In Search of Klingsor

The morning after her nightmare, Elizabeth decided it was time to make peace with Bacon. By the time she arrived at Bacon’s house, it was eleven in the morning—he would be at the institute, naturally. She could barely move as she struggled beneath the packages piled high in her arms. From a distance, her slow, teetering walk evoked that of a robot in a science fiction movie. In her arms she carried wine and cheese, fruit, balloons, and even an adorable model train. In spite of the fact that she had never before set foot in Bacon’s apartment (she preferred him either to visit her at her home or to meet her at cafeterias and restaurants), from the beginning of their relationship she had insisted that he give her a key. Now she was ready to use that little device to surprise him, to delight him, and to convince him that the time had come for their reconciliation.

The lecture hall was filled to capacity. Bacon was certain, however, that only a small fraction of the audience would be able to understand the true significance of the words that fell from Kurt Gödel’s lips with such surprising ease. Veblen and Von Neumann were sitting in the first row, watching as Gödel shuffled around with the grace of a hippopotamus, scrawling formulas onto the blackboard like a caveman making stick drawings of a buffalo on a cave wall. The mathematician looked frightened, and he made every effort not to look directly at his audience, losing himself in the infinity point above the back wall of the room. That day, Gödel had turned his attention, and that of his audience, to the problem known as the continuum hypothesis, sketched out by the mathematician Georg Cantor in his set theory.

“Cantor’s continuum hypothesis,” he said softly, as if he were the only one in the auditorium, “can be reduced to this simple question: How many points are there in a straight line on a Euclidean plane?” Gödel waited for a moment, as if to allow the question to seep into his mind before tossing it back out like a giant marble. “Obviously, this question is only possible when we extend the concept of the word number to infinite sets.”

All of a sudden, Gödel stopped cold in his tracks, unable to comprehend why someone would interrupt his lecture. A heavy wooden door opened and then slammed shut, producing a resounding thud that destroyed the otherworldly mood that had settled over Gödel’s audience. Veblen and the other professors rose from their seats, while all eyes focused on the woman who had suddenly burst into the lecture hall.

“Where are you?” she screamed, unfazed by the strangers witnessing the scene. Every last bit of Elizabeth’s beauty had evaporated and what was left was a cold scowl as she scanned the rows for the face of her double-crossing fiancé. “You lied to me! Admit it!”

Seated in the back row, Bacon made out the silhouette of Elizabeth. He didn’t know what to do, whether to stand up and try to calm her down, or try to hide from her wrath altogether. Elizabeth, meanwhile, remained utterly indifferent to the suddenly uncomfortable atmosphere in the auditorium. Gödel was horrified.

Veblen quickly admonished her: “For goodness’ sake, miss, I don’t know who you are or whom you are looking for, but this is a university lecture. I must ask you to leave immediately, so the professor may continue his presentation.”

Elizabeth did not hear a word. She was too busy searching for her terrorized victim.

“Don’t try to hide!” she screamed. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? That you could keep seeing that whore? How stupid do you think I am?”

“Elizabeth, please,” begged Bacon. Painfully aware of his audience, he tried his best to placate his fiancée. “We’ll fix all this later.”

“Later? Forget about later! I’m not going anywhere until you start explaining!” And she began to advance toward him, her face stained with tears that were as hot as the anger Bacon was beginning to feel.

“Mr. Bacon,” said Veblen pointedly, gesturing toward the exit. “Would you please explain to this young lady that we are in the middle of a very important lecture? Do you understand?”

By this time, Elizabeth was face-to-face with her fiancé. When he took her by the arm and tried to direct her toward the back of the lecture hall, she responded with a resonant slap across the face. The entire audience—with the exception of Gödel—breathed a prolonged oh! at the sound made by her hand, like that of a flyswatter slamming against a windowpane. Unable to endure any more humiliation, without even thinking, Bacon responded in kind. His blow was much less powerful but, due to an unfortunate matter of acoustics, much louder.

“This is unacceptable, Bacon!” Veblen exploded, though next to him Von Neumann let out an amused chuckle. “I will ask you again to please leave this room so we can go on.”

