We walked back to the car and I asked if he wanted to stop for some breakfast. He said no.
As we drove, Orlansky said not a word. The air was heavy. I spoke up out of desperation. “I’m glad there was someone with me this morning, Peter. But my uncle might be angry that I didn’t wait for him to come along.”
“You have a right to be angry, too. We just spent six days invading your life trying to solve a problem your mother solved years ago.”
“Probably, yes.”
“Definitely, yes. I know your mother and what she was capable of doing. She definitely solved that problem.”
Peter Orlansky flew back to New Jersey that day. He still sends me Jewish New Year and happy holiday season cards every year, or at least his wife does that for him. I, of course, send him our cards in return.
CHAPTER 33
The Last Lunch
DAY 7
“She had a crush on you back in middle school. I remember that distinctly,” Bruce said.
“She was what, twelve? I was twenty-two already, maybe twenty-three. Gas was still twenty cents a gallon. It’s ancient history.”
“She asked back then if I had a picture of you. I gave one to her. She probably still has it,” Bruce said.
“You can’t be serious,” I said.
“A girl’s first love should never be taken lightly, Sasha,” Bruce said.
“All of a sudden you’re an expert on women?” I said.
“Do you know how much time it took to make this?” Yakov asked, his fork, which had just speared a pelmeni, extended toward me.
“You trying to feed me again?” I asked.
“No, you get your own this time. This plate is all mine. It’ll be my last good meal in I don’t know how long. Something like this, you have to start the night before. You need to marinate the meat. Then you have to wake up early and make the dough. Roll it out. Cut them. Fill each pelmen. Pain in the ass. Hours, it takes. I know. I saw my mother do it many times,” Yakov said.
“It was Gogol’s favorite,” I said.
“See, she knows you like Gogol, too. I know you’re not stupid, Sasha. So I must assume that you’re being purposely obtuse,” Yakov said.
“He’s being passive-aggressive. It’s his standard pose when he knows he’s on the wrong side of an argument,” Bruce said.
“Somebody wonderful wants him and he has to put up a fight. What an idiot,” Yakov said.
“You should see his taste in women, too. Little pieces of cotton candy that fall for his dumb ‘I’m a Russian immigrant, a lost soul’ act,” Bruce said.
“You two are ganging up on me,” I said. “And then there is Anna, telling me time and time again I have to find someone real. She put you two up to this?”
“No, we are operating independently,” Bruce said. “But you should never cross Anna.”
We were in my mother’s kitchen. Yakov had come to say good-bye to my family, and of course have one last bite to eat. I had my doubts that he thought saying farewell was as important as eating Jenny Rivkin’s food.
“You think she’s been cooking for your family? You’ve got to be kidding. It’s for you,” Yakov said.
“I thought it was for you, Yakov,” I said.
“Don’t mock me, Sasha. If Jenny Rivkin deigned to cook for me, I’d be in heaven for the rest of my life,” Yakov said.
“If you weren’t interested in her, Sasha, you wouldn’t be toying with us like this,” Bruce said.
“It’s true. He wouldn’t be trying to act dumb. He knows he isn’t getting any younger,” Yakov said.
“Thanks, Yakov, for the reminder,” I said.
“I’m just stating a fact. It’s true for me, too. I feel it every morning I wake up. Then I look in the mirror. Ach. What has become of me?”
“You’ll live to be one hundred, Yakov,” I said.
“Not without a good woman next to me, that’s for sure. I’m tired of being alone. That’s why I’m going on sabbatical to the University of Manitoba next year.”
“Manitoba? Why on earth are you going to Manitoba?” Bruce asked.
“There are one hundred thousand Ukrainians in Winnipeg is why. Ten thousand Jews. That means there are thousands of suitable women used to cold weather for whom Lincoln, Nebraska, would be considered a lush tropical paradise. If there is any justice in this world, I am going to make one of them fall in love with me and bring her back home.”
“And what happens if you’re not successful, Yakov?” I asked.
“Failure is not an option. But if God laughs at my quest, you are going to have to promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“You’re going to promise that your wife-to-be sends me CARE packages at least twice a year. I deserve at least that for talking sense to you.”
“Already you have me married. That was quick. I barely know this woman.”
“You know enough, more than enough,” Yakov said.
“He’s right, Sasha. You do know enough,” Bruce said.
“She barely knows me, that’s for certain,” I said.
“She knows enough, too,” Yakov said. “And she’s smart enough to act. You sure she was born in this country?”
“Positive,” I said.
“Very unusual. American women aren’t like this, typically. They want to be wooed. Sweet-talked. Romanced. They want a big fantasy first. Reality comes later. I never have luck with American women. By the way, who is going to take me to the airport? If I don’t leave soon, I’ll be late.”
“Call a cab, Yakov,” I said. “We’re not a chauffeur service.”
