“You seem to consult with Calc 23 a great deal,” he persisted, ignoring the poke. “It seems unusual.”
“I have to explain everything four times, you know how it is with them,” she said, and felt a stab of guilt. Calc 23 was quick, quicker than any other calculator, and more insightful and intelligent than most of the colleagues she could think of.
“But whatever is the focus?” Southwood would not give up.
Lesedi knew she’d have to give him something to head him off. “You know Team 5 is focussing on confirming our understanding of the theory underlying deviations from the expected constants in the field interactions of the . . . am I boring you?” More administrator than mathematician, Southwood’s eyes had instantly glazed over. “I am not explaining well,” she apologized. “If you talk to Professor McLaren, he’ll be able to clarify it more concisely, as head of Team 5.” McLaren, a rather second-rate intellect in Lesedi’s opinion, was convinced of the huge importance of the busywork she’d given his team, double-checking the calculations on established areas of Quantum Mechanics where few surprises remained. He was also the most verbose being on the planet. Let Archie lose himself in the labyrinth of McLaren’s verbiage while she considered how to cover her tracks better.
Later that very day it was Jeremy who came to her rescue.
“Do you need to work at the Institute quite so much, Darling?” he’d asked, sounding elderly and plaintive. “I miss you.” Henry added a long, reproachful look to the complaint, compounding her guilt.
“My husband is unwell,” she told the Director next day. “I need to work at home a few days a week. My nearness reassures him.” The great Lesedi van Dyck need only ask. “I’ll want to borrow a calculator,” she said. “23 is pretty good. I’ll take her.”
“I’m afraid that is against Institute rules. Calculators are valuable property. We cannot risk them being damaged. Or escaping.”
“She can be fed and lodged with my household staff, freeing up Institute resources, and our security is good. I’ll see she’s returned in good condition.” When he continued to hesitate, she nodded. “Very well, perhaps you would consider selling her to me.”
The director named a figure—an outrageous one—and Lesedi wrote a cheque, hoping the overdraft would cover it until she come up with the cash.
She and Calc 23 walked home along the seafront in something akin to a holiday mood. At last they could talk frankly about the theories and problems facing them in working them out, without lowering their voices or glancing over their shoulders.
“We should have a name for this, Calc 23,” Lesedi said. “Quantum gravimetrical transference field theory is so cumbersome.”
“Barika?” the young woman suggested. “In Swahili, it means bloom or success.”
“As the theory will bloom and succeed,” Lesedi said. “That’s splendid.”
“It is also my given name, from my mother and father,” Calc 23 said hesitantly, eyes not meeting hers. “Although my nickname is Bari. Shorter that way.”
Lesedi stopped in her tracks to gaze at the forward girl, eyes cast downward with such unconvincing modesty. She was surprised to find that she wanted to laugh.
“Certainly shorter than ‘Calc 23’, Bari. Though how will we tell theory and girl apart?”
“I think sometimes I am the theory and it is me,” Bari said.
Lesedi clapped her hands to her breast. “Hah! I know this feeling!” How strange that the girl’s round skull with its tight curls, so different from her own on the outside, should be so like hers within.
When they arrived home, she called Rolihlahla as usual. He materialized under the portico promptly, which boded well for Jeremy’s condition that day. However, when his eye fell on Bari, his heavy-lidded calm gave way to bug-eyed astonishment.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I live here, Rolihlahla,” Lesedi said dryly.
“I will be assisting Professor van Dyck, Father,” Bari said.
Jeremy slipped from the bed and reached for his robe. Lesedi turned but didn’t waken, though she mumbled a little. Blurred with sleep, her words were little more than murmurs. When they were younger, Lesedi’s sleeping conversations with herself had driven him to find rest in the spare bed, but now he liked to stand in the dark and listen to the sound of her voice. She spoke again. The words, “chromodynamics” and “negative spin variance,” might as well have been a foreign language for all they meant to him. But he knew that, sometimes, she found the solutions she was seeking in her dreams.
