard a one-way ticket to boarding school.
The table was magnificently set: silverware in battle formation, sparkling crystal, elaborate floral arrangements, steaming platters of food. Anna recognized the white dinnerware with its pattern of silver ferns that she had loved as a child, when she used to trace the plants’ circumvolutions with her finger to escape the endless adult discussions. Now she was on the other side of the bridge. She caressed the motifs on her plate. She thought of the Gödels back when, fresh off the boat, they had first encountered these mountains of food. Adele had gorged herself, Kurt had nibbled at the poultry.
Ernestine appeared holding an enormous golden fowl, which she deposited on a sideboard, and picked up a knife scaled to the proportions of the beast. The guests watched this battle of titans in silence. The monster would get the worst of it; Ernestine was a force of nature. She brandished her weapon over the dinner table: “A Thanksgiving turkey cooked my way!” Virginia sent distress signals to her husband, who reassured her with a contrite smile. Detecting the scent of truffles, Pierre Sicozzi beamed. Ernestine, delighted to have hit her mark, brought him the first serving. When she came to Anna with a scarily huge slice of turkey and an outsized mound of stuffing, the young woman almost fainted. But there was no doubt in her mind that she had every interest in leaving her plate clean. Ernestine served all the guests with similar generosity, except Virginia, to whom she gave a microscopic portion and a knowing smile. “Worse luck, to be dieting on Thanksgiving.” Virginia favored her guests with a convincing frown of dismay. Professor Sicozzi, smiling from ear to ear, seemed to be enjoying the show.
The guests passed the serving plates from hand to hand: mashed potatoes and sweet-potato puree, fluorescent green string beans, golden corn and rolls. Leonard scribbled notes on an ink-stained notepad, completely ignoring his plate and his tablemates. Pierre Sicozzi, for his part, displayed an appetite disproportionate to his spare physique.
“You must enjoy sports.”
“I walk a great deal in all weathers. I can’t think otherwise.”
Ernestine held out the wine bottle for him to inspect: Gevrey-Chambertin, 1969. A little light to pair with truffles, but he said nothing. The Frenchman rolled the wine around in his mouth attentively. The charmer had Tine securely in his pocket. She left with a dancing step, making the gaudy colors on her vast hips sway. Leonard guzzled the nectar as if it were soda. Pierre Sicozzi observed him with a small smile.
“You seem preoccupied, Leonard.”
“I had an idea. I didn’t want to forget it.”
“You’re quite right. Some comets pass only once. The best hypotheses don’t come to you sitting at a desk. Intuition, a faculty common to all, must be allowed to speak, but most people repress it.45 It’s all in knowing how to shut the left brain down to let the right brain wander.”