In Search of Klingsor. Jorge Volpi
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Von Neumann, the phone calls he received from Elizabeth, and Vivien’s evening visits. Even if he were bold enough to confess it to anyone, who would believe him? That he was pursuing Einstein, like a spectrum, a wave that kept trying to move closer to the author of relativity? Out of the question. In the meantime, Bacon worked on his technique; as time went by he felt surer and surer of himself, certain that he was becoming nearly invisible…. Slowly, the walk toward 112 Mercer Street became as natural as afternoon tea, or the solution of a couple of matrices; he did it out of necessity, or like a bad habit. Einstein almost always walked home alone, although every so often someone would join him—old or young, famous or unknown, each occupied the spot that was supposed to belong to Bacon, the most devoted of his disciples.
Only once did Einstein notice him. A thick fog hung in the air that lay like a greasy film covering the faces of the passersby with an unbecoming, yellowish tint. The birds’ chirping rang through the air like a fire alarm signal sent out from one nest to the other. Suddenly, without any warning, Einstein turned on his heels and fixed his gaze squarely on Bacon, who was now frightened as a deer. It looked as though his sophomoric game was up. Bacon had lost.
“Do you work at the institute?” Einstein said upon recognizing him.
Perhaps this was the moment he had been waiting for, Bacon thought: the chance to initiate a friendship, albeit distant, with the man whose story he had followed more than any other, and to whom he felt connected by a profound, almost mysterious sense of awe and admiration.
“Yes, I do,” Bacon replied, breathlessly awaiting the professor’s next pronouncement, as if hanging on to the words of an oracle.
“It’s cold,” exclaimed Einstein, dazed.
That was all he said. Nothing more, no revelation, no prophecy. He didn’t even ask Bacon’s name. He bent his head slightly, as if to say good-bye, and continued on his way alone, absent, beneath the weak light whose structure intrigued him so. Now—finally!—Bacon could boast to the rest of the world that yes, he had received a dose of the genius’s wisdom, and he would treasure those marvelous words as if God himself had bellowed them: It’s cold. Bacon laughed to himself, still trembling, and waited for Einstein’s gray silhouette to recede, like the brilliant glow of the stars which he spoke of so eloquently. The next day, Bacon resumed his pursuit of the professor, but now with the serenity of a man who had completed his mission.
HYPOTHESIS IV: On Gödel’s Theory and Marriage
When her soul was tranquil, Elizabeth’s eyes were the color of olives. But Bacon could always be sure that the tranquillity would soon give way to thunder whenever they began to acquire a slightly coppery tone. At those times, all he could do was remain quiet and wait for the angry torrent of words to come pouring out of Elizabeth’s mouth, dying down to a trickle only after a few minutes. Her wrists were so slender that he could hold them between his thumb and pinky, and her neck was as strong and firm as a sunflower’s stem, but when she became incensed—a fairly frequent occurrence—her diminutive proportions grew exponentially, like those of a cobra in heat. All the innocence and courtesy she so carefully exhibited during social functions would evaporate, replaced by a torrent of fiery reproaches and menacing threats, a snit of such proportions that by the time it was over, she had nearly asphyxiated herself. Only then would she begin to feel remorseful, and as she allowed sweet tears to rain down on her cheeks, Bacon, moved by such a show of emotion, would have no other choice than to caress her delicate chin and run his fingers through her tousled hair, calming her down until she could muster enough strength for her next attack.
Elizabeth was the kind of woman who always looked as if she had just stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine: Her dresses were fitted, her jewelry took the form of tiny insects, and her hats sprouted feathers the likes of which Bacon had seen only in the movies. Her violet eye shadow and colorful rouge only enhanced her childlike complexion, reminding Bacon of a little girl trying to be like her mother by stealing and applying globs of her makeup. Bacon was always touched by this curious spectacle; in that inharmonious combination of lust and innocence, vanity and naïveté, he saw evidence of the sensitivity his fiancée hid behind her haughty appearance.
Aside from Elizabeth’s undeniable beauty and artistic talents (she was a student at an art academy in New York), there was something else about her that appealed to Bacon’s mother: her aristocratic lineage. Elizabeth, she explained to her son, was the only daughter of a rich banker from Philadelphia whose greatest desire was to see his daughter happy. When he saw her for the first time at a French restaurant on Fifth Avenue, Bacon knew that she would play an important role in his life—though not for any of the qualities his mother had mentioned. It was the tiny adolescent figure, the cascade of curls that tumbled out from under her hat, and the way that, in spite of her well-cultivated manners, she couldn’t help twisting and untwisting her fingers in her lap. Bacon had always appreciated that rather aggressive quality found in many spoiled girls, for he sensed it was simply their way of masking their inability to solve the problems of day-to-day life. In short, he liked Elizabeth because she was the opposite of Vivien.
That afternoon, somewhere between the lobster and the chocolate cake, Elizabeth made a confession—that is, she recited the words she assumed a liberal scientist like Bacon would want to hear from a girl: She was a painter. She spoke eloquently of the importance of art and freedom, and explained that money, to her way of thinking, was simply one among many means to happiness. The significance of her declarations was largely lost on Bacon—the champagne they drank took care of that—and Elizabeth worked hard to soften her sharp, grating voice into something closer to sensual. Meanwhile, Bacon’s mind was mainly focused on discerning the shape of her breasts beneath the cherry-colored blouse and the fine European lingerie that (he was certain) lay beneath it. He never once lifted his gaze to meet her eyes, but Elizabeth continued on, undeterred, with her detailed lecture on the history of art, convinced that a promising young scientist like Bacon couldn’t help falling in love with a woman of such great intellect.
One day, Bacon grabbed her hand and attempted to kiss her in the middle of the street. Elizabeth, employing her family’s old husband-catching technique, slapped him hard on the cheek, hard enough to call the attention of several passersby. She then told him to behave like a gentleman, and asked him to please walk her home. Once again, the tactic proved highly effective: Dazzled by this flash of temper, Bacon asked when he could see her again. After considering the idea for a few moments, Elizabeth accepted. From then on, they averaged about two dates a week, generally on Saturday mornings and Sunday afternoons, although almost an entire month went by before she would allow Bacon’s lust-filled lips to settle upon her own tightly pursed pair.
In theory, Bacon despised Elizabeth’s games, and he continued sleeping with Vivien about three times a week, though without the slightest trace of any sort of courtship ritual. Yet he nevertheless remained enthusiastic about the progress of his relationship with Elizabeth, precisely because she refused to let him touch her. In one of nature’s absurd paradoxes, he would dream of Elizabeth’s tiny body while savoring the largesse of Vivien; he yearned for Vivien’s silence as he endured Elizabeth’s insufferable discourses.
Bacon knew that the laws of civilized society—inspired by the laws of classical mechanics—were inflexible. Sooner or later, his double life would have to end; he could have only one of them. And it would have to be Elizabeth. His mother, his friends, his professors, his fellow graduate students—none of them would forgive him if he abandoned the delightful young lady who they always assumed would become his wife for a cafeteria worker. Resigned to a fate that seemed beyond his control, Bacon went out and bought a ring with a tiny blue diamond and gave it to Elizabeth one windy evening in March of 1942, beneath the moonlight, as prescribed by the laws of romantic love.
They hadn’t settled on a wedding date, but from that day forward, Elizabeth did little more than visit bridal shops to study the endless array of available wedding dresses. Each time she saw her fiancé she would describe, with the very same patience she dedicated to her lectures on surrealism and the avant-garde, the complicated floral patterns of