As do I. The curtains stirred and the sweet smell of tulbaghia mingled with the sharper scent of jasmine. Beyond the window, the white froth of the surf marked a line between the darkness of the shore and the darker water beyond. Dawn would come soon; already the voices of the fisherman preparing the dhows rose and fell above the steady shush of the waves. Time for work while his mind still held its morning freshness.
He finished the letter to Curtis Nyere, whose spotless credentials in collecting slave stock from the interior had led, step by step, to his appointment as the first black Minister in the new Tanzanian government. He was even being touted by progressives as a possible future President. While Jeremy had his doubts—whites still held most of the votes, and despite recent reforms, the old guard waited in the wings ready to seize control if the opportunity arose—he knew an ally when he saw one and knew, too, a time might come when they would need every friend they could get. He had dutifully praised the Minister’s latest initiatives in managing the slave imports from the central highlands and offered a few words of advice that he was fairly certain would resonate with Nyere’s thinking. He sealed it and placed it on top of a pile of other correspondence to old friends and colleagues, not the least of whom was Doris O’Brian, whose star was also rising and who, it turned out, had worked behind the scenes to shorten Lesedi’s time in the halfway house. Thank yous could soon be turned into pleases. For the last few days, he had written to everyone in his contact list, seeking assurances that Lesedi’s work could continue without interference.
A faint tap on his office door drew him from his reverie. He’d been staring at an old photograph of Stone Town’s Christ Church Cathedral beside the former slave market where he had begun his career so many years before. Of course, the trade commission was now housed in a gleaming glass-and-steel tower in Dar es Salaam but the market still functioned—modernized and, he liked to think, humanized—as a processing centre for manual workers destined for the spice farms or the plantations of Indonesia. In his mind, he had stood once again beneath the vaulting apse listening to the choir sing the old hymns: “All Praise to Thee, my God, this Night”; “Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me”; and, what was it?
The words came back to him and he sang them, his voice clear but wavering:
Through many dangers, toils, and snares
I have already come
‘Tis grace that brought me safe thus far
And grace will lead me home
The tap came again and a young woman peeked around the door.
“Master Jeremy? Are you all right?”
Fear stabbed at him. Who was this? What was she doing in his house?
“Breakfast is ready in the dining room.”
Bari. Henry’s, no, Roli’s daughter. Come to live with them. No, that was wrong, too. Come to work with Lesedi.
“I’ll be down in a minute. Thank you, Bari.”
The girl was a blessing, he thought. Roli had been so happy to see her; the old man practically danced as he did his chores. Lesedi, too, seemed transformed by this fresh young presence though he could not quite express what the change might be.
“No matter,” he murmured. “Everything is unfolding as it should.”
He stood at the top of the stairs, wondering what it was he was forgetting. He glanced down at his fe
et. They were bare. That would hardly do. He returned to their bedroom. Lesedi had already made the bed—a leftover habit from her years in prison—and his house shoes had been tucked under his dressing table. He slipped them on but then caught sight of himself in the mirror, hair unkempt, face unshaven and still in his robe.
“That will never do.”
Dressing took longer without Roli’s nimble fingers, but he was determined not to call for help. There had been too much of that lately. He’d let himself go, like old . . . old . . . no matter. He wouldn’t go that way. He still had things to do.
Satisfied at last, he made his slow way down the stairs, pausing outside the entrance to the dining room to ensure his shirt was buttoned properly and his morning coat free of lint.
“He’s forgotten.” Lesedi’s voice was exasperated.
“Should I fetch him?” asked Roli.
“He was still in his gown when I called him. Perhaps he is dressing.”
“Does he still remember how?” asked Lesedi. “He almost went out without his shoes yesterday.”
Jeremy looked down at his feet. His shoes were there, even socks. Had he forgotten anything else?
“It is not so bad,” said Roli. “He has good days and bad.”
“More bad than anything else. Perhaps it is time to send him . . . there is a hospital I know . . .”
