Forty Signs of Rain (32 page)

“What?”

She laughed. “I think it’s great. Go sit down, babe, don’t move your poor torso, you’ll make yourself itchy.”

“I’ve transcended itchiness. I’m only itchy for you.”

“Come on don’t. Go sit down.”

Only later in the evening did she see Frank again. He was sitting in the corner of the room, on the floor between the couch and the fireplace, quizzing Drepung about something or other. Drepung looked as if he was struggling to understand him. Anna was curious, and when she got a chance she sat down on the couch just above the two of them.

Frank nodded to her and then continued pressing a point, using one of his catchphrases: “But how does that work?”

“Well,” Drepung said, “I know what Rudra Cakrin says in Tibetan,
obviously. His import is clear to me. Then I have to think what I know of English. The two languages are different, but so much is the same for all of us.”

“Deep grammar,” Frank suggested.

“Yes, but also just nouns. Names for things, names for actions, even for meanings. Equivalencies of one degree or another. So, I try to express my understanding of what Rudra said, but in English.”

“But how good is the correspondence?”

Drepung raised his eyebrows. “How can I know? I do the best I can.”

“You would need some kind of exterior test.”

Drepung nodded. “Have other Tibetan translators listen to the rimpoche, and then compare their English versions to mine. That would be very interesting.”

“Yes it would. Good idea.”

Drepung smiled at him. “Double blind study, right?”

“Yes I guess so.”

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” Drepung intoned, reaching out for a cracker with which to dip hummus. “But I expect you would get a certain, what, range. Maybe you would not uncover many surprises with your study. Maybe just that I personally am a bad translator. Although I must say, I have a tough job. When I don’t understand the rimpoche, translating him gets harder.”

“So you make it up!” Frank laughed. His spirits were still high, Anna saw. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along.” He settled back against the side of the couch next to her.

But Drepung shook his head. “Not making things up. Re-creation, maybe.”

“Like DNA and phenotypes.”

“I don’t know.”

“A kind of code.”

“Well, but language is never just a code.”

“No. More like gene expression.”

“You must tell me.”

“From an instruction sequence, like a gene, to what the instruction
creates. Language to thought. Or to meaning, or comprehension. Whatever! To some kind of living thought.”

Drepung grinned. “There are about fifty words in Tibetan that I would have to translate to the word ‘thinking.’ ”

“Like Eskimos with ‘snow.’ ”

“Yes. Like Eskimos have snow, we Tibetans have thoughts.”

He laughed at the idea and Frank laughed too, shaken by that low giggle which was all he ever gave to laughter, but now emphatic and helpless with it, bubbling over with it. Anna could scarcely believe her eyes. He was as ebullient as if he were drunk, but he was still holding the same beer she had given him on his arrival. And she knew what he was high on anyway.

He pulled himself together, grew intent. “So today, when you said, ‘An excess of reason is itself a form of madness,’ what did your lama really say?”

“Just that. That’s easy, that’s an old proverb.” He said the sentence in Tibetan. “One word means ‘excess’ or ‘too much,’ you know, like that, and
rig-gnas
is ‘reason,’ or ‘science.’ Then
zugs
is ‘form,’ and
zhe sdang
is ‘madness,’ a version of ‘hatred,’ from an older word that was like ‘angry.’ One of the
dug gsum
, the Three Poisons of the Mind.”

“And the old man said that?”

“Yes. An old saying. Milarepa, I should think.”

“Was he talking about science, though?”

“The whole lecture was on science.”

“Yeah yeah. But I found that idea in particular pretty striking.”

“A good thought is one you can act on.”

“That’s what mathematicians say.”

“I’m sure.”

“So, was the lama saying that NSF is crazy? Or that Western science is crazy? Because it is pretty damned reasonable. I mean, that’s the point. That’s the method in a nutshell.”

“Well, I guess so. To that extent. We are all crazy in some way or other, right? He did not mean to be critical. Nothing alive is ever quite in
balance. It might be he was suggesting that science is out of balance. Feet without eyes.”

“I thought it was eyes without feet.”

Drepung waggled his hand: either way. “You should ask him.”

“But you’d be translating, so I might as well just ask you and cut out the middleman!”

