The Mathematician’s Shiva (22 page)

“
Lyubov’ zla, polyubish i kozla
.” Yakov spoke as if he had grown used to failing at love.

“Got turned down, did you?”

“Without hesitation. And now look, no food from her either. I’ve scared her away completely.”

“You and Jenny Rivkin? Really? That’s funny. I went to Hebrew school with her,” Bruce said.

“I don’t want to talk about it. I’m going to the zoo. Take a look at the bears. I need some inspiration.”

“How is the Navier-Stokes problem coming along?”

“As bad as my effort at charming Jenny Rivkin. Zhelezniak and Potter, last night both of them went out skiing, hoping the cold weather and the snow would help them understand something, anything. They plan to go out again tonight.”

“They don’t look like they’re getting much sleep after their ski trips,” Bruce said.

“That too.” Yakov smiled. “Comforting each other after the daily defeat. We’re getting desperate.”

“I would think that crashing someone’s shiva would be desperation enough,” I said.

“You’d never know your mother and father and your ex-wife were mathematicians, Sasha.” With that, Yakov, dressed only in a sport coat, polo shirt, jeans, and sockless loafers, went into the cold to search for the bears of the zoo.

DAY 4

F
or the first three nights of the shiva, Bruce, Anna, and I spent quiet time together. At dinner we would eat the food brought by the Sisterhood every day, the strange mix of Jewish, Russian, sixties-style American casseroles, and ostensibly healthy tofu-laden salads. There it was, the culinary result of one hundred years of immigration, education, peer pressure, nostalgia, and, for most, modest to impressive prosperity. After we would be like well-behaved children and read aloud scenes from a contemporary Russian play translated into English—how and why my mother had obtained the copies was unknown—each of us portraying three different characters so we could cover all the parts.

It had been a sweet time, nostalgic, and it reminded me why, or at least it gave me an initial excuse as to why, I had lived these many years without having anything close to a longtime partner. I already had enough attachments. I was filled up emotionally, or so I thought. There is only a finite amount of love I can give, was my conviction. Between Anna, Bruce, my mother, my uncle, and even my father, how much of my heart was still available? Two new people had instantly entered my family. What room in my heart was there for them, especially given that I was grieving over the loss of the most important person in my life?

This kind of thinking is, of course, stupid, and not even a good use of arithmetic. Our capacity for love isn’t like a gallon jug that you fill up from rest stop to rest stop as you take a drive across the country. It can swell, and sadly, it can shrink. Less is not more. Less is less, and more is better, although I can’t say that I fully understood this at the time of my mother’s death. I’m a whiz at science and math. In matters of people, I am indeed a slow learner.

During the shiva, whatever efforts I would make at finding time to spend with my daughter and granddaughter alone were constantly thwarted by my father, who housed and fed my progeny. But the truth was also that I was a bit scared to meet them without the buffer of others.

I had gone to my father’s house to see my daughter and granddaughter twice. These meetings seemed to me to be artificially sweet, certainly nothing like real time spent with real family. My father didn’t help. Sometimes his smile was true, but I also detected a fair amount of forced conviviality. He seemed to me to be less like a grandfather and more like an upscale department store greeter giving directions. Whenever I tried to have a real conversation with my daughter, my father, either on purpose or out of the cluelessness that comes from pure selfishness, would interrupt or try to enforce a light mood.

Finally I arranged to have dinner with my daughter and granddaughter at my mother’s house the night before they left. I had a sneaking suspicion that my father would try to deliver them and find an excuse to stay. When I told my father on the phone that they should come on their own, he was incredulous.

“They are new here. They might lose their way,” he said.

“It’s six blocks, Father. The streets go north and south, east and west. You can’t get lost here even if you try.”

“I don’t know why you are so insistent about spending time with them alone.”

“What do you mean? You’ve already spent lots of time with them alone.”

“I’m their grandfather. Of course I should spend time with them.”

“And what about me?”

“You’ll live for another twenty years, at least. I could drop dead tomorrow, just like my Rachela. You, on the other hand, will have plenty of time to see them in the years to come.”

“You’ll be torturing me and them on this planet for many more years, Father. You’ve said it yourself. Tonight you can spend time with the mathematicians, or whoever you want, because you won’t be allowed in this house.”

As the hour of their arrival approached, I became anxious. What would I say to them when we were alone? If I managed not to be stiff or affected, how would they respond to me, someone who in all respects had been the lowest of the low on the male totem pole, a deadbeat father?

