Alex, a tall, thin ten-year-old with unruly hair and glasses that were usually halfway down his nose, didn’t draw anything. He scribbled haphazardly over the paper with broad, nervous movements until there was not the least bit of white left. Then he would turn the paper over and continue on the other side. The sides of his hands were constantly smudged with graphite, and he often broke his pencil. Once filled, the papers no longer interested him. He would push them away or crumple them up and throw them on the floor. He paid no attention when Dr Martin came to retrieve them.
Maria was a dark-skinned, slightly cross-eyed girl of eight with a harelip. She always flinched when Dr Martin gently addressed her, and never changed her piece of paper. From the beginning she had drawn the same complicated design in which a certain regularity could be discerned, although nothing was recognizable. She worked slowly, spending considerable time on details which she constantly embellished while adding new ones. Sometimes she would mutter, quietly and inarticulately, as if talking to someone in the drawing only she could see. During the two months that the drawing class had lasted, she had filled barely half of her first sheet of paper.
Philip, the youngest pupil in the class, had weak capillaries in his nose, so from time to time his nose would bleed spontaneously. If Dr Martin was slow to notice this, a red spot would spread over the paper in front of the boy. Philip was not bothered by the blood and paid no attention to it; he was completely devoted to his unvarying work of drawing endless rows of little circles on both sides of the paper. His hand was unsteady so the rows were rarely horizontal, and the little circles would gradually get smaller or larger, often distorting into ovals. He would put the completed sheets on the side of his desk next to the blank sheets, paying no attention to Dr Martin should he take any of them away.
The drawing program did not call for music, but did not preclude it either. Dr Martin reached gratefully for the idea, once it occurred to him, as relief from the oppressive silence to which he never could acclimatise. There could surely be no harm in some quiet but tuneful composition. It might even have an invigorating effect on his pupils. One never knew—although, of course, one should never allow one’s hopes to become too buoyant.
The choice was biased. Dr Martin brought his favourite CD from home: Chopin’s second piano concerto in F minor, opus 21. It had the effect of a sedative, although not in the least like those that rendered you numb and insensitive; rather it was calming, making one tranquil and receptive to those vibrations of reality that one might easily miss in an ordinary mood.
When he listened to Chopin alone at home, Dr Martin always closed his eyes. That would have been inappropriate here in the classroom, but a twinge of disappointment got the better of him. He watched the children for a few moments after the concerto started, secretly hoping for some sort of sign that they were at least aware of the sound of the piano and orchestra, but there was none. The five youngsters sat there, engrossed in their usual drawing, as if their ears had been plugged with wax, as if completely untouched by the harmony that so enchanted their teacher. Dr Martin had been plagued by doubts about his work before; there had been moments when it seemed fundamentally futile. But he had never before plumbed the depths of such despair. He closed his eyes to remove himself from the scene, if only for a moment.
The first movement, maestoso, was already well under way by the time the music at last suppressed the rising tide of bitterness within him. He realized that he was actually being unfair to his unfortunate wards. He had greatly overestimated them. Of course they were insensitive to Chopin, just as they were to many other, far less complex joys freely available in the world from which they had withdrawn. It could not be otherwise, as he should have known. He should not have expected miracles.
He opened his eyes and looked at the children in front of him. There was no change: the same bodily positions, the same movements of five pencils on paper. He put out his hand to turn off the stereo. He could have let the concerto play to the end, since it wasn’t bothering anyone, but it suddenly seemed senseless for him to go on listening to it by himself. Yet his finger never reached the stop button; just then he noticed that there had been a change, after all. And he was to blame. Had he not closed his eyes, irrationally and improperly, for several minutes, he would have noticed Philip’s nosebleed.
By the time his rapid strides brought him to the boy, almost one-third of the sheet, tirelessly filled with little circles, was stained with red. It was a distressing sight, though it represented no real danger. The bleeding could easily by stanched by inserting a piece pulled from a cotton-wool ball into Philip’s left nostril, and Dr Martin always kept a supply to hand with just that in mind. The young boy did not object. He obediently put his head back, as so many times before, and patiently awaited what came next.
