by Stuart Clark
‘They won’t.’ The words sounded lame, even to him. ‘And you know how much you like it in Berlin. You like the life here, the girls like it here. We can’t take the girls away now they’ve found gentlemen.’
‘Don’t blame me for this, Albertle, or them.’
‘I’m not. It’s just that Berlin is the world capital of physics. I can’t leave. Anywhere else is a backwater, and will be used by my enemies to diminish my theory. I have to be here to remain credible.’
‘At the expense of remaining alive?’ There was a stark challenge in her eyes.
Einstein’s mind flicked back to Rathenau and his stubborn quest for power. A wave of uncertainty washed over him.
‘It strikes me you spend more time on politics than physics these days,’ snapped Elsa.
He tutted loudly. ‘I’m working on new ideas to fix the quantum theory. The Good Lord does not deal in chance.’
‘The Good Lord now? Oh, that’s a change! What’s come over you?’
‘I don’t deny a higher power, Elsa,’ he said tartly, ‘just the folly of human worship. Why glorify these stories of the past? Why yearn for them and worship them? It shows the people have completely forgotten how to live for the future.’
‘Don’t sidetrack me, Albertle. You know how I feel about your safety.’
‘And don’t try to make out this is just about me.’
They arrived at the apartment block. Elsa unlocked the door and they went into the hall. He rested the bags on a ledge to flex his arms before carrying them up the stairs. He took the opportunity to face Elsa. ‘Let us live quietly until Japan. That trip will take months, and by the time we return all of this will have blown over.’
‘Do you really think so?’ Her face wanted to believe him.
‘I do.’ He drew her into him, enclosing his arms around her soft torso. This way, she could not see the doubt in his eyes.
The packing trunks were open and looking more unpacked than packed. Dresses, hats and suits were strewn everywhere. Half a dozen stiff collars poked upwards like a bunch of bananas.
‘We’ll never get it all in,’ said Elsa. ‘We need another case.’
‘Just unpack some things. I don’t need all those suits. One will do,’ said Einstein.
She gave him a withering look. ‘I let you keep your hair like that. It’s the only compromise I will make.’
Only because you can’t manhandle me to a barber, thought Einstein. He ran a hand through the wiry mass on his head.
A telegram arrived.
Elsa threw her fox fur into a pile of dresses. ‘Is there no peace!’ Einstein noted the return address. ‘It’s from Stockholm,’ he announced flatly.
Elsa’s mood transformed at once. ‘Wait, wait,’ she said, ‘don’t open it yet.’ She raced to the bedroom and returned moments later, having applied lipstick. ‘All right, open it.’
‘It’s probably nothing,’ he said.
‘They’re not going to write to you if you haven’t won.’
He broke the seal and read slowly: ‘It will probably be very desirable for you to come to Stockholm in December, and if you are then in Japan that will be impossible.’
‘You’ve done it!’ She all but jumped for joy. ‘They’re finally going to give it to you. You’re going to be a Nobel laureate.’
‘It doesn’t say that.’
‘Yes, it does. For a genius, you can be so obtuse.’
Einstein had dreamed of this moment every year since 1905 and the first paper on relativity, even when he had feigned indifference to those around him. He had imagined opening the telegram and getting the news – the recognition of his peers – but now it had really happened, he felt none of the elation he had expected.
‘We can reschedule the lecture tour,’ said Elsa. ‘Once you’re a Nobel laureate, we’ll be able to put your fees up again.’
‘Elsa, wait.’
She studied him. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m not going to Stockholm. They’ve prevaricated for too many years for me to take them seriously any more’
‘You’re going to refuse?’ Her hands started trembling.
He took hold of them and held them tightly. ‘No, no, I’m not going to do anything as melodramatic as that. I’ve promised the prize money to Mileva – she deserves it – and we’re making enough from the lectures now. But I find myself unmoved. They can give me the prize or not, but I’m going to Japan. Coming?’
26
Mount Wilson, California
From the base of the Californian mountain, where the road forked and the winding upward trail began, all Lemaître could see was pine trees and sheer climbs. The vertical spires of vegetation pointed to the sky, hinting at the mountain’s true purpose.
