of our size she somehow dominated that space, and forced us to the edges. We had her baptised at the Saint Peter’s Catholic Church, and all my family came, and even some of M.’s.
The Nobel committee worked its slow work, and word came through the unofficial channels that a citation was on its way. I came back early from my maternity leave, and we all made new efforts to locate Niu Jian, Prévert and Sleight, to see whether their hotheads had cooled, and whether they’d like to come to Stockholm to collect the prize. And if I’m truthful, enough time had passed to make the whole thing seem silly rather than sinister. M. was of the opinion that they’d all been spooked by the proximity of the announcement of our research. “Working in the dark for years, then suddenly faced with the headlights of global interest—that sort of thing could spook a person in any number of ways.”
“You make them sound like mole-people,” I said, but I wondered if he might be right.
Niu Jian’s family were easy enough to get hold of, and they were polite, assuring us Noo-noo was healthy and well and happy, but not disclosing in which portion of the globe he was enjoying these things. They promised to pass on our messages, and I don’t doubt that they did; but he did not get back to us. Friends suggested that Sleight was in Las Vegas, but we could get no closer to him than that. I felt worst about Prévert—that elegant man, that brilliant mind, without whose input none of it would have been possible. But there were no leads at all as far as he was concerned. I notified Montpellier police, even went so far as to hire a French private detective. It took ninety days before the agency reported back to say that he and a woman called Suzanne Chahal had boarded a flight to the West Indies in the summer, but that it was not possible to know to which island they had gone.
I agreed with the University that I would collect the prize alone, but that all four of our names would be on the citation. They had lost their minds, the three of them; but that was no reason to punish them—and their contribution had been vital. “Have you have had any better ideas as to why they dropped out like that?” M. asked me, one night.
“Not a clue,” I said. Then again, with a long-drawn-out ‘ü’ sound at the end: “not a cluuue .”
“I suppose we’ll never know,” he said. He was reading a novel, and glancing at me over his little slot-shaped spectacles from time to time, as if keeping an eye on me. Marija was in a cot beside the bed, and I was rocking her with steady, broad strokes, which was how she liked it.
“I guess not,” I said.
“Does it bother you?”
“They were my friends,” I said. Then: “Jack in particular. His desertion is the most baffling. The most hurtful.”
“I’m sure,” M. said, licking his finger and turning the page of the book, “that it was nothing personal. Whatever Tessimond told them, I mean. I’m sure it wasn’t to do with you, personally.”
“That prick,” I said, but without venom. “Whatever it was Tessimond told them.”
“You know what I think?” M. asked. “I think, even if we found out what he said, it wouldn’t explain it. It’ll be something banal, or seeming-banal, like God Loves You , or Remember You Must Die , or Oh, My God, It’s Full Of Stars . Or—you know, whatever. Shall I tell you my theory?”
“You’re going to, regardless of what I say,” I observed.
M. gave me a hard stare over his glasses. Then he said: “I think it had nothing to do with this Tessimond chap. I think he’s a red herring.”
“He was from Oregon,” I said, randomly.
“It was something else. Virus. Brainstorm. Pressure of work. Road to Tarsus. And in the final analysis, it doesn’t matter.”
“You’re right, of course,” I said, and kissed him on his tall, lined forehead.
:5:
W E AGREED THAT I would travel to Stockholm alone. I was still breast-feeding, so I wasn’t
Massimo Carlotto, Anthony Shugaar