Ethan Canin - A Doubter's Almanac

He was startled.

“Interesting,” he said. “It’s an appealing thought, though, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Being an ant. Giving up on all the rest.” He leaned down to tie his shoe. As he sat up again, he recognized his mistake. “And what about you?” he said. “Do you want your own children?”

She was looking out at the view now. From this high up they could see the spires of both bridges.

“Yes, I do,” she finally said. His gaze went to where hers was turned, toward the clumped buildings of San Francisco and the twisting black stripe of the freeway. The gray clay water. The faint slashes of ships. This was the sight that had given him his first breakthrough on the Malosz, a thousand years ago. His dissertation defense. Borland’s nodding head — the approbation so rarely given. The job at Princeton. He closed his eyes.

“And what about you?” she said.

“What about me?”

“Do you want them?”

He looked at her. “Oh,” he said. “Kids — God no.” Then he added, “That would be cruel.”

—

AT THE SERVICE there seemed to be lines of bereavement on her face — as though she were the one who’d lost the great figure in her life. In the narrow pew next to him she dabbed steadily at her eyes.

An impressive crowd. Hundreds of mourners filling the long wooden benches. What looked like the entire mathematics department spread across a dozen roped rows before the pulpit. It was all puzzling — Borland was a major figure but also a damning and truculent man. Yet there seemed to be such genuine sorrow in the church. In Helena, too.

Andret was suspicious. Plenty of these people had to be feeling relief.

His own feelings shrank from him. He’d had a couple of drinks at the hotel, but by now their velvety wrap had withered to a scrim of irked melancholy. The pain that had been circling him had landed. A point in the center of his skull. He rubbed at it. For a moment, the mosaic floor wobbled. He closed his eyes. The thought occurred to him that the dean here must already be searching for Borland’s replacement; well, he wouldn’t take it. Princeton still owed him tenure, no matter how much it bruised the envious ones. And there was the possibility of the Hyun chair, too, if he hadn’t damaged it too badly.

Still.

The spectacle of the extended eulogies and the sea of bereaved faces continued to confound him. What were all these people truly feeling? Purposelessness sunk him into the pew. What was actually in the minds of all these scholarly-looking charlatans? Of all these meager men in their poorly knotted ties? Of these lugubrious women in their mournful dresses? He centered his wing tips in front of his knees and tapped them on the floor. The tiles bulged again. Then settled. The world teetered. Helena’s gloved hand entered his vision. A lacy black animal in repose across her lap. He reached to grasp it.

At that moment, his glance fell on what he’d been searching for.

—

AT THE RECEPTION, he excused himself and left Helena at the front bar. At the rear one, he ordered a pair of bourbons, then took a position behind the milling crowd. Yes, he was right: there she was, next to the grand piano, gazing out the windows at Vine Street. Someone who didn’t know her the way he did might not even have recognized her: hair expensively done, dark linen dress, pearls at her throat. But he saw that like the city itself she’d not actually changed at all.

He wondered if she’d come to see him .

When he reached her, he whispered from several feet away, “The kind of event where one expects to meet up with ghosts.”

She turned. “Milo?”

“Gottfried Leibniz, actually. Arriving with a gift.”

She took the glass and kissed him on the cheek. “No — Leibniz is with me . I told you that.” She laughed. “But I’m happy to see the gift.” Then she reached and kissed him on the mouth.

“Well,” he said.

A bit of puffiness around her eyes, but yes: otherwise still the same. She pointed at a man standing a long way off, near the door.

“Ah,” said Andret. “He lives.”

Biettermann looked older, too, and as superficially changed as Cle. Tanned skin. Dark tie pushed to the throat. But even from across the room the arrogance still glowed like a pilot light. Cle pulled Milo by the arm. When they neared, Earl turned, a quick gust of apprehension stiffening his features. He changed it into a smile.

Andret gave him the soul shake. Two men in similarly expensive suits, but Biettermann now with wisps of gray in his slickly combed hair. “Touché,” Andret said drily.

“Touché, brother,” answered Biettermann, equally drily.

Cle stood between them, smiling.

—

THAT EVENING IN the hotel lobby, Andret coached Helena. She was to avoid saying anything about herself; he would provide the particulars. They were friends only. She was in the physics department, pursuing graduate work. No — Biettermann might question her: she was in the department of art history. Next to him on the plush couch of the atrium, she giggled. He’d brought her a glass of Chablis.

“Why would I be studying art history?” she said.

“As a matter of fact, you might actually consider it. It’d be good for you. You told me you like to paint, didn’t you?” He downed his drink. “And Earl won’t know the first thing about it.”

A moment later, his old friends were at the curb. An elegant European car. Deep leather seats. Shaded windows. As always, Biettermann drove pugnaciously. Switched lanes and pulled up close to the traffic on the crowded streets. All of it beneath a steady winter rain.

At the restaurant, a doorman guided them through the entranceway under an ivory-handled umbrella. In the palely flickering foyer, the maître d’ took their coats. “Professor Milo Andret,” he said, bowing. “An honor for us.”

This was Biettermann’s doing. The sarcasm was evident.

At the table, his old nemesis lost no time in launching into the details of his career. He was dressed in a different suit now, this one even more elegantly cut. Cle’s wrists sparkled with rows of bangles. They might have been diamonds. Andret made a point not to look. Next to him, Helena had on the same dress she’d worn to the memorial, but at least she’d done something with her hair. It was up in a bun. Biettermann droned on. At Berkeley he’d finished in mathematics and been accepted into all the top programs — Harvard, Stanford, MIT, Princeton — before undergoing a change of heart.

The waiter arrived with wine, a Vega Sicilia. Biettermann tasted it and sent it back. A different bottle appeared. Then the appetizers — clams Casino, bruschetta, a layered arrangement of sugared dates. Biettermann looked like he’d been taken apart by a machine and reassembled. Tan hands. Glowing teeth. Andret didn’t mind staring. Beside him he could hear Helena whispering over the tiny plates that steamed with garlic and pepper. Biettermann grabbed the new wine from the waiter and poured it around the table, looking pleased. A ’71 Château Latour. Cle took over the story. They’d been married at the Cape, four years earlier—“a small wedding,” she added, when Andret glanced. Then they’d moved to Manhattan, where Earl’s father had set him up at Dean Witter.

Andret spit his wine. “The brokerage firm?”

“Not even a year there,” said Cle. “Now he steers the whole ship at Piper Jaffray Hopwood.”

“What’s that?”

“Investment specialists. Sophisticated ones. Earl runs arbitrage. They bribed him away from Dean Witter, Milo.” She opened her purse and handed him a card with a Park Avenue address. “Made him top animal in five months.”