Calvin Adams had caught her unprepared. In the midst of an ordinary conversation, he had told her not to waste any more time on Gödel’s widow. According to his sources, she had only a month or two to live and was therefore in no position to do further damage. He needed Anna near at hand.
“I can’t stop now. I’m so close to the goal.”
“Put pressure on her. Cry. Those tough old broads are always sentimental at heart. Tell her your job is at stake.”
He’d fingered the buttons of his jacket. The young woman hardly believed what she heard next.
“Anna dear, I hold you in great affection, but you’re no longer showing enough commitment to your work. You’re only halfway here. For all that I’m a great friend of your father, I’m still your boss. And I’m not happy with you. You have to make more of an effort. At the IAS we expect excellence.”
She had left the office fighting back tears. Her mind was numb with astonishment. At the IAS we expect excellence. It was a slap in the face. She’d never been more than an add-on. Hardly a week before, he’d greeted her as “almost a daughter.”
“Anna, you look like a woman ready to commit murder.”
Pierre Sicozzi was walking toward her, his hands in the pockets of his pea jacket. She quickly rearranged her face into a more human semblance and tried to smile. He mimed a torero making a pair of linked passes; she laughed in spite of herself, until a spasm of anger brought her back to the moment. She needed a cigarette. This bad day was going to get the better of her abstinence. Guessing her thoughts, he invited her for a drink. He had hardly been out of the Institute these past few days, and showing him around Princeton was one of Anna’s duties. From habit, she looked at her watch. She had no commitments, unless it was to that stupid cat. She suggested a pub on Palmer Square; their path would take them past Albert Einstein’s house. The Frenchman could hardly leave Princeton without seeing it.
“I’m hoping to find a snow globe with his photograph in it. My daughter Émilie collects the things.”
“They sell all sorts of Einstein-related oddments. You have a daughter?”
“She’s eight years old. She lives with my ex-wife in Bordeaux. Do you know the area?”
“No, but I love the wine.”
“À la bonne heure! I’m glad to hear it! Let’s see if we can’t find ourselves a good bottle of old Bordeaux. I hate the California monoliths.”
They walked toward Mercer Street in silence. Anna tried to repress her contradictory feelings, flattered to be in such brilliant company but disgusted by her interview with Adams. She was determined not to leave Adele alone and unattended. She would have to use her days off to see Adele and think up a subtle way to let her know it.
“I’ve thought a great deal about our conversation on Thanksgiving.”
“I’ve hardly ever seen Leo so enthusiastic.”
“Leo is your boyfriend?”
She tripped over a clump of dirt; Sicozzi took her arm to steady her. Uncomfortable, she quickly pulled away. She wondered whether the mathematician wasn’t starting a flirtation with her. He’d already let slip the information about his “ex-wife.” She never knew with Frenchmen whether they were being polite or spinning her a line. When she lived in Paris, she’d had all sorts of trouble getting used to this perpetual ambivalence. She dismissed these ridiculous ideas: she’d just been handed a stinging reminder of how poorly she read people. Best not to repeat the mistake with an exotic specimen. If he was disappointed at her failure to respond to his question, he didn’t show it but moved on to another subject.
“I was thinking of your acquaintance with Mrs. Gödel. I’d be curious to know if anywhere in her husband’s papers there is an unpublished proof of his further work on the continuum hypothesis. The credit for it has always gone to Paul Cohen, but Gödel worked on it for a long time without ever publishing much on the subject.”
“I doubt whether Adele would have anything to say about it.”
“Ask her.”
“She gives nothing away for free. We have a kind of bargain. She talks to me about her life and I talk to her about mine.”
“Where’s the problem?”
“I’m coming to the end of my resources. My life is a barren landscape.”
“You can tell her about strolling with a charming Frenchman.”
So she hadn’t been dreaming: he was flirting.
“A Fields medalist!”
“Oh, prizes …”
“Only those who’ve won prizes can afford to despise them.”
“That would be pretentious on my part. Nothing fills me with greater joy than a nice little discovery!”
They walked together up Mercer Street. Anna matched her naturally rapid step to the mathematician’s long-legged stride. Sicozzi made no effort to fill the gaps in their conversation, and she thought the better of him for it. In front of 112 Mercer Street, he asked her to take his picture, apologizing for the absurdity of his pagan idolatry. She undertook the exercise with pleasure. They lingered a moment, contemplating the famous white house.
“I always make a mountain out of this kind of place. As though it still harbored the spirit of the dead. But it’s only a pile of old boards.”
“You’re disappointed.”
“I’m too much of a dreamer. My teachers at school criticized me for it often enough!”
“You’ve done pretty well for a dreamer.”
“Where do you live, Anna?”
“You’d like to visit my house too?”
He looked at her steadily and answered without equivocation. She hadn’t been propositioned directly for a long time. She hadn’t readied herself for the sudden transition from bullshit to blitzkrieg.
“My hotel is right nearby, if you’d prefer. I’m at the Peacock Inn. It’s quite charming. They’ve preserved a graffiti by von Neumann in their dining room.”
“The job of a research librarian has its limits. My director wouldn’t approve.”
“We don’t have to invite him to take part. These are pretexts, not reasons. Are you with someone? I don’t see you wearing a ring.”
“I’m in recovery.”
“Vous avez mis votre corps en jachère?”
“Sorry, my French is a little rusty.”
“Your body must lie fallow? Anna, love is like riding a bicycle. Once you learn it, you never lose the ability. As I said to Leo, I nourish my inspiration with all my senses.”
His remark chilled her: a man who quotes himself, how horrible! It reminded her of her father.
“You ease your doubts with sex?”
“Par la sensualité, with sensuality. Don’t be so crude.”
“French has far too many words for the one concept. German is much franker.”
“Have you ever tried to talk about love in German?”
“The French are so arrogant! You claim to like poetry but you’ve never read Rilke.”
He resumed walking, his hands in his pockets. He maintained a disconcerting silence until they reached the next light.
“Please excuse me, Anna. That was inelegant of me. Join me for a drink all the same?”
“You wouldn’t have a cigarette, would you?
“You’re a pretty girl, Anna.”
“If you whisper that I have lovely hair, I’m out of here.”
He offered her a Gitane with a disarming smile, devoid of his usual irony. It must be the version he reserved for big occasions. Taking her first puff, which was less delicious than she remembered, she decided to accept his invitation. He was charming, brilliant, and — most important — a temporary visitor. What more could she hope for? She couldn’t spend her whole life waiting.
“What is it that you like about me? I imagine that there are many sexy coeds who camp out on your doorstep.”