California Triangle

by Uzi Eilam

  A barrage of questions shot at him from every direction, and Gideon hesitated for a moment, trying to decide who to start with and how he should answer.

  “Please, everyone, stop!” Deutsch roared in his authoritative voice. “The multifocal mechanism that Gideon has been working on is not yet complete, so please—shoot your questions at him one at a time!”

  Everyone laughed.

  The Q-and-A time seemed to last for hours. Gideon answered most of the questions ping-pong style—quickly and accurately. He referred some of them to his assistants and was filled with pride at how well they handled them.

  The last person to ask questions was a man who introduced himself as Ryan. Gideon had no idea who he was. “Why did you use only the example of rocket fire from Lebanon? Will you be developing models for other military or civilian uses, or will this remain theoretical only? And another question—you didn’t say a word about the array of antennae that the model relies on. Is this component included in further research?”

  Deutsch jumped in. “Those are good questions, sir. Clearly, we aspire to contribute to practical fields too, and it’s important to keep in mind that the use of the universal models that the institute is trying to construct must be implemented in many areas. The reality is such that in eras like the Cold War, and in light of the increasing threat of terrorism today, strategic threats are the strongest incentive for creativity and innovation…and a sure source for research budgets.” He smiled.

  Only when there were no more questions did Gideon allow himself a bite of a sandwich, sharing impressions and congratulations with his two assistants. While they were talking, Ryan—the man who’d put the last question to him—came over and shook his hand.

  “A brilliant lecture,” he complimented Gideon. “You obviously did thorough and innovative research.”

  “These two young men also had a part in it,” Gideon replied, pointing to Bob and Bill, who were standing impatiently by his side. “Please meet my research assistants, Robert Johannsen and William Abrahams.”

  The man shook Bob’s hand and stared into his eyes for a long time.

  “It’s great to meet you. I’m Ryan Davis,” he said before grabbing Bill’s hand to shake. “I have a few more questions, but I didn’t want to take up too much of your time.” He focused on Gideon again. “Could we meet one day soon, here or anywhere you choose?”

  “What do you do?”

  “I have connections with the university here and with a company in Silicon Valley.” He handed Gideon his business card, prompting Gideon to pull a card from his pocket.

  “Call me, and we’ll set a time and place,” he said as he handed Ryan his own card and shook his hand goodbye.

  6.

  Scott’s Seafood at the end of El Camino Real was a popular restaurant with the Silicon Valley bunch for lunch. Gideon remembered the restaurant’s simple but elegant decor, with cream-colored wood paneling that created a warm and intimate atmosphere. The huge aquarium along the wall separating the restaurant from the kitchen was filled with Australian lobsters. Sea fish swam on the other side of the aquarium, right there for Scott’s chef to fry, steam, or grill.

  Ryan was already seated at a quiet corner table. He noticed Gideon as soon as he walked in and waved happily to him. “Thanks for accepting my invitation. I hope this isn’t too much of a burden and that I’m not taking up too much of your time,” he began, examining Gideon’s face.

  “On the contrary. I’m glad you approached me.” Gideon put him at his ease. “When you called, you mentioned that this concerns our research… Something that can help us…”

  “Right. That was my impression when I listened to your brilliant lecture at the institute. I was convinced that your research has great potential.”

  “Thanks for the compliments, but how are you connected to this? I saw the name of the company you’re with—Advanced Technologies. I’ve never heard of it. You said you’re also connected to the university?”

  “I promise to tell you more, but how about we order first?”

  He lifted his hand, and a young waiter rushed to the table to take their orders.

  “What will you be ordering today, Mr. Davis?”

  “I’d start with a drink to celebrate,” Ryan said to Gideon. “How about Kir Royale?”

  “I won’t say no, if their champagne’s good,” Gideon said. “The crème de cassis doesn’t make that much difference, one way or the other.”

  “You know your drinks!” Ryan said admiringly. “You didn’t learn that by working in the kibbutz dairy!” Then he said to the waiter, “Perhaps bring us the Dom Pérignon you keep for special occasions?”

  This man’s done his homework, Gideon thought. “It’s been quite some time since I worked in the dairy,” he said.

  Ryan smiled as if he’d just heard a good joke. The bottle of champagne and long glasses arrived in no time, and Ryan proposed a toast to the success of SRI’s research project.

  “I’ll happily drink to that,” Gideon said and immediately returned to the subject. “So, tell me what your connection is to this field? And what brought you to the lecture?”

  The waiter stood by them, waiting for their order.

  “Let’s make the tough decisions first, like what to order, and then we’ll get to the really interesting matters,” Ryan said.

  They ordered crab cakes and grilled prawns for starters, and the house oven-baked fish with mashed potatoes for Gideon and giant lobster for Ryan.

  “I think you should…” Gideon began.

  “Tell you about myself?” Ryan asked. “Where do I start? What do you want to know?”

  “Whatever you want to tell me,” Gideon said awkwardly, not knowing how to take Ryan’s openness.

