One-On-One

by Philip Spires

  There were clouds, enormous billowing clouds milling high above the forest skyline. These were tropical clouds, thousands of feet deep, full of menace and power, whose silence seemed to promise even greater threat. They were heavy and massive, as if conceiving a future storm, but simultaneously light, high and gravity-defying. And they were pink. And not just tinged with a pink that an amateur artist might splash to exaggerate a copy of a photograph to claim something personal; no, they were bright, iridescent, shocking pink, only enhanced by the occasional tinge of grey in shadowed folds. Beneath them the sky was already almost dark, a steely grey that pressed its weight onto the distant forest, apparently to compress it onto an unyielding sea, itself a darker, more solid grey, seemingly adopted from an onrushing night.

  Christine looked on in awed silence, a state I shared via my monitor from the comfort of my office chair, as the colours changed, glowed, darkened, and then greyed out over the next few minutes. “That’s the first time I have ever watched a sunset in the east,” she said eventually. Cartwright was still not in view. As far as Christine knew, she could have been talking to herself, or even to me, for that matter. There was neither reply nor comment.

  As the sky began to darken quickly from the horizon, Christine retrieved her laptop from inside the house and then returned to her balcony chair. She opened up the machine and, as promised, again found Cartwright’s wifi signal without problem. She was browsing the news when Cartwright appeared at the corner. She was slightly taken aback when her machine indicated receipt of a new message from me. I did send another message, despite our agreement to restrict our communication, because I had received a new estimate of Cartwright’s wealth.

  Whether it was the staggering size of this figure, or conversely her impatience at my having mixed the personal and the professional in a single message sent from a mailbox normally reserved for domestic use I simply cannot say, but the conjunction of events threw her and for the first time in our professional association, I saw her panic.

  She had snapped the laptop shut and tried to stand before she spoke. Her words made no sense. All she managed was a set of disconnected fragments from a rush of simultaneous, all misdirected intentions. I have replayed the scene countless times and still can not fully read what happened. For certain he seemed to offer no initial reaction. He simply stood, one hand resting on the balcony rail for the support he needed. From the back, it is possible to detect the slightest tilt of the head to his right, but from other angles there is little to suggest that he had even bothered to look at the screen of Christine’s laptop to his left. She had been facing slightly to her own left, towards the corner where he had disappeared earlier. But, of course, he had walked all the way round the house and had appeared, effectively, from behind her. And, given that he could only have seen her screen for a second or two, we must conclude that his eyesight remains perfect. But, as Christine hurriedly got to her feet, closing her screen, he offered no initial comment. He did, however, smile.

  He watched as Christine re-opened the laptop to close the email client, whilst she mumbled platitudes to change the subject and hide her panic. The mistake, of course, was entirely mine and I must accept full responsibility. It remains my opinion, however, that Cartwright’s reaction, his almost calculated lack of surprise, his complete control and apparent preparedness for such a revelation indicates his prior knowledge of every aspect of our quest. It would be inaccurate, therefore, to ascribe any significance to my error. It was an unfortunate slip, but did not itself contribute to the eventual outcome.

  Precisely twenty-eight seconds after Christine had risen in panic from her chair, Cartwright spoke. “The sun really does set in the west here, Chris. But the real light show happens in the east. It’s because of reflection off the sea. The light is partially polarised, so when it hits the high clouds, the colours look like they have been painted.” As Christine nodded, in a single movement, he swung his body over the balustrade, using the pole on his right for leverage. He then balanced for a moment, standing on the wrong side of the balcony, but facing the house, and stared across the now separating rail directly at Christine. He offered no expression, but said, simply, “Your figure is out of date. I am worth a good fifteen per cent more than that now. If you’d have asked, I’d have told you.” And before Christine could offer even a word, he launched himself backwards to complete a reverse dive into the sea.

  ***

  Perhaps I had seen enough. Perhaps I was merely tired. It had been a long day, though no longer than it had been for Chris. But I was tired, and a tired observer can miss things, so I slept. I had anyway a good idea of how things would progress and I was proved correct when later I reviewed the recordings. While Chris slept and Cartwright continued his work through the night, I began my own new day watching what I had missed on fast forward. A time difference of eight hours is always difficult, since sunset for the objects in view is merely mid-morning for the observer. To be effective, therefore, the body must be trained into a new sense of time, best achieved by working in permanent dark. Establishing the pattern, however, seems to get harder as one ages.

