“I think about your mother a lot,” Jenny said early in our dinner, and I understood this sentiment wasn’t simply chatter to make me feel a little better about my loss. Jenny, I had inferred from conversations with my mother over the years, was a regular visitor to my mother’s house. I didn’t know the details of her conversations with my mother, but I could suss out their purpose and their inherent intimacy.
“I was in a bad marriage, and without her, I don’t know how—I honestly don’t know how—I could have made my own life.”
“She was a wonderful example for a lot of people,” I said.
“She was proud of you.”
“We understood each other. When it’s the same genes like that, lots of times you don’t even have to talk. You just look at each other and you know,” I said.
“I’ve never had that, Sasha. Not with anyone, genes or no genes,” Jenny said.
“I think that’s what I’m going to miss most of all.”
The dinner turned out to be quiet and peaceful. Even Bruce was subdued and reflective. It was one of the few times during the entire shiva that I felt I was in the company of real adults. But it was more than that. I didn’t have to explain myself to either Bruce or Jenny. I could express my emotions and be understood without being judged. I could be subtle. I didn’t have to shout. They both possessed receptive and perceptive ears, and I knew it had been decades since I had a conversation like this in the company of a woman who wasn’t also a relative.
Long after Jenny left, I got a call. I expected some new drama, but it was just Yakov. “How’s the problem solving?” I asked.
“That’s a stupid thing to ask. You know how it is. It doesn’t go. It doesn’t go. Then a miracle happens and it goes.”
“The miracle hasn’t happened yet, I take it.”
“If it did, I wouldn’t be berating you right now. Tell me, please, Sasha, what wonderful thing did Jenny make that I will enjoy tomorrow?”
“You’ll find out tomorrow. By the way, how was the séance or whatever Shlomo called it?”
“It’s been postponed until tomorrow night.”
“Really. Why? Are you waiting for a full moon or something?”
“It’s not that. But I’ll be there.”
“You think my mother will spill the beans about Navier-Stokes?”
“No. But I do think that strange events can propel creativity. I need a change of scenery. I’m hoping my own neshamah, not your mother’s, will speak to me tomorrow night. You want to come? Maybe your neshamah will speak to you, too, and you’ll be able to solve a previously thought to be impossible problem in meteorology.”
CHAPTER 30
The Governor
DAY 6
In a country as profoundly anti-intellectual as ours it is predictable that our leaders will do whatever they can in order not to appear smart in public. If they graduated summa cum laude from the finest university in the land, they will barely mention this achievement, give an “aw-shucks, I just drank a ton of beer and got lucky” response if asked about it, and even make a concerted effort to drop their ending g’s and add a few “ain’t”s into their speeches as an antidote to their erudition and education.
This effort to appear dumb—or to put a positive spin on it, to “be a man of the people”—takes a lot of work that in a better world would be unnecessary. You have to really want to be a politician to undertake it. Plus you have to eat funnel cakes and other greasy, awful types of state fair midway food and pretend you like them all. Essentially you have to show the world that you can effectively pretend to have bad eating habits and no brains. Clearly, I don’t have what it takes to be a politician, and neither do any of my relatives. Like my mother, none of us can play dumb, and we tend to find American food an abomination.
Obviously, I have a critical and cynical view of America’s vaunted political system. It is a view identical to that of everyone in my family, including my uncle. However, my uncle, more than anyone else in our family, needs politicians to like him and grant him favors. The liquor business is highly regulated, and its taxes buttress wobbly state budgets during times of economic difficulty. The relationship between government and the purveyors of alcohol nationwide is siblinglike, and it is especially so in my home state, which leads the nation in the number of bars per capita and, it goes almost without saying, drinks more alcohol per belly than any other state in the union.
When my uncle told me that the governor was going to visit our house during shiva I cast a gimlet eye. “Is he going to daven mincha-maariv with us?”
“Who knows? The aide did ask if he should bring a kipa.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That we already have many in the house. But the governor is a bit of a germaphobe, so I’m going to guess he’ll bring his own.”
Which is what he did. He already had his kipa on as he left his Lincoln Town Car and walked to our house. I was in the living room looking outside, and watched in a state of semi-disbelief. Neighbors came out of their homes—like young fleas in dormancy sensing their first chance at warm blood—to shake the hand of our governor, who possessed not only a full head of silver hair and a wondrous set of gleaming teeth, but an uncanny warm glint in his eye that quite frankly I envied.
This was the last day the mathematicians would be in the house. They would scatter to the winds on the final day of shiva and give my family one day of true peace, an act of courtesy that was not undervalued. While the governor approached, they were oblivious, still working, albeit with palpably diminished hope, on solving the Navier-Stokes problem. I had banned any food in the living room after the crumb- and plate-filled first day of problem solving. But I wasn’t cruel. I let them continue to have their tea—which Yakov, being the most finicky of tea aficionados, let no one else steep—and standard gut-busting coffee. Cups had to be borrowed to keep the supply of caffeine steady, and the living room had the air and redolence of a Starbucks, a derelict one where no one bused their mugs and the sound system was on the fritz.
