Rebecca Goldstein - 36 Arguments for the Existence of God

“You like music?”

“Very much.”

“Do you play an instrument?”

“Not to speak of. I listen.”

Azarya cast his deep-blue eyes in the direction of the baby grand.

“Do you play?”

“Like you, I listen. Pascale plays, though not often enough. But if you like, we could listen to the stereo now. Come take a look at my CDs while I clean up.”

“I’ll help you first.”

“There’s really nothing to do here. There’s something to be said for eating on disposable plates.”

They tossed the remains, and then Cass showed Azarya his CD collection, which he examined at length. He chose Glenn Gould playing Bach’s Goldberg Variations, and the two of them settled down on the couch and melted into the music. And when the last measure was played, Azarya asked if they could listen to it again.

This time, when the phone rings at 2 a.m., Cass is certain that his desperate plea for help preparing for the Fidley debate has been answered at last, but once again he’s wrong. For the third time in the last seven hours, it’s Lucinda.

“Lucinda!”

“Are you up? Did I wake you?”

“No, you didn’t wake me. I don’t seem to be sleeping much since you went away.”

“Well, I’ll be home tomorrow.”

“And don’t forget I’m picking you up at Logan.”

“I really could take a cab. Pappa’s picking up all expenses.”

“No, I want to come get you.”

“But that’s double the driving time. You’ll have to drive to Logan and then drive back.” She doesn’t have much confidence in Cass’s mathematical abilities, and he laughs.

“Don’t worry about it. And if I’m a few minutes late, don’t assume I’m not coming. I have that debate with Fidley tomorrow-well, actually today. It should end in plenty of time for me to get to Logan, but give me a few minutes, just in case.”

“Debate with Fidley?”

“Felix Fidley.”

“Oh, right. I remember. Tell me again what you’re debating him on?”

“God. The existence of God.”

“Right. I still can’t believe that Felix Fidley wants to argue for religion. It’s just a way for him to show off his brilliance, to take a far-out position and then overwhelm everybody with the way he can make it sound persuasive.”

“I hope he doesn’t overwhelm me.”

“I hope not, too.”

“Hey, can I get a little more encouragement going here?”

“You know this stuff inside and out. There’s nothing Fidley can pull on you. I have absolute confidence.”

“My girl,” he says gratefully.

“I’m sorry that I’ve been calling you so much today,” Lucinda says, changing the subject. “I’m being something of a nuisance.”

“You never have to apologize for calling me. Call me three times, thirty times, three hundred times a day.”

“I’m still worried that maybe you didn’t get my joke about being for yourself as the core of Jewish ethics. That you still think I was actually being serious.”

“Lucinda.” He’s moved that she cares so much what he thinks about her. “Don’t you think I know your sense of humor by now?” He’s not only moved; he is, he now has to admit, relieved that he can eliminate any nagging, disloyal doubt.

“Oh, good. Well, I better let you get some sleep if you’re going to fang Felix Fidley tomorrow.”

“Good night, Lucinda. Sleep well.”

“Good night, Cass. You sleep well, too. I love you.”

Cass came down the next morning at seven, still wet from his shower, anxious that Azarya be on time for his appointment with Gabriel Sinai. He wanted the boy to have a good breakfast, too. The door to the spare bedroom was open. Cass walked over to it and saw that the bed was neatly made. In the bathroom, the bath towel was still damp from the boy’s shower. But he was gone, no signs of his having had a glass of juice or milk. Cass imagined that either Azarya wanted to get out before Pascale and Cass woke up so that he wouldn’t get in their way, or that he was too excited to stay put.

Cass was disappointed. He had woken eager to come down and talk to Azarya. He’d given him a key to the house so he wouldn’t have to worry about the boy’s having to wander around until somebody got home.

Azarya called Cass at his office during the day to say that Professor Sinai wanted to take him to the Harvard Hillel that night for dinner, and would that be okay? Cass assured him it would be, but again was disappointed-stupidly, of course, since Azarya had come here to spend time not with Cass and Pascale but with Professor Sinai.

Azarya had asked Cass whether there was a time by which he ought to be home, and Cass had said no, he should feel free to come and go as he wanted. That’s why he had given him the key.

“But you have to be careful. Not all parts of Cambridge are safe. It’s not like New Walden.”

Azarya assured him, telling him that Professor Sinai was going to drive him home.

Azarya came back a little before midnight. Cass didn’t have to ask him how his day had gone. His flushed face said it all. He began by apologizing for the late hour.

“We lost track of the time.”

“Are you tired now, Azarya? Do you want to go to bed, or do you want to stay up and talk a little?”

“If you’re not too tired, it would be wonderful to talk. I’m too excited to sleep.”

“It was that good?”

They sat at the table, and Cass went to the refrigerator to get some water, juice, and fruit and laid it out, his instincts telling him that this was the thing to do.

“Better. How good I can’t describe. When I tried to put into words something, Professor Sinai knew already what it was before I’d said two syllables, and he had the perfect formulation ready for it. He speaks in music. Mathematical music. He wasn’t teaching today, and he thought I should see what the classes at MIT are like. I sat in on a class on topology, which was wonderful, and then another class on modern philosophy that was also wonderful.”

“Did you and Professor Sinai talk about your future?”

“He wants me to come to MIT next year. We didn’t talk that much about it. We were too busy speaking math.”

“You’re not too young?”

“He did mention the William James Sidis rule. Do you know who is this William James Sidis? Professor Sinai was vague on the details.”

“He’s the cautionary tale of how not to raise your prodigy. He was the son of two doctors, and according to legend taught himself eight languages by the age of eight and lectured on four-dimensional bodies when he was eleven. He graduated from Harvard at sixteen, burned out early, spent his adult life doing menial jobs and collecting subway transfers, and would run screaming if anyone mentioned mathematics to him.”

“That would explain it. He said there’s an unofficial rule at MIT, that they call the William James Sidis rule, not to accept kids who are too young, that just because a student is ready to do advanced math doesn’t mean he’s mature enough to live away from home and go to college.”

“That makes sense.”

“But I’ll be seventeen next year, an old man compared to William James Sidis. Professor Sinai doesn’t think there will be a problem, even though my education has been what he’s kind enough to call ‘unconventional.’ ”

“What do you call it?”

Cass knew he was pushing, asking such a direct question, but it seemed to him that Azarya wanted to talk about this subject. He was right.

“I call it nonexistent.”

“Do you really think so? You’ve been studying your whole life.”