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“I was so angry with you,” she said.
“I know.” I was pleased she had used the past tense. “I screwed up.”
“Not just about April,” she said. “I’ve been angry for years. You’ve just never been here.”
I listened. Before I might have become defensive, perhaps even hurt, but not now. She poured the tea. She was thirty years older than she was when we first met. She was slightly heavier. Her face was interestingly lined. Her hair was mostly gray. She had never been more beautiful than she was as she poured that tea. And I loved her. I understood that I had always loved her and I was so sad that I had never allowed her to feel that love.
Of my understanding and, for lack of a better word, theory of nothing it had been said, as it was said of Hilbert, Das ist nicht Mathematik, das ist Theologie. Axioms, postulates, theorems, and proofs bored me into senselessness. [...]
it's helpful to know a little bit of german!
“Does she have a name?” I asked.
This question relaxed him. “I call her Audrey. My wife hates her.” Peterman stared through the windshield. “She hates her, but she wants her. Everyone wants Audrey.”
I let my unspoken question hang in the air.
“Divorce,” he said. “Avoid it if you can.”
I dreamed of empty sets. I had two null sets in front of me, so to speak. One set contained real apples that were not fruits and the other contained married bachelors. Trigo argued in his usual calm way that the sets were equal, stating the obvious truth that neither had any elements and therefore held the same number of elements. I argued that the sets could not possibly be equal because what one set lacked was not the same as what the other set lacked.
“Are you saying, my dear dog Trigo, that a married bachelor is equivalent to an apple that is not a fruit?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I am saying,” said Trigo.
“That’s my BMW right there.” She pointed toward a small, dark blue convertible parked beside bright green Audrey. “It’s got an automatic transmission. It’s much easier to drive and it’s only ten years old as opposed to that forty-year-old piece of Italian bullshit. It has low miles. I drive it to my office and back. That’s it, to Pawtucket and back. I’m like that little old lady from Pasadena. And like my BIPDIP husband, it’s never even been out of the state, not even to Boston.”
“BIPDIP?”
“Born in Providence, died in Providence. We actually honeymooned in Newport. I hate him so much.” She returned her attention to me. “I’ll sell you my car for twenty-five and give you a driving lesson for free."
I wandered back through campus toward home, contemplating very briefly Zorn’s lemma, stopping because it was not only boring, depending as it did on the trivial ring having the multiplicative unit one, but also incomprehensible. I didn’t understand a word of it, a symbol of it, a function of it, especially a function of it. What was the damn thing for? That thinking sent me spiraling the way I always did, wondering what I was doing with my finite, but unknown, number of days of life, realizing that I was a fraud, that I could talk to my colleagues for hours about things I simply didn’t understand, that I could fill a board with a proof that might make them ooh and aah, but had no meaning, no truth, no purpose. And the more wrong the noodling was, the more impressed they were. I was a charlatan. I knew nothing. But given that was my chosen topic, I was a successful fraud, a real, fake expert, an expert fake, a fake with real expertise, an ostensive definition of my subject, an object lesson for myself, a pure construction, and so, because irony is the air I breathe, a real-world example of Zorn’s lemma applied.
“DaMarcus’s sugar cookies are especially good,” Sill told me. “And much enjoyed by the crew.”
“Thank you, sir,” DeMarcus said. “Will that be all?”
Dream. Trigo had six legs and looked rather frightening. He moved around our kitchen at home like an insect, enjoying himself, looking at one paw and then another, but ignoring his left front.
“Where did you get all those?” I asked.
“The leg store,” he said. “They were having a special.”
“Why did you buy so many?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean isn’t four the standard number for a dog?”
“What do you mean standard number?” he asked.
“Dogs have four legs.”
“I’m a dog and I had one leg. Are you saying I was supposed to have four?”
I reviewed all of my plans and they were perfect. I was trying to find some comfort in even a vacuous truth. I had no plans. So, conversely, I reviewed all of my plans and they were bad. Also vacuously true. All of my weapons were loaded. All of my allies were ready. None of my proofs of the fifth postulate were invalid. Truth after truth, albeit vacuous. And they did me no good. I needed to get past Gloria. I decided to try talking to her.