Hefty volumes, most of which had seen little use in the university library for decades, were on the coffee table and piled in corners of the living room. The mathematicians would pick up these volumes, seemingly at random, for information. At the end of the day the books would be carted back to the math department conference room for further evening work, when the real discussions would begin. Zhelezniak was the general leading this effort. He had systemically broken down the solution of this problem into a dozen subtasks, which eventually were going to be sewn together to make the quilt that would show the solution to the Navier-Stokes problem in all its glory. That was the plan, at any rate. If you would have asked any of the mathematicians whether they saw the governor of Wisconsin during their stay, I doubt that a single one would have said yes.
But my family saw him. We whisked the governor into the dining room. Security agents kept watch outside and tried their best to be discreet. These men couldn’t possibly be confused with LDS missionaries, or even intrepid Jehovah Witnesses. Our neighbors, ever helpful and kind, brought out coffee for the security force, which it graciously accepted while the governor and our family convened to plan the state memorial ceremony for my mother.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Governor Dombrowski began, and I could feel my antagonism recede. He meant it. I could insult him for his pedestrian intelligence and whacky ideas, but even I know that there is a bit more to life than intellect. This governor, no matter how much I might malign him in conversation and in this book, dear reader, was a real human being with real feelings.
“We’d like to honor her life. I never met her personally, but I’ve heard many stories about just what a remarkable person she was. She’s an example for all in this state. For young girls who want to be rocket scientists. For anyone who wants to pursue their dreams.”
“My sister never let anything stop her,” my
uncle said.
“Exactly, Shlomo! That’s what we want to celebrate. An indefatigable spirit. A patriot. A God-fearing woman with can-do optimism. We need more of that in this world. We need more of that in this state. I would love to see Professor Karnokovitch remembered and revered.”
“We look forward to the memorial ceremony, governor. My son is very good at arranging such affairs,” my uncle said.
The governor looked at my cousin, examining him carefully, and made an instant appraisal of his fit and polish. “Were you born in Wisconsin, son?”
“Absolutely,” my cousin quickly replied. He was in salesman mode. “Born in St. Mary’s, just down the block. Madison West graduate.”
“You go to the University of Wisconsin, too?”
“No, Williams.”
“Out East, huh. Speak Polish by any chance?”
“Oczywiscie! Italian, too.”
The governor gave his election-winning, teeth-baring grin. “Now my campaign funds are going to be paying for this. My understanding is that you know quite a few top-notch performers.”
“That I do, dear governor.”
“Now Barbra Streisand, just between you and me, is a little too much of a lefty, even though I do love her voice.”
“She’s very popular, it’s true. Not really right for this affair, though, I agree. But what about Dolly Parton? Everybody loves her. Even my aunt loved her.”
“She did?” I asked. “My mother loved Dolly Parton?”
“She did, indeed. She came to visit me when I was putting together a show at the Hollywood Bowl for Ms. Parton. Your mother came along. She was enchanted.”
“It’s true,” Anna said. “I was there, too.”
“You think she could sing ‘God Bless America’ if we hired her?” the governor asked.
“Of course. She loves that song, governor. She’s actually a very accommodating and agreeable woman and would sing just about any song, as long as it was tasteful. I bet you she’d even sing ‘Stracic Kogos’ if you asked her personally.”
“I love that song. I heard it when I was visiting our sister voivodship in Poland. Very touching. I think of my own mother when I hear it. How did you know?”
“I do my research, governor.”
“Does she know Polish?” He seemed excited at the possibility that the country superstar was a closet Pole.
“No, but I’ll translate the words for her. I’m sure it’s the kind of song Dolly could relate to. Anyone can. But you’ll have to ask her personally, I think.”
“I’ll be glad to do that, son.”
“We are, of course, talking about a big budget project, governor. I’ll do this work gratis because my father has asked and I loved my aunt dearly. But still, this will not be a small production.”
“I understand. Dolly Parton doesn’t come cheap, I’m sure.”
“No, she doesn’t. But there is no one who can reach an audience quite like her.”
“I think it’s an excellent idea. Your father is lucky to have such a creative and dynamic son. Dennis will talk to you about the numbers later. I’m looking forward to the event.”
The governor left well before mincha-maariv, although I’m sure he would have been game enough to recite the necessary Hebrew words in transliteration. During his little stay, he wasn’t shy about mentioning that one of his grandmothers was Jewish, something I’m guessing he also noted on his occasional trips to synagogues. Being a governor requires a myriad of skills. While great hair and teeth are a good start to a political career, an ability to pretend at least half convincingly that you have an affinity to all key ethnic groups in your state is a definite plus.
“What is this all about, anyway?” I asked.
“It’s to honor your mother, what do you mean what’s it about?” my uncle said.
“Dolly Parton and my mother don’t have a lot in common, I’m sorry.”
“She did see her, Sasha,” Anna said. “I don’t lie. You know that. Not to you.”
“She saw the Moscow Circus, too, maybe five or six times when I was a kid. But we’re not having clowns and bicycle-riding bears at this ceremony.”
“Tell him, Shlomo. Tell me, too,” my father said. “Dolly Parton and my Rachela? You must be in trouble. Tell us what’s going on.”
