God's Formula

by James Lepore

“Which words?” Tolkien asked.

  “Suiliaid, mellon nindragro dan in yrch. Am I pronouncing that right?”

  “Roughly.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Blessings on you, friend, as you go forth to battle the orcs.”

  “What are orcs?”

  “Goblins, but bigger and filthier and nastier.”

  “There were no such creatures in The Hobbit.”

  “No.”

  “So why should I believe you?”

  “I felt I had to create a whole language in order to make the words I put into some characters’ mouths believable. I had to make the elves of Middle-earth real to me before I could make them real to the reader.”

  “Why have you returned? I told you I have no formula.”

  “To try again.”

  “So you think I lied? I suppose all Germans are liars to you.”

  “I’m German, that is, of German descent.”

  “There is no formula. Everyone is mad. The world is mad.”

  “I agree, but you must agree your father would not have gone through so much trouble, taken so much risk, for nothing. There must be something we’re both missing. Does the name Surtr mean anything to you?”

  “Surtr? The Norse god?”

  “Yes. Your father mentioned him in his message to Professor Einstein.”

  “He has an epic battle with the god Freyr. He wields a flaming sword. During the fight the sword strikes a glowing rock, which sparks a fire that consumes the earth.”

  “How do you know about him?”

  “My mother was ill for years, in and out of hospital. My father read to me all the time…To distract me, I suppose.”

  Tolkien could see that the boy was suddenly, and painfully, remembering his parents. “Perhaps he was distracting you both,” he said. Yes, Conrad, adults suffer, too.

  Conrad was about to reply, but stopped himself.

  “I know,” Tolkien said, watching the boy’s eyes go out of focus for a second, “your father gave you no formula. I believe you. Let’s forget the formula. Shall I tell you what happens to Bilbo after he returns to the shire?”

  “You could make anything up.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  The scowl had returned to Conrad’s face, but not completely. His eyes had regained their focus, but were not quite as hard as they were a few moments ago. Fatherless himself, John Tolkien could only begin to understand what the loss of mother, father, friends, and country might mean to a lad of fourteen, a lad of fourteen locked in a cave, with—he must have known in his bones—no prospect of returning home. “You might ask me about The Hobbit,” Tolkien said.

  “I read it in English.”

  “I assume so. There is no German translation.”

  “We were told at Hitlerjugend that the British government would not allow it.”

  “Not true. I myself would not allow it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was told I had to sign an oath declaring I was not a Jew. I refused.”

  “Why? Are you a Jew?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Why do you think Jews are so hated in Germany, Conrad?”

  “Because they lie and cheat in business. They take advantage of hardworking Germans. They—”

  “And you believe this?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “So, there is not a decent Jew in all of Germany? Not one?”

  “You are trying to make a fool of me.”

  “How? By pointing out the obvious?”

  “You think I am ignorant, but it is you who is ignorant, you and the rest of the decadent Europeans.”

  The boy was angry, but at least he was talking. Their last session had lasted no more than ten minutes; ten minutes of grunts and sneers from Conrad in response to the professor’s questions. Keep him talking seemed like a sensible tactic, as Tolkien felt intuitively that the exact location of the formula had not been revealed to Conrad, that what was revealed to the boy was a clue of some kind that would guide the allies in their search. It was, he thought, with admiration, Friedeman père trying his best to protect a son who was about to be an orphan cast adrift in a world gone mad. Later, there would be a certain lingering sense of shame at the thought of trying to trick the lad, but what else was he to do with the stakes so high and Conrad so belligerent?

  “Do you know,” said Tolkien, “I’m thinking of changes to the book.”

  “Changes?”

  “Gollum is too nice a fellow in the original.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Surely you remember Gollum.”

  “Of course.”

  “In the sequel, the ring is corrupt. It leads men to do evil things. Gollum has to have been corrupted by it.”

  “You can’t just change a book like that.”

  “It’s fiction. I’m the author. I can do anything I want.”

  “A sequel?”

  “Yes, a follow-on novel.”

  Conrad, engrossed in this conversation about a book he loved, looked openly at John Tolkien.

  “What changes would you make?” Tolkien asked.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, Conrad, you.”

  “I would explain why Gandalf chose Bilbo Baggins to be the fourteenth member of the dwarf’s expedition, to be their burglar. He’d never burgled anything in his life.”

  “My…”

  “It has always bothered me.”

  “Well…”

  “And in the sequel,” Conrad went on, his words coming faster, “if Bilbo has the ring, then it must surely corrupt him. Bilbo cannot succumb to evil. You can’t let that happen.”

  “I won’t, Conrad,” Tolkien replied, smiling. “You have my word.”

  “And of course,” Conrad said, “Gollum cannot show Bilbo the way out of the cave. That would be the polite thing to do. You will have to rewrite almost all of Chapter Five, particularly pages 99-to-103.”

  “Yes, I…My goodness, Conrad, you have read the book.”

