The Other Einstein(15)
“I believe Miss Kaufler chose Bach’s Violin Concerto in A Minor.”
“Ah, that is a beautiful piece.” He hummed a few bars of the music. “May I join you again?”
“I didn’t think that you waited for an invitation.” I surprised myself with my saucy retort. Despite my conflicted feelings and my attempts to steer the conversation back to a more appropriate course, I could not resist the jab at Mr. Einstein’s disregard of normal protocol over a week ago when he arrived uninvited to the pension after our Sihlwald outing.
While he waited in the parlor for us to finish dinner, Milana and Ru?ica bombarded me with questions about Mr. Einstein, expressing their dismay at his presumptuousness, while Helene simply listened, her eyes wary. We agreed to let him join us for music, but the wariness lingered throughout our disjointed playing of a Mozart sonata. Since I did not think of the evening as a success, I was bewildered that he was inquiring about another such night.
He snorted in surprise then chuckled. “I suppose that is well deserved, Miss Mari?. But then, I already warned you that I am a bohemian.”
Mr. Einstein followed me as I walked through the hallways toward the back entrance of the school building. Given that my nerves were already a bit jangled, I wanted to avoid the clamor of R?mistrasse. He pushed open the heavy doors, and we passed from the dim school hallways into the bright daylight of the terrace on the back side of the building. I squinted into the light, and the mountainous backdrop of Zürich, dotted equally with ancient church steeples and modern-day office structures, came into view.
As we crossed the terrace, out of habit, I counted its right angles and calculated the symmetry of its design. I’d begun this ritual as a way of distracting myself from the derogatory whispers I sometimes overheard from male students and teachers—even their sisters, mothers, and girlfriends—as they too walked across the terrace. The criticisms about the inappropriateness of a woman student, the snickers about my limp, the ugly remarks about my dark looks and serious face—I didn’t want my confidence in the classroom to be tainted by their commentaries.
“You are so quiet, Miss Mari?.”
“I am often accused of such, Mr. Einstein. Unfortunately, unlike a typical lady, I have no gift for small chatter.”
“Unusually quiet, I mean. As if an important theory has taken hold. What thought has captured your formidable mind?”
“In truth?”
“Always the truth.”
“I was assessing the colonnades and geometric layout of the square. I’ve realized that they have an almost exact bilateral, axial reflection, symmetry.”
“Is that all?” he asked with a smirk.
“Not quite,” I retorted. If Mr. Einstein did not play by the rules of social niceties, why should I? It was a relief, so I explained my actual thoughts. “Over the past few months, I’ve noted the parallels between artistic symmetry and the concept of symmetry as it plays out in physics.”
“What have you concluded?”
“I’ve determined that a follower of Plato would say that the square’s beauty is solely attributable to its symmetry.” I didn’t mention how this conclusion saddened me; imbedded into the theories of the studies I love best, math and physics, was the ideal of symmetry, a standard that I myself, with my irregular legs, could never achieve.
He stopped walking. “Impressive. What else have you noticed about this square, which I stroll by obliviously each day?”
I gestured around the square to the abundant spires. “Well, I’ve noted that Zürich seems to sprout church towers rather than trees. Bordering this square alone, we have the Fraumünster, Grossmünster, and St. Peter’s.”
He stared at me. “You were right, Miss Mari?, about not being a typical lady. In fact, you are a most extraordinary young woman.”
After this roundabout perambulation, Mr. Einstein made a turn leading toward R?mistrasse. I paused, not wanting to go that way. I craved instead the peace of a stroll through quiet residential neighborhoods on my way back to the pension. I wondered if he would follow, unsure whether I wanted his company. I enjoyed my conversations with Mr. Einstein, but I worried that he might follow me all the way back to the pension, and that might incur the girls’ acrimony again over his uninvited presence.
“Mr. Einstein! Mr. Einstein!” A voice called out from a café across the street on R?mistrasse. “I say, you are late for our meeting! As usual!”
The voice came from a sidewalk café table. Glancing over, I spotted a dark-haired, olive-complected gentleman waving his hands in our direction. I did not recognize him from the Polytechnic.
Mr. Einstein waved to his friend, then turned back toward me. “Will you join me and my friend for a coffee, Miss Mari??”
“My studies beckon, Mr. Einstein. I must go.”
“Please, I should so like you to meet Mr. Michele Besso. Even though he graduated from the Polytechnic as an engineer and not a physicist, he’s introduced me to many new physics theorists, like Ernst Mach. He is very likable and intrigued by many of the same big, modern ideas as you and I.”
I was flattered. Mr. Einstein seemed to believe that I could hold my own in a scientific discussion with his friend. Not many other men in Zürich would make such an offer. Part of me wanted to say yes, to accept his invitation, to sit across a café table from my classmate and discuss the thorny big questions that physics raised. Secretly, I longed to participate in the fervent conversations happening on the streets of Zürich and in its cafés. Instead of just watching.