Part 19 (2/2)

”Red herrings,” he had said, ”right?” Earlier, when I had first mentioned Billy Boudreaux's name, he had smiled ever so slightly. Was it possible that he had known, all along, much more than he let on?

I thought of that first address Thorpe gave me as we stood in his garage in the early morning-the innocent janitor, living out his final days in his modest house in Bernal Heights. Did Thorpe know it was a name that would lead nowhere? After that, though, it was Boudreaux and then Strachman. Was Thorpe thanking me for coming back each time? Was he thanking me for giving him a second chance? I was the one who had undertaken the search, but it was Thorpe who gave me the tools.

He was still Thorpe. And yet, I had a hard time admitting to myself, in some essential way, he had changed. It had been twenty years. I'd always thought that people changed only in books, not in real life. But here was Thorpe-this living, breathing person doing something I never would have thought him capable of. After all this time, he had managed to surprise me.

Thirty-nine.

IT WAS OCTOBER, THE TAIL END OF THE rainy season, and Diriomo was cool and wet, the whole town blanketed in orchids. I had arrived on a Tuesday morning, following an uneventful red-eye and a b.u.mpy bus ride from Managua, and checked into my usual hotel. That afternoon, I would go to the co-op to taste some new samples. I had gifts for Jesus's children-a book of bird ill.u.s.trations for Rosa, a paint set for Angel. But first, there was someone I wanted to see.

I changed into a sundress and sandals and set out on foot. On the makes.h.i.+ft baseball field, children were playing with sticks and an old tennis ball. Soon I was standing on the familiar doorstep, ringing the familiar copper bell. I heard shuffling from within, and Maria appeared, her gray hair draped over one shoulder in a long braid, tied with a yellow ribbon.

”Welcome,” she said, smiling.

The place smelled the same as it had three months before, when Peter McConnell walked up to my table and said, ”Do you know who I am?” Then, as now, there was the salty-rich smell of frying pork, the deep aroma of coffee, the mild scent of cornmeal. But that night the place had been dark, lit only by candles. Now sun flooded in through the windows, illuminating the surprised faces of Maria's porcelain dolls. The red curtain leading into the kitchen was pulled aside, and through it I could see Maria's stove, drenched in sunlight.

”What are you serving today?”

”Nacatamal,” she said. ”Esta usted sola?”

”Si, senora. I am alone.”

She shook her head and put a hand to her heart, as if it pained her to see me return, once again, in such a state. I sat at my usual table. Moments later, she brought coffee, then disappeared into the kitchen. I reached into my bag and took out Lila's notebook.

I had been over the notebook so many times, but each new perusal of it offered up some fresh surprise. This time, it was a tiny line of handwritten text pressed up close to the binding halfway through the notebook, so that the pages had to be forced open to read it. I brought it close to my eyes and struggled to make out the words. An equation for me has no meaning unless it expresses a thought of G.o.d.

Maria brought out the nacatamal. It was delicious, as always. When she came to clear away my plate, I asked her in my clumsy Spanish about the gentleman I'd met three months before in her restaurant.

”Ah, si, Senor Peter!” she said.

”Si,” I said. ”Donde vive?”

She went to the kitchen and came back with a pen and a piece of paper, on which she drew a map. ”Estamos aqui,” she said, pointing to a little square box with a stick figure of a woman standing in front of it. ”el esta aqui.” She drew a circle around another box, which was connected to the first by a series of winding roads.

”Thank you.”

Laughing, she made a gesture as if to shoo me out the door. ”Senor McConnell, el es muy guapo!”

”He is,” I agreed.

On my way out, I stopped to examine a Venus flytrap on the windowsill. Its pale green leaves were open, split down the middle like fruit. A fly buzzed just inches above the plant. Finally, the insect landed on the needles. The leaf snapped shut. I wondered whether Lila had ever seen a Venus flytrap. I seemed to remember there being one in a cla.s.sroom at our grade school, but I wasn't sure. It was a habit I couldn't quite break, even now-when I saw or experienced something new, I often wondered whether Lila had had a chance to experience it, too. Sometimes I felt as if I was experiencing each new thing twice-once for me, and once for her. Over the years, that sensation tapered off exponentially. There are only so many new things in the world, and the older you get, the harder it is to find them.

Though the roads of Diriomo were weblike, folding over on themselves in inexplicable ways, Maria's map was excellent. I marked it with my pen as I walked, drawing in landmarks-a mailbox, a donkey tied to a post, an old tire swing hanging from a tree-so that I'd be able to find my way back afterward.