“OK, OK, I’ll take a cab. But I’m going to tell you, when someone makes you a meal like this, you call her. You thank her, and you don’t wait seventy-two hours to do it. That’s American craziness, this waiting business. Her number, as you know, is on the corkboard right there.” Yakov pointed with his left hand, his right one still dearly holding onto his food-laden fork. “Jenny Rivkin. R-I-V-K-I-N. You call her. You thank her. You ask her to go to dinner with you. And you, lucky brat that you are, she’ll say yes to. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, Yakov, OK, I’ll call.”
“Good. But call a cab for me first. I’m not getting out of this chair. I need to savor every last bite before I leave.”
CHAPTER 34
The Great Realignment
DAY 7
My mother had been dead for only a week and her absence was like the disappearance of a huge planet. The moons that had revolved around her were undergoing a great realignment. An aunt, certainly my mother’s least favorite moon, left her orbit altogether. Another moon, one long favored by my mother, quickly began a cozy intricate dance along my aunt’s former astronomical path with a third, also favored, moon. I am, I know, going too far with metaphor here, and am also greatly distorting real physics. But as my cousin had predicted, the intricate dance was taking place not at my uncle’s house, which Anna did truly detest, but at the tried-and-true location of many high-end Madison trysts, the Edgewater Hotel.
While my cousin certainly wasn’t surprised by this development, we were both taken aback by just how indiscreet my uncle and Anna were about it. “After this damn memorial ceremony, I’m selling everything and moving to California,” my uncle said.
We were sitting at the dining room table, having our last meal together in my mother’s house. My father was at the head of the table, my uncle was at the other end. Anna was sitting next to my uncle, holding his hand. This kind of public display of affection in my family was completely foreign. My cousin and I sat together on the east side of the table just like in the old days.
“Where in California, exactly?” I asked.
“Los Angeles, of course. Anna is there. My son is there. For sixty years I’ve been freezing my bones. For twenty, I’ve been
a lost soul. I’m done with that.”
“You’re not moving in with me,” Anna said. “I don’t like freeloaders.” The warm tone in her voice as she scolded him was uncharacteristic, and my uncle seemed to like it.
“Not with me, either,” Bruce said, with a look of genuine fear at the prospect of once again sharing a home with his father.
“I’m buying my own place, don’t worry,” my uncle said.
“You can come for visits then,” Anna said.
“Sure, you can visit me, too, just so long as you call ahead,” Bruce said.
“I won’t have to call ahead for Anna.”
“No. I don’t have anything to hide,” Anna said. “But with Bruce, I can tell you, you don’t want to come unexpected.”
“So important and special, he thinks his life is. I already know those secrets of his. They were a big deal once. Now even on TV they show it.”
“On TV it’s different. It’s all in the details,” Anna said.
“I suppose you’re right.”
“If there is a heaven,” Anna said, “Rachela is smiling right now.”
“If the Christians are right, Zloteh is smiling, too,” my uncle said.
“You think Zloteh is happy seeing us two together?” Anna asked.
“Definitely. She wouldn’t want me to be alone. She would want me happy. Plus, she even liked you.”
“I’m not going back to the office tomorrow,” my father announced. “I can’t face the sight of another mathematician. Six days in my old house with them was enough. I need a change of scenery to finish up my project.”
“Where are you going to go, Father?” I asked.
“Tuscaloosa, of course. I’ve been looking online. It seems like a very pretty city. It’s warm this time of year, is my understanding. There is even a nice river that flows through it. Your house is next to it. I saw it on MapQuest.”
“Do you mean the Warrior?” I asked.
“Yes, a strange name for a river. Black Warrior, too.”
“North of Tuscaloosa it’s the Warrior. South it’s the Black Warrior. You’re inviting yourself to my house, are you?”
“I’ve never been. It’s time I see it, don’t you think?” My father looked at me, trying to gauge my level of warmth toward his proposal.
“It’s as good a time as any, I guess,” I said.
“You can work in the front of his office,” my uncle said. “Very nice. The department secretary is down the hall and will always make sure you get your tea and donuts.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere near a university. I’ll work in my son’s house.”
“You’ll be working on Navier-Stokes, I suppose,” I said.
“There won’t be any surprises in your house, will there?” my father asked. “I can just walk in, unpack, and work, yes? No naked women. No naked men. No dogs. No cats. No parrots.”
“No. No surprises. And I’m not taking Pascha with me. Orlansky asked me if he could have her, and they seem to get along quite well. They will speak a beautiful Polish together. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“Why should I answer that? You already know the answer.”
I shook my head and tried my best to be a scold. “For six days you let two dozen mathematicians go on a wild-goose chase in this house trying to solve a problem that you already solved. Is that right?”
“It’s not solved. Well, it is. But I’m making sure it’s one hundred percent correct. Technically, until I do that, the Navier-Stokes problem is still unsolved. And I didn’t solve it. Your mother did.”
“Why?”