  After his dip in the sea, Cartwright climbed back up his makeshift ladder on the house stilt. Christine quizzed him on the safety of his dive and he replied that there were at least two metres of water above soft sand on this side of the house, and that there was nothing to worry about. He invited her to try for herself, but she declined, of course. It was by then quite dark and the glow of Christine’s laptop screen was the only light. From my angle the two of them looked like some internally-lit painting, like some glowing Wright of Derby discovery against a portentous black backdrop. Of all the places we have operated, this was unquestionably the most remote, the only place our professional lives had visited where you could not even walk away. The result was that our task seemed only to increase in its focus; it alone dominated every detail of communication, intended or otherwise. There was simply no diversion, no people, no traffic, no noise, no media, no light, save for the moon and stars, which, once the sky had completely darkened, provided their own cool inverted daylight. But despite the isolation of the place and the proximity of the protagonists, I was convinced that nothing would persuade Cartwright to offer anything that first night, and I was right.

  “There’s rice in the pan on the stove and ikan bilis, peanuts, cucumber and sambal in the pots at the side. Help yourself. I have to work now. You take the sofa. Use the cloth draped over the back if you get cold. I’ll see you in the morning, unless it rains, in which case we’ll both be out here again because it will be too noisy to stay inside.”

  And, apparently uninterested in whether there might be either response or query, he set off for his room, closed the door and did not reappear, except for a minute or two in the early hours to assemble a plate of rice and sambal. By that time Chris had already eaten and gone to sleep. He did pause for a while to look at her as she slept. She did not wake. He leaned against the frame of his office door and simply stared at her. She had taken off her prosthesis, of course, and it was clearly too hot to sleep under the cloth he had provided. The wrapper she wore had come loose and her bare leg showed to the crotch. He spent several minutes watching her sleep as he spooned his rice and sauce. I watched the passage several times, but he gave nothing away. His gaze was utterly concentrated on her, but his expression remained quite blank. When he had finished his food, he washed his plate, left it to dry it on the surface next to the stove and then took a short nap on his office chair before working again on his papers.

  For the record, I must restate how impressed I was at his ability to get around his house. His short shuffled hops made his progress look more like a gentle glide across my frame of view. There seemed to be no impact as the bamboo floor both gave and sprung back under his weight, emitting the barest of creaking groans as he moved. His progress seemed to anticipate the rhythm of the floor’s response, so the bamboo’s spring actually as
sisted his progress, his movement thus more a controlled application of pressure than a use of power.

  I followed him into his office and fast forwarded through his labours, but saw nothing of interest. He did not use his computer, but merely scribbled what looked like a few symbols in a notebook that was already mostly filled with hand-written material. He spent most of his time reviewing the last two or three pages of entries, all of which were in his own hand. He read and re-read each page several times, spending sometimes a few seconds, sometimes a few minutes on each page, and then repeating the process. Of course I captured still images of his notes from the video and passed them to our mathematicians for comment, but both their initial and considered response was only confusion, since the symbols he was using did not correspond to anything they themselves could recognise. This in itself is strange. Either he was doing a variety of mathematics that was unknown to other mathematicians, which is possible in his case, given his achievements, or he had deliberately set up pages of gobbledegook to confuse us, having correctly predicted that we would be able to reproduce his notes. Later, I even had the material double-checked by an eminent professor of the subject and he could make neither head nor tail of it, despite the majority of each image being quite clearly readable. He did suggest, however, that the manipulation and analysis of probability distributions was not his specialism and advised we seek further help elsewhere. I have placed a request that the material be passed to such a specialist and, at time of writing, await the nomination of a suitably cleared candidate.

  Their dawn, of course, was the start of a late night session for me. Christine stirred first and clearly believed that Cartwright had been asleep throughout, whereas he had snoozed for only a couple of hours at most. She started her day as ever by donning her prosthesis and then let herself into his office after checking that he was asleep. The lashed bamboo here and there had gaps wide enough to allow her to see inside his little room to check his activity without needing to open the door.

  “Morning, Tom,” she said. It was loud enough to wake him.

  He stirred, coughed a few times and momentarily looked tired. His notebook was still open on the only space available on his desk and he made no attempt to hide the open pages from Christine’s view.

  “Where is your tea? I’ll make us a brew.” She paused for a moment. “You do drink tea, I suppose...”

  “I may be an exile,” he mumbled, “but I am still English. It’s under the stove like everything else I use. I’ll come and do it. I haven’t told you how to use the stove.”

  “Don’t worry. I mastered the technology of matches some time ago. I presume you start your day by jumping off the balcony into the sea. Don’t let me interrupt.”

  “Anyone would have thought that you’d spent months watching my daily routine.”

  The comment was barbed. Christine smiled before taking the five tentative steps across the uneven floor onto the back balcony. In contrast to Cartwright, Christine’s progress was both heavy and clumsy, the foot of her false leg often snagging on the split bamboo, causing her to take short, but determinedly heavy and deliberate steps. The wrapper Cartwright had supplied as casual wear did not help. She was not used to the garment, and almost tripped on its hem.

  Cartwright rose, still in the same clothes as when he took his previous bath and, true to form, went immediately to the front of the house and launched himself into the sea. This time, however, he did take a short fresh water shower afterwards. Christine, of course, did not waste the opportunity and, after setting a pan of water to boil on the stove, returned to his office to leaf through his notebook while he swam. She was still at the task when he reappeared, dripping. She made no attempt to hide her interest in his papers and he showed no surprise at her snooping.

