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“Yes,” she says, dully. “What’s a good day for you?” and I see then she doesn’t like that one bit, that Geoff has asked her to do something probably quite mundane in her eyes, and that she thinks it’s a subordinate task. And I want to laugh, because suddenly I see she has lost some of her glow. Geoff has backed the wrong horse—he should have promoted the dark horse, I guess, not the pretty, shiny one. I bet he asks her to take minutes from now on. And if I were unkind, I’d say this is one of the best moments of the night.
I’m asked to make a speech even though we’ve had many of them already. I rise to the occasion, and I thank my colleagues, the university, my students. Then I thank Luis. I look right at him when I tell the room that the most important thing in my life isn’t mathematics, it’s my family. That I have done this for my husband and especially for my children so that they’d look up to their mom some day, which makes everyone laugh, even though it’s the truth.
Seventeen
Word has spread about the Pentti-Stone and I stand in a packed lecture hall staring at faces I’m sure I’ve never seen before. I don’t know if they simply never showed up for class or if they don’t belong here in the first place. Thorn-in-my-side Melanie still managed to stake her place at the front and when our eyes meet, she takes the gum out of her mouth and sticks it on a piece of paper in front of her. That’s a first. Perhaps some of the infinite advantages in winning prizes includes respect.
I lose some of these first-time attendees though, somewhere between complex analysis and Reimann surfaces. By the time the class ends the sloping lecture hall is dotted with empty seats. It’s actually hard not to feel slighted, that I wasn’t as riveting as all that.
When the class ends and I return to my office, I run into June in the corridor.
“Geoff said you asked for extra support.”
“Yes, I’m a bit overwhelmed with everything since the win.”
“Well, from now on I’m to assist you with any admin work.” She does a little captain’s call, tipping her hand to her head. I laugh.
“That’s nice. I’m glad. I’ve actually got a bunch of things for you to do. Let me put it together. You have time this afternoon to go over it with me?”
She seems pleased. “I certainly do. Name your time.”
“Okay!”
“Also, would you like to go for a quick drink after work? Maybe even something to eat?”
I give her a confused tilt of the head. We’ve never done that before, socialize outside work. She registers my hesitation and gives me a quick, apologetic smile. “But I understand completely if you’re busy at home. It’s just a thought, a spur of the moment—”
I hesitate for a moment because Luis said last night that his sale fell through. Turns outThe Nestisnotgoing to a prestigious institution, and Isabelle was talking out of her proverbial. Part of me thinks I should be there for him. The other part thinks,Screw it. “You know what? I’m not busy, and I would really like that. I’ll call Luis and tell him.”
“He won’t mind?”
“No. Trust me, there’s truckloads of dinners ready to be reheated in my freezer. They’ll be fine.”
She suggests the tapas bar on Jefferson Avenue. It’s close, the food is excellent. “Perfect,” I say, and suddenly I’m really looking forward to a night out with a friend. I haven’t had a friend in a long time. I’ve forgotten how nice it feels. Then Mila appears beside us like something that’s sprung out of a box.
“Ready?” she asks chirpily. Then turns to June. “I’m interviewing Anna for the website.” June and I make a time to catch up later and Mila and I continue on into my office.
It’s a brand new office, four times the size of my old one, with lovely windows overlooking the landscaped lawns. Mila makes all the right noises about how nice it is and sits right on the edge of the armchair. I drop loosely into the other one. “Okay, let’s go.” I say. I’m not concerned. I’m lining up lots of these interviews. I even have one coming up with theNew York Timesfor their ‘Profiles in Science’series. That’s the big one. In comparison, this chat with Mila feels like a walk in the park.
“Sure. Okay,” she says, pulling out her iPhone and setting it down on the table. “I’m recording this—you don’t mind?”
“Of course not.”
“Okay, good. So, I’d love to know about your process. How long have you been working on the proof?”
And just like that, my confidence evaporates. I feel ridiculously unprepared and now I want more time. I’ve been so cocky, I think I just assumed this would be a gushing session about how fabulous I am.
“A year?” I say finally.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Wow, is that all?”
“Oh, okay, I meant, probably three years then?”
She tilts her head at me. “So what is it? One year or three?”
“Um. Three, I think.” I could have said,my whole life, and that would be almost true. I think the reason I don’t is because I hate to talk about that time of my childhood, when the Pentti-Stone conjecture represented nothing less than an instrument of torture.
“Okay.” She writes it down. Then she wants to know why I kept the research secret for so long. I hesitate.
