The Tenth Muse

by Catherine Chung

  Chapter 24

  PETER ARRIVED JUST A COUPLE WEEKS LATER WITHOUT warning, without a note or explanation. One moment I was sitting at the desk, the door to the hallway and all my windows flung open for air. And then I looked up, and he was standing in the doorway, watching me. He cleared his throat. He smiled.

  I felt a pain in my chest.

  “Hi,” he said. “Hi, Katherine.” And I noticed the timbre of his voice, the roughness of it, and how it was not quite deep, and how that made him seem younger than he was, like a schoolboy still. He looked the same as always, rumpled and handsome.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I’ve been calling you for the last three months,” he said. “I wanted to apologize, but my calls never went through,” he continued. “When I called the Bonn operator, your number had been disconnected.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry about that. My phone was disconnected when I went to Göttingen, and when I got back, my number had been changed. I didn’t know you’d try to call me.”

  He was wearing a blue shirt that I’d bought him, and even from across the room I could smell his Peter-smell. “Of course I tried to call you,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too,” I said, but I felt tentative about saying anything more. People always talk about thoughts and feelings rushing through their minds in moments of intense emotion, but it’s always been the opposite for me. When I feel I’ve been put on the spot, I shut down, I lose track of my thoughts, I lose track of my feelings. I looked at Peter and felt stupefied.

  “You’ve changed,” he said. “Lost weight, maybe. I don’t know, you seem different.”

  “I guess I am.” I fidgeted in my chair.

  “Listen,” he said, still standing in the doorway. “I am so sorry for our last fight. And I’m sorry for not coming to visit you sooner. When you left, I was so angry at you, and hurt, but then these last few months I’ve just missed you and realized how horrible I was when you first got here when you were trying so hard to be sweet, and I guess all my anger just went away.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. “Are you saying you came here to tell me that you forgive me?”

  “No! Sorry, I began badly.” He stepped toward me, and stopped. He ran his hands through his hair, and sighed. “What I wanted to say is that after I stopped being angry I got very sad, and I’ve been sad ever since.” He lifted his shoulders and dropped them. “I’m sad that I hurt you, I’m sad that you left, I’m sad that you’ve been here without me, and that I took so long to come.”

  “Oh, Peter,” I said. I felt like I had to say something back. I got up and walked over to him. I reached out and touched his arm. “I’m sorry too. I’m glad you’re here.”

  A smile spread across his face.

  I let him take me in his arms, and then I took him home with me.

  THE NEXT MORNING I woke up sweaty and tangled up in blankets under Peter’s arms and leg. I breathed in the smell of him. I’d been surprised by how strange it had felt to be in my apartment with him, like he didn’t quite fit in, like he wasn’t exactly the person I remembered, or I wasn’t exactly the person I remembered being with him.

  I’d been certain sleeping with him would jostle us back into place, but I wasn’t sure it had. I’d felt self-conscious, assessing our every move instead of surrendering myself to the moment. I wondered now if Peter had felt the same constraint, but he smiled and pulled me closer as I tried to wiggle free.

  “Listen,” he said. “I wanted to talk about next year.”

  “Next year?” I said.

  “Yes. Are you planning to stay another year?”

  “I was,” I said slowly. “I’ve been getting a lot done lately, and I like it here.” I shrugged. “And I feel like I should take the support while I can.”

  He nodded. “So I was thinking this morning while you were sleeping that maybe I’d take the year off,” he said. “I could take a sabbatical.”

  “To do research?” I asked.

  “To be with you,” he said. He kissed the side of my face from behind. “If that sounds good to you.”

  “Of course it does,” I said. “But I don’t want to rush into anything.”

  “I want to support you,” he said. “I want to make sure you have everything you need to succeed.”

  I smiled. “I have so many things to tell you. And I’ve missed talking to you about work. I’m so excited: I think I’ve almost figured out the Mohanty problem.”

  “Oh?” Peter said.

  “Yeah, want to see what I’ve done?”

  He tightened his arms around me. “Not just yet,” he said. “First I have other important matters to attend to.” And he pulled me over onto him, and we made love again.

  For the next few days I neglected my work. Instead, I focused on Peter and enjoying his presence in Germany. I didn’t tell him what I’d discovered in Göttingen—not just because that’s where we’d had our big fight, or because of the sense of constraint I still felt, but because I wanted—at long last—to have fun. We took a cruise upon the Rhine. We drank beer, we ate hot dogs, we went to classical music concerts, and we looked at apartments together that we might share. I introduced him to my friends. “He’s so sexy,” Renate said, and Otto and Maz nodded their assent. It made me strangely proud, that they thought he was handsome, that he had their approval.

  At the end of the week, however, I told Peter I had to settle down and focus. “I’m so close with this paper that I’m getting paranoid,” I said. “And I haven’t been putting the time in that I need. First I went to Göttingen, and now I’ve been completely distracted by you. Happily distracted, I’ll add. But I shouldn’t procrastinate. Do you think I could show you the progress that I’ve made?”