I let them in, took their coats, and for the first time ever, let my gaze linger, taking their features in fully. This effort calmed me in a way I couldn’t have predicted. There were little giveaways that Andrea was indeed my ex’s daughter. It was more than just her eyes. There were also the occasional gestures as she talked to me that instantly sent me back in time. The way she sat on the living room couch and brushed back her hair, the way her fingertips traced the outline of her ear when she pondered something I said. In Amy, too, there were telltale signs. She looked at me so sweetly and directly, assuming that I couldn’t possibly have a drop of malice or ill intent. This might have just been the innocence of childhood, but I thought not. She was born to trust, born to be open, and I hoped no one would take advantage of her blithe spirit.

We ate the food prepared by the Sisterhood. “If you ate this stuff every day,” I said as I explained each dish, “you’d turn into a blimp, but it’s delicious to have every once in a while.”

“Your father said the same thing.”

“I understand he cooked up a storm for you two.”

“He’s a charming man, actually.”

“I’m sure he’s having a delightful time with you in his house. And I’m delighted you came to visit.”

As we sat in the kitchen, Amy kept looking at Pascha, who watched us intently and occasionally said a Polish phrase.

“What did she say, Grandpa?”

“Something about mathematics.”

“Can she count?”

“A bit. If you show her two groups of objects and ask her which group is bigger, she’ll usually come up with the right answer.”

“Sometimes no, though? She doesn’t get it right?”

“Sometimes she messes up, yes.”

“I bet I could teach her not to mess up.”

“Maybe you could. Your great-grandma Rachela was working on it.”

“How old is Pascha?”

“Older than your mom. Forty or so, I think.”

“That’s very old.”

“Not really. I think she’ll live another twenty years, if she’s well cared for.”

I’m not used to speaking with young children. Even when I was young, I was almost always surrounded by adults. The big exception was Bruce, the official baby of the family. He was the one who, depending on the guest list, was often stuck with the task of reading the four questions at the family seder well into his twenties.

Amy, I could tell, had a similar adult-centered life. She had also started to develop the ability (or liability) of being in one place physically but only partially there mentally. It was like dealing with a cell phone wavering between one and two bars of reception, functional but a bit worrisome. Her mind was not in the here and now but was usually preoccupied, just like my mind, just like my father’s, and just like my mother’s. This habit of only sort of being present can drive nonacademics crazy. But it’s the only way I know that anyone can solve intellectually difficult problems. It’s a constant processing of ideas and techniques in the background that happens even when you dream.

As Andrea and I talked, I knew Amy was working on some idea of hers. I could have asked her what it was, but whenever someone asked me such questions, it would momentarily break the spell. As curious as I was, I didn’t want to be cruel. Andrea and I went into the living room, and Amy asked if she could stay and watch the parrot. Her mother told her not to touch it. I seconded that advice, noting that Pascha had a sharp beak and had chewed on my finger more than a few times.

“It’s nice to have this living room quiet and peaceful at night,” I said.

“Did you grow up in this house?” Andrea asked.

“Oh, yes. From the time I was five until I was fourteen and went off to boarding school.”

“Your father lived with you?”

“Definitely. My parents didn’t break up until I was in my twenties.”

“Not like me then.” Andrea averted her gaze. “Not like Amy, either,” she said and gave a laugh.

“She see her father much?”

“Oh no. Not at all. Followed in the footsteps of Mum, I guess. Fell in love with the wrong kind of man.” Then and there Andrea was looking right at me.

“I’m not a bad person, Andrea.”

“I can see you’re not bad now. But maybe you were back then.”

“I wasn’t bad. Just self-obsessed.”

“Well, that sounds bad, too, though. You weren’t robbing banks, I guess. You cheat on Mum?”

“No, not with another woman. Just with my work.”

“Mum’s like that, too. I didn’t like it growing up.”

“Amy probably will be like that, too.” I shouldn’t have hedged. I knew it was true in my bones.

“I can see that.”

“It’s wonderful to see her. You, too.”

“I’m glad I came. I didn’t know what to expect.”

“I didn’t know what to expect either. I’d always wondered what you were like, though.”

“Me too, of course. Actually, I thought you’d have a beard. I asked Mum once when I was little what you were like, and she said you were like a cross child, someone who never listened. You were a bit wild, she said. So I thought you might be like Tarzan, in a loincloth or something like that.”