“No, Madam!” Roli’s voice was sharp and Jeremy waited for Lesedi’s rebuke. “You must not! It would kill him. I will do everything—Bari will help me—to take care of him. To save him and you from embarrassment.”
“It’s not that,” Lesedi’s voice caught. “He is drifting away—from us, from the world.”
“From this world, yes. But maybe he is on the way to a better world. He is even composing hymns.”
“Yes, that song he claims to have heard as a boy . . .”
“Amazing Grace,” said Bari. “That’s how it starts: ‘Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound.’” Her voice was clear and bell-like.
“It doesn’t matter if he heard it or if he wrote it—it gives him joy. Just as having my daughter back, if even briefly, has given me joy. Do not send him away. Please . . .”
“I . . . won’t. I couldn’t. It would kill me, too.” Lesedi sobbed slightly. “Thank you. Thank you, Rolihlahla. You are a good . . . friend.”
What have you done? You stupid old man, you have made Lesedi cry. Jeremy returned to the stairs and made a show of descending them loudly. They mustn’t know I heard. And maybe by tomorrow, he thought wryly, I won’t have.
“Morning all,” he said, entering. “Sorry to have kept you. I could hardly come down, looking like a shambling old man. I should really go back to shaving every day. Did I do all right?” He stuck out his chin for Lesedi to stroke. Her touch was as gentle as moonlight.
“You look so handsome today,” Lesedi said, leaning forward to kiss his cheek.
Jeremy was surprised, happily so, by this public show of affection. “Let’s all sit down, shall we?”
“Yes,” said Lesedi. “Bari, would you fetch two more settings? Please.” When Bari hesitated, she said, “We can’t manage this without you.”
Jeremy smiled at the feast Roli had teased out of the cook. Sausages and eggs and fried potatoes, of course, but also grilled kudu, chapattis, a small bowl of ugali and some fried plantains. A steaming pot of tea rested on a trivet by his chair. He waited until Bari had returned with the extra settings before filling his plate.
“You were talking in your sleep last night, Lesedi. Does ‘chromodynamics’ and ‘negative spin variance’ mean anything to you?”
Lesedi’s fork fell from her hand, and she stood abruptly. “Jeremy. You’re a genius. Bari, we must return to the lab at once.”
“After breakfast, my dear. Even science needs fuel.”
It took nearly a week to gain access to the cyclotron located in the basement of the lab. Southwood seemed to have tied the protocols for approval in knots, but eventually he sent her a note saying she could have access for two hours. It had taken most of that time to prepare the gold nuclei for insertion and programme the device for her first experiment. If the theory was right and if the old machine was up to creating the necessary velocities, the colliding particles should create a miniature “big bang” with, at its heart, a real vacuum, a space devoid of particles and fields, though it would last but an instant. The next step, done at the big accelerator, in the hills to the west, would be to pour particles into that space—all containing negative spin—to overwhelm the cancelling effect of quantum probability. The emptiness would be transformed into a gate and then . . . Enough, Lesedi, one step at a time. It may all be nonsense.
Lesedi checked the calibrations on the cyclotron, ticking off in her mind each of the protocols for the run-through. This one was crucial, a small first effort to test the scalability of the theory’s application. Lesedi didn’t glance up as Bari materialized at her side, but she felt the girl’s presence, a slim dark shadow that anchored her, made her feel whole, happy, fulfilled.
“Something’s wrong,” Bari murmured, voice pitched low so only Lesedi could hear.
“Where? What?” Lesedi surveyed the settings, seeing no problem.
“Not the settings,” Bari whispered. “Southwood is here with two men.”
Lesedi straightened, stretching her back. “Southwood is always parading around with . . .” She stopped herself when she caught sight of Southwood’s companions, moving toward them down the room’s centre aisle. She’d seen hyenas like these before, been seized by them, beaten by them, and thrown by them into prison. She whirled back to her console and frantically punched keys to cancel the settings and scramble the commands.
“Please step back from the equipment, Professor van Dyck,” Archibald Southwood said, his tone smarmy as ever.