After wiping Philip’s mouth and chin with a tissue, and mopping up the remains of the gushing blood, Dr Martin picked up the damp paper and wiped off the desktop with another cotton ball. Then he took a new sheet from the pile in the corner and put it in front of the boy. He was just about to crumple up the paper and throw it away when his eyes strayed briefly to what was written on it. The red film covered something which should not have been there at all.
Dr Martin had never even tried to teach his young pupil how to write numbers. It simply would not have been worth it. Even normal six-year-old boys have trouble with them, and it was out of the question for autistic children of that age. Nonetheless, here was a long row of numbers, covered by the blood from his nosebleed. There was no interruption to set them apart. The circles suddenly stopped and numbers appeared in their place. Three rows of numbers once again gave way to little circles, except that now they all looked like zeroes. The numbers were not written very skilfully either, but they were easy to recognize, even so.
Dr Martin looked in amazement at the boy, but he was once again absorbed in his endless drawing of round shapes, as if nothing unusual had happened. The doctor stood over the boy for a moment, holding the sheet of paper which was starting to curl from dampness. Then, guided by a sudden thought, he started to check on the other children.
But there was nothing unexpected there. Ana, as usual, turned over her paper when he got close, with a reproachful, sidelong glance. Sofia stopped her slow drawing of a thin, sinusoidal line along the very edge of the paper, raised her head and smiled at him, more with her eyes than her mouth. Alex was making broad sweeps on the paper, scribbling with his already blunt pencil, completely indifferent to Dr Martin’s scrutiny. Finally, Maria first flinched a little when he came up, and then shyly returned to the details of a design that vaguely resembled a bird with an oversized beak.
Returning to his desk, Dr Martin reached for the stereo again, but once more changed his mind at the last moment and left it on, although he could not have said why. The maestoso ended and the second movement began: larghetto. He placed the sheet of paper he had brought in front of him on the desk and stared at it, while the music wrapped him in its spidery web.
A little later he took a blank piece of paper and copied over Philip’s three rows of numbers, then put the original in a drawer. There were thirty-two of them, and they seemed to be strung together quite randomly—at least he could discern no pattern, but numbers had never been his strong suit. Maybe someone more skilled in mathematics could make some sense out of them, although he thought not. The very fact that the numbers existed was inexplicable enough. Anything more would be a true miracle.
As a sober man, Dr Martin did not believe in miracles; nonetheless, after class ended that day he emailed a mathematician friend with the list of thirty-two digits from the bloodstained paper, asking whether they might mean something. He was certain of receiving a negative answer, but he still needed confirmation. As he waited, he felt like someone who, in spite of being completely healthy, is mildly anxious regarding the results of a recent medical checkup.
Two hours later he received a reply.
Dear Martin,
It didn’t take m
e long to figure out this was a trick question. The problem has nothing to do with mathematics, of course. The series has no numerical pattern, but it has great meaning in physics—at least, the first nine digits have. If you put a decimal point two places before the first seven, then you get 0.00729735308, which is one of the fundamental values of nature, the fine-structure constant.
I don’t know about the digits after the eight. If they weren’t given at random, to confuse me even more, then it must be God himself who whispered them to you because at this moment only He is able to measure after the eleventh significant figure.
You surprised me, I must admit. I had no idea you were interested in theoretical physics. Working with handicapped children must be boring you rigid, if you have to seek refuge in riddles like this. Try thinking up something harder next time!
Isaac
Dr Martin thanked his friend for his swift reply. He praised his quick intuition, and admitted contritely that he was, indeed, a bit bored. Of course the numbers after the eight were arbitrary. How could it be otherwise? He had certainly underestimated Isaac in thinking they could have fooled him.
