No One You Know Part 20

"Yes, Don Carroll. He spoke very highly of your work."

McConnell glanced at the floor, embarra.s.sed. "He always was in my corner."

"In his office I saw a book with a double torus on the cover. I wanted to ask you about Lila's tattoo. Why did she choose the double torus?"

"She had a thing for topology. In topology, you can bend and stretch shapes and they remain essentially the same-a sphere is identical to any sphere or cube, or in fact any solid shape, such as the bed you're sitting on, or the rug beneath our feet. But the moment you put a hole in a shape, it is no longer equivalent. So a double torus, which looks like two doughnuts stuck together, is equivalent to anything else with two holes, say a trophy with two handles. Lila liked the idea that a thing could be dramatically transformed while remaining, in every way that really mattered, the same. The double torus is a particularly rich form in that respect."

"In the notebook," I said, "Lila had a quote: 'An equation for me has no meaning unless it expresses a thought of G.o.d.'"

Peter smiled. "Ramanujan. He believed his inspiration came from Namagiri, his kuldevta, family deity."

"Do you see G.o.d in the numbers?" I asked.

"An equation isn't necessarily about numbers. It's about patterns. The universe is governed by mathematical patterns. Gravity, string theory, chaos theory, quantum mechanics-all of it can be expressed in terms of equations. F = GMm/R2, for example, one of the most basic equations of our universe. There's an argument that if you can create an equation for anything, that thing exists. Because one can write an equation that represents a vast, empty, three-dimensional s.p.a.ce, such a s.p.a.ce exists. If the essence of G.o.d is creation, then yes, a beautiful equation can be said to express a thought of G.o.d."

He looked away, and smiled to himself. "I was always a bit low-brow compared to Lila. My favorite Ramanujan story is about when Hardy was visiting him in the hospital, and Hardy said: 'I rode here today in a taxicab whose number was 1729. This is a dull number,' to which Ramanujan replied, 'No, it is a very interesting number; it is the smallest number expressible as a sum of two cubes in two different ways.'" He paused. "But you didn't come here for a math lesson."

"Lila's notebook," I said, hesitating. "Why did you have it?"

"She gave it to me that night at dinner. She had come up with a new idea-a 'brain flash,' she called it-regarding an approach to the Goldbach Conjecture, and she wanted my opinion. But, unfortunately, I told her I didn't want to talk about math. For one night, I wanted to put work aside and talk about other things, personal things. We needed to address the issue of my marriage, what we would do in the long term. I also felt there was still so much I didn't know about her, so many questions I wanted to ask. Ultimately, she consented, on the condition that I take her notebook home and examine her new work, so that we could discuss it the next day."

"And what did she tell you?" I asked. "That night, what did you learn about Lila that you didn't know before?"

"I asked her to tell me what the best moment of her life had been."

"Did she?"

"Yes. She told me about a trip the two of you had taken to Europe together right after you graduated from high school."

"Pascal in Paris," I said, smiling.

He gave me a questioning look.

"It had been a dream of hers," I said, "to visit Pascal's grave. On that trip, she finally did. I'd never seen her so excited."

"That wasn't it," Peter said.

"It wasn't?"

"No, it was in a hostel in Venice. The two of you had been traveling for a couple of weeks, and all of your clothes were filthy. You didn't mind the dirty clothes very much, Lila said; you were able to roll with the punches, and for you everything about the trip, even the dirty laundry, was a great adventure. But Lila liked things a certain way, and she hated being dirty. That day, she had gone off in search of a Laundromat, but hadn't been able to find one. You were sleeping in a room with a dozen bunks, women and men together. In the middle of the night Lila woke up, and realized you weren't in your bed. She thought you must have gone to the bathroom, but after a couple of minutes, when you hadn't returned, she became worried. She climbed down from her bunk and went to the bathroom to find you. You weren't there. She wandered up and down the hallways, softly calling your name. A few of the rooms were private, and had the doors closed. As she became increasingly worried, she began putting her ear to those doors, listening for you. Then she heard banging down below. Alarmed, she went down the dark stairwell to the bas.e.m.e.nt. She saw you before you saw her. You were working in the dim light of a single bulb, standing over an old hand-operated washing machine. She asked what you were doing. 'What does it look like?' you said, smiling. What Lila remembered from that night was that you actually looked happy to be standing there in the cold bas.e.m.e.nt in the middle of the night, washing clothes by hand. And she knew that you wouldn't have minded wearing dirty clothes for another week or two. You were doing it for her."

"She said that?" I asked. I had a vague memory of a hostel in Venice. But I didn't remember anything about the midnight trip to the bas.e.m.e.nt to wash our clothes. It amazed me that Lila had remembered, and that it had meant so much to her.

"Yes. When I asked her what the best moment of her life had been, she told me that story."