  Conrad nodded, his eyes bright. “Yes, I—”

  “You actually know the page numbers.”

  “I’m good with numbers.”

  “You must be. Any other suggestions?”

  Chapter 19

  Foix, June 18, 1940, 7:00 a.m.

  Philippa Esclarmonde and Ian Fleming sat in a grove of tall pine trees on the southern flank of Foix Mountain, their backs against a rock shelf. They had emerged into this grove from the catacombs via a set of rough underground steps that led to an opening in the forest floor, an ingenious stone trap door covered by a foot of pine needles. Fleming put his glasses to his eyes and did a one-hundred-eighty degree scan of the scene below. The thickly forested foothills of the Pyrenees stretched a mile or two before rising to quickly form the great and towering range that divided France from Spain.

  “Can we go around to the other side?” Fleming asked.

  “No,” Philippa replied, “the Germans on the towers can see every movement on all sides of the mountain. This is one of the few concealed spots.”

  “Are you all right?” the Englishman asked. “That was quite a climb, and that slab of stone was heavy.” He had noticed Philippa’s deep breathing when they first sat down, the swell of her breast as she took in the fresh mountain air. Their climb had not been as fearsome as the night before, but it had been dark and cramped and traction had been difficult in the ascending tunnel whose steps were either too smooth or too crumbly. She had slipped on some loose stones and the knot in her skirt had come undone, exposing a section of calf and knee and lower thigh that was heart-stopping even to a man who had seen many female legs in many circumstances.

  “Yes,” Philippa answered as she gathered the ends of her torn garment and set about studiously re-tying them. She had not seemed to notice that he was staring, albeit discreetly, at her exposed flesh. Nor at her swelling breast for that matter. Or had she? She was wearing the same clothes a
s last night, except for a peasant’s rough-hewn sweater, which she was smart to bring as the mountain air was quite cool at this hour. The red and yellow kerchief she had on her head last night she now wore around her neck, with her long hair tied back in a pony tail.

  “What did you see?” Philippa asked.

  “Forest, then mountains. They rise so abruptly.”

  “Yes, a wall built by God. There is only the one road up and through.”

  “I saw it. It is heavily guarded. There must be footpaths.”

  “There are secret passages into Spain that have been used for a thousand years,” Philippa replied. “There is even an underground river that empties into a gorge and then goes back under the mountain.”

  “Do you know these mountains?”

  “I have been roaming them all my life.”

  “Any place to land a small plane?” Ian Fleming asked. “Flat and perhaps a hundred meters long?”

  “No, nothing like that. We will lead you out on foot.”

  Fleming put his glasses to the mountains again. Craggy peaks everywhere. An airplane’s graveyard. “On foot,” he said, shaking his head. “We’d never make it. Just think how delighted Franco would be to hand us over to his pal Adolph.”

  “Actually,” said Philippa, “there is one place that might serve. It would be very dangerous.”

  “Can you take me there?” Fleming asked.

  “Your pilot will have to be very good, and very brave.”

  “They’re all good, all brave.”

  “We will go tonight. The Germans patrol at night, but we will avoid them.”

  Philippa’s breathing had returned to its normal rhythm. She sat serenely with her hands wrapped around her knees. “You know the boy Conrad is not well,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He is ready to break apart, his heart to burst.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Your Mademoiselle has asked to see him. She says she is worried about him. Shall I allow it?”

  “No.”

  “Is she not your colleague?”

  “We met by chance in a war zone.”

  “She is not French.”

  “Yes, Professor Tolkien tells me you do not trust her.”

  “Do you trust her?”

  “I’m not sure, but I plan on finding out.”

  “I am having her watched.”

  “She is very clever. And deadly, I might add.”

  “My people are invisible.”

  “Don’t have a man follow her.”

  For the first time since they’d met, Philippa Esclarmonde smiled, a smile so beautiful and so inviting that Ian Fleming, despite his secret looks at her body, allowed himself for the first time to think explicitly of bedding her. To have that smile all to himself, to have those eyes gaze upon him with desire, with desperate need…there was a prize worth fighting for, worth whatever effort it might take to win.

  “You are aware of her charms,” Philippa said.

  “As I am aware of yours.”

  “Ah, Monsieur Fleming,” said Philippa, “what you may think of as my charms are not of this world, or for this world.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I have taken a vow.”

  “Are you a nun, then?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand. Surely you must have suitors. The men here seem dull, but they’re men, and they’re not blind.”

  “You are a handsome man, and very confident.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  This brought on another smile, which, to his surprise, took the Englishman’s heart a little out of its rhythm, a little to the side, so to speak. Two smiles, old boy, he said to himself, get a hold of yourself.

  Chapter 20

  Foix, June 18, 1940, 7:30 a.m.

  “Conrad.” John Tolkien stood in the timber-framed doorway of Conrad’s rough stone chamber. The boy, resting on his cot, turned his head to see who was calling his name, and sat up. “I thought you were my father,” he said.