The road was dusty with compacted earth baked into powder by the sun, and Lemaître fanned himself in the back of the cart as the mule and its driver waited with the same dreary expression on their faces.
They were parked beside a wooden guardhouse, within which a uniformed man drummed his fingers, staring at a telephone.
‘Gotta wait for them to lower the gate at the top,’ he explained without looking up. ‘Road’s single-file and there’s no place to pass.’ The phone rang and the guard answered, then trudged out to lift the barrier.
The mule strained against its harness and the cart rocked into action. Lemaître stared out over the valley. He had still not grown accustomed to there being so much natural land in America. He had travelled through vast tracts of forest and open plains, deserts and mountain ranges. The world was so staggeringly large compared to the individual. The less significant he felt, the more at peace he became.
By the time an hour had passed, it seemed as though the mule had wound the cart to the top of the world. The blue sky pressed down from above, rich with the promise of a clear night, and the observatory finally came into view.
Lemaître gaped at the size of the domes, rising in tall columns above the trees. Catching the sunlight, the white structures were almost too bright to look at; powerful emotions gathered in his chest, took him by surprise. He was here. The largest telescopes in the world: the means to reveal God’s realm as never before was at his fingertips.
Edwin Hubble was silhouetted against the window, his shoulders so broad they impeded the flow of light into his spartan office. His back was turned and he was holding up a photographic plate for inspection.
Lemaître placed his valise on the floorboards and waited. After a time he cleared his throat.
Hubble turned. His eyes, set in a square block of a head, channelled power more like a politician’s than a scientist’s. Lemaître’s thoughts flitted back to Harvard and the scurrying mouse of Shapley.
So, these were the two great rivals.
Hubble took a step forward and Lemaître had to force himself to stand his ground.
‘By jove!’ said the giant.
Lemaître laughed at the mock-English accent and the bearish astronomer looked horrified at his reaction.
‘I’m Georges Lemaître,’ he gabbled. ‘I wrote to you.’
‘By jove!’ said Hubble again. He produced a pipe and clamped it between his teeth with an audible bite. He cast the photographic plate aside on the desk.
Lemaître winced at the careless way he discarded it. At Harvard, photographs were treated as fragile treasures, and most people had taken to wearing cotton gloves when handling them.
‘Don’t worry about that. I can always take another,’ said Hubble casually. ‘What did you want to see me about?’
Lemaître tried to order his thoughts. ‘The spiral nebulae – I’m interested in learning more.’
‘Aren’t we all, old chap.’ Hubble looked completely bored.
It dawned on Lemaître that the accent was not being put on for comic effect. Desperate for something to say, he said, ‘I came here from Harvard.’
‘Harvard.’ Hubble’s eyes narrowed. ‘How’s Shapley?’
‘He’s well, thank you. He’
s as intrigued as the rest of us are about your work.’
‘So he should be, the Cepheid work is his technique. If he’d stayed here, I think he would have worked on the spirals rather than me.’ He pulled the waggling pipe from his mouth. ‘Does he accept that Andromeda is an island universe?’
‘Another galaxy? Yes, I think he’s coming to terms with it.’ Hubble’s thin lips cracked into a smile. ‘I remember your letter now. You’re a theorist, are you not?’
Lemaître nodded, somewhat apologetically.
‘Well, well. Who’d have thought it?’ Hubble cocked his head to complete his guest’s confusion. He thrust the pipe into his tweed jacket’s breast pocket and grabbed the glass plate back from his desk. ‘Can’t chat now, old chum. Come back this evening. I think we’ll be able to show you something. I’m on the 100-inch tonight. Show you what real astronomy’s all about.’ Hubble turned his back and lifted the plate to the window again. Lemaître could see greasy fingerprints all over it. He picked up his small case and departed. He paused, after closing the door as quietly as possible, to shake his head.
‘I’ve seen that look before.’