Dr Martin’s conscience caused him not a twinge for hiding the truth in this way. At present it was out of the question to reveal the true origin of the numbers. He would be obliged to offer some sort of explanation, which he was not prepared to do for a number of reasons, principally that Philip would be exposed to unnecessary unpleasantness thereby. The boy’s well-being came first, and he would be unable to withstand a multitude of strangers wanting to examine him. He would only withdraw more deeply into himself, making the whole exercise pointless. If anyone was to get involved in the matter, there could be no one more suitable than Dr Martin himself! There would be time for others later, should that prove necessary or desirable.
He first had to establish what had brought the boy to stop drawing little circles all of a sudden. If that impetus had come from the outside world, then it must have been the music. Nothing else had interrupted the daily routine in class.
Once again Dr Martin brought the CD with Chopin’s second piano concerto and played it at the same volume as before.
This time he didn’t close his eyes. He watched Philip carefully, but nothing happened. The uniform row of zeroes did not change into anything else. The same happened when Dr Martin sat through the whole first movement with his eyes tightly closed, feeling rather idiotic as he did so. He had never been tolerant of actions based on superstition.
Then he considered trying a new composition. For all he knew, the piano concerto worked only once. This assumption did not sound very rational, but he had little choice other than to give it all up. Of course he could not do that! He brought his large collection of CDs into the classroom and started to play them one by one.
Nothing had any effect on Philip, but there were some unexpected influences on the other children. During Ravel’s suite no. 1, ‘Daphnis and Chloe’, Ana started to tear her completed drawings into long, thin strips, instead of tiny squares. Bach’s toccata and fugue in D minor brought tears to Sofia’s near-sighted eyes, but also a sort of coughing that resembled a throaty laugh. During Mozart’s symphony no. 40 in G minor, Alex picked up a pile of scribbled papers and put them neatly on the side of his desk. Finally, at the sound of Debussy’s Nocturne, Maria failed to flinch when Dr Martin came up to her.
All this could have been pure coincidence, of course; Dr Martin had no time to check it out because his attention was completely focussed on Philip. When he had exhausted his own collection of CDs, he briefly thought of borrowing or buying some others in order to continue the experiment, but thought better of it. He realized it was senseless, since he could go on like that forever. No, he should not have gone beyond Chopin. The second concerto was of utmost importance, but not just the concerto. There had been something else. But what? And then it dawned on him. The blood, of course! Philip’s nose had bled!
This was something he could not precipitate. He had to be patient, but he knew from experience that he would not have to wait long. The boy’s weak capillaries broke once every two weeks or so. He had to be ready the next time it happened. He continued his normal work, but often looked in the little boy’s direction, waiting for the thin red stream to flow from his left nostril.
When this finally happened, he reacted at once. He pressed the button on the readied player, and the classroom was suddenly filled with resounding piano music. Then he went up to Philip, squatted down next to him and watched him fixedly. The flow of blood first went over the double curve of his lips and then made a winding cut across half his chin. The boy did not stop, even when red petals started to blossom about the paper in front of him. The irregular circles came steadily, one after another, not changing into digits, while a damp red veil spread over them.
It was only when blood had covered a good half of the paper that Dr Martin finally snapped out of his trance. He leaned the boy’s head back with trembling movements and applied a large, white cotton ball to his nostril. All this had been not only senseless, but extremely unkind to Philip. A doctor, of all people, should be the last person to show such cruelty towards the boy. As he wiped his face with a tissue, he felt his conscience prick him with an almost physical pain.
Dr Martin went back to his desk and turned off the stereo. The room sank into silence, but no one paid any attention. He should not have played the music, not only because it was superfluous here, but because it had brought nothing but trouble. There had been even less reason to make a second attempt to penetrate something that was clearly way beyond him. If it truly had been a whisper, as Isaac had said in jest, then it had certainly not been intended for his ears.