  “Well, my life involved the usual struggle that immigrants experience in the United States,” Ryan began. “My parents left their homeland—Bahrain—where they were part of the Persian minority oppressed by the country’s Sunni monarchy. I was born after they received American citizenship and were living in Elizabeth, New Jersey. It’s an industrial city…”

  “I know it,” Gideon said quickly. Elizabeth was a cluster of foul-smelling factories on the road leading south from New York.

  “I received a music scholarship from NYU, but I majored in math.”

  “Music? Where does music come into the picture?”

  “I’ve played the violin since I was a kid, and NYU persuaded me to join the campus orchestra. I enjoyed both worlds: I continued my studies without material concern and I continued to play.”

  “I also play! The flute, since I was a kid. And I play with Stanford’s music faculty’s symphonic orchestra,” Gideon said without trying to hide his enthusiasm. “The orchestra could do with more string players. How about joining us? I’m sure they’ll be pleased to have a talented violinist.” Gideon’s joy at finding a violinist for the orchestra, which suffered a constant shortage of musicians, overcame his curiosity regarding Ryan.

  “That sounds great, I’d love to,” Ryan said politely and returned to his subject. “Well, then… I was accepted to graduate school at Berkeley, this time because I completed my BS at NYU with outstanding excellence. During the second year, I was approached by headhunters from Advanced Technologies here in Menlo Park, and I’ve been with them ever since.”

  “You mentioned that you’re also involved in academic activity at Stanford?”

  “Oh, yes. I attend lectures in fields that interest me, particularly systems analysis and uncertainty management methods. I was snapped up by headhunters immediately after I completed my master’s, but I still hope to do my doctorate.”

  The conversation flowed naturally while Gideon tried to find out more details from Ryan about Advanced Technologies. Ryan gave only general answers and repeatedly mentioned that it was a subsidiary of Cisco.

  Cisco’s a big wel
l-known company, Gideon thought, but what’s preventing him from going into more detail? He decided to find out when he felt the timing was right.

  They were both so engrossed in the conversation that they didn’t notice the food on their plates. The champagne glasses stood waiting until Ryan remembered that he wanted to toast their acquaintance and the ongoing projects. Gideon raised his glass and asked himself which projects he meant. Our projects at the institute? His projects? And when is he going to bring up the proposal that he claims can benefit my research?

  “You hinted on the phone that..”

  “Oh, yes!” Ryan said. “I’m sure you know how much importance hi-tech companies attach to the future use of advanced models such as yours. Such matters always find very generous supporters.”

  “It’s not as simple as it seems,” Gideon responded. He felt vague concern in the pit of his stomach and decided to end the discussion. “And it has facets that you may not be aware of,” he glanced at his watch, “but we won’t get into that.”

  “I didn’t notice how fast the time was going. I also have to move,” Ryan said, a little downcast. “Can we meet again and continue where we left off?”

  “Yes, sure,” Gideon said. “And after I check it out with the orchestra, I’ll call you to officially and formally invite you to play with us.”

  As he was cycling back to work, he wondered what the man really wanted from him.

  7.

  The early afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the roof of Berkeley’s history and political science building, but the cafeteria was always cool—and full of people. It was Nurit’s favorite place on campus. She could spend hours there, undisturbed. Carrying a tray with a large cup of café au lait and a fresh croissant, she made her way to the only vacant chair, by a table for two. There was a balding man with glasses and a trimmed graying beard sitting at the table looking through the notes attached to the pad of paper he occasionally scrawled a note on. An empty espresso cup and half a glass of water indicated that he’d been there for quite some time.

  “Excuse me, do you mind if I sit here?” Nurit asked.

  “Please do,” the man replied in a heavy French accent.

  “Thanks,” Nurit said, sitting down. She also took out a yellow legal pad and began to flip through it.

  After a few minutes of them each doing their own thing, the man looked up. “They have no idea how to bake a decent croissant here,” he said in disdain. “In Paris, any boulanger could do a better job.”

  “Are you from Paris?”

  “My accent gives me away, no? My name is Francois Chaliand.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Nurit Avni.”

  “Your name has a beautiful ring to it. Middle Eastern, is that correct? Are you Lebanese? Israeli, perhaps?”

  Careful, Nurit warned herself, the man has sharp eyes and a musical ear too, perhaps. My American accent may not be perfect yet, despite how hard I’ve tried to adopt it.

  “And you?” She avoided answering. “Were you born in Paris?”

  “I was born in Provence, but my parents both come from Armenian families that lived for many generations in eastern Turkey.”

  “I’m familiar with the history of Armenians in Turkey,” Nurit said and then stopped herself from adding anything about the Jewish Holocaust.

  “Not many people are,” Francois said. “I was brought up in a home steeped in the injustice done to my people. But I’ve met only a few non-Armenians who could relate to it.”

  “Most people believe the history of the group they belong to shaped the world,” Nurit remarked dryly.

  “In my case, though, it’s true,” Francois said in utter seriousness. “We lived in Aix-en-Provence, and I could easily have been accepted to university there, but I felt that I had to go further, perhaps to the places where the big decisions are made. Once there, I could ensure the fate that befell the Armenians would never be repeated. After passing a series of tests, I was accepted to the doctoral program at the Sorbonne in Paris.”