“No,” laughing, “I am the middleman, I assure you.”

“But you can tell me what he
would
say,” teasing him now. “Cut right to the chase!”

“But he surprises me a lot.”

“Like when, give me an example.”

“Well. One time last week, he was saying to me …”

But at that point Anna was called away to the front door, and she did not get to hear Drepung’s example, but only Frank’s distinctive laughter, burbling under the clatter of conversation.

By the time she ran into Frank again he was out in the kitchen with Charlie and Sucandra, washing glasses and cleaning up. Charlie could only stand there and talk. He and Frank were discussing Great Falls, both recommending it very highly to Sucandra. “It’s more like Tibet than any other place in town,” Charlie said, and Frank giggled again, more so when Anna exclaimed “Oh come on love, they aren’t the slightest bit the same!”

“No, yes! I mean they’re more alike than anywhere else around here is like Tibet.”

“What does that mean?” she demanded.

“Water! Nature!” Then:
“Sky,”
Frank and Charlie both said at the same time.

Sucandra nodded. “I could use some sky. Maybe even a horizon.” And all the men were chuckling.

Anna went back out to the living room to see if anyone needed anything. She paused to watch Rudra Cakrin and Joe playing with blocks on the floor again. Joe was filled with happiness to have such company, stacking blocks and babbling. Rudra nodded and handed him more.
They had been doing that off and on for much of the evening. It occurred to Anna that they were the only two people at the party who did not speak English.

She went back to the kitchen and took over Frank’s spot at the sink, and sent Frank down to the basement to get his shirt out of the dryer. He came back up wearing it, and leaned against the counter, talking.

Charlie saw Anna rest against the counter as well, and got her a beer from the fridge. “Here snooks have a drink.”

“Thanks dove.”

Sucandra asked about the kitchen’s wallpaper, which was an uncomfortably brilliant yellow, overlaid with large white birds caught in various moments of flight. When you actually looked at it it was rather bizarre. “I like it,” Charlie said. “It wakes me up. A bit itchy, but basically fine.”

Frank said he was going to go home. Anna walked him around the ground floor to the front door.

“You’ll be able to catch one of the last trains,” she said.

“Yeah I’ll be okay.”

“Thanks for coming, that was fun.”

“Yes it was.”

Again Anna saw that whole smile brighten his face.

“So what’s she like?”

“Well—I don’t know!”

They both laughed.

Anna said, “I guess you’ll find out when you find her.”

“Yeah,” Frank said, and touched her arm briefly, as if to thank her for the thought. Then as he was walking down the sidewalk he looked over his shoulder and called, “I hope she’s like you!”

F
RANK LEFT Anna and Charlie’s and walked through a warm drizzle back toward the Metro, thinking hard. When he came to the fateful elevator’s box he stood before it, trying to order his thoughts. It was impossible—especially there. He moved on reluctantly, as if leaving the place would put the experience irrevocably in the past. But it already was. Onward, past the hotel, to the stairs, down to the Metro entry level. He stepped onto the long escalator going down and descended into the earth, thinking.

He recalled Anna and Charlie, in their house with all those people. The way they stood by each other, leaned into each other. The way Anna put a hand on Charlie when she was near him—on this night, avoiding his poisoned patches. The way they shuffled their kids back and forth between them, without actually seeming to notice each other. Their endlessly varying nicknames for each other, a habit Frank had noticed before, even though he would rather have not: not just the usual endearments like hon, honey, dear, sweetheart, or babe, but also more exotic ones that were saccharine or suggestive beyond belief—snooks, snooky-bear, honeypie, lover, lovey, lovedove, sweetie-pie, angel man, goddess-girl, kitten, it was unbelievable the inwardness of the monogamous bond,
the unconscious twin-world narcissism of it—disgusting! And yet Frank craved that very thing, that easy, deep intimacy that one could take for granted, could lose oneself in. ISO-LTR. Primate seeks partner for life. An urge seen in every human culture, and across many species too. It was not crazy of him to want it.