"But it was nothing," I said.

"To her, it was."

"Thank you for telling me that."

I heard steps on the porch. I glanced out the window. A young boy dropped a small bundle beside the door before pedaling away on an old bike, wheels squeaking.

"It's Pedro," McConnell said. "He brings me pencils each month."

"Another question," I said, as the squeaking of Pedro's bicycle faded.

"Hmm?" He reached over and smoothed the pillowcase at the head of the bed. My gaze followed his hand, the gentle movement of his long fingers over the white fabric. For a moment it was as if I had been transported to another place and time, and had been given the gift of seeing into his most private moments-McConnell in the hotel room in Half Moon Bay, running his hand over Lila's pillowcase after she had left, memorizing the impression of her head against the pillow.

His voice brought me back. "Ellie? Where are you?"

I met his eyes again. "Sorry, I was just thinking about something-"

"Your sister used to do that. Just wander away in the middle of a conversation. At first I was offended, until she explained it to me-"

"As if she'd stepped into another room," I said, "and she became so focused on the things in that room that the door shut behind her. You'd have to make physical contact to shake her out of it."

"Exactly. The moment I touched her shoulder or held her hand, she'd come right back to me, and explain in the most lucid terms what it was she'd been concentrating on. Every time, it gave me the impression of having performed some strange magic trick, as if my touch was enough to lead her back from another world. Funny, I always a.s.sumed I was the only one who could do that." He paused. "You wanted to ask me something?"

"Why did you return the notebook to me?"

"I've memorized every page of it, I don't need the physical object when every figure, every scribble, is stored in my mind. Beyond that, I thought you should have it."

"I thought it would provide some clue," I said. "I thought there would be some key in those pages that would unlock the mystery of what happened to Lila. I was disappointed when I didn't find it."

"You came back because you still aren't sure, didn't you? You went home, you looked for answers, and you didn't find them. But I've told you everything I know. I'm sorry, I wish I could help you, but I have nothing more to offer."

His gaze came to rest on my throat. He leaned forward, reaching toward me. For a split second, when I felt his warm fingers brushing my neck, I had the strange feeling that he might kiss me. I decided, in that moment, that I would not back away. "It's hers," he said, astonished.

I had misread him. I could feel the slight pressure of the gold chain against my neck as he held the topaz pendant between his fingers. He let go, and the tiny stone fell back against my skin. He touched it again. I looked into his eyes, and he was a million miles away.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the magazine. I handed it to him.

He looked at the cover, uncomprehending. "Rolling Stone?"

"Turn to page sixty-three."

He looked at me for a moment more, and he seemed like he was about to say something, but then he started flipping through the pages. The top half of the spread was covered with a photograph of the Potrero Sound Station. The t.i.tle of the article was "Billy Boudreaux's Last Act." In a slightly smaller font was the byline, Ben Fong-Torres. Ben had pulled some strings and managed to get the piece in at the last minute.

"What's this?" Peter said.

"Look at the ba.s.s player," I said. I'd studied the photograph for so long, it was burned into my memory. In the foreground was Kevin Walsh, holding the microphone so close to his mouth it looked as though he might swallow it. Billy was in the shadows, his face barely visible. But the way the stage was lit, you could see his powerful arms, fingers poised on the strings. "That's Billy Boudreaux."

Peter looked up at me. "I don't understand."

"Take your time," I said. "I'll go outside."

I stood on the porch, waiting. I picked up the bundle of pencils and breathed in the woody, clean smell. I was out there for twenty minutes, watching dogs pa.s.s on the dirt road, looking for birds in the branches, before I heard the bedsprings creak. Peter came onto the porch and stood beside me. "Where did this come from?" he asked quietly.

"It's a long story."

We stood there for a few minutes, looking out at the road. It began to rain. The raindrops were huge, leaving pockmarks in the red dirt yard. I didn't know what to say. I hoped he knew that I felt responsible, in some way, for what had happened to him. I hoped he understood that this was the best I could do.

"You could go home now," I said. "It's been in the news, you know. I think there are some people who want to apologize to you."

"Someday, maybe. For now, this is home."

"The numbers," I said, "on the paving stones. What do they mean?"

"12-9-12-1," he said. "L-i-l-a. I used eight stones, spelled it out twice, because eight represents infinity."

"She'd like that," I said.

He laughed slightly. "Actually, I think she would find it alarmingly sentimental. But then, I've had a lot of time on my hands. A guy can become sentimental when he lives at the end of a dirt road for too long."

