The Indian Clerk (12 page)

"Sorry I'm late," he says.

"What happened?"

A waiter brings wine, asks Littlewood if he wants his fish. "No, I'll just move on to the . . . what is it?"

"Venison."

"Fine."

"Well?"

"Trouble, I'm afraid."

"What kind of trouble?"

"I met with the fellow from the India Office, and it's no go."

"The shits. It's not as if they can't spare a few pounds—"

"Oh, it's not the money. We've miles to go before we start worrying about the money. It's the Indian chap. He doesn't want
to come."

Hardy looks genuinely startled. "Why on earth not?"

"Religious scruples. It seems he's a very orthodox Brahmin, and they've got this rule against crossing the ocean."

"I've never heard of such a thing."

"Neither had I. But then Mallet—that's the fellow's name—explained. Apparently they see crossing the ocean as a form of pollution.

It's like marrying a widow. You don't want to put your galoshes to dry by someone else's grate. And if you do cross the ocean,
when you come back to India, you're persona non grata. Your relatives won't let you in their houses. You can't marry off your
daughters or go to funerals. You're an out-caste."

"But Cambridge is full of Indians. There's that cricketer."

"Obviously he's from a different caste. Or at least he's not as orthodox as our friend Ramanujan. Probably he's rich, from
Calcutta, or some other cosmopolitan city. But in the south—at least according to this Mallet—they've hung on to all sorts
of outmoded traditions. Rules about everything. When to eat, what to eat. Strict vegetarianism. Remember the mutiny of 1857,
when those Indian soldiers massacred the British officers because they didn't want to bite into cartridges greased with lard?"

Hardy looks at the meat on his plate with rancor, as if it's somehow to blame. "Madness, all this religion."

"Not to him, it seems."

They chew in silence, like ruminants.

"So that's that?" Hardy asks after a moment. "It's over?"

"Probably. Not necessarily."

"How do you mean?"

"You see, after we had this conversation, I thought it might not be a bad idea to invite this Mallet out for a pint. We got
to talking, and he told me a bit more about the case. I asked him how he found all this out, and he said that there was an
interview, in Madras, with a fellow called Davies."

"An interview with Ramanujan?"

Littlewood nods. "Ramanujan was summoned to speak to Davies, and he brought along his boss from the Port Trust Office, an
old man who's apparently even more orthodox than he is. Anyway, it happens that Mallet knows this Davies rather well. The
way he put it, Davies is 'one of those come-straight-to-the-point fellows.' Mallet's hunch is that Davies just blurted out
the question—do you want to come to England?—and put Ramanujan on the spot. Ramanujan may well have meant it when he said
no. But he also might have said no automatically. Or because the old man was with him, and he didn't want to cause offense
by seeming even to consider the possibility."

"So does that mean he might be persuaded to change his mind?"

"No idea whatsoever. And what's the result?"

"They've given him a research grant and he's quit his job at the Port Trust."

"How much?"

"Mallet didn't know. It's probably a pittance by our standards. Still, enough to keep him going. He's got a family
to support. Parents, brothers, a grandmother. And, of course, the wife."

"He's married?"

Littlewood nods. "She's fourteen."

"Good heavens."

"It's normal over there."

Hardy pushes away his plate even as Littlewood continues to chew.

He does not want the venison now.

"So what's next?"

"What's next," Littlewood said, "is that someone's got to go out to India to convince him. Any volunteers?"

Hardy is silent.

"In that case," Littlewood says, his mouth full of meat, "our friend Neville may be in for a much harder time than he bargained
for."

A doughy housemaid appears. "Sir and Madam be down shortly," she says, before tottering into the kitchen to fetch tea. As
if, Hardy thinks, he and Littlewood are an old married couple come to call on the newlyweds. And why not? Circumstances being
what they are, it makes sense to invite them together. Recently a porter came to him, scratching his head because he had received
a letter addressed to "Professor Hardy-Littlewood, Trinity College, Cambridge."

Not, as it happens, from India. Not this time.

As they wait, they do not speak. Littlewood has his legs crossed, is turning his foot, snug in its polished shoe, clockwise
in circles. "Herbert, get inside!" a voice cries, and Hardy hears a ball drop, a child's footsteps as it runs inside.

And then, all at once, noises erupt within the house. The housemaid emerges from the kitchen, bearing the tea ensemble on
a tray, and Neville and his bride descend the creaky staircase. Hardy and Littlewood stand. Hands are shaken. Then they all
sit down, the Nevilles across from their guests, on the oak settee. Alice Neville's hair is reddish, frizzed, done up in a
bundle and slightly damp. Loose strands flare out here and there, as if in rebellion against the restraining pins. She wears
a velvet dress that does little to conceal the amplitude of her bosom, and gives off the same scent of Parma violets that
Hardy's mother does.

Neville sits closer to his wife than would a man who'd been married longer. He is twenty-five, stoop-shouldered, with an oval
face and a high forehead over which his hair, piled on the right side of a zigzag part, keeps falling. So nearsighted that
even through his spectacles, he has to squint. As the maid hands out the cups, he flashes at Hardy a closed-lip smile that
is at once detached and good-natured, sly yet utterly lacking in irony. There is this to say about him: unlike Littlewood
or Bohr or, for that matter, any other great mathematician whom Hardy has known, he is happy. Almost carefree. Perhaps this
is why he will never amount to anything. He does not embrace solitude, much less suffering. He loves the world too much.

