Kjersti Skomsvold - The Faster I Walk The Smaller I am

“MATHEMATICAL PROOFS DON’T just tell you that something is true, they also tell you why it’s true,” Epsilon said. I didn’t want to listen to him. “Mathea,” he’d said when he came in the door, and there was something odd about the way he said my name, as if he’d just repeated it several times. “Please sit at the kitchen table,” he continued, in the same mechanical way, and I began to tremble all over, because I was sitting there already. “You know I don’t understand any of this,” I said, looking at the two circles he’d drawn on a piece of paper in front of him. “It’s not as scary as you think,” Epsilon said. “It’s just systematized common sense.” “Epsilon,” I said. But he interrupted me: “All you need to do is start with something you already know and draw a chain of logical conclusions to something you want to prove. Every single link in the chain ought to be clear enough that anyone can see that it’s correct.”

It had happened gradually, starting with the day June was drafted into the military. His father and the accountant were fine with the change, but his mother was suddenly alone in the apartment with no one to do the shopping for her. “She has to eat,” Epsilon said. “But there’s no hurry,” I said, “a human being can go for weeks without food, as long as she gets water, and she has the faucet.” Epsilon didn’t seem convinced. “Besides, I don’t know what she likes,” I said. “You can ask her for a shopping list,” he said. “Absolutely not, that’s crossing the line,” I said. And I didn’t think anything more of it.

It was several weeks later. Epsilon wasn’t home. “What in the world is there to do at work on a Saturday?” I’d asked. “Someone might need me,” he’d said, as if I didn’t. The plans I’d made for us were down the drain, so I had to be spontaneous. I knew more people would be out than on a weekday, but nonetheless something told me to go to the store. With a feeling of foreboding, I found my net bag. Suddenly, an absurd thought struck me, that I would bump into June’s mother. I quickly crossed myself. What would I say to her after all these years?

However, it wasn’t June’s mother I came upon. It was Epsilon. He knew I didn’t shop on weekends. He was standing in the canned-food aisle, not expecting I’d see him standing there wondering what June’s mother liked. He had no idea that I flinched at the sight of his back, put my basket down, turned around, and left, all the while wondering if he’d been to work at all.

At home I picked up my knitting project and waited. There are so many sounds in our building, I could hear the water rushing through pipes next door. However, the more I tried to keep from listening, the more I swore I could hear Epsilon’s voice. I decided that I had to do something, find a solution, and when Epsilon finally showed up an earwarmer-and-a-half later, I’d already figured out the whole conversation.

“We can move if you really want to,” I said. “I don’t want to move,” Epsilon said. That threw a wrench into my calculations. “But I refuse to move to Svalbard,” I said, which was also taking the conversation in a different direction from what I’d originally planned. “The polar bears there are very sly,” I continued. “They’re all white, just like the snow.” Epsilon rubbed his temples, and I felt myself getting tense. “But their snouts are black, so they hide them with their paws when they’re getting close to their prey.” “What are you talking about, Mathea?” Epsilon asked. “Still, I wouldn’t really have anything to fear,” I said, “because you don’t need to be faster than the polar bear. You just need to be faster than your companion.” There, let him ponder on that.

One day, Epsilon didn’t come home after work. From the kitchen window I’d seen him enter the building, and I’d counted the number of steps he had to take to get to the fourth floor. Finally, I went to the peephole. He was standing right between our door and June’s mother’s, just staring at the stairs. I threw open the door: “Welcome home.”

Epsilon got quieter and quieter, and on his birthday I asked him what he was thinking about. I thought it must be about my homemade pudding, but he said it was the Monty Hall problem. It is based on an American TV show, where the contestants could choose between three doors. Two of the doors had a goat behind them and the third had a car. After the contestant chose a door, the host would open one of the other doors instead, and reveal a goat. The contestant then got to choose whether he wanted to stick with the closed door he’d already chosen, or trade it for the remaining closed door.

I looked at Epsilon in disbelief. “Of course he has to keep the one he chose first,” I said. “Actually,” Epsilon said, “he should trade. The probability that the contestant chose the right door is 1/3 at the beginning, and then he’d lose if he traded doors. But the probability that he didn’t choose the right door the first time is 2/3, and in that case he’d win if he traded doors. Therefore, the contestant should trade, since he has a 2/3 chance of winning.” “What do you mean by ‘winning’?” I asked. “To choose the car,” Epsilon said. “Why?” I said. “Imagine the freedom to go anywhere you want,” Epsilon said. “Doesn’t he like goats?” I asked. Epsilon looked puzzled. “Everyone likes goats, right?” I added. “Well, maybe,” he said. “So the first time he’s chosen one of the goats?” I asked. “Well. ” Epsilon stammered, “probably.” “Then he has to keep it,” I said. “Otherwise he has no honor.” Epsilon’s eyes grew distant. “More pudding?” I asked. But he abruptly stood up and left the table, still with his fork in hand. I followed him into the living room, I couldn’t stand this any longer. “What’s going on with you, Epsilon?” I asked. He stopped. He said he didn’t know, and I knew he was lying. We stood facing each other, his eyes met mine before he looked down. “I knew it,” I said. “I knew you were lying.” Epsilon shook his head. “Yes,” he said. “Warum?” I asked. “You make everything so difficult.” “I don’t know,” Epsilon said. “No matter what I do, it’s the wrong thing.” He wasn’t crying, and I didn’t understand why. “It hurts so much,” he said, but he just seemed cold, I didn’t recognize him. He put his forkless hand over his heart: “Here.” I rolled my eyes. “And I do things without knowing why I’m doing them,” he continued. “But what you do is just making everything worse,” I said on the verge of tears. Then I walked up to him, grabbed the fork out of his hands, and threw it as hard as I could against the wall. I just couldn’t throw it hard enough. Epsilon looked startled. Then it felt like my body couldn’t carry me any longer, my shoulders slumped, my knees bent, I was like a puppet on strings hanging from the ceiling. I began to sob. Epsilon hesitantly lifted his hands, I thought he was going to embrace me. But I guess he didn’t have the courage, because he just patted me on the arm: “There-there.”

That night I dreamed he said her name, and in a fit of vengeance I called Einar Lunde, “my anchorman.” However, the worst thing I dreamed was that I sat in a chair with a doll on my lap and pointed at Einar and said: “Look, Daddy’s on TV.”

The next day we hardly talked to each other. We’d never fought like that before, and neither of us knew what to do. Soon we were just walking around and past each other. Epsilon mostly sat with his nose in a book, while I looked out the kitchen window and daydreamed that June’s mother and Epsilon and I went sledding. At the bottom of the hill, she’d disappear — either through God’s will or my own.