“Why did I let them work so hard? It was your mother. I was honoring her wish that they have a chance to solve it. One last chance.”
“But she solved this problem in what, 1945 or so?”
“I don’t know when she solved it. But she told me she started it a little before then, yes. How did you know?”
“It’s in her memoir, the one I talked about at the funeral.”
“I wasn’t listening to your speech,” my father said.
“I didn’t listen either,” my uncle said.
“I worked hard on that thing.”
“It was for other people to hear, not us. We already knew Rachela’s story,” my father said.
“The memoir is handwritten in Polish. She kept sending me chapters. Two weeks ago she sent me a bundle of them. In one she talks about solving this problem, among other things,” I said.
“I didn’t have a clue.” My father smiled. “Polish, really?”
“Do you know how hard it has been for me to read? Like walking through sticky, deep mud. Without a dictionary, it would be impossible.”
“Give it to me. I’ll translate it,” my uncle said.
“She always had her secrets,” my father said.
“So, apparently, did you,” I said.
“It wasn’t my secret. Two week ago, she asked me to visit. She told me to go upstairs, that there was something there for me in Aaron’s old room. She gave me instructions on how to find it. Just like with the gold, I needed a screwdriver. I found the package of papers. I brought them downstairs. We looked at them in her bed. That was the first time I knew.”
“So it could have been 1945 when she solved it,” I said.
“A proof like this? No, that’s impossible. She mapped out much of it by then. I think maybe 1970 or so was when she finished it. That’s my guess. Even for her it would have been a twenty-year problem at least. After she didn’t win the Fields she was mad as hell. She didn’t care about awards at all after that. We even had to work hard to get her to pick up that medal from Clinton. She didn’t want to go.”
“Why keep it a secret, though?”
“She wanted to solve it from start to finish. Completely by herself and for herself. It was the problem, I’m sure, she thought she was meant to solve. I don’t think even Kolmogorov knew about it. She started working on this a little in 1940 with Grozslev. Kolmogorov published part of that work entirely as his own. She wasn’t happy about that at all. Probably she started to hide this work then. I was married to her for over fifty years and I didn’t know.”
“So it’s complete?”
“I think so, yes, but I’m still checking. Another two weeks and I’ll be sure.”
“Do you have it with you? I’d like to see it.”
“It’s in my house. We can stop by after we make the last walk for the shiva. I can give it to you then. I’ll give you the original. You’re her son, after all.”
“You have a copy, too?”
“Yes, of course, as a precaution.”
“What are the odds that there is an error, Father?”
“Zero. But still I need to check.” My father poured his glass full and lifted it up high. “Every one of you played a role in this achievement. You don’t think you did, but every one of you was important. You sustained my Rachela, you gave her encouragement, you made her happy, you gave her joy. I want to make a toast to all of you in her memory. This proof is a singular achievement. No one will do anything as great again. But it wouldn’t have been possible without the family she loved so much.”
We drank to my mother’s proof, and then we drank again, too much as per usual. Everyone seemed to be happy about this turn of events. They had grown so completely inured to my mother’s craziness over the years that this last trespass—keeping a secret even though it might cause troubles beyond her death for those she loved—was, to them, nothing out of the ordinary. My father was joyful, above all, about being associated with a major mathematical discovery. By the time the old guys came from the synagogue for the final prayer, including the Cohanim from the night before, we were all pretty far gone. The old guys wished us long and happy years as we shared some of our schnapps with them, sending us a little further down the slope.
/> We bundled ourselves up and began the final task of the shiva, the ceremonial walk around the block. There we were, all five of us in our heaviest coats, walking by house after house. I’m sure none of the people in those houses had the slightest idea why we were out and about in that cold.
For almost fifty years my mother’s neighborhood, a place where few faculty members lived, had been my touchstone. There was no grandeur in this neighborhood’s homes, built in the 1920s mostly to house the families of civil servants. They were all utilitarian, designed to shelter those without pretensions. For my mother and father, it was heaven in comparison to what they had in Russia, and they didn’t feel a need for anything more.
As a child I could have told you the names of all of my neighbors, and they all pretty much knew mine as well. For the ones who didn’t keep track of children’s names, I was simply “that little Russian boy,” a moniker that thankfully, during the Cold War, did not seem to cause me too much trouble. In our neighborhood, what truly mattered was not where you were from or your line of work or your religion, but simply your willingness to follow through on the community obligation to mow your lawn regularly in the summer and promptly shovel your sidewalk clear after every snowstorm in the winter. On that front, thanks to my father’s fastidiousness, we always passed with flying colors.
The four people around me on the sidewalk were the ones I would always love. We would scream at each other now and then, sure. We would insult each other habitually as well. This is who we were, raw and emotional and confident that no matter how awful our behavior to each other on the surface, we belonged together, and ultimately needed each other always.
The Mathematician’s Shiva Page 28
