In Search of Klingsor. Jorge Volpi
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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.
“So, you work for the government?” Bacon asked, starting to feel nauseated again. “Is there somewhere specific you’d like to go?”
“No.”
They walked through the entire campus and when they were finished, started over again. One thing was certain: Mr. Bird had all the time in the world. But then, all of a sudden, he stopped and looked Bacon squarely in the face, as if he finally deigned to reveal the purpose of his visit.
“Is