Moreover, Dr Martin was just an ordinary specialist in autistic children. His main obligation in that capacity was to protect his wards. The best he could do for Philip at this moment was to forget the whole incident, to pretend that nothing had happened. This wouldn’t be hard to do as there was only one trace of evidence, which would be easy to remove.
Dr Martin opened his desk drawer. He took out the sheet of paper whose wrinkled third had long since lost its bright red colour and turned dark brown. With slow movements he tore it into very tiny pieces. They were not as uniform as Ana’s confetti, but they too ended up in a pocket, soon to be discarded in a place where no one would ever find them.
12. The Fire
Mrs Martha woke suddenly, jerking up on her elbows. But that did not immediately dispel the dream; it lingered a while, like a frightful echo. At least, the sound did. The image quickly dissolved from under her lowered eyelids into the darkness of the bedroom, but her ears were still filled with music. It was so powerful, it certainly should have wakened Constantine, even though he was a very sound sleeper. But her husband’s large shape remained immobile. He was lying on his side with his back to her, like a dark landmass. She stared at him in bewilderment, slowly waking up, as the music started to fade, giving way to his deep, noisy breathing, on the edge of snoring.
She looked around, still confused, feeling her heart thud hollow in her breast. It must be quite early. The large rectangular window was filled with a mute, pre-dawn greyness. From somewhere outside came the barking of a dog, and another more distant bark came in reply. She turned to the bedside table. The large, bright yellow numbers on the alarm clock said 04:47. She squinted at them for several moments, then got up, searched around her bed for her slippers and headed for the bathroom, tottering a little.
She drained a large glassful of water. As she drank the last gulps she realized it was not what she wanted. She wasn’t the least bit thirsty. As she lowered the glass to the washstand she caught her reflection in the mirror. She stared at her face in the striplights, filled with disbelief, as though looking at some stranger rather than herself. Finally she shook her head, turned off the light and went back to bed.
It was going to be hard to get back to sleep, which was a nuisance because she would feel sleepy and out of sorts all day long; but on b
alance she was glad, because she didn’t feel at all like returning to that dream. The dream, however, was inescapable. Lying on her back with the covers pulled up to her chin, staring at the ceiling where pale stripes had started to appear, she tried to concentrate on something ordinary, something innocuous, that would calm her. But her thoughts would not obey her. Something seemed to be pulling them, taking them back to the dream.
She was standing in the middle of a vast, sandy wilderness. Low on the horizon, the sun wrapped the sand in a reddish veil. A gentle breeze was raising little whirlwinds that danced around her bare feet, tickling between her toes. She was wearing a loose, long-sleeved, calf-length white dress resembling Bedouin garb. She felt comfortable in it, though the fabric was rough.
Suddenly she heard the sound of waves, faint but quite recognizable. She turned inquisitively, but could not see the sea, as she had hoped. Instead, she caught sight of a lone hill behind her. It resembled the shell of a giant turtle that had dragged itself up to end its days in the desert. A huge stone building—a temple, perhaps?—stood on its flat top, like some sort of cubical hump, surrounded by a row of stumpy columns.
A procession was slowly making its way up the left curve of the hill towards the temple. Tall figures wearing robes similar to hers, but dark brown in colour and with hoods raised, stood out sharply against the deep blue afternoon sky. Each of them carried an object she did not at once recognize. At first she thought they were a detachment of soldiers carrying strange weapons of various shapes and sizes, but when she looked more closely she saw that they were actually carrying musical instruments. The musicians were on their way to the temple, probably to give a concert there.
How wonderfully propitious! Constantine, unlike herself, was not an admirer of serious music, so they rarely went to concerts. Here was a chance to make up a little for what she had missed, since he, for some reason, was nowhere in sight. She rushed towards the hill, her feet sinking ankle deep now and then in the soft sand. When she reached the bottom of the hill, the last of the musicians were disappearing into the temple. The slope was not gentle, but she climbed effortlessly, feeling the smooth, warm stones under her feet.
Impossible Stories Page 16