  “Anything of interest?”

  “I don’t understand anything. I can’t even translate the full stops.”

  “That’s because they are operators, not full stops.”

  “It amazes me that there are people like you on this planet who communicate in a way that barely anyone else understands... I was never any good at mathematics.”

  “I know. I used to do your homework.” Cartwright smiled. It was a warm smile, the first inkling that the hard outer shell might give a little.

  Christine laughed as she withdrew to make the tea. The clatter of cups and pans interrupted my audio, but I am sure I missed nothing.

  “This work of yours - the stuff in your notebook - just how many other people on the planet could understand it?”

  Cartwright looked down at the open notebook next to his computer. “You mean this material here? This is all new material. I’m not even sure if I understand it myself yet. I am playing with a couple of ideas.” He took up the book and was still reading his notes when Christine reappeared to hand him his mug of tea. She had carried her own mug as well and had spilled a little during her unsteady progress.

  “There’s no milk as far as I can see...”

  “I don’t use it.”

  “...or sugar...”

  “I don’t use that either... but you never used to take sugar...”

  “And still don’t.”

  “But you had a good look for some, no doubt.”

  Christine smiled again. In my opinion she could have profited by restating her professional interest in his work, but she chose not to.

  “So how many people on the planet could understand this?” she asked, nodding at his notes.

  “This?” he asked, waving his book through the air. “Probably no-one. It’s quite new, even for me.”

  “And what does it mean? What are you trying to do?”

  “Now that would be telling...”

  “...and why have you never published anything? Don’t mathematicians like to make a name for themselves? And isn’t receiving the peer review that goes with publication the only option for a mathematician who wants recognition?”

  Cartwright shrugged as he closed the notebook and replaced it in the unlockable drawer of his desk. “There are other ways.”

  “Like being the richest man on the planet?”

  “In the capitalist world it’s called commercial advantage. In academe it’s called recognition. Commercial advantage produces profit. Recognition gets your name in a textbook, while commercial success puts your name in thousands of textbooks, because you can buy the publishing company.”

  “And how many of those do you own now?”

  “A few.”

  Christine was already pushing harder than any of us would have recommended at this early stage. “So that number you saw on my computer screen last night was, as you claimed, an under-estimate of your worth?”

  “Certainly.”

  “How on earth did you do it?”

  Cartwright ignored her question at first, brushing past her to shuffle out onto his beloved veranda, where he paused to survey the morning. The sun had risen above the distant forested hills and shone at its low angle directly onto the front of the house. He then laughed, turned back to face her and said, “The reasons are complex and multi-dimensional.” A hydrofoil ferry was approaching noisily from the right, the first of the day between the mainland and the island, its engine noise carrying the half a kilometre across the near silence above a flat calm that rendered the sea a virtual mirror in the early morning light. “And I use the terms advisedly.”

  Now he was starting to play games. His wry smile at the end of the phrase confirmed it.

  I have spent many hours deliberating over this. I have played and replayed this short sequence and I am convinced that he must have known more of Christine’s broader intentions than we initially assumed. Was he trying to elicit an error from her? Was he feeding her with keywords he knew had been part of her briefing? And if so, does this mean he has access to inside information? His words were clearly car
efully chosen, and were not offered in jest. The only interpretation that fits both the context and his reaction is that he was signalling, for Christine and for me, that he was aware of the covert motives in play, as well as the declared reason for the interview request. Chris must have picked up this thread immediately, because, true to form, she did not take his bait, choosing to ignore the provocation.

  “When can we talk about our interviews, Tom? I’d like to start as soon as possible.”

  “Okay. How about now?”

  Christine suggested they sit on the front veranda, the area facing the mainland and foreground sea that had already become their shared space. They both sat. Cartwright said nothing as Christine essentially repeated what we had sent in the initial contact emails, starting with an explanation of the format of the One-On-One interview, stressing its confrontational format. She asked if he was happy with this and he nodded his reply. It was an understanding of what she had said that he offered, rather than his assent to cooperate. She outlined our idea of three half hour programmes, the first an introduction to the public figure Cartwright had become, examining his status and the reasons why he had become an object of public interest; the second a portrait of the man himself, covering his background and life; and then thirdly an open-ended ‘where do we go from here?’ analysis of what might become of his wealth and power. Cartwright nodded throughout, but again he was doing no more than acknowledging that he had absorbed the message content. He was still not actually agreeing.

  “So is that quite clear?”

  Again he nodded.

  “...and what about the format? Are you willing to participate, given the specific, confrontational nature of the One-On-One interview?”

  “I think so,” he replied. He took a moment to reflect before continuing. “But if things go wrong I’ll just issue a string of expletives and then you’ll have to edit out the whole section.”