“Close the door,” my uncle said.
“Why? The mathematicians are too busy to hear anything,” I said.
“They have ears. You never know what those sons-of-bitches will listen to. Six days they’ve been here, drinking my liquor and eating all the food, trying to solve some stupid problem.”
“It’s not a stupid problem, Uncle. It’s probably the most important problem to be solved in mathematics in two hundred years.”
“Maybe three hundred. There’s not a more important problem in mathematical physics,” my father said.
“OK, it’s an important problem. I have problems to solve, too. Close the door. I’ll tell you.”
CHAPTER 31
The Listening Session
DAY 6
If you are going to attempt to communicate with the dead, I would think that the venue for this endeavor should be something quite grand in stature. There cannot possibly be an eventful meeting between someone in the netherworld and a few people seated around a Formica kitchen table. No, success requires a large room with a heavy wooden table and dim lighting produced by a chandelier or two. There must be at least a dozen people in attendance. The dead need to know that they are truly wanted, after all.
My uncle’s dining room fit the bill, especially the chandeliers, which came all the way from Venice. In the new life he and Cynthia had planned together there were going to be lavish affairs, mostly charity events, held at their new house. The parties, sad to say, had turned out to be few and far between. Now the dining room had a new, if temporary, purpose. It would be the setting for my uncle, Anna, the Ben-Zvis, Yakov Epshtein, the Karanskys, Ren Ito, Vladimir Zhelezniak, and me to try to bring the ether of my mother’s soul back for one last communication. The female mathematicians had declined to attend, as did Peter Orlansky. They were far more sensible than I was.
I was there strictly as an observer, I swear. It hadn’t been my original intention to attend. My uncle had come to my mother’s house that evening because, according to Shimon Ben-Zvi, five items that my mother held dear were needed for the ceremony. My uncle knew exactly what would be best, five of the Russian rubles from my mother’s ammo box. He was partly relieved that I hadn’t already put the coins in a safe-deposit box, and partly irritated. “Everyone knows that gold is here, Sasha,” he said. “You need to be more responsible with your mother’s hard-earned raichkite.”
It had been my intention to stay home with Bruce, but as the evening wore on, I became more and more curious. Plus, I was getting nervous about my uncle. This event was going to be a disaster, I knew, and my uncle’s response to being conned by Shimon Ben-Zvi could turn ugly. Someone needed to be there to pull him back, and I wasn’t sure that Anna could do it alone.
They were all seated around the dining room table when I arrived. Shimon was at the head, his wife, Jocelyn, on his right, his brother, Abraham, on his left. Abraham looked worried. He, too, knew that this escapade would not end well. I looked at his unsettled face and regretted not contacting him beforehand so the two of us and Anna could devise a strategy for the inevitable moment when the farce became obvious to all.
Some of the mathematicians, including Yakov, had notebooks and pencils in front of them. At face value it looked like they were prepared to be stenographers for my mother, recently departed but evidently still capable of presenting an important math seminar. Perhaps one or two possessed the delusion that she would teach them somehow. I’ll never know. More likely they were all like Yakov, ever ready to find inspiration and desperate enough to seek it out in even the most ridiculous o
f settings.
In a corner of the room stood three men with tallitim, ritual prayer shawls, over their heads, standing in their socks on the cherrywood floor. Rituals like this, I then understood, required a few sidekicks, in this case some old guys from our synagogue. They were undoubtedly Cohanim, members of the ancient Jewish tribe of priests.
I sat down at the far end of the table and looked directly at Shimon. I was angry but tried to appear calm. Before Shimon was a fat, well-worn Hebrew volume that looked to have been published sometime in the 1920s. Presumably this volume contained a recipe for communicating with the souls of the dead. Who did Shimon think he was going to fool? Many of us knew Jewish liturgy well, and the Karanskys had spent their formative years in Israel. Shimon was unaware that he was in way over his head, and unwilling to accept that preying upon a grieving man’s sentimental desire to hear his sister one last time was well beyond behavior acceptable to a decent human being. I wondered if he was mentally touched. Or maybe he believed he could do it.
Shimon inhaled deeply before opening his book. I finally noticed the five gold coins, my gold coins, in the center of the table, thought about the possibility of never seeing them again, and decided that that was the least of my worries. Shimon solemnly began to recite in Hebrew a history, an event from who knows what century, when wayward rabbis of old managed to do successfully what we were attempting. I had a suspicion that he wasn’t reading from a text at all, but was simply making up stuff as he was going along. As a stand-in for those rabbis of old, he summoned forth the Cohanim, the old men from the synagogue standing in their socks. Who had managed to convince them to come for this travesty? I didn’t know. They turned their backs to us. I knew what was going to come next. Shimon was borrowing from the Birkat Cohanim, the priestly blessing delivered on the Jewish New Year. The old men no doubt had their fingers closed against their palms waiting for when they would be called to face us. Then they turned upon hearing the summons from Shimon, spreading out their fingers, lifting up their hands to the height of their shoulders, and reciting the Hebrew words first spoken by Shimon:
The Mathematician’s Shiva Page 26
