“May I walk you home?”
“I would keep you from thinking. I’m very talkative!”
“It’s not a problem. I won’t listen to you.”
We left together on foot and climbed toward the university. We chatted, or rather, I asked him questions. We talked about Lindbergh’s flight; about jazz, which he disliked; and about his mother, whom he seemed to truly love. We avoided discussing the violent political demonstrations of the past year.
I don’t know what color my hair was at the time. I’ve changed it so often in my life. I was probably blond, something on the order of Jean Harlow but less vulgar. Finer boned. In profile, I looked like Betty Bronson. Does anyone still remember her? I loved actors. I would pore over every issue of the weekly movie magazines. Well-bred Viennese society, of which Kurt was a part, looked down on the movies. They babbled endlessly about art, literature, and especially music. That was my first abdication, going to the movies without him. To my great relief, Kurt preferred comic opera to opera proper.
I had already put a cross on many of my youthful dreams. I was twenty-seven and divorced. When I was too young, I’d gone and married an unreliable man to escape my family. We were just emerging from those years of runaway inflation, of turnips and potatoes, of scrounging on the black market. We would soon plunge back into them. I was starving, eager to party, and I chose the first man to come along, a smooth talker. Kurt, on the other hand, never made a promise he couldn’t keep. He was sickeningly scrupulous. My girlhood dreams had gone by the board. I would have liked to be in the movies, along with every other girl at the time. I was a little wild, and I was pretty enough, my right profile, anyway. The tyranny of the permanent had just replaced the tyranny of long hair. I had bright eyes, a mouth always drawn in red, lovely teeth, and small hands. And lots of powder over the port-wine stain that disfigured my left cheek. Actually, this damned birthmark has served me well. I’ve blamed it for all my lost illusions.
Kurt and I had nothing in common, or very little. I was seven years older than he and had never been to university, while he was preparing his doctorate. My father was a neighborhood photographer, his a prosperous manufacturer. He was a Lutheran, I a Catholic — though not a very devout Catholic at the time. For me, religion was a family relic that collected dust on the mantelpiece. The most you’d hear from the chorus girls in their dressing room was the prayer: “Blessed Mary, who became the mother of a child without doing it, please let me do it without becoming a mother!” We were all afraid of getting stuck with a little lodger, and I was no exception. Many of us wound up in the back rooms of Mother Dora’s place, where she kept her knitting needles. At the age of twenty, I accepted the luck of the draw as it came. Good card, bad card, I was still going to play. I didn’t think I had to store up any happiness or lightheartedness for later. I needed to burn everything, pillage everything. I’d always have time for another hand. I’d particularly have time for regret.
The walk ended as it had started, with both of us hiding our thoughts behind an uncomfortable silence. Even though I’ve never had any talent for mathematics, I know this basic premise: a tiny deviation in the angle at the start can mean an enormous difference at the end. In what dimension, in what version of our romance, did he not accompany me home that night?
3
“What does she mean, ‘Mag sein’? Is she going to turn over the papers or not? What is she angling for here?”
“Time, I suppose. And a listening ear.”
“Take all the time you want, but make sure the Nachlass is in a safe place. And don’t go making her mad! The old bat could dump the whole pile in the trash.”
“I don’t think so. She seems perfectly lucid. On this subject, anyway.”
“It’s so stupid. She can’t even make sense of it.”
“They lived together for fifty years. He may have explained some aspects of his work to her.”
“We’re not talking about the recollections of a sales rep, for Pete’s sake! This is a field that most people can’t begin to understand even in its simplest form.”
Anna drew back. She hated having her personal space invaded. Calvin Adams had the habit of showering his interlocutor with spittle whenever the tension mounted.
As soon as she’d returned to the Institute, the young woman had given the director a summary of her conversation with Gödel’s widow. She made sure not to underplay the old lady’s aggression. Anna wanted her own skill to be recognized, and she had managed to pry the door open where her predecessor, a pedigreed specialist, had gotten it slammed in his face. But her boss was too annoyed at the ongoing standoff to pick up the nuance.
“What if Gödel himself destroyed the archive in a fit of paranoia?” asked Anna.
“Not likely.”
“The family hasn’t made any claims?”
“Gödel has no heirs except for his brother, Rudolf, who lives in Europe. He left everything to his wife.”
“Then he thought his wife fit to look after his moral rights.”
“Those papers belong in the Institute for their historical interest — whether they are his notebooks, his bills, or his medical prescriptions!”
“Or an unpublished manuscript, who knows?”
“We’re unlikely to come across anything fundamental. He lost his bearings somewhat in his last years.”
“The gropings of a genius still bear a trace of genius.”
“My dear Anna, in your line of work, romanticism is a mark of amateurishness.”
His contempt-laced tone of familiarity revolted her. Anna had known Calvin Adams since childhood, but she would never have the right to call him by his first name. Certainly not within the precincts of the Institute. Next he would be patting her on the thigh. And the mention of Gödel’s genius hadn’t been naïve, her fascination with him was genuine. In fifty years the mythical recluse had published little, yet by all accounts he had never stopped working. Why was it unreasonable to expect more from these documents than a daily reckoning? Anna was determined not to be just a go-between. She would get the Nachlass and make Calvin Adams choke on his condescension. “Would you happen to know anything about bourbon, sir?” A superfluous question for anyone who came in contact with his breath in the morning.
Early that afternoon, Anna headed back to the retirement home, ready to renew her attack. The duty nurse stopped her short. Mrs. Gödel was undergoing treatment and Anna would have to wait. The young woman made her way to the waiting area and chose a seat where she could see Adele’s door. A woman well over a hundred years old called to her from the end of the hallway. “Did you bring any chocolates?” When Anna said nothing, she vanished.
Unwilling to become engrossed in her novel lest she miss Adele’s return, Anna found her impatience mounting. When she saw the housekeeper enter the room and leave the door open. Anna seized her chance.
Acting as though she belonged there, she dropped her coat and purse on a chair and washed her hands at the sink before quietly taking stock of the space. On her first visit, she had been too anxious to notice any details. The walls, painted a bold turquoise, managed to reconcile the dark-oak Formica of the bed and the dirty beige of the roller table. A brand-new armchair, also blue, stood ready to receive visitors, one at a time. She was shocked to find that the only reading material was a worn Bible and a few trivial magazines. She also noticed a few more personal objects: a crocheted bedspread, a pillow slip with a floral motif, and a bedside lamp with glass beads. Through the venetian blinds came a golden light. Everything was neatly in its place. Other than the intrusive presence of medical equipment and the television mounted high on a wall bracket, the room was cozy. Anna would have gladly sipped a cup of hot tea by the window.