The voice’s owner was a trim woman who walked in neat steps, as if choreographed. Her outline had something of the starlet about it. Despite squinting, Lemaître could still not discern her face, but he got the distinct impression that she was judging him.
‘I’m not convinced I’ve made a very good first impression,’ he said ruefully.
‘Are you French?’
‘Belgian.’
She stepped out of the light. She was young and lean, not quite beautiful, but confident. ‘Take no notice of him, Abbé. It’s his way.’ Her words were consolatory yet there was pride in her voice, as if she enjoyed the fact that Hubble put people off balance.
‘I’m impressed you know my title in French.’
She looked perplexed. ‘Why? You use it on your letters, Abbé Georges Lemaître. And my husband and I were married as Catholics. I’m Grace, by the way.’
She thrust out her hand and they shook. Her grip was weaker than he had expected from her behaviour.
‘I’m intrigued to know how you managed to slip past me earlier,’ she said.
‘By accident, I assure you.’ He turned sideways and laid a hand on his paunch. ‘I don’t think I’m the slipping-past type.’
Grace fixed him with a stern look. ‘Why, Abbé, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were flirting with me.’
‘No!’ He crumpled under the accusation.
Grace laughed, delighting in her triumph over him. ‘Have you been shown to the monastery?’
Lemaître frowned.
‘No, silly,’ she said, flapping the air. ‘It’s what the astronomers call the night quarters. No women allowed. Except me, of course.’
He followed her meekly, carrying his luggage. The ‘monastery’ was a wooden, single-storey curved wing of a building. She walked into the reception area and scanned a ledger, then plucked a key from a hook on the board. His name was written on a fresh cardboard tab fixed to the finger-long metal key.
‘This way,’ she said, heading down a dim corridor.
He followed. The floorboards creaked underneath the worn rugs.
She unlocked a room and swung the door open for him.
‘Dinner is at five. Gives it time to settle. Don’t eat too much,’ she glanced at his stomach, ‘Or you’ll never stay awake for the observing. Night lunch is at midnight.’
‘Thank you, I did get used to the observing routine at Harvard.’
‘Oh, did you? Well, you’ll find things different here.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he began.
‘Get some rest, Abbé.’ She began to walk back towards the reception area.
‘Miss Grace,’ he called, ‘forgive me, I don’t know what your position is here? Are you the secretary?’
Her acid laugh rang out. ‘Oh, you are funny, Abbé. Secretary, indeed.’ She fixed him with a stare. ‘I’m Hubble’s wife.’
He closed the door and all but threw himself on the bed.
The dining-room was in the other wing of the monastery. Lemaître had only to follow the smell of onions to find it. He disliked the way the floorboards announced his arrival; he might as well have been wearing a cowbell. He exchanged pleasantries with the others in the room and found his place by the name tag on the table. Considering it was little more than a hut, the place was pleasantly furnished, and the view over the surrounding valleys and mountains was superb.
Hubble swaggered in, wearing dark brown jodhpurs and thick woollen socks pulled up to his knees. Everyone else ignored the bizarre attire so Lemaître did too, discovering later that it was Hubble’s usual observing gear.
The giant man filled the seat at the head of the table and cast a monarchical eye over his guests. ‘By jove, Dr Lemaître, I need a telescope just to see you. What on Earth are you doing away down there?’
‘I sat at my name tag.’
‘No, no, no. Someone’s been larking around. This won’t do at all. Spencer, swap positions.’
An elderly man looked up from Hubble’s immediate right. ‘But I’m principal observer on the 60-inch tonight.’
‘Be polite,’ commanded Hubble.
The displaced astronomer flapped his napkin petulantly on to the table and got up. Acutely embarrassed, Lemaître relinquished his seat and made for Hubble’s side.
‘Strict seating order, you see, depending on who’s using what telescope,’ Hubble said, sounding more clipped than before. ‘Doesn’t mean we can’t change it though, does it, Georges?’
Lemaître would have preferred to stay where he was. He could feel the scrutiny of the others.
‘There are enough games being played with the seating already,’
grumbled Spencer with a sidelong stare at Grace.
She stared back defiantly.
