Jorge Volpi - In Search of Klingsor

“I’m sorry, Bacon. I’m a mathematician, not a psychologist.” From somewhere deep beneath Von Neumann’s flushed countenance, an almost imperceptible, feline smile began to emerge across his lips.

Bacon knew that Einstein, ever since his Berlin days, loved to go on walks. Every day he would set out on the path between his house and the institute, and he particularly enjoyed chatting with a walking companion. The talks never lasted more than a few moments, but his companions treated them as if they were precious pearls of wisdom. Many illustrious physicists visited Princeton specifically to catch the professor on one of these walks, because it was during those moments that his mind was at its most relaxed and fertile.

One day Bacon decided to wait for Einstein outside of his office, cubicle 115 of Fuld Hall, hidden behind the staircase landing. He was scared, secretly embarrassed, like someone who chases after a movie star in the hopes of getting an autograph. That was the reason he was in Princeton, after all—to get to know men like Einstein, not to listen to Von Neumann’s eccentric psychology, and certainly not to put up with the indifference of his older colleagues.

Just like the journalists who had dedicated themselves to popularizing—or, rather, misinterpreting—Einstein’s theories, Bacon quickly learned the meaning of relativity. The seconds crawled by, agonizingly slowly; it was as if all the underground arteries connecting the universe were somehow, maddeningly, all blocked up. He had been waiting for about forty minutes now. Like a spy or a sentinel, or someone waiting for a miracle to happen, he maintained his vigil, waiting for the physicist to emerge from his office. Each time someone walked past him, Bacon waved hello timidly, and then raised his hand to his head as if to indicate that he had finally remembered the reason that had brought him there, and then walked in the opposite direction until he was certain the coast was clear. He felt like some kind of inept bodyguard, the anachronistic sentry of the Institute for Advanced Study.

Finally the door opened, and Einstein emerged, walking straight toward the exit. He wore a black suit and his hair, Bacon noticed, wasn’t nearly as white or as messy as it appeared in photographs. This was the moment he had been waiting for. But at the last minute Bacon faltered, and that one moment was all it took. Einstein scurried past him down the staircase. The great physicist hadn’t even noticed Bacon as he ran downstairs; he simply went on his way, indifferent to that dim shadow. By the time Bacon realized his mistake, it was too late. The professor was already out of the building. There was no way he could run and catch him by surprise; the idea was to make the encounter appear casual. If it seemed premeditated, Einstein would just get rid of him as quickly as possible. Bacon was furious at himself, but he was not about to give up so quickly. In an almost dreamlike state, Bacon began to follow Einstein—at a prudent distance, of course—digging deep into his coat pockets, leaving Fuld Hall behind.

Determined and giddy, Bacon was barely conscious of what he was doing, and of what an absurd endeavor it was. He was too focused on hiding behind the cars and ash trees that lined the streets to realize exactly what he was getting himself into. As Einstein advanced down the street, Bacon followed him. Finally, Einstein arrived at number 112 Mercer Street, where he lived with his secretary, Helen Dukas. Upon seeing Einstein disappear into his house, Bacon breathed a sigh of relief. Using his shirtsleeve, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead and headed back toward the institute.

The next day, Bacon was prepared to make up for his previous ineptitude. Today he would face Einstein for real, and if the circumstances allowed, he would confess his earlier conduct. It was said that the professor had a good sense of humor, and perhaps this would be the best way to break the ice with him. Just after noon, Bacon returned to his spot, like a soldier determined to fulfill his mission. Only moments after Bacon had reassumed his position at the stairwell, Einstein emerged from his office, once again at full speed. Bacon was unprepared for this surprise attack and, once again, the professor sped past him toward the exit, barely noticing Bacon.

His pursuit of the professor eventually evolved into yet another one of his daily routines, just like the calculations he executed for Professor Von Neumann, the phone calls he received from Elizabeth, and Vivien’s evening visits. Even if he were bold enough to confess it to anyone, who would believe him? That he was pursuing Einstein, like a spectrum, a wave that kept trying to move closer to the author of relativity? Out of the question. In the meantime, Bacon worked on his technique; as time went by he felt surer and surer of himself, certain that he was becoming nearly invisible…. Slowly, the walk toward 112 Mercer Street became as natural as afternoon tea, or the solution of a couple of matrices; he did it out of necessity, or like a bad habit. Einstein almost always walked home alone, although every so often someone would join him—old or young, famous or unknown, each occupied the spot that was supposed to belong to Bacon, the most devoted of his disciples.

Only once did Einstein notice him. A thick fog hung in the air that lay like a greasy film covering the faces of the passersby with an unbecoming, yellowish tint. The birds’ chirping rang through the air like a fire alarm signal sent out from one nest to the other. Suddenly, without any warning, Einstein turned on his heels and fixed his gaze squarely on Bacon, who was now frightened as a deer. It looked as though his sophomoric game was up. Bacon had lost.

“Do you work at the institute?” Einstein said upon recognizing him.

Perhaps this was the moment he had been waiting for, Bacon thought: the chance to initiate a friendship, albeit distant, with the man whose story he had followed more than any other, and to whom he felt connected by a profound, almost mysterious sense of awe and admiration.

“Yes, I do,” Bacon replied, breathlessly awaiting the professor’s next pronouncement, as if hanging on to the words of an oracle.

“It’s cold,” exclaimed Einstein, dazed.

That was all he said. Nothing more, no revelation, no prophecy. He didn’t even ask Bacon’s name. He bent his head slightly, as if to say good-bye, and continued on his way alone, absent, beneath the weak light whose structure intrigued him so. Now—finally!—Bacon could boast to the rest of the world that yes, he had received a dose of the genius’s wisdom, and he would treasure those marvelous words as if God himself had bellowed them: It’s cold. Bacon laughed to himself, still trembling, and waited for Einstein’s gray silhouette to recede, like the brilliant glow of the stars which he spoke of so eloquently. The next day, Bacon resumed his pursuit of the professor, but now with the serenity of a man who had completed his mission.

When her soul was tranquil, Elizabeth’s eyes were the color of olives. But Bacon could always be sure that the tranquillity would soon give way to thunder whenever they began to acquire a slightly coppery tone. At those times, all he could do was remain quiet and wait for the angry torrent of words to come pouring out of Elizabeth’s mouth, dying down to a trickle only after a few minutes. Her wrists were so slender that he could hold them between his thumb and pinky, and her neck was as strong and firm as a sunflower’s stem, but when she became incensed—a fairly frequent occurrence—her diminutive proportions grew exponentially, like those of a cobra in heat. All the innocence and courtesy she so carefully exhibited during social functions would evaporate, replaced by a torrent of fiery reproaches and menacing threats, a snit of such proportions that by the time it was over, she had nearly asphyxiated herself. Only then would she begin to feel remorseful, and as she allowed sweet tears to rain down on her cheeks, Bacon, moved by such a show of emotion, would have no other choice than to caress her delicate chin and run his fingers through her tousled hair, calming her down until she could muster enough strength for her next attack.