  “Sure,” he said. There was a funny smile on his face, like he had a secret that he was very proud of. “Actually, let me show you something first,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you this, but this came in the mail yesterday.” And he reached into his satchel and pulled out a magazine. He handed it to me. It was the Annals of Mathematics. “Open it,” he said. He was beaming.

  I opened it and shook out the pages, expecting something to fall out.

  “No, I mean, open it to the table of contents. Look what’s in it.”

  So I did. And that’s when I saw my name, and the title of “The Mohanty Problem” next to it.

  I looked up at Peter. “What’s this?” I asked slowly.

  “I finished your proof using the notes you left behind and our conversations,” Peter said. “And I sent it in to Annals in your name, and after they had a chance to review, they accepted it, ecstatically. I’ve just been waiting for this to come out so I could surprise you. I had them rush deliver it.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I said. “Please tell me this is some kind of elaborate prank.”

  “Not a prank,” he said.

  “When did you finish the proof?”

  “Two months ago. Once I got going, I thought it’d be quick, but it took me much longer.”

  “I feel faint,” I said. “I think I’m going to pass out.” I sat down on the bed. “How did you do it?” I asked.

  “Once you figure out you can use the Kobalesky formula, it’s all just coasting from there.”

  So Lee had been right. “I just started working with it two weeks ago,” I said.

  “Then you were pretty much all the way there,” Peter said. “It’s just one more step and you’re done.”

  I made a noise between a laugh and a whimper. Mostly I wanted to stab myself. It was my fault, I thought, for getting distracted. It was my fault for waiting so long. Peter had beaten me, but he’d also cheated—he’d used the framework I’d already developed, but not yet published. That was against the rules.

  Peter knelt beside me. “Well, aren’t you going to say something?” he said.

  “I’m trying to understand why you would do something like this,” I said.


  “I wanted to do something really big for you, and I knew how much you cared about this problem. I wanted to solve it for you. Once I started working on it, I realized how interesting it was in itself, and how brilliant your initial approach was, and then I wanted to work on it for its own sake.”

  “Peter.” It was difficult to speak. “Do you not see how degrading that is? You poached my problem.”

  “I didn’t poach anything! I gave you full credit,” Peter said. “I wanted to do something for you. I thought you’d be happy.”

  A hot, itching sensation was working its way through my body. “Why didn’t you just call me and tell me how to fix it? Why did you have to take it over for yourself?”

  “I thought it’d be romantic,” he said.

  “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You thought it would be romantic to use my notes without asking me, poach my idea, and then give it back to me as a gift?”

  Peter was staring at me with a sort of stunned expression on his face. “Well when you put it that way, it sounds pretty bad,” he said. “I swear, I wasn’t trying to take anything from you. Look, you’re on there as sole author.”

  “It’s not about the credit,” I gasped. “If you respected me at all, you would understand.”

  “That isn’t a fair statement, and it isn’t true, either,” he said carefully. “I do respect you. I wanted to help you.”

  My heart was pounding. The blood was rushing into my veins. I thought I might be having a heart attack. “All I’ve ever had is this one thing,” I said. “This one talent.”

  We looked at each other. Peter held up his hands. “I obviously misjudged the situation. I’m sorry. But can’t we have a rational conversation about this?”

  “I am having a rational conversation about this,” I said. I took a breath. “Just tell me this. When you finished my proof for me, was it because you were afraid I wouldn’t be able to do it on my own? Or because you were afraid I could?”

  “Katherine, stop,” he said. “You’re getting carried away. I wasn’t afraid of either of those things. I was trying to do something for you. I get it, I did the wrong thing. But can we focus on the fact that I was trying to show you I love you?”

  “I think I might kill you,” I said quietly. “I really think that I might.”

  He smiled.

  “I’m not joking,” I said. “I need you to go.”

  He let out an exasperated breath. “I don’t know how to talk to you when you get this way.”

  “Then please get out of my apartment. Just leave.”

  Chapter 25

  HERE WAS THE PROBLEM: I WAS AMBITIOUS. I WANTED a career. I wanted accolades and validation. More than anything, I wanted to do something that mattered. At a time when it was unseemly for a woman to want these things (is it really so accepted now?), I wanted them desperately. I went after them openly. And when the paper Peter had submitted in my name was published, I got them all. I received a steady stream of notes and telegrams of congratulations. People started hinting at inevitable job offers, of fellowships and invitations to spend time at various think tanks and research institutions. Rob and Leo sent a telegram expressing their admiration. “Come back soon,” they said. “Our plants miss you.” Lee sent a short, exclamatory note full of excitement and encouragement. I had finally made it, just as I’d promised myself I would all those years ago when Blake stole my homework and I vowed to establish myself so firmly that I would be known, and I’d never be doubted in that way again.

  Here was the problem: Peter Hall had submitted a paper in my name. Everything I’d gained from that was built on shaky ground.

  Here was another problem: I still loved Peter Hall.

  Chapter 26

  ALAN TURING WAS A WAR HERO WHO IS OFTEN CALLED the inventor of the computer, and sometimes the father of modern computer science. Some would say that without him, we would never have cracked the German code, and the Allies would never have won the war. But after the war was over, a terrible thing happened to him. His house was broken into, and when he called the police to report it, the policeman who came to investigate discovered he’d been with a male lover at the time of the robbery. This was illegal in England at the time.