He moved closer and put an arm around my shoulders, just for a moment, and then dropped it. "The first time I saw you in town," he said, "you were standing beside a fruit stand, your back to me. It was about to start raining. I could tell you were a foreigner, and I wanted to go over and tell you to find somewhere to sit out the storm. Foreigners are always surprised by the rain. It comes down so hard, so fast, you hardly have time to get out of it. Then there was a clap of thunder. It startled you. You turned around and looked up at the sky. And for a second, maybe two, I thought everything they say about Diriomo was true. I believed that it really was a pueblo brujo, bewitched village. Because at that moment, when you looked up at the sky, I thought you were her. And for a fraction of a second, I had this picture in my mind of everything coming together, my whole life reorienting itself, as if the last decade had been a dream."

We stood there in silence for another minute or two before I said, "I should go. I'm visiting a farm this afternoon."

"Wait. You can't go out into this rain like that."

He went into the house and came out seconds later with a white poncho, just like the one he'd been wearing in the photograph in Carroll's office. "Lift your arms," he said. I did, and he pulled the poncho over my head. It reached all the way to my ankles. "You look like a ghost," he said, smiling.

We hugged, a complete hug this time, and I breathed in the pencils-and-rain smell of his skin. I thanked him and stepped out into the downpour. I took my time following the path of stones-12-9-12-1-12-9-12-1-from his porch through the rain-soaked yard. When I got to the end, he called out to me-"Wait!"

He ducked into the house. A couple of minutes later he came out again, plodding across the wet paving stones. His shirt and pants immediately became drenched, clinging to his body. His hair stuck to his head. He handed me a package, something hefty and book-like, wrapped in layers of plastic bags.

"What's this?"

The rain stopped, just as suddenly as it had begun. I reached into the bags and pulled out a large manila envelope. Inside the envelope, a sheaf of paper, two inches thick, covered in numbers and symbols.

Forty.

THE NEW CAFE WAS ON TWENTY-FIRST Street between Mission and Valencia, tucked between a used bookstore and a clothing boutique. When I arrived at three in the afternoon, the neighborhood was gearing up for the Dia de los Muertos procession. As I rounded the corner, I could see Henry down the block, standing on a ladder in front of the cafe. When I got closer I saw that he had a paintbrush in hand, and was touching up a smudge on the signage above the storefront. The letters were pale green, lowercase.

"Great name," I said.

"You like it?"

"Shade," I read. "It's perfect."

"I'd hug you, but I'm covered in paint and sawdust."

"All set for opening day?"

"Getting there. Have time for a cup of coffee?"

"Always."

Inside, he showed me the beautiful chrome espresso maker, the antique roasting machine. A series of framed photographs depicted the coffee farmers whose co-ops would supply the beans for the cafe.

"Everything is reclaimed or recycled," Henry said proudly. "These are the original light fixtures from the Coronet movie theater. The bar and tables are made out of redwood from an old Doelger house they tore down last year in the Sunset. The chairs are from the old U.S. Mint."

"It's beautiful." I pulled a small paper bag out of my purse. "Here, I brought you something. A new blend from Jesus."

He opened the bag and sniffed. "Mmmm, chocolate and toasted hazelnut."

"Wait until you taste it," I said. "Cayenne and citrus. A lovely vanilla bourbon note in the end. I think it should be your signature coffee."

He went behind the counter and fed the beans into the grinder. The noise of the machine was a welcome distraction. I'd seen Henry half a dozen times since our aborted conversation in the cupping room at Golden Gate Coffee, but each time, there were other people around. "I don't know if Mike told you," he said, "but I requested that you handle my account. n.o.body else."

I nodded.

"How was the Nicaragua trip?"

"Really good. I would have asked you to come along, but-"

He stood with his hands in his pockets. He looked tired. When he smiled, I noticed that crow's-feet had begun to form around his eyes. When I'd met him, he looked so young. He had been young, I reminded myself; so had I.

"Funny," he said, "when Mike suggested that I go with you, I had this whole picture in my mind of how it would play out-me and you down there, eating at little hole-in-the-wall restaurants, running back to our hotel in the rain-the way we used to. I kept waiting for you to give me the go-ahead. Every time I saw you at the office, I hoped that would be the day you'd change your mind. At the very least, I thought you'd let me take you to dinner, catch up."

I hesitated. "There was someone I needed to see down there."

"I know. I heard. It's all pretty amazing."

A burst of music drifted through the door as a group of old men with trumpets pa.s.sed by.

"We never really talked about what happened in Guatemala," he said.

"It's okay, Henry. It was a long time ago."

"Not that long." He spooned the grounds into a coffee press and poured in the steaming water.

"I'd forgotten that about you. You're still devoted to the French press."

"It's the only civilized way."

I watched the street while he waited for the coffee to steep. He brought two porcelain cups-one blue, one yellow-over to the table.

"Pretty."

"An estate sale. I thought it would be nice if all of the dishes were sort of random." The 21 Valencia bus went by, and the chandelier above our table rattled. He poured the coffee and sat down.