After half an hour, I came to a white house at the end of a deserted road. From the outside it looked as though it couldn't contain more than a couple of rooms. Behind the house, and to both sides of it, was forest. The dirt yard was tidy, dotted with banana palms and p.r.i.c.kly-looking foliage. A series of circular paving stones, each inscribed with a number-1-12-9-12-1-12-9-12-led from the dirt road to the concrete porch. I had just lifted my hand to knock when I heard a voice behind me.

”Ellie?”

I turned. It was Peter, clad in a sweat-drenched s.h.i.+rt, carrying two large metal buckets filled with water. He walked up the path of stones and set the buckets on the porch. ”Well water,” he said, breathing heavily. ”When I first moved out here, I thought I wouldn't last. I couldn't imagine life without plumbing. But you get used to it. There's something satisfying about using exactly what you need, nothing more.”

”Where's the well?”

”A half mile that way,” he said, pointing into the woods. ”It's good water. Would you like a taste?”

”That would be nice.”

McConnell opened the door and motioned for me to go ahead of him. Inside, it was warm and dark. We were standing in a large, simple room. He pulled the curtains aside to let in light. To the left, running lengthwise along the wall, was a bed, and beside it a nightstand. On the nightstand was a legal pad, a wind-up clock, and a large, unlit candle. I was surprised by the size of the bed given the meager surroundings-it was a queen, with crisp green sheets and two plump pillows sheathed in bright white pillow-cases. A couple of feet from the foot of the bed, a large desk was pushed against the wall. Above the desk was a window framed by yellow curtains. Beside the desk, a built-in bookcase strained under the weight of several dozen books. I recognized some of the t.i.tles from Lila's own collection: Whitehead and Russell's Principia Mathematica, Euclid's Elements, Kline's Mathematical Thought from Ancient to Modern Times, Gauss's Disquisitiones Arithmeticae. And there, lying on its side on top of a series of yellow-covered reproductions of Ramanujan's lost notebooks, was the one book with which I was very familiar-Hardy's A Mathematician's Apology. I'd taken Lila's copy after she died.

Although the room was spartan, there was something undeniably cheerful about the color scheme. Even the concrete floor had been painted a pale shade of blue, and beside the bed there was a woven rug in bright reds and yellows. In the far right corner stood a round table and a single wooden chair. Behind that, against the wall, was a makes.h.i.+ft kitchenette: antique icebox, Bunsen burner, and a copper washbasin on a stand.

”There wasn't any electricity when I moved in,” McConnell said. ”I lived here for several years without it.”

I spotted a cell phone on the table. ”You're modernizing.”

”I gave in under duress. The company I contract for insists that they be able to reach me. Go figure. They keep trying to sell me on e-mail, but I've managed to hold my ground.”

He went to the porch and brought the buckets inside, hefting them up onto the table. He took two gla.s.ses from a cupboard and dipped water into them with a ladle. The water was cool and good, with a slight metallic taste and a faint smell of gra.s.s.

”Please,” McConnell said. ”Sit down.”

I looked around the room. There was only the one wicker chair by the table. ”Sorry,” he said. ”I rarely have company.” He picked up the chair, carried it across the room, and placed it a couple of feet from the bed. I sat down, the wicker creaking beneath me. McConnell sat on the bed, so that we were facing one another. ”In fact, you're the first person who has visited me in four years.”

”Who was the last?”

He hesitated. ”A woman from the village.”

”May I ask what happened?”

”She wanted children. I told her I was too old for that.”

”You're only fifty,” I said.

”I already have a son.”

”One is enough?”

”There was a time I dreamt of having three or four. But I rather failed on the fatherhood front, didn't I? Some errors don't bear repeating.” He smiled sadly. ”Technically speaking, one is a beautiful number. One is its own factorial, its own square, its own cube. It is neither a prime number nor a composite number. It is the first two numbers of the Fibonacci Sequence. It is the empty product: any number raised to the zero power is one. It might be argued that one is the most independent number known to man. It can do things that no other number is capable of.”

”A sequence of natural numbers always ends with one,” I said.

”You've been doing your homework.”

”It was in Lila's notebook. The Collatz Conjecture. According to Erdos, 'Mathematics is not yet ready for such a problem.'”

He took a sip of water, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ”You went to see an old friend of mine.”

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