She liberated the vacuum cleaner from a cluttered closet and piloted the appliance around her three rooms like a dervish. The noise made the cat hide under the bed. Dripping with perspiration, she mopped the kitchen floor. She was going to empty her wardrobe when the downstairs doorbell rang, stopping her short. She thought twice about answering at alclass="underline" she was covered in a mix of sweat and dust. She smoothed her hair and pulled on a bathrobe over her ratty pajamas. Leo would hardly dare show up unannounced again. But he did have a flair for impossible situations. The voice on the intercom dispelled her fears: it was her father paying a royal visit.
George Roth inspected the small living room without comment before setting down his heavy briefcase. He took a seat but didn’t remove his overcoat: the audience would be brief.
“I was passing through New York. I just came out to Princeton to give you a hug. Do you mind if I smoke?”
It wasn’t really a question; he couldn’t do without. He examined her with the surprised look she knew so well, as if he were suddenly rediscovering just how much she had grown.
“You don’t look well, Anna.”
She opened the window. He hadn’t come all this way to discuss her health. He lit a cigarette, leafing through the file folders stacked at attention on the coffee table. Anna had brought enough material back from the Institute to occupy her hours of insomnia and catch up on her work.
“I haven’t always been a very attentive father. But I was there for the difficult moments. You have to admit that.”
Anna stiffened. She recognized his way of preparing her to hear a difficult message: Don’t talk about my faults without thinking about your own.
“Carolyne is pregnant.”
She had been expecting the news for months; she worked at remaining impassive.
“I haven’t told your mother.”
“Did you come to ask for my blessing or my discretion?”
He looked for a place to drop his ashes. She brusquely handed him a saucer.
“I hoped you would share my joy. I don’t owe you an account of my actions, Anna.”
“So, why are you here. Have you discovered guilt?”
“Don’t bother playing shrink with me. I have a marriage’s worth of experience at that game already. You’re getting to be as much a pain as Rachel.”
He rose and picked up his briefcase — the art of running away was a hereditary talent among the Roths. Yet he couldn’t admit that they resembled each other, or that she had his personality. She would always be her mother’s daughter.
“I was maybe too young when I had you, Anna.”
“Just try to do better with your new toy.”
He put the stack of files back in its original impeccable order and gave his daughter a hard stare. She pulled her wrapper tight around her, already regretting her words. She had proved him right; her mother’s voice had come out of her mouth.
“You think you deserve better? Don’t go blaming anyone but yourself. Your frustration is the upshot of your pride.”
He left, patting her on the cheek as he went past and leaving an envelope with cash on the sideboard: “For Christmas.” Once the door had closed, she counted the bills; enough to buy herself twenty dresses like the tarty, useless one she had bought at Thanksgiving.
48. NOVEMBER 22, 1963: Boredom Is a Surer Poison
We grow old — even the length of the day is cause for tears.
— Kobayashi Issa
I checked my wristwatch: five thirty. Our visitor had a logician’s promptness. I swabbed my eyes before opening the door to a gangling young man with a long crooked nose, close-set brown eyes, and an endearing bald spot. I was immediately drawn to him: his small smile was sincere, his gaze sympathetic. He wore an impeccable suit; Kurt would appreciate his punctuality and sartorial rigor. The young man wiped his feet zealously on the doormat and offered me a small box of chocolates.
“How do you do, Mrs. Gödel. My name is Paul Cohen. I have an appointment to see your husband, but I don’t know whether this is a very appropriate day for it.”
“Please come in. At least you’ll keep me from blubbing in front of this horrible television.”
“Is there any more news? I’ve been on the train all afternoon.”
“He died on the way to the hospital. The body is being flown back to Washington on Air Force One.”
“There’s practically a curfew in the streets. Everything has stopped.”
“I’m terrified! If the president can be shot, anything can happen.”
“Johnson will take the oath at some point today. The country’s stability is not in any danger.”
“Kennedy is irreplaceable. And when I think of poor Jackie … and those children!”
I relieved our visitor of his hat and coat.
“I was worried that I would be late. I had the wrong address.”
“Our street addressed changed in 1960. The neighborhood has grown. We traded in the number 129 for 145. But Kurt didn’t want everyone to know. It keeps unwanted visitors away.”
“His invitation took me by surprise. When I tried to see him at the IAS, he snatched my paper from me and slammed the door in my face.”
“My husband can be boorish, but he’s in fact harmless.”
“I’m very excited at the prospect of having tea with Kurt Gödel.”
“Don’t make too much of it, young man!”
I guided him into the small sitting room so that I could keep an eye on the television. He looked around at the furnishings, surprised at the flowered curtains and sofa. What did he expect? A cave? Kurt liked to raise his visitors’ anticipation; it therefore fell to me to make a little conversation with young Mr. Cohen. I hardly found it a chore: it was a pleasure to have a youthful visitor.
“My husband told me that a young man had solved his problem of the continuum hypothesis.”
“Did he really say his problem?”
I turned up the volume on the pretext of a news flash. All my regular programs had been replaced by a flood of nonnews. I soon turned away from the screen to query my visitor about his background. He had grown up in New Jersey but his parents had emigrated from Poland before the war.
“Adele, you are pestering Mr. Cohen with your police investigation.”
Deeply intimidated, Paul rose from his chair to greet Kurt. I thought it best to leave them to their mutual embarrassment.
“I’ll bring the tea. Would you like some cookies?”
“Just as you please.”
I made my way to the kitchen, working hard to contain my irritation. I couldn’t stand that expression. His “just as you please” was not a sign of affection or empathy but his way of showing that he had renounced all pleasure.
I had spent so many years repressing my own wants to maintain a semblance of serenity between us. Who would you like to see? What would you like to eat? What would give you pleasure? “Just as you please.” Nothing pleased me anymore. My resistance was all spent. I, too, was governed by emptiness.