Elizabeth, stung by the slap, was not aware of what was happening around her. She had single-handedly caused a most disastrous scene which now felt more like a hazy, chaotic nightmare. The only thing she wanted was to embrace Bacon and fall into a long, deep sleep by his side. At the front of the lecture hall, Gödel watched the scene unfold in a state of complete and utter shock.

“You let her into your house,” Elizabeth sobbed as Bacon guided her toward the exit amid the stares of his colleagues. “You had that whore in your house.”

The last thing Bacon was able to see before leaving the auditorium was the furious face of Professor Veblen, which wordlessly told him that his currently favorable position and his no less brilliant future at the institute were both ruined. As he supported the exhausted body of his fiancée (now his ex-fiancée, he told himself), Bacon could scarcely begin to fathom the manifold consequences of the scene. Suddenly the three stable elements of his life—Elizabeth, the institute, and, yes, even Vivien—had crashed into each other like runaway trains. What would Von Neumann think of this, the unforeseeable outcome of his romantic games? Bacon led Elizabeth to a nearby room and sat her down in a chair. He remained there for a while, not touching or hugging her. He waited for a few minutes more. When she came to, she insulted him again and then, still trembling, got up and left the institute alone.

Meanwhile, back in the auditorium Professor Gödel made the announcement that he would be unable to continue with his lecture, and then he began to cry uncontrollably until Von Neumann walked up to the lectern to console him.

HYPOTHESIS V:On Bacons Departure for Germany (#ulink_2bf93719-92e3-5943-8f8b-aaf113473117)

When Bacon returned to the institute a few days later, he went straight to Frank Aydelotte’s office. Aydelotte, the institute’s director and Flexner’s successor, had been looking everywhere for Bacon. Bacon had no idea what fate this meeting would hold for him, though he was reasonably certain it was nothing positive. He figured it to be somewhere between a strong reprimand and unequivocal expulsion. To make matters worse, he had another of his terrible migraines. He felt as if a knife were lodged in his skull, splitting his cranium in two: One side was healthy and resilient while the other was trembling with the frenetic, uncontrollable energy of a piston charging at full blast. These headaches were always precipitated by nerves or a great shock, and they came on with lightning force, like a shooting star in the night sky. As soon as he saw the lights twinkling, followed by the ominous symptoms of vertigo and nausea, Bacon knew that the pain wasn’t far off. It was useless to try and resist it. He had tried household remedies like tea (which only made him more jittery), or ice cubes on his neck (which only made him feel like a filet of sole on display at a fish market), or the useless, bizarre massages of his earlobes or pinky finger. They never provided even a moment’s relief. And then the inevitable pain would come. Just as inevitable as the merciless tongue-lashing that he was about to receive from Aydelotte.

It was ten in the morning, and his body was already at the breaking point. The rays of sunlight sliced through his contracted pupils like splinters, and the faraway noises of the Princeton streets reverberated loudly in his atrophied eardrums. The vermilion walls of Fuld Hall looked like gelatin to him. Bacon breathed in, trying to pull himself together, and announced himself to the director’s fat secretary. The director ushered him in immediately; without getting up from his desk, he indicated a chair, the location of Bacon’s imminent torture. Behind Aydelotte, a tall man dressed in gray, burly as a football player, studied him expectantly.

“Sit down,” Aydelotte said.

Bacon obeyed. He didn’t want to make his discomfort too apparent, but he also didn’t want to seem too inhibited. The role of the punished child was unpleasant enough; he certainly did not wish to exacerbate it with an explanation of his physical ills.

“Relax, Bacon,” the director said generously. “This isn’t a court-martial, nor is it a firing line.”

“Before anything, I want to apologize,” Bacon interrupted abruptly. “I never meant for my personal problems … Could I at least see Professor Gödel to apologize to him myself?”

Aydelotte gave him a reproachful look.

“Slow down, Bacon. Unfortunately, it isn’t that simple. Professor Gödel had another one of his nervous episodes. He’s a very sensitive man.”

“Is he unwell?”

“Let’s just say that this is not one of his better moments. I suppose it will pass. But for the moment, he has decided to stay inside for the week.” Aydelotte coughed, on purpose, indicating the end of that part of their conversation. “I told him, Bacon, that the situation was truly an embarrassment. Can you imagine the impression it left on the other assistants? Professor Veblen has initiated a rather heated campaign against you, Bacon. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

“I would do anything at all to make up for what happened.”