When the meal arrived Lemaître served himself sparingly, noting that the others did not seem so restrained. Their talk centred on the observation of the universe, nothing else mattered. The astronomers gossiped about spectroscopes misbehaving, or the telescopes wandering from their targets, as if the pieces of equipment had minds of their own. If it had not been for his time at Harvard, he would have been completely at sea.
‘Tell me, how is Europe recovering from the war?’ Grace cut across the chatter.
‘Slowly, I’m afraid. The destruction of the land and the buildings …’ He shook his head at the memories of the rubble. ‘The Germans indiscriminately destroyed buildings and people as a means of intimidation. There is nowhere one can really go in Belgium without finding a reminder of the occupation.’
‘Yes, we felt so sorry for you all over there. My husband fought, you know. Volunteered as soon as America entered the war.’
‘In 1917?’ Lemaître asked.
‘That’s right, cut short my thesis to go and fight,’ said Hubble.
‘Couldn’t leave you boys to the mercies of the Kaiser, could I?’
‘What about you, Abbé?’ asked Grace. ‘You were too young for the fighting, I guess. Must have been grateful when the liberation came?’
Lemaître cocked his head. ‘I volunteered with my brother at the outbreak and served for four years.’
‘Four years?’ Hubble sounded incredulous.
‘Yes. I started in the infantry and then I was transferred into the artillery. Fought at Diksmuide, Ypres, among others.’
‘My husband was quite the hero, you know. Knocked unconscious by a bomb blast, he woke up in hospital, got dressed straight away and rejoined his unit.’
‘Thank you, Grace,’ said Hubble curtly. ‘My war record is of no interest tonight.’
Grace looked perplexed, her eyes darting between her husband and Lemaître.
‘Now then, gentlemen, back to astronomy. What’s the seeing like tonight? Didn’t look too soupy on the way over; I’d say we could be in for a good one.’
Dusk was well advance
d when Hubble took Lemaître through the shadowy paths to the domes. The blinds on all the buildings were tight against their windowframes to prevent stray light fouling the observations. With no illumination, the buildings could have been mistaken for a ghost town. Now and again the silhouette of another astronomer would cross their path, and a muttered greeting would be all that proved it was a person, not a wraith.
As they walked, Hubble seemed to relax; he lowered his voice and most of the feigned English slipped away. ‘You must excuse my wife if she makes the occasional lapse of judgement. It’s all about appearances here, you know. I blame Hollywood myself, but that’s the society we live in: one of self-promotion as a means of advancement. In her efforts, God bless her, Grace tends to put me on something of a pedestal. I’m sure you understand.’
Lemaître did not, but he was willing to accept Hubble’s word for it. ‘The fairer sex remains a mystery to me.’
‘You must have seen a lot of action.’ Hubble spoke in the same matter-of-fact way that Belgian fathers who had been at home addressed their sons.
‘More than enough.’
‘The truth is, I hardly came under fire … but at least I went.
Others simply stayed at home.’
Lemaître looked round, struck by the emphasis. ‘You mean Professor Shapley?
Hubble nodded gravely.
‘He was a conscientious objector?’
‘Conscientious slacker, if you ask me. But you, you fought for four years.’ He whistled aloud. They were at the towering dome now and Hubble paused. ‘I salute you, Dr Lemaître. You’re a brave man. Now, let me show you something truly astounding.’
They stepped into the building and on to a dim staircase. The lights were red to preserve their eyes’ adaptation to the dark. It felt as though they were entering another world. Hubble’s face filled with pride as he swung open the top door and Lemaître caught his first sight of the 100-inch telescope.
‘By jove!’ the priest breathed.
‘Quite so,’ chuckled Hubble.
Everything was in shadow, the lights already out for the night. The only illumination came from the open shutters in the dome’s roof, where the Milky Way was splashed across the darkness. In the starlight Lemaître could make out enough to know it was like being in a cathedral transept. Instead of stone, the curving arch of the roof was a skeleton of metal bones, skinned with sheets of aluminium. When they spoke, their voices echoed from odd angles.
