Leonard Michaels - The Collected Stories

“There’s room for more than one mathematician, Chertoff.”

Chertoff grinned. “Sure, sure. You’re in the same field, and you do the same work. But why not? Like Newton and Leibniz. Maybe five other mathematicians also discovered the calculus. Plenty of room.”

The greenish-yellow eyes narrowed with laughter. As Chertoff’s head tipped back, his sharp, prominent teeth pointed at Nachman.

Nachman laughed, too, though with imperfect delight. Chertoff’s comments had touched a nerve. In truth, Nachman’s feelings toward Lindquist were darkened by thoughts of himself. He should have taken the risk. He should have been more like Lindquist, more manly. “Enough, Nachman,” said Nachman to himself. “You didn’t fly to San Francisco to reproach yourself.” Letting it go and getting free of himself, Nachman got hold of himself.

Lindquist was tall and lean and pale. His blond hair was streaked grayish-white. He had cold, light-blue eyes and a wide tragic mouth, bent at the corners as if it might release a wail. He began abruptly, pacing before the blackboard as he talked, stopping to write equations. Evidently, Lindquist had chosen to suggest the nature of his proof rather than exhibit it in exhaustive detail, but each time he wrote an equation he was taken by a rush of excitement. Unable to contain himself, he proceeded to offer more, then more. His fingers squeezed the chalk hard, and it broke. He continued with the broken piece, and then it, too, broke, and he snatched up a fresh stick. His English was first-rate, Oxford faintly mixed with Stockholm. The audience, submerged in silence, was like a many-eyed crocodile, the body suspended underwater, inert. The chalk squeaked and pulverized as Lindquist dragged it against the board.

Beautiful work, thought Nachman. Tears formed, blurring his vision slightly, but then — actually, within the first two minutes of Lindquist’s demonstration — even as Nachman thought it was beautiful, he’d begun to suffer a dark excitement. He tried to ignore it as Lindquist progressed. He even nodded once or twice, a motion of assent to Lindquist’s voice, and he exerted himself to focus strictly on Lindquist’s demonstration. But the excitement persisted, clutched Nachman like a nameless, primordial apprehension.

Nachman had seen where Lindquist’s proof was going, and truly wanted to witness its evolution passively, like someone in a train, face pressed to a window, watching the countryside go by. But in the matter of numbers, Nachman was among those who see actively, even aggressively. There are things one knows — who knows how? — and Nachman felt in himself a shadow passing through his cells. He knew Lindquist had failed. In his bones and blood, in his teeth and the roots of his hair, Nachman sensed the conceptual error.

He might have raised his hand and stopped the demonstration, but it would have been disruptive, unmannerly, immodest. He’d be obliged to make a show of himself and indicate Lindquist’s mistake. Nachman’s sense of it was instinctive, not yet analyzed, but he’d have bet his life that, if he tried, he could specify it. He would say, “I think I could suggest …” Stammering, apologetic, even pretending not to have a good grasp of the problem, Nachman calculated that it would take him about five minutes to demolish the proof and Lindquist.

Nachman couldn’t do it. Not to Lindquist, not to anyone in public. But the feeling was there, a blood-ferocity. It shocked him. In his silence, doing nothing, he felt as if he’d struck a blow. It didn’t make Nachman feel good. The opposite was true. Nachman felt very bad. Lindquist was handsome. Heroic facial bones made him look like a courageous knight. Nachman, a lowly foot soldier, had knocked Lindquist off his horse. On his back, pinned to the earth by the weight of his armor, Lindquist was helpless. Nachman kneeled above him with a dagger. Lindquist said, “Spare me, Nachman. I’ll give you Chantal.”

“Who?”

“Chantal. My slave girl.”

Thus, Nachman drifted from mathematics. He no longer cared about the demonstration, though he sat like everyone else and watched as if the evolving proof were valid. Lindquist’s chalk continued striking and squiggling rapidly, trailing equations, shedding streams of fine white powder. Wrong, thought Nachman. The word beat tremendously in his heart, and the desire to speak raged in his bowels against an unrelenting force of polite repression. An unknown mathematician could gain a reputation in minutes if he had the courage to speak up and undo Lindquist. None spoke up. Lindquist talked and scribbled. Silence prevailed as if everyone were hypnotized, possessed by the Swede’s fame and extraordinary presence. The mouth was a curve of ancient solemnity. Gaunt, large-boned, his pallor belonged to a man of vision.

The talk ended. Nachman participated in the applause, showing respect for his colleagues and for Lindquist’s fine qualities. He even felt affection for Lindquist, and hoped somebody would give the Swede a prize. But the Penultimate Conjecture remained a conjecture. Nachman couldn’t deny that he wasn’t displeased. There were only a few questions from the audience, and then it was over. Chertoff stood up. Nachman noticed that his bow tie was fixed to his collar with metal clips. His neck was skinny, and his Adam’s apple slid up and down when he said, “If you visit Moscow, Nachman, please do ring me.” Reaching into the inside pocket of his hideous jacket, Chertoff withdrew a business card. Nachman took it.

“I must smoke a cigarette,” said Chertoff. He drew one from a pack and lit it, then sighed smoke. “What a proof.”

Nachman said, “Were you pleased?”

“Lindquist did good work. What did you think?”

“Same as you.”

Nachman had hoped that they might share a moment of mathematical brotherhood. Instead, like everyone else, Chertoff assented to the demonstration. Nachman felt himself closing within, shrinking from connection with Chertoff. It had always been like this. Nachman worked alone, lived alone, thought alone. He didn’t need solidarity with Chertoff, such a peculiar fellow.

“I see it in your eyes,” said Chertoff. “You think I let you down.”

“Nonsense.”

“Not nonsense. To me the proof is good. I’m not you, Nachman. How many numbers have chosen you as a friend? Fifty? Seventy-five? I have maybe five, and I’m not always too sure of their friendship. How many, Nachman? Ninety. Sure, you have ninety. Negatives, fractions, rational, complex — they come when you call. For you mathematics is a big party. But I am like most people — only five. Less is revealed to us, so we think the proof is good. You want to know something — it might as well be good. For six months, a year — good or no good — we’ll think it’s good. This is the common fate. But you, Nachman, you don’t think it’s good. You’re alone. Worse yet, you’re frightened.”

“Excuse me. I must give my congratulations to Lindquist.”

“You must run away. See?”

“I see that you’re impertinent, Chertoff.”

“Go, run to him, give him a kiss. When you’re in Moscow, ring me. We’ll talk about real things.”

Chertoff’s feral eyes surrendered their interest in Nachman as he glanced toward the corners of the room. He half-smiled, then winked slyly at Nachman. “There are more women here than I expected.”

Nachman joined the group that had formed around Lindquist, and immediately forgot Chertoff while trying to think how to make a pleasant remark, with perhaps the slightest hint, giving Lindquist pause. Someone whispered to Lindquist, and he looked toward Nachman, spotting him at the edge of the group. Lindquist extended his hand, urging Nachman forward. “Thank you for coming to hear my talk, Nachman. I feel honored.”