“Anything at all,” repeated Aydelotte in a severe tone of voice. “It’s a shame, Bacon. I have examined your file carefully and I must tell you the truth. It’s quite impressive. First as an undergraduate and then here, you have performed your duties with brilliance and discretion—two qualities I admire immensely, especially in men of science.”

As Bacon watched him, it seemed that Aydelotte’s lips moved too much; they looked like two eels wrestling with each other.

“In any event, Professor Von Neumann has taken up your defense. He says that you are one of our most gifted colleagues. Moreover, he said he is certain that in the future, once you’ve gained the maturity that comes only with time, you will doubtless make great contributions to the field of physics.” A slight exaggeration, Bacon thought, but Aydelotte continued, “As you can imagine, your situation here is a difficult one, though not hopeless. You have so many points in your favor that one little episode such as that of the other day is hardly fatal.”

Bacon wasn’t completely sure if this solemn, officious tone of voice was a figment of his imagination or if it was just Aydelotte’s way of getting rid of him in the nicest way possible.

“Don’t worry, Bacon, I’m not saying all this as a prelude to firing you,” Aydelotte said. He stopped looking at Bacon and concentrated instead on screwing and unscrewing the cap of his fountain pen. “Of course, I do have to say what must be said, son: You no longer have a place at the institute. Your behavior the other day only confirmed this unfortunate fact.” Bacon felt a shock, as if the director had just poked him in the eye. “We have been delighted to have you here with us, yet I think—and correct me if I am mistaken—that you feel you are being wasted. Your talents are not very well suited to our style of work.”

Aydelotte turned briefly to look at the man in the gray suit behind him. His face impassive, the man nodded to indicate his approval. Aydelotte continued.

“I don’t mean to suggest you become an experimental physicist. Rather, I am trying to say that your character is—how can I explain it? Too curious. We feel that if things were to continue as they are now, you would eventually leave the institute without making any of the great achievements we all feel are within your grasp. You need more action, son. More life.”

“I … I don’t know what to say,” stuttered Bacon. “I promise, if you’d simply let me—”

“I’ve already told you, what happened during Gödel’s lecture was unfortunate but not a determining factor.” Aydelotte was starting to grow irritated. “Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Bird.”

The man in gray offered the faintest hint of a smile.

“Mr. Bird works for the government. A few weeks ago he contacted me, inquiring if I might recommend someone with the qualities necessary to carry out a special mission. The government needs a young person who also happens to be a competent physicist. When I learned the details of the request, I spoke with Professor Von Neumann and he couldn’t think of a better candidate than yourself.”

Aydelotte’s words burned in Bacons ears, for they carried the sting of what amounted to an invitation to resign. After the ambiguous introduction, Bacon contemplated the man before him, a man with a firm, formidable constitution. He was slightly burly, like a former athlete retired for several years. Bacon guessed that he was in the military, perhaps an ex-marine.

“I want you to know, dear Bacon”—Aydelotte was clearly uneasy using this uncharacteristically personal epithet—“that we would be very happy if you would work with Mr. Bird, but of course it is not an order. We’d just like you to listen to his ideas and then decide—under no pressure at all—what would be most appropriate. I think this could be a dignified solution for everyone involved.”

As he finished his speech, Aydelotte got up and, with forced enthusiasm, offered his hand to Bacon. Mr. Bird coughed slightly, indicating the end of that part of the conversation, and walked toward the door.

“Why don’t we go for a walk,” he said to Bacon, in a voice that clearly wasn’t about to take no for an answer. Bacon followed him. Aydelotte’s talk was like an electric charge that made him forget about his headache.

“Good luck, Bacon,” said the director.

Just as had occurred with his migraine, that one single sentence seemed to be a sign telling Bacon that he would not see Aydelotte—or the institute—for a long, long time.

“Have you ever visited here before?” Bacon asked Mr. Bird to break the ice.

“Once or twice, yes.”

They started their walk as good friends would, going nowhere in particular. Mr. Bird did not seem to be in a rush; he would occasionally stop to admire the daisies and the decorative shrubs along the way, as if he were an amateur horticulturist.