Part 20 (1/2)

”Yes, Don Carroll. He spoke very highly of your work.”

McConnell glanced at the floor, embarra.s.sed. ”He always was in my corner.”

”In his office I saw a book with a double torus on the cover. I wanted to ask you about Lila's tattoo. Why did she choose the double torus?”

”She had a thing for topology. In topology, you can bend and stretch shapes and they remain essentially the same-a sphere is identical to any sphere or cube, or in fact any solid shape, such as the bed you're sitting on, or the rug beneath our feet. But the moment you put a hole in a shape, it is no longer equivalent. So a double torus, which looks like two doughnuts stuck together, is equivalent to anything else with two holes, say a trophy with two handles. Lila liked the idea that a thing could be dramatically transformed while remaining, in every way that really mattered, the same. The double torus is a particularly rich form in that respect.”

”In the notebook,” I said, ”Lila had a quote: 'An equation for me has no meaning unless it expresses a thought of G.o.d.'”

Peter smiled. ”Ramanujan. He believed his inspiration came from Namagiri, his kuldevta, family deity.”

”Do you see G.o.d in the numbers?” I asked.

”An equation isn't necessarily about numbers. It's about patterns. The universe is governed by mathematical patterns. Gravity, string theory, chaos theory, quantum mechanics-all of it can be expressed in terms of equations. F = GMm/R2, for example, one of the most basic equations of our universe. There's an argument that if you can create an equation for anything, that thing exists. Because one can write an equation that represents a vast, empty, three-dimensional s.p.a.ce, such a s.p.a.ce exists. If the essence of G.o.d is creation, then yes, a beautiful equation can be said to express a thought of G.o.d.”

He looked away, and smiled to himself. ”I was always a bit low-brow compared to Lila. My favorite Ramanujan story is about when Hardy was visiting him in the hospital, and Hardy said: 'I rode here today in a taxicab whose number was 1729. This is a dull number,' to which Ramanujan replied, 'No, it is a very interesting number; it is the smallest number expressible as a sum of two cubes in two different ways.'” He paused. ”But you didn't come here for a math lesson.”

”Lila's notebook,” I said, hesitating. ”Why did you have it?”

”She gave it to me that night at dinner. She had come up with a new idea-a 'brain flash,' she called it-regarding an approach to the Goldbach Conjecture, and she wanted my opinion. But, unfortunately, I told her I didn't want to talk about math. For one night, I wanted to put work aside and talk about other things, personal things. We needed to address the issue of my marriage, what we would do in the long term. I also felt there was still so much I didn't know about her, so many questions I wanted to ask. Ultimately, she consented, on the condition that I take her notebook home and examine her new work, so that we could discuss it the next day.”

”And what did she tell you?” I asked. ”That night, what did you learn about Lila that you didn't know before?”

”I asked her to tell me what the best moment of her life had been.”

”Did she?”

”Yes. She told me about a trip the two of you had taken to Europe together right after you graduated from high school.”

”Pascal in Paris,” I said, smiling.

He gave me a questioning look.

”It had been a dream of hers,” I said, ”to visit Pascal's grave. On that trip, she finally did. I'd never seen her so excited.”

”That wasn't it,” Peter said.

”It wasn't?”

”No, it was in a hostel in Venice. The two of you had been traveling for a couple of weeks, and all of your clothes were filthy. You didn't mind the dirty clothes very much, Lila said; you were able to roll with the punches, and for you everything about the trip, even the dirty laundry, was a great adventure. But Lila liked things a certain way, and she hated being dirty. That day, she had gone off in search of a Laundromat, but hadn't been able to find one. You were sleeping in a room with a dozen bunks, women and men together. In the middle of the night Lila woke up, and realized you weren't in your bed. She thought you must have gone to the bathroom, but after a couple of minutes, when you hadn't returned, she became worried. She climbed down from her bunk and went to the bathroom to find you. You weren't there. She wandered up and down the hallways, softly calling your name. A few of the rooms were private, and had the doors closed. As she became increasingly worried, she began putting her ear to those doors, listening for you. Then she heard banging down below. Alarmed, she went down the dark stairwell to the bas.e.m.e.nt. She saw you before you saw her. You were working in the dim light of a single bulb, standing over an old hand-operated was.h.i.+ng machine. She asked what you were doing. 'What does it look like?' you said, smiling. What Lila remembered from that night was that you actually looked happy to be standing there in the cold bas.e.m.e.nt in the middle of the night, was.h.i.+ng clothes by hand. And she knew that you wouldn't have minded wearing dirty clothes for another week or two. You were doing it for her.”