  “You must miss him.”

  Conrad nodded, his mouth grim. “Where’s Karl?” he asked.

  “Outside, talking to Claude.”

  “Why have you returned?”

  “To ask about…”

  “Yes? About what?”

  “Your epilepsy.” The professor had at first thought to sugarcoat the reason for his return, but why? The boy had come early to his crossroads, but so had many others even younger. Choosing was not the same as dying.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “You’re lucky,” said the professor.

  “Lucky?”

  “My father died when I was three. I have no memory of him.”

  “You’re the lucky one.”

  “I felt self-pity once,” said Tolkien. “I was forbidden to see or communicate with the woman I loved. Then I saw it for what it was.”

  “What was it?”

  “Cowardice.”

  “You think I’m a coward?”

  Tolkien pulled a footstool over to the cot and sat. “I knew an epileptic boy once,” he said.

  Conrad, his lips still tightly shut, his eyes bright with what Tolkien hoped was anger and not the beginning of a seizure, stared across at him.

  “My brother and I,” the Englishman continued, “used to play at a mill that ground animal bones for fertilizer. There was a big sluice wheel and a sandpit next to the riverbank. A boy from the slums used to join us sometimes. One day he fell into a sink hole in the sand pit. When we pulled him out, his arms and legs were twitching uncontrollably, his eyes had rolled up into his head. We ran into the mill for help.”

  Silence.

  “He was a street urchin. He could count, but nothing else. After his seizure, he was a mathematical genius. It was in the newspaper. He could do impossible sums in his head in an instant. He was killed at Gallipoli.”

  Silence.

  “You said you were good with numbers, Conrad.”

  “I am.”

  “You remember the page numbers of my book.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a knack for memorizing things?”

  “Yes.”

  “How does it work?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is it indiscriminate? Do you remember everything you see and hear?”

  “No. I would go insane. I choose what to memorize, and then I…I push a button in my brain.”

  “A button in your brain?”

  “I started doing it when I was very young. I can’t remember when it started. That’s ironic, isn’t it? It’s a game I played in my head as a child.”

  “So it’s not just numbers?”

  “No.”

  “But did your father have you memorize any numbers or sets of numbers before he sent you away?”

  “No.”

  “Did he have you memorize anything?”

  “No—nothing important, just a poem for my grandfather. A birthday poem.”

  “You never got to recite it.”

  “No.”

  “You love your grandfather.”

  “Yes.”

  Tolkien reached for his pipe—a pull or two would make failure easier to bear.

  “It’s in elvish,” Conrad said.

  The professor had struck a match and was about to set it to the bowl of his Meerschaum. “Elvish?” he said, stopping in mid-air and letting the flame flicker out.

  “Yes.”

  “How…?”

  “My father said he invented it just for the poem.”

  “Invented it how?”

  “From the elvish words in The Hobbit.”

  “There are only a few.”

  Conrad shrugged. “I tried to decipher it the night before I left, but I fell asleep.”

  “Can you recite it now?”

  “Of course.”

  Chapter 21

  Foix, June 18, 1940, 8:00 a.m.

  “I’ve found the
formula,” said John Tolkien.

  “What?” said Ian Fleming. “What did you say?” He had been toying with his food, thinking about Philippa Esclarmonde. Get your head out of your arse, old boy.

  “Conrad thinks it’s a poem his father had him memorize before he left, in elvish.”

  “Memorize? Elvish? I say, professor…”

  Fleming looked at the chunk of bread in his hand, and put it back on the wooden slab that one of the younger Esclarmonde sisters—he believed it was Claude, but they looked so much alike he could not be sure—had used to bring him his breakfast when he and Philippa returned from their outing.

  “That’s why I’m needed, you see,” said Tolkien.

  “Do I?”

  “I’ve worked out the first two verses.”

  “Memorized, you say? It’s not on paper?”

  “No, it’s in Conrad’s head.”

  “How can that be? I imagined it filled with mathematical and chemical gobbledygook. Pages of incomprehensible mumbo jumbo.”

  “It is, once you translate it.”

  “It must have taken the boy hours.”

  “No, he has an eidetic memory.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Photographic. He looked at it once, and presto, he memorized it, word for word, mathematical symbol for mathematical symbol.”

  “All those squiggly lines and x’s and y’s and square roots and whatnot?”

  “Yes, and more. Letters, dashes, brackets, subscripts, superscripts.”

  “All in elvish?”

  “Yes, so only I could translate it.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “I daresay.”

  “I take it you invented this elvish language?”

  “No, Walter Friedeman did, but he knew I’d be able to figure it out. It’s based on a few words in The Hobbit.”

  “And you have? Figured it out?”

  “As I said, the first two verses, so to speak.”

  “Have you put it on paper?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How long would it be?”

  “Probably ten pages.”

  “Don’t write it down.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “If you’re caught, the Germans will get it.”

  “I see. Quite.”