  Something in the man’s singsong voice, the warmth of his eyes, and the oh-so-un-American behavior intrigued Nurit, who asked, “And here at Berkeley—are you studying history?”

  “No. Although I’m a strong proponent of using history to understand the world, I chose to focus on political science. A year ago, I received a scholarship from the US government for a postdoctoral program that deals with social processes in developing countries.”

  “I’m working on something similar: the history of liberation movements in the Middle East in the twentieth century. What countries are you focusing on?”

  “Mainly Muslim countries, from the Maghreb to Afghanistan. The Americans have a hard time understanding the cultures of developing countries and are prepared to invest a great deal of money in studies that can enlighten them,” Francois explained. “After a whole year here, I think that their problem isn’t in data collection but in the cultural gap that prevents them from understanding the data and accepting it.”

  “And how do you bridge this gap?” Nurit probed further.

  “It’s a long story, and not a simple one, but I promise to answer you. But first tell me a little about yourself…”

  “I’m originally from Israel, and I’ve been interested in liberation movements from an early age, back from my youth movement days.” Go slow, girl, Nurit reminded herself and decided not to divulge any more details about herself. “You mentioned the cultural gap.”

  “Yes, and I promised to elaborate. As I told you, I grew up in a home that preserved the memory of the Armenian Genocide.”

  The sadness in his eyes was so deep, Nurit felt compelled to respond. “The book The Forty Days of Musa Dagh by Franz Werfel was required reading in our youth movement, and I read it a few times.”

  “A book is a book, but the reality was much worse than in Werfel’s story. And that’s not all the Turks did to the minorities in their country. Look at what is still happening to the Kurds in that ‘cultured and progressive’ country. It was only natural for me to sympathize with the oppressed peoples, particularly those who live in our region…”

  In our region? Nurit decided to divert the conversation to less controversial issues. “I still don’t understand how a person who grew up in a classical European culture is able to truly understand the cultural gap between the West and Muslim countries. Did your academic research help you do that?”

  “Life did,” Francois said with a trace of pride. “As students, we would go to court and watch any deliberations that caught our interest. That’s where I first saw the renowned lawyer Jacques Vergès.”

  Nurit thought for a moment. “I’ve never heard of him,” she said uncertainly.

  “He represented the Algerian freedom fighters who fought the French, among others,” Francois explained. “I first saw him in action when he defended Carlos the Jackal. He truly impressed me. I tried to find a way to meet him, and I didn’t care that opinions on him were divided and that his enemies called him ‘the devil’s advocate.’ I went to his office in Paris after sending him a note via his secretary expressing my admiration for the way he handled Carlos’s defense. I wrote that I believe in the need to fight the oppression of minorities around the world and in my opinion, he was doing sacred work.”

  Francois picked up his coffee cup, forgetting it was empty.

  “Did he answer you?” Nurit asked.

  “Yes, and that’s how our relationship started. Through that, for many years, I got to truly know the freedom fighters that many called and still call terrorist organizations. Thus began an eight-year period during which Vergès completely disappeared and no one knew where he was. It’s a mystery to this day, and I’m one of the few people who know the answer to this mystery, simply because I was at his side when he went into hiding.”

  Why is he telling me all this? Nurit wondered. A person he’s j
ust met…

  “It was an extraordinary opportunity to live in the fighters’ training camps in the Libyan Desert, the Beqaa Valley in Lebanon, and in Afghanistan. They were very hospitable, and I learned things I could never have learned at any university.” He stood up as suddenly as if he’d received instructions through a secret earpiece. “If you wish, we can meet here in the cafeteria one day.”

  “I’d love to hear more,” Nurit said, wondering how to respond if he asked for her number.

  “Here,” Francois said, resolving the issue, “is my card, with my extension at the university. We can continue where we left off.”

  Francois’s handshake was rough, in complete contrast with his soft, elegant style of speech. Was that just cafeteria talk? Nurit wondered as she watched his broad back move away through the tables. Or the beginning of something else?

  8.

  The waitress recognized Gideon and greeted him with a broad smile. “Welcome back, sir. Table for two?”

  “Yes, thanks. And in a quiet corner if possible, please.”

  He’d arrived early. Nurit had been on his mind the whole week. That morning at work, he’d listened impatiently to his two assistants who came in to show him a bug they’d found in the software. Bill proudly described how he’d analyzed the causes of the glitch in the software and how he’d removed the obstacle that threatened to set them way back. Bill and Bob are observant and inquisitive, he told himself, but I’m too distracted this morning. Riding his bike in the open air helped to relieve the tense excitement he was feeling before seeing her again.

  The waitress returned to the table and asked if he’d like to order anything in the meantime.

  “I’ll wait, thanks,” Gideon replied, “but I’d love a glass of water.” Within seconds, a tall glass of cold water appeared. When he first moved to California, Gideon had been most surprised to discover that a glass of water contained more ice than water. He opened his briefcase and tried to pass the time going over papers, but it was hopeless. He couldn’t take his eyes off the door.