“We’re busy, Archie, can’t you see?” She continued working, desperately entering nonsense, wrecking all her hours and days of work.
An arm clad in crisp white cotton reached in front of her, blocking her view. A small brown stain marred the edge of one cuff, tea, perhaps. Not blood. They rolled up their sleeves when they were working. She hung by her arms, a bag over her head, waiting, waiting for the next slash of the frond to add its burning cuts to the ones already searing across her naked breasts and belly. No questions, just beatings, layering fresh stinging cuts on the previous day’s aching scabs. Please. Please. Ask a question. Talk to me. Tell me what you want. This time I’ll tell you. This time I won’t lie. Jeremy. Jeremy. Jeremy loves me. Jeremy is waiting for me. Jeremy is working to get me out of here. Jeremy. Jeremy. Beat then. Ask or don’t ask. Murderers. Hyenas.
Lesedi’s vision cleared. She stilled her inner screams. She folded her arms to hide her shaking hands and pinned Archie with a glare. He swallowed.
“We need you to come with us.” He flicked a glance to the Hyenas at his side. “To answer some questions about your research.”
Lesedi turned her attention to Hyena number one. “You and I have not met.” Southwood started to speak, but Hyena One overrode him.
“I know you by reputation, Professor Van Dyck.”
And I know your kind, as well, she did not say. She merely raised her eyebrows at him and asked, “You’re interested in quantum gravimetrical field theory?“
Southwood, sounding exasperated, said, “We are aware that your work has more to it than you’ve let us believe.”
Lesedi gave him the same look she’d offered Hyena One. “My work is an open book, Archie. At least, to minds not too inferior to comprehend it.”
Southwood coloured. “We’ve met with the team leads to discuss that ‘open book’ of yours,” he retorted. “A very interesting discussion. They soon . . .”
“You met with my team leads? Without me?” Lesedi poured her fear into rage, all focussed on
the Southwood. “You discussed my research project without my permission?”
Southwood held his ground. “You’ve been hiding things, Professor van Dyck. It didn’t take them long to realize that you’ve been deliberately keeping them in the dark about the real purpose of their projects.”
“That is a preposterous notion! The teams must focus on the work they are assigned, without becoming distracted by what the others are doing. How I run my lab is my concern. How I organize the research, my concern. Who are you to question my methods? You, you administrator! Run off, Archie. Go organize another sherry party. Leave the real work to minds sufficient to the task.”
“We can discuss this in private,” Southwood insisted, flicking a glance at the Hyenas, who remained silent, even mildly amused. Waiting. They knew how to wait.
Lesedi waved a hand at the few inhabitants who hadn’t slipped out of the lab already. Some pretended to work; others stared openly. “We’ll discuss it here. Since you accuse me of secrecy, let this be an open book.”
Southwood opened and shut his mouth.
She plowed over him. “You want to know about my work? My work is, as I said, in quantum gravimetrical transference field theory. It is progressing magnificently. The teams have produced good results and, in another five, possibly ten years, we may even begin to see applications beyond laboratory experimentation at the elementary particle level.”
“Five to ten years!” Southwood exclaimed.
Hyena One lifted a hand, and the administrator fell silent. “We are told you are on the verge of a world-changing breakthrough. Our government is very interested and concerned for national security. The intrusions by your former countrymen on our southern borders . . .” He paused, considering. He said, “Your husband is very proud of you. I am sure he would want you to share your ‘important research’ to protect your adopted homeland.”
Jeremy. Oh God. All those letters he’d been writing. She’d thought they were just busy work. Something to keep him happily occupied. What had he been saying? Jeremy, oh, my Jeremy. “My husband is not a scientist,” she said. “He is not what he once was.” She checked herself. “We are not what we once were.” She let herself deflate, droop with feigned fatigue and age. “Yes, I have had the teams working toward a central problem concerning gravity fields. But collating it all is, perhaps, beyond my waning abilities. My memory, you know . . . I can’t keep these complicated things in my head anymore.”
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