The Last Equation of Isaac Severy(80)

“I’m not working on mirror symmetry.”

“Then what is so supremely important that you can’t get to it later?”

Kuchek didn’t answer, but then he never responded to anger or irritation.

Philip fell back onto the pillow. “By all means, Andrei, let me chatter on while you pretend not to hear me. May as well put one of those confessional screens between us.”

No response.

“My father used to take me to confession when I was young,” he continued. “Not because he was trying to indoctrinate me or anything—he just wanted to give me something to push against, to show me the absurd alternative to science. Though I must admit, I found it strangely comforting.”

More scribbling.

“So what shall I confess now? How I tried to kill myself in the canyon because the pounding in my brain became unbearable? That I intentionally OD’d because of a goddamn headache?”

Kuchek didn’t flinch.

“Or shall I tell you how Jane has been deeply depressed since Sybil’s death, and I’m emotionally incapable of helping her through it? Or maybe I should confess how I’ve been cheating on my wife with one of our doctoral candidates.”

Kuchek looked up at last. “Don’t flay yourself, Philip. It’s natural.”

“What is?”

“I fall in love all the time, have quite a lot of sex in my off-hours. Try not to look so surprised.”

“You don’t have a wife.”

“Philip, the passion you have—or had—for your work is the same passion you have now for your lovely doctoral candidate. It’s just all mixed up, confused.”

This conversation was getting strange. Andrei Kuchek had love affairs? The man didn’t even flirt. As far as Philip had observed, Andrei had yet to realize that spouting facts tends to deflate good conversation—like a human web browser always spoiling the fun with the right answer. But perhaps he had misjudged him.

Philip pulled himself to sitting, looked around. “This isn’t your apartment, is it?”

“No, but I’ll be returning there shortly.”

Philip pictured some gangly math kitten waiting on Kuchek’s sofa.

“So what is this place?”

“Don’t you recognize it?”

Philip glanced around at all the incompatible furniture that somehow seemed to go together. A pine trunk covered with the spillover from an adjacent bookshelf. An antique secretary desk against one wall, a dusty Navajo carpet beneath it. A tacky cupid clock ticking deliberately from a bureau. And then there was a J. M. W. Turner ship-at-sea knockoff that appeared to glow from within.

“I’ve never seen this room in my life, yet it’s familiar.”

“You haven’t seen it, Philip, because the lights have always been off. But it is your room.”

“My room?”

“I’m not working on my own mathematics, I’m working on yours. I thought you needed some help illuminating the space. So here I am.”

“Illuminating the space . . . ? Yes—”

Philip pushed off the covers.

My room! How did I not know it?

As he looked wildly about him, a feeling of rapture grew in his chest. He had spent so much time between these four walls, in the dark, blind, crawling on the floor, grasping, in an attempt to put all the furniture and objects in their place. He had done this so that he might map out one more room in the incomprehensibly expansive mansion of string theory. And here he was now, for real. The light was on, at last! But there were still some dark corners, and he wanted desperately to see everything.

“We have to turn on all the lights, Andrei!” he shouted. “Now! Turn them all on, before I forget—”

“Shh, slow down. One at a time, one at a time.”

There was a knock at the door. He looked to Kuchek.

“Who’s that?”

“How should I know?”

“Are you going to answer it?”

“Can’t. It’s not my room.”

Philip pulled himself out of bed with newfound energy, but as he approached the door, he hesitated. The knocking continued, except now there seemed to be fists upon the door.

He knew what was on the other side, but he pressed his ear against it to be sure. He could hear their voices: Jane, Sidney, Silas, Faye. And then two more: Jack and Drew. They were all waiting for him.

“Is Grandpa going to wake up?” he heard Drew ask.

“I think so,” Jack told her. “Look at his eyelids.”

“Philip? Can you hear us?” Jane was pleading. “Someone get the nurse . . .”

“His fingers are wiggling,” Silas said.

Then Sidney: “Hey, Dad, wake up . . .”

Philip was struck by the timbre of his sons’ voices, how each was distinct and separate from the other. How often he let himself overlook that.

He turned back to the room for one more look. Kuchek gave him a static wave and resumed his work.

I must remember this space precisely as it is so I can re-create it later. I can’t forget this moment!

He knew that the finer details of the room would be lost, but he greedily took in what he could. And when he was ready, he put his hand on the knob and opened the door.





PART 3