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Authors: Robert Littell
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Director, J. Alfred Goodacre, grips Lemuel’s
elbow and steers him to the head of the parenthesis.
“Bravo for the haircut,” he whispers. “She’s quite a number, our lady barber.”
Lemuel is confused. “In what respect can a lady barber be compared to a number?” he asks, but the Director, shaking hands
with a visiting professor from Germany, doesn’t catch the question.
Down the table, Matilda Birtwhistle is deep in conversation with her neighbor, Charlie Atwater. “They didn’t use to decant
the wine at faculty luncheons,” she remarks.
“They decant it,” Atwater, nursing his fourth martini, replies, “so we won’t dishcover what sheep wine they’re serving us.”
He sniffs the wine in his glass and screws up his face in disgust.
Matilda Birtwhistle laughs. “Oh, Charlie, come off it.”
“You think I’m making this up?” Atwater takes a sip of the wine, rolls it around in his mouth as if he is gargling, then swallows.
His eyes bulge. “Oh my God! It’s
nouveau vinaigre!”
Holding a wineglass by its stem, Rebbe Nachman, sitting across the parenthesis from Matilda Birtwhistle, carefully swirls
the liquid around in the glass, then watches as it seeps back down the sides. “You maybe want an independent opinion,” he
calls across the table, “it was
mis en bouteille
, as we say in Yiddish, in the basement of the E-Z Mart on Main Street, after which it did not travel well.” Flashing a lopsided
grin, he calls
“Bolshoi le’hayyim!”
and treats himself to a healthy swig.
Later, as the coeds clear dessert dishes from the tables and serve coffee and mints, the Director climbs to his feet and clangs
a spoon against a glass. “Gentlemen, ladies?” The luncheon guests are so busy talking to one another they don’t notice that
he is trying to get their attention. “First off,” Goodacre pitches his voice higher, “I want to welcome you all to this faculty
luncheon.” Gradually the guests simmer down.
“Let me tell you,” Charlie Atwater, mimicking the Director, whispers to his neighbor, “how impreshive it is to shee sho much
chaosh-related brain power in one room.”
“Let me tell you,” Goodacre continues, “how impressive it is to see so much chaos-related brain power in one room.”
Matilda Birtwhistle snickers appreciatively.
“As Albert Einstein once noted,” the Director goes on, “the most incomprehensible thing about this universe of ours is that
it is comprehensible. It gives me a great deal of pleasure to welcome into the Institute’s ranks someone who has done more
than his share to make the universe comprehensible. He needs no introduction. You are all familiar with his work on entropy,
as well as his search for pure randomness in the decimal expansion of pi. Many of us suspect that if there were a Nobel Prize
awarded in the field of mathematics, he would surely have received it by now for pushing back the frontier ofrandomness. Let’s have a welcoming hand for the visiting professor from St. Petersburg. Gentlemen, ladies: Lemuel Falk.”
The permanent scholars, visiting professors and fellows are on their feet now, applauding. Lemuel, his head bowed, his cheeks
burning, stares at his briefcase, which is leaning against one leg of his chair. Old habits die hard. At the V. A. Steklov
Institute of Mathematics faculty luncheons, especially the ones with foreign guests, were occasions to steal onion rolls and
tins of caviar and half-liter bottles of Polish vodka. Lemuel has abandoned any hope of appropriating one of the wine decanters,
which are surely counted before and after the luncheon, but he has his heart set on transferring the seeded roll that has
been overlooked on the small plate in front of him to his briefcase. But with everyone gazing at him, how is he to pull it
off?
The applause dies down. The guests settle back into their seats. Lemuel, at the head of one curving parenthesis, thrusts himself
to his
elbow and steers him to the head of the parenthesis.
“Bravo for the haircut,” he whispers. “She’s quite a number, our lady barber.”
Lemuel is confused. “In what respect can a lady barber be compared to a number?” he asks, but the Director, shaking hands
with a visiting professor from Germany, doesn’t catch the question.
Down the table, Matilda Birtwhistle is deep in conversation with her neighbor, Charlie Atwater. “They didn’t use to decant
the wine at faculty luncheons,” she remarks.
“They decant it,” Atwater, nursing his fourth martini, replies, “so we won’t dishcover what sheep wine they’re serving us.”
He sniffs the wine in his glass and screws up his face in disgust.
Matilda Birtwhistle laughs. “Oh, Charlie, come off it.”
“You think I’m making this up?” Atwater takes a sip of the wine, rolls it around in his mouth as if he is gargling, then swallows.
His eyes bulge. “Oh my God! It’s
nouveau vinaigre!”
Holding a wineglass by its stem, Rebbe Nachman, sitting across the parenthesis from Matilda Birtwhistle, carefully swirls
the liquid around in the glass, then watches as it seeps back down the sides. “You maybe want an independent opinion,” he
calls across the table, “it was
mis en bouteille
, as we say in Yiddish, in the basement of the E-Z Mart on Main Street, after which it did not travel well.” Flashing a lopsided
grin, he calls
“Bolshoi le’hayyim!”
and treats himself to a healthy swig.
Later, as the coeds clear dessert dishes from the tables and serve coffee and mints, the Director climbs to his feet and clangs
a spoon against a glass. “Gentlemen, ladies?” The luncheon guests are so busy talking to one another they don’t notice that
he is trying to get their attention. “First off,” Goodacre pitches his voice higher, “I want to welcome you all to this faculty
luncheon.” Gradually the guests simmer down.
“Let me tell you,” Charlie Atwater, mimicking the Director, whispers to his neighbor, “how impreshive it is to shee sho much
chaosh-related brain power in one room.”
“Let me tell you,” Goodacre continues, “how impressive it is to see so much chaos-related brain power in one room.”
Matilda Birtwhistle snickers appreciatively.
“As Albert Einstein once noted,” the Director goes on, “the most incomprehensible thing about this universe of ours is that
it is comprehensible. It gives me a great deal of pleasure to welcome into the Institute’s ranks someone who has done more
than his share to make the universe comprehensible. He needs no introduction. You are all familiar with his work on entropy,
as well as his search for pure randomness in the decimal expansion of pi. Many of us suspect that if there were a Nobel Prize
awarded in the field of mathematics, he would surely have received it by now for pushing back the frontier ofrandomness. Let’s have a welcoming hand for the visiting professor from St. Petersburg. Gentlemen, ladies: Lemuel Falk.”
The permanent scholars, visiting professors and fellows are on their feet now, applauding. Lemuel, his head bowed, his cheeks
burning, stares at his briefcase, which is leaning against one leg of his chair. Old habits die hard. At the V. A. Steklov
Institute of Mathematics faculty luncheons, especially the ones with foreign guests, were occasions to steal onion rolls and
tins of caviar and half-liter bottles of Polish vodka. Lemuel has abandoned any hope of appropriating one of the wine decanters,
which are surely counted before and after the luncheon, but he has his heart set on transferring the seeded roll that has
been overlooked on the small plate in front of him to his briefcase. But with everyone gazing at him, how is he to pull it
off?
The applause dies down. The guests settle back into their seats. Lemuel, at the head of one curving parenthesis, thrusts himself
to his
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