”She said that?” I asked. I had a vague memory of a hostel in Venice. But I didn't remember anything about the midnight trip to the bas.e.m.e.nt to wash our clothes. It amazed me that Lila had remembered, and that it had meant so much to her.

”Yes. When I asked her what the best moment of her life had been, she told me that story.”

”But it was nothing,” I said.

”To her, it was.”

”Thank you for telling me that.”

I heard steps on the porch. I glanced out the window. A young boy dropped a small bundle beside the door before pedaling away on an old bike, wheels squeaking.

”It's Pedro,” McConnell said. ”He brings me pencils each month.”

”Another question,” I said, as the squeaking of Pedro's bicycle faded.

”Hmm?” He reached over and smoothed the pillowcase at the head of the bed. My gaze followed his hand, the gentle movement of his long fingers over the white fabric. For a moment it was as if I had been transported to another place and time, and had been given the gift of seeing into his most private moments-McConnell in the hotel room in Half Moon Bay, running his hand over Lila's pillowcase after she had left, memorizing the impression of her head against the pillow.

His voice brought me back. ”Ellie? Where are you?”

I met his eyes again. ”Sorry, I was just thinking about something-”

”Your sister used to do that. Just wander away in the middle of a conversation. At first I was offended, until she explained it to me-”

”As if she'd stepped into another room,” I said, ”and she became so focused on the things in that room that the door shut behind her. You'd have to make physical contact to shake her out of it.”

”Exactly. The moment I touched her shoulder or held her hand, she'd come right back to me, and explain in the most lucid terms what it was she'd been concentrating on. Every time, it gave me the impression of having performed some strange magic trick, as if my touch was enough to lead her back from another world. Funny, I always a.s.sumed I was the only one who could do that.” He paused. ”You wanted to ask me something?”

”Why did you return the notebook to me?”

”I've memorized every page of it, I don't need the physical object when every figure, every scribble, is stored in my mind. Beyond that, I thought you should have it.”

”I thought it would provide some clue,” I said. ”I thought there would be some key in those pages that would unlock the mystery of what happened to Lila. I was disappointed when I didn't find it.”

”You came back because you still aren't sure, didn't you? You went home, you looked for answers, and you didn't find them. But I've told you everything I know. I'm sorry, I wish I could help you, but I have nothing more to offer.”

His gaze came to rest on my throat. He leaned forward, reaching toward me. For a split second, when I felt his warm fingers brus.h.i.+ng my neck, I had the strange feeling that he might kiss me. I decided, in that moment, that I would not back away. ”It's hers,” he said, astonished.

I had misread him. I could feel the slight pressure of the gold chain against my neck as he held the topaz pendant between his fingers. He let go, and the tiny stone fell back against my skin. He touched it again. I looked into his eyes, and he was a million miles away.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the magazine. I handed it to him.

He looked at the cover, uncomprehending. ”Rolling Stone?”

”Turn to page sixty-three.”

He looked at me for a moment more, and he seemed like he was about to say something, but then he started flipping through the pages. The top half of the spread was covered with a photograph of the Potrero Sound Station. The t.i.tle of the article was ”Billy Boudreaux's Last Act.” In a slightly smaller font was the byline, Ben Fong-Torres. Ben had pulled some strings and managed to get the piece in at the last minute.

”What's this?” Peter said.

”Look at the ba.s.s player,” I said. I'd studied the photograph for so long, it was burned into my memory. In the foreground was Kevin Walsh, holding the microphone so close to his mouth it looked as though he might swallow it. Billy was in the shadows, his face barely visible. But the way the stage was lit, you could see his powerful arms, fingers poised on the strings. ”That's Billy Boudreaux.”

Peter looked up at me. ”I don't understand.”

”Take your time,” I said. ”I'll go outside.”