Therefore he was now in a quandary. He wanted to find the woman from the elevator. And Anna had given him hope that it could be done. It might take some time, but as Anna had pointed out, everyone was in the data banks somewhere. In the Department of Homeland Security records, if nowhere else; but of course elsewhere too. Beg or break your way into Metro maintenance records, how hard could that be? There were people breaking into the genome!

But he wasn’t going to be able to do it from San Diego. Or rather, maybe he could make the hunt from there—you could Google someone from anywhere—but if he then succeeded in finding her, it wouldn’t do him any good. It was a big continent. If he found her, if he wanted that to matter, he would need to be in the D.C. area.

And what would he do if he found her?

He couldn’t think about that now. About anything that might happen past the moment of locating her. That would be enough. After that, who knew what she might be like. After all she had jumped him (he shivered at the memory, still there in his flesh), jumped a total stranger in a stuck elevator after twenty minutes of conversation. There was no doubt in his mind that she had initiated the encounter; it simply wouldn’t have occurred to him. Maybe that made him an innocent or a dimwit, but there it was. Maybe on the other hand she was some kind of sexual adventuress, the free papers might be right after all, and certainly everyone talked all the time about women being all Buffyed and sexually assertive, though he had seen little personally to confirm it. Though it had been true of Marta too, come to think of it.

Howsoever that might be, he had been there in the elevator, had shared all responsibility for what happened. And happily so—he was pleased at himself, amazed but glowing. He wanted to find her.

But after that—if he could do it—whatever might happen, if anything were to happen—he needed to be in D.C.

Fine. Here he was.

But he had just put his parting shot in Diane’s in-box that very day, and tomorrow morning she would come in and read it. A letter that was, now that he thought of it, virulently critical, possibly even contemptuous—and how stupid was
that
, how impolitic, self-indulgent, irrational, maladaptive—what could he have been
thinking?
Well, somehow he had been angry. Something had made him bitter. He had done it to burn his bridges, so that when Diane had read it he would be toast at NSF.

Whereas without that letter, it would have been a relatively simple matter to re-up for another year. Anna had asked him to, and she had been speaking for Diane, Frank was sure. A year more, and after that he would know where things stood, at least.

A Metro train finally came rumbling windily into the station. Sitting in it as it jerked and rolled into the darkness toward the city, he mulled over in jagged quick images of memory and consideration all that had occurred recently, all crushed and scattered into a kind of kaleidoscope or mandala: Pierzinski’s algorithm, the panel, Marta, Derek, the Khembalis’ lecture; seeing Anna and Charlie, leaning side by side against a kitchen counter. He could make no sense of it really. The parts made sense, but he could not pull a theory out of it. Just part of a more general sense that the world was going smash.

And, in the context of that sort of world, did he want to go back to a single lab anyway? Could he bear to work on a single tiny chip of the giant mosaic of global problems? It was the way he had always worked before, and it might be the only way one could, really; but might he not be better off deploying his efforts in a way that magnified them by using them in this small but potentially strong arm of the government, the National Science Foundation? Was that what his letter’s furious critique of NSF had been all about—his frustration that it was doing so little of what it could? If I can’t find a lever I won’t be able to move the world, isn’t that what Archimedes had declared?

In any case his letter was there in Diane’s in-box. He had torched his bridge already. It was very stupid to forestall a possible course of action in such a manner. He was a fool. It was hard to admit, but he had to admit it. The evidence was clear.

But he could go to NSF now and take the letter back.

Security would be there, as always. But people went to work late or early, he could explain himself that way. Still, Diane’s offices would be locked. Security might let him in to his own office, but the twelfth floor? No.

Perhaps he could get there as the first person arrived on the twelfth floor next morning, and slip in and take it.

But on most mornings the first person to the twelfth floor, famously, was Diane Chang herself. People said she often got there at 4
A.M
. So, well … He could be there when she arrived. Just tell her he needed to take back a letter he had put in her box. She might with reason ask to read it first, or she might hand it back, he couldn’t say. But either way, she would know something was wrong with him. And something in him recoiled from that. He didn’t want anyone to know any of this, he didn’t want to look emotionally overwrought or indecisive, or as if he had something to hide. His few encounters with Diane had given him reason to believe she was not one to suffer fools gladly, and he hated to be thought of as one. It was bad enough having to admit it to himself.