“I did have a beard when I met your mother. But I shaved it just before we got married. I found some pictures of your mother and me upstairs the other day. I can show them to you if you’d like.”

“I just saw the wedding pictures. I asked to see them the last time I was at Grandmother’s house with Amy. She didn’t want to show them to me, but I insisted.”

“I have those at my home. I haven’t looked at them in a long time.”

“You should,” Andrea said. “You look so happy in them. Mum, too.”

“We were happy. Very much so.”

“And then you weren’t. How does that happen?”

I looked at Andrea’s face carefully. She was young, it’s true, but already she’d felt the world of adult hurt. I certainly had never tried to protect her, but I guessed my ex had made an effort. “People make horrible mistakes,” I said. “Unforgivable ones.” I walked over to a shelf where I’d placed the little box of photographs from my youth. When I had graduated from college, my parents had bought me an Olympus OM-1 camera. It was the first time I had something that gave crystal-clear pictures. I still have that camera, and even paid a little money to have it cleaned a few years ago. Back then, I would screw the camera onto a tripod, set the timer, and run into the picture to be next to Catherine. Nowadays the timer no longer works, but it still takes wonderful photos with black-and-white film, far more natural than can be achieved with a digital camera.

I placed the photos on the coffee table, and Andrea looked at them one by one. She was deeply absorbed, trying to take it all in. How well did the images correspond with the ones she had invented over the years?

“Oh my god, I’m in this one, aren’t I?” she asked. She put her hand over her mouth, and I could tell that she was not just surprised. She was thrilled at this discovery.

“Yes, that bulge is you. We called you Cletus the Fetus.”

“And that’s your mum and dad there, yes?”

“Yes, me, your mother, your grandfather, your grandmother, and you.”

“Your mum was beautiful. I never asked what your mum and dad were like. Only you.”

“I should have tried to find you. Then you would have known what I was like. I shouldn’t have made you try to guess.”

“You seem like a kindhearted sort. Like the kind of person who would have tried.”

“People change. Sometimes they get better. Sometimes they get worse.”

“And you’ve gotten better, I guess?”

“I don’t know, really. I hope so.” Andrea was still holding the picture of all of us in her right hand. It had been taken at our little dacha on a lake. It was fall. In the black-and-white photo, you couldn’t tell that the leaves were changing color. My father was wearing a pressed white shirt and dark wool pants. Catherine was in a flowery maternity dress that she had bought from a store that sold local handmade clothing. A few weeks before the picture had been taken, a woman came up to us beaming, saying she made that dress and that she was so happy to see it being worn. My mother was in a cotton blouse and a mid-length skirt. She was taller than all except me. I wore blue jeans and a T-shirt. At the time, I was completely certain that this picture would be followed by many more of all of us together. There was not the slightest doubt in my mind that my family would blossom and that sunshine would follow us most days. I still have moments like this. I don’t understand where they come from. It’s a muted form of the American view that by destiny all things in life end happily. It’s a flaw of the mind really, this rosy view, but I am thankful that this flaw exists in most of us.

“Can I keep this picture?” Andrea asked.

“Of course,” I said.

“You won’t miss it?”

“I have negatives of them all back home,” I said. “It’s OK.” I didn’t know if that was actually true, but it didn’t matter to me either way.

Amy walked into the living room. “Grandpa, how do you say, ‘Which is bigger?’ in Polish?”

“
Która porcja jest wieksza?
”

“Say that again, Grandpa.” I did. She walked back into the kitchen.

“I wish I had come earlier. I could have met your mum.”

“She would have liked that, I’m sure. But she and your mother didn’t get along at all.”

“So you had to choose, I guess.”

“I didn’t think of it that way at the time, but that’s one way to look at it. Your mother know about you coming here?”

“I haven’t told her yet. I will, though.”

“I should talk to her. It’s pathetic that I haven’t.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Sasha. I’ll ask her if it’s OK.”

“I appreciate that. Truly do.”

“Grandpa, Mum, come here, please,” Amy said.

We walked back into the kitchen. Amy was standing next to the kitchen table. Pascha stood perched on a small inverted wicker basket that was usually used to hold salt and pepper shakers. In front of Pascha were two small dishes. Amy had a box of Cheerios in the crook of her arm and reached down, putting four Cheerios in one dish and five in another.