Ethan Canin - A Doubter's Almanac

“Because you couldn’t make the handle?”

“Exactly. Not without punching a hole somewhere for my finger to go through.”

“Yes, I can see that, I suppose.”

He took out the pile of letters now from his briefcase. There was a rubber band around them, which he pulled off and placed onto her hand. “To a topologist,” he said, “the rubber band is the primal object. That is because our field deals with what we call continuous deformations . You can stretch or twist a rubber band in any way you wish, to any degree you like, just as I did with the napkin ring; but you can’t ever cut it, or glue it, or make any holes in it.” He smiled at her, bowing slightly. “That’s it,” he said. “Those are the rules of topology.”

“I’m sure it’s more complicated than that.”

“Perhaps by degree.”

Now there was a silence. The sound of the string quartet grew louder. Helena Pierce appeared to be thinking, sipping absently at her water. “And I couldn’t make the napkin ring into the bourbon glass, either,” she said, “unless I glued it together, right? There wouldn’t be a bottom unless I could glue it closed somewhere.”

“Precisely. You and I are peers now.”

She tittered.

“I’m a napkin ring, too, by the way,” he said. “And so are you.”

A flush pinked her cheeks.

“I mean,” he said, “all human beings are napkin rings, topologically speaking. We have that in common, too.”

It was at this point that his second bourbon was delivered. He accepted it and nodded at the waitress for another. Technically, a human being wasn’t a napkin ring but a double torus; but this was too complicated to explain at the moment. He took a satisfying gulp of the woody liquid. She was still blushing. He said, “Would you consider helping me with my mail?”

“Of course, Professor.”

From the pile, he lifted off the first envelope.

“ ‘Dear Professor Andret,’ ” he read, leaning toward her again and lowering his voice. “ ‘You please excuse our not very good English. However, I am to select and ask for deliver this year the our first lecture named from Leonardo Fibonacci, guest of the Department of Maths in the University of Pisa, Pisa, Italy. The date will be the year next at city of Pisa, or April or May, your choose.’ ”

He read the remainder to himself. “Not from the department of Englishes,” he said finally.

“No. But it’s lovely.”

“I think they invited me to speak somewhere.”

“Yes, Professor. In Tuscany.”

The waitress arrived again. Milo saluted his new drink before handing back the old one.

“Should I accept?” he said.

“I would think so.”

“Perhaps. But it would be much more pleasant if I could convince another napkin ring to come along.”

Now she turned the color of her blouse.

“I take that back,” he said. “In retrospect, I don’t believe I meant to say that.”

“Of course not, Professor.”

“Let’s go on now.”

“Okay.”

On the table between them stood her own untouched bourbon, and to his surprise now she picked it up and tried it. But she sipped like a girl taking medicine from a spoon. Her first mouthful didn’t even uncover the ice cubes. It was charming, actually. She tried again, pursing her lips this time, and before long he realized he’d have to finish it for her.

—

LATER THAT NIGHT, at the door to her building, she turned and said, “Thank you for introducing me to all that, Professor Andret. I learned quite a lot.”

“ Assistant Professor Andret.”

“Well, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Assistant Secretary Pierce.”

Her building was a narrow townhouse set behind a huge sycamore. She stood a couple of steps above him on the brick stairway, searching for keys in her purse.

“Here,” he said, reaching. “Let me get the door.”

He didn’t exactly fall, but when he righted himself she was holding him by the elbow.

“Are you all right?”

“Perfectly.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. However, Assistant Professor Andret regret not delivery today lecture to Downtown Club for Pisa this evening — as I choice, you’re welcome.”

She laughed.

He bent to retrieve his hat, and when he straightened he found himself standing against her again. She moved up one stair.

“All right, Assistant Secretary. Maybe is true that Assistant Professor Leonardo Fibonacci he self — maybe I could just sit down for a second, Helena. I think I need some water.”

“All right. You can come up. But just for a minute.”

As they climbed the stairs to her apartment, she kept turning around, saying, “Are you really sure you’re all right?”

“Yes,” he said, pulling himself up the banister behind her. The staircase went on and on. “But your railing’s loose.” He rattled it, although now it seemed perfectly tight. “Heisenberg,” he mumbled.

Her apartment was on the top floor. When they finally reached it, he removed the fedora and held it against his chest, like a minister at the home of a parishioner. As soon as she’d succeeded in opening the locks, he followed her inside and hung it on the hook.

“Here,” she said, pulling out a chair from the small table. “Sit down. That was a long climb. I’ll get some water.”

“Water is my enemy,” he said solemnly.

This silenced her. He had no idea what he’d meant. But he knew she wouldn’t ask for an explanation. At this point, he could have spoken about Hilbert manifolds and she wouldn’t have asked for an explanation. In the scant kitchen she pulled a glass from the cupboard and rummaged in the freezer until she found an ice tray, then had trouble freeing the cubes from it. He ignored the chair she’d pulled out and sat down on the couch instead. In front of him on the coffee table was an art book. The first few pages were oil paintings — nonsense art or maybe abstract landscapes. He set it down and looked around. The apartment itself was singularly tiny. A couple framed prints propped on the mantel above a bricked-in fireplace. A desk crowded into the hall. Underneath it he noticed some kind of uncombed terrier shivering on a mat. He hated dogs. Through a half-closed doorway, he saw the bed: a single.

“Well,” he said. “What were we saying?”

She came in from the kitchen, handed him the water, and took a seat at a miniature stool — to his surprise, it slid out from the wall like a subway bench. The couch he was on was short but deep, and at the far end of it he felt himself sinking into the cushions. After a few moments, he moved to the center. He spilled some water but moved on top of it. From her spot on the wall, she was saying something about the secretaries in the department, her legs crossed at the thigh and her hands clasped over her knees. He realized that she was afraid to let a silence fall. He himself could think of nothing he’d appreciate more.

Next to the door of the bedroom his eye fell on a crucifix. It hung on a chain from a hook above the light switch.

Well.

He felt a burst of sourness. The illogic of religion had always galled him. It occurred to him that the whole evening was going to be a waste.

At that moment, however, she went to the cabinet and returned with a bottle of wine.

“Would you like me to open that?” he said, struggling up from the couch. At the table he took a closer look at the cross. It was a dime-store thing. The hook was an old nail. This was better. He turned and focused on the wine label, wiping off the dust. It was burgundy.

He’d never actually tasted burgundy.

“All right,” she answered at last, although he’d already ripped off the foil and pushed the opener into the cork. “Go ahead and open it. I doubt it’s very good. But it’s more my speed than what you ordered for me in the bar.” She sat down on the subway seat. A moment later she rose again and went to the record player in the corner. After a short pause, the air was decorated by the first notes of a piano sonata.