The Last Days of Night(7)

“Don’t you agree with Mr. Jenson’s supposition, Mr. Cravath?”

“I’m sure I would if I had the least idea what any of that meant,” replied Paul with what he hoped was witty nonchalance. “Afraid I missed the natural sciences at school. And the mathematical ones to boot.”

From the other end of the table, the look on Westinghouse’s face made it clear that Paul’s quip had been the wrong tactic.

“The death of mathematical education will be the death of this country,” proclaimed the inventor. “A generation of young men who have never even heard of the calculus, much less possess the ability to determine instantaneous rates of change. What will you lot invent?”

“Well, nothing,” replied Paul. “If you’ll do the inventing, my lot will see to defending your rights in court.”

Westinghouse shrugged. He returned his attention to the crème fra?che that decorated his roasted-pumpkin soup.

Such was the sum total of Paul’s contribution to the conversation. His one chance to impress Westinghouse and he’d squandered it. Paul took his embarrassment out on the Bordeaux. Who knew if he’d ever taste such an expensive bottle again?

His despondent fixation on his wineglass was diverted only by an offhand comment from the professor. Just a few words half heard across the long table. Something about the physics department at Yale. A grumbling about a new PhD candidate. The usual grumpy gossip of academia, except for the one word that stuck out. “A Negro in the physics department?” said the professor with a weary shake of his head. “It’s one thing to have a few in the college. But teaching? And teaching science at that?”

“Would you have the man lecture somewhere else?” It was only after speaking that Paul realized he’d said it rather loudly.

“Pardon?” said the professor, clearly surprised.

“I—well—” Paul stammered. To go on would be insane, not to mention rude. And yet the wine did the talking for him. “You’d prefer the man taught physics elsewhere, I suppose? That he drag down those useless mutts at MIT instead?”

“Met more than a few useless mutts from MIT myself,” said Westinghouse. He was trying to defuse the situation with all due haste.

“Perhaps he might lecture in one of his own damned universities,” said the professor.

“Unfortunately, there is no physics program at any of the Negro colleges. Though I’m told there will be soon at Fisk. A generation that could have been lost to the fields will instead understand more about your air brakes and electrical wiring than I ever could.”

“And how would you know that?” asked the professor.

“Because my father founded Fisk.”

A silence crept across the table. Paul had taken an awkward situation and magnified its power with the force of one of Mr. Westinghouse’s steam engines.

“Your father founded a Negro college?” came the curious voice of their host.

“The family tradition, Mr. Westinghouse,” said Paul.

Ordinarily, Paul took no particular pride in telling this story. He agreed with his parents’ political proclivities, but he didn’t go parading them around. Perhaps it was the wine. Perhaps it was the shame at being so out of place at a dinner of this elegance. Or perhaps it was simply the fond thoughts of the family who would gladly take him in to their Tennessee farmhouse when he failed in New York. “My grandfather was an early supporter of a small college in Ohio called Oberlin. He’d been an advocate of women’s education, and the school became his great experiment. Men and women in lecture halls together. I studied there myself. My parents met at Oberlin Seminary, married, and my father became a deacon. He served as a chaplain in the war, which led him to a cause that meant as much to him as women’s education had to my grandfather: the educational difficulties facing Negroes in the South. He’s a deeply devout man, and he felt—still feels—that God put him on this earth for a reason. And he’d found out what it was. A college that would do for the southern Negro what Yale has done for the rich New Yorker.”

There was no applause at the close of Paul’s speech. Only the awkward clink of soup spoons against Sèvres. He hadn’t made any brilliant intellectual argument. He’d simply made an ass of himself.

The meal wore on. The tinge of embarrassment kept Paul’s face red all the way through the cheese course. And then Westinghouse said something that surprised not only Paul, but every other guest at the table.

“Care to join me in the study, Mr. Cravath?”

Still not sure that Westinghouse hadn’t misspoken, Paul followed the inventor into his study. The desk alone seemed larger than Paul’s entire Manhattan apartment. Thick Persian rugs padded the floor, while a bookcase stocked with engineering journals rose to the ceiling. Westinghouse shut the door behind them.

“Cigar?” he offered.

“No, thank you,” said Paul. “Afraid I don’t smoke.”

“Neither do I. Can’t stand the smell. But Marguerite says it’s impolite not to keep them around for guests.” He poured two tumblers of an ancient Scotch. “Kid, I am getting the impression that you might be an honest man.”

“I’m flattered, sir. Though I’m not sure that’s a desirable reputation in my line of work.”

“I’ve recently found myself in need of a man of conviction.” He paused as if trying to determine how most aptly to broach the coming subject. “I am being sued.”