In Search of Klingsor. Jorge Volpi

leave me” Vivien said to him the next time they were together, in a quiet, firm, determined voice.

      “This was going to have to end sooner or later, Vivien. I’m sorry, really I am.”

      “Why?”

      “There’s no other way.”

      “I promise not to tell anyone about us.”

      The more Vivien talked, the more Bacon despised her—and loved her, in some odd, inexplicable way.

      “There’s something I haven’t told you,” he added, looking away. “I’m engaged.” His voice trailed off. “It couldn’t be any other way, you have to understand.”

      Of course she could understand. Bacon knew she would—he could predict her reactions by now, otherwise he wouldn’t have told her, or at least not so abruptly. Perhaps Vivien would surprise him and actually get angry, and leave him for good. But Bacon suspected that she would do none of those things; he was betting that she would come back to him, and that once again they would love one another wordlessly, reverting to the same wretched habits they had maintained for so long.

      “All right, Vivien. Whatever you wish.”

      The Institute for Advanced Study was a moldy, dismal place. It had neither laboratories nor noisy, impertinent students, and the professional tools of its occupants were reduced to the bare minimum: a few blackboards, chalk, paper. If mental experiments were what you wanted, this was the place to perform them. There, safely tucked away behind the thick walls of Fuld Hall, some of the greatest minds in the world were at work: professors Veblen, Gödel, Alexander, Von Neumann, plus a handful of celebrated thinkers who made regular pilgrimages to the institute as a stop on the university lecture circuit. This, of course, was to say nothing of the institute’s most famous occupant, the patron saint of theoretical physics, Albert Einstein himself. Nevertheless, Bacon was bored.

      Bacon had been working with Von Neumann for only three months, but he was already bothered that he hadn’t found anything that really excited him. It wasn’t that he disliked his work with the Hungarian mathematician—it was rather effortless, and after all, there was no better place to continue his education. But in his heart, he had discovered that something was pulling him away from the field of pure theory, or at least from the wordless science that was practiced at the institute. A few times, he had tried approaching the professors who gathered together for tea and cookies at three in the afternoon every day, but his attempts at striking up conversations were always frustrated by their utter lack of interest in him. Worn-out from being alone with their thoughts, they talked among themselves about such pressing scientific topics as baseball scores, the best way to acquire European wines, or the greasy quality of North American cuisine. The serious questions Bacon was trying to pose always dissolved amid a flurry of nervous titters and sudden, distracted gestures. Although he respected Bacon, Veblen limited their interactions to a condescending nod before moving away as quickly as possible. Von Neumann managed to tolerate him, as Bacon had suspected he would, but all the other scientists, the ones he scarcely knew, didn’t even acknowledge his existence.

      Bacon, who was accustomed to excelling at all his academic endeavors, felt himself plummeting into a state of despondence at this lack of attention, a sensation that felt a lot like the depressions he had suffered while living with his family. In these moments, he wondered if he wouldn’t have been better off somewhere else, Caltech, maybe, where at least he would have been working on more pressing issues. Despite the fact that Von Neumann had published one of the most important documents of modern physics, Mathematical Foundations of Quantum Mechanics, in 1932, it was all too clear that he was now primarily concerned with his game theories and, even worse, the programming of mechanical calculators. Neither of these subjects compelled Bacon in the least; his mentor’s ingenious formulations were occasionally entertaining, but they weren’t enough to sustain Bacon’s interest.

      In addition to all this, Bacon’s relationship with Elizabeth was growing more and more serious with each passing day, and the prospect of a formal engagement caused him nothing less than total panic. At first, he had treated their relationship as a test—after all, this was the first time a woman from his social class had ever declared her love for him. But he never imagined that it would all happen so fast. On the other hand, there was no way he could publicly formalize his relationship with Vivien: The ensuing scandal would alienate him from everyone, even in the academic world. The brilliant future that he had laid out by joining the institute suddenly seemed like a trap, and he saw no way out. But he couldn’t give up on it, either; he had to hold out for at least a year before he could even think of going to Caltech.

      “What’s wrong with you, Bacon?” Von Neumann asked him one day, blunt and direct as always. “Is something the matter? Oh, I think I know what it is. Women, right? Men are forever in torment at the hands of women. That is the quintessential problem of the age we live in, Bacon. If we took one quarter of the time we spend resolving romantic problems and applied it instead to physics or mathematics, why, scientific progress would advance in geometric proportions. But it is one of life’s great pleasures, isn’t it?”

      “Pleasure and pain, Professor,” mumbled Bacon.

      “Of course, of course! That’s what makes it so very fascinating! I have to confess, I also spend hours thinking about this subject. I’m a married man, you understand. You even met my wife, Klara, at the party the other day. But I’m still young. I have a right to wonder if I will ever know another woman’s body, wouldn’t you agree?” Von Neumann’s cheeks grew pink, livened by the topic of conversation. “Why don’t we have a little drink at the end of the day, to talk more? Yes, let’s do it, Bacon. In the meantime, let’s get to work.”

      As the afternoon wore on, the sun transformed the red-brick exterior of the institute into a wall of fiery rose and violet, breaking through the somber cloud cover that normally settled in above the building. Once again, Von Neumann told Bacon to meet him at his home. Klara had gone out to play bridge with one of their neighbors, so they had the house to themselves and could talk freely. Bacon was beginning to feel more and more at home in that drawing room.

      “When they first told me that alcohol was forbidden in the United States, I thought it was a joke,” said Von Neumann as he removed two glasses from the bar. “You can imagine how horrified I was when I found out it was true. Truly insane, those Americans. I tell you, I only accepted the position of visiting professor at the university under the condition that I could return to Europe each summer and replenish this drought.” He took out a bottle of bourbon and expertly poured the honey-colored liquid into two tall glasses. “Thank God they realized their mistake. Water? I take mine neat. All right, here you are … So, tell me, Bacon, what’s the matter with you?”

      “I don’t know,” Frank lied. “I guess it would be different if …” He tried to correct himself: “It’s not that I’m unhappy at the institute, Professor, it’s just that I’m afraid that it might not be the right place for me right now.”

      “Well, where else would you want to be?”

      “That’s my problem. On one hand, I can’t think of any other place I’d rather be. Everyone is here. But for that reason, I get the feeling that my own work will never be very important at the institute.”

      The professor shook his head, as if he was sincerely distressed. “I’ve always said that one’s mathematic capacity begins to decline after age twenty-six, so let’s see, you have how many years left?”

      “Four.”

      “Four! It’s terrible, isn’t it? Well, anyway, I am thirty-eight, though I think I hide it rather well.” He took a few sips from his glass, then wiped his lips with a linen napkin. “Nevertheless, I get the sense that the institute isn’t the only thing on your mind. You’ve got a problem with the girls, don’t you?”

      Bacon was grateful for his tutor’s advice, but he wasn’t altogether convinced that he wanted to discuss his private life with him. The truth was, he didn’t like discussing his private life with anyone.

      “So