"Well, I've read the letters," he says, "and I can see what's got you so excited."

"Really!" Littlewood says. "I'm so glad."

"There have been a few more developments since we last spoke," Hardy says.

"Oh? Thank you, Ethel." Neville accepts a cup.

Littlewood repeats what he learned at the India Office about the Brahmin prohibition against crossing the ocean. "Oh, yes,"
Mrs. Neville says. "I remember reading about that once. My grandfather was in India. Thank you, Ethel."

"Alice is coming with me to Madras," Neville announces proudly.

"I'm very excited about it. I have an aunt who was an adventuress, she went on safari in Africa and crossed China entirely
on her own, with just a friend. A female friend."

"Your presence in Madras, Mrs. Neville, may prove to be invaluable," Littlewood says, bowing his head over his teacup.

She flushes. "Me? How? I'm not a mathematician."

"But there'll be the two of you, won't there, to act as emissaries? And if you'll pardon my saying so, a pretty face might make all the difference."

"Come, now, Littlewood, I'm not all that ugly," Neville protests.

"We'll leave the matter of your allure for the ladies to settle."

"Anyway," Hardy says, "we're not entirely sure how serious he was being when he said he couldn't come. He might be afraid
of causing offense, as it were, to the elders of the tribe."

"One thing that's becoming increasingly clear is that Ramanujan is, to say the least, rather . . ."

". . . sensitive."

"Well, what can we do?"

"Meet with him. See if he's the real thing, and if he is, see if you can talk him into coming."

"But how could we? If his religion won't allow it—"

"We have reason to believe he might be more flexible on the religious question than the local authorities assume," Hardy says.

"Is he married?" Mrs. Neville asks.

"Oh, yes. His wife is fourteen."

"Fourteen!" Neville says. "But I suppose that's common in India."

"Usually the wedding takes place when the bride and groom are about nine," Mrs. Neville says. "But then the bride stays with
her own family until puberty."

"What an idea!" Neville puts his arm around Alice's shoulders. "The only trouble, Alice, is that when I was nine and you were
nine, I probably would have run screaming from you. From any girl."

"You would have loathed me when I was nine. I was a bundle of sticks with pigtails."

"As Littlewood was saying," Hardy says, "since I wrote to Ramanujan, his situation's improved. Even so, there's nothing there
for him. He needs to be somewhere where there are men he can work with. Men on his level. Or perhaps I should say, men who
approach his level."

Neville raises his eyebrows. "High praise," he says. "Well, we'll certainly do everything we can."

"Yes," Mrs. Neville says. "I'm quite looking forward to meeting Mr. Ramanujan. And perhaps even Mrs. Ramanujan."

"The mother?"

"Her too."

Neville laughs, and kisses his wife on the cheek.

"Well, do you think he can do it?" Hardy asks Littlewood, as they make their way down Magdalene Street.

"If he can't, she can."

"You keep saying that. I'm afraid I don't quite see it."

"No, you probably wouldn't."

Hardy looks at him.

"I don't really mean that," Littlewood says. "The point is, she's got a sense of herself. Stronger than Neville's. Mark my
words, she's capable of persuasion."

"Neville is so very . . . nice."

"He is, rather. But that might not be a bad thing. As we've learned of late, for all his bluster, our Indian friend is easily
offended. At this stage a gentler touch may be required than you or I can manage."

"You phrased that very delicately."

"I'm not saying we're brutes, or that Neville's some weakling . . . only that. . . Well, for one thing, they're more or less
the same age. In the same season of life, as a friend of mine might put it."

Hardy smiles faintly. He knows he's not supposed to say he knows who "the friend" is.

They are nearing Trinity. It is the season of balls, and undergraduates in formal dress stroll about the street, some of them
accompanied by young women in gowns with tight waists and trailing hems. The sun has just set, the evening is warm, dinner
in Hall awaits them. But no one whom either might sit too close to, as Neville did to Alice. At least not tonight.

At the gate, they say goodbye, each returning to his own rooms. As he settles himself into his chair with Hermione, Hardy
feels a shudder of alarm shoot through him.

It is Gaye. Nothing so gothic as the bust speaking. He simply appears from the shadows near the window, his hands clasped
behind his back. He does this sometimes.

"Harold," he says.

"Russell," Hardy says.

Leaning over, Gaye kisses Hardy on the top of his head. He's wearing a smoking jacket and his Westminster tie. His hair looks
lacquered. "So I gather the Indian fellow's not coming," he says.

"Doesn't look like it."

"And what does that make you feel? Regret? Relief?"

"Regret, of course. It's essential that he come to Cambridge."

"Oh, come on, Harold. A boy from some tiny place you've never heard of, married to a child and beholden to a religion the
doctrines of which you find utterly perverse. And on top of that, you've never seen him. He could be ugly as homemade sin."

"He's a genius, Russell. And he's dying out there."

Gaye claps his hands together. "Ah, of course! That old compulsion to rescue people. It comes out trumps every time. How good
it must make you feel about yourself. And yet it must be something of a burden, too." He winks. "A pity you couldn't rescue
me."

Hardy stands, shaking Hermione off his lap. "Russell—"

But Gaye is gone. Hermione, discomposed, slinks toward the shadows from which her master emerged, and into which he has disappeared.
In death, it seems, he is determined to have what he so rarely had in life: the last word.