  So because Turing had called the authorities to report a crime that had been committed against him, he ended up being prosecuted and convicted for homosexual acts under the same law that had sent Oscar Wilde to prison. Turing, however, was given a choice of which punishment to take. He could go to prison, or he could be injected with hormones that would chemically castrate him. He chose the injections. He returned home a free man. Soon after, he committed suicide.

  I think it was the choice that killed Turing in the end. The bad law, of course, and the society that made it—but I think perhaps he could have survived the censure, the imprisonment, the castration, if only they hadn’t made him participate. I think making him choose, making him complicit, was what ultimately destroyed him.

  IN THE END it wasn’t a rational decision. It wasn’t even a good one. I wish I could say I made it for the right reasons. I wish I could say I thought it all the way through, and I did it for myself, not for Peter. But I have to admit I did it for Peter’s sake. To create a problem so large that even he couldn’t solve it. To show him something I couldn’t explain—how serious what he’d done had been, and also no matter how bad that had been, I could still do worse to myself.

  I called the editor of the Annals of Mathematics and asked him to withdraw my name as author of my paper. I offered no explanation. I just gave it up. It was self-destructive, and I knew it, but I felt like it was the only choice I had left, other than going along with what Peter had done. And anyway, sometimes it feels good to let go of everything you’ve been working toward. Sometimes it feels good to raze everything all the way down to the ground.

  Even then, I didn’t get what I asked for. The editor called Peter and, afterward, didn’t take my name off at all but added Peter’s name as coauthor. So there was no triumphant moment, no spectacular conflagration, no moral victory. There was only the damage between Peter and me, and the speculation that the addition of his name to the paper stoked, and the subsequent damage to my reputation, unavoidable after all.

  THEY CALLED IT A STUNT, a lovers’ quarrel, dirty laundry aired in public. The invitations that had been rolling in, the hints at job offers, quietly disappeared. None were formally withdrawn, but when I inquired, the response was silence. And the second year of my fellowship at the University of Bonn was not renewed.

  I felt as if I’d seen this coming all along, like every other possible outcome of my life had been a fantasy. All I felt was quiet after all my rage.

  “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,” I told Peter. “I know you were trying to give me something, not take something away. But I can’t be with you anymore.”

  I guess I must have known he wouldn’t fight with me this time, that I had won a battle I’d never wanted to win. He nodded. That was it. I was the one who told him to go, but it broke my heart when he went.

  Chapter 27

  FOR A LONG TIME I FELT LOW TO THE GROUND, LIKE I had grown heavy, or the force of gravity had increased, and was pulling me down. For a long time I found it hard to get out of bed, to look my friends in the eye, to speak, to laugh, to eat. Breathing, just breathing, seemed difficult and pained.

  My friends did not know what to do with me.

  “I think what he did was very romantic,” Leena said. “I wish someone would do something like that for me.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Maz. “If I were smart enough to do something like that, I definitely would.”

  Renate said, “I think you need to examine why this happened to you. Perhaps you have some kind of energy that draws this sort of circumstance and needs to be cleansed.”

  Only Henry, dear Henry, understood. She called long distance from Göttingen. “You were absolutely right to do what you did,” she said. “And brave.”

  She was th
e only one to whom I could confess my doubts. “He didn’t mean to hurt me,” I said. “In some ways it was very generous what he did.”

  “Well, that’s the problem,” Henry said. “Imagine what he could do if he was trying to hurt you.”

  “I’m embarrassed,” I said. “I’m ashamed. Renate thinks I draw this sort of disaster on myself.”

  “Renate,” Henry said, deliberately, “is a fool.”

  Henry’s moral support aside, I was alone as I’d ever been, with nothing to work on, and no ideas for what to do next. My life felt swept barren, empty, like a desert burned clean.

  When I was a little girl I used to think if I were granted three wishes, one would be to be old already, so that I would know everything that had happened and know it turned out all right. If I had three wishes now, one would be to go back to who I was as a little girl and tell her: all will be fine. Whatever moments of darkness you face, you will pass through them like clouds—believe this, hold it close to you like a light.

  I DON’T KNOW when I would have emerged from this particular cloud if Henry hadn’t come for me. She called from Göttingen and said, “Katherine, you’ve been sad long enough, now it’s time to move on,” and, “I’m coming.”

  “I’m going to tell you a secret,” she said when she arrived and took in my unwashed hair and messy apartment. “But only if you promise not to tell.”

  “What?” I said, and I sat on my bed and looked up at her. For the first time in a long time, I felt a glimmer of hope, of interest.

  Henry sat next to me and patted my head. “Promise first,” she said.

  “I promise.”

  “Well,” she said. “Back in San Francisco when my family didn’t have money, I sometimes worked as a maid for rich ladies.”

  I was so surprised I let out a short bark of laughter. Then I looked at her face. “But you’re the most glamorous person I know!” I said.

  She dimpled. “I’m a master of illusion,” she said. “But I’m also, it’s a little-known fact, a master of cleaning.”