? ? ?
NOT UNTIL after the lunch has been packed away does Violet find an opportunity to approach Herr Einstein. The Hahns have taken a walk with Jane and Walter; Lise and Henry have returned and fallen into an animated discussion, in which the squares of the picnic cloth serve as spaces on the periodic table; and Einstein sits alone under an apple tree, examining a blade of grass.
“Like Newton,” Violet says, nodding at the tiny green apples above.
Einstein looks at her and smiles. “I am honored. Please sit, Frau Grant.” He motions to the grass next to him.
“I’m not disturbing you, I hope.”
“I only wish you were. I seem unable to concentrate today.”
Violet kneels into the grass. “I’m sorry to hear that. Did you sleep well?”
“Not badly.” He grasps the blade between the thumb and forefinger of each hand and splits it delicately apart. “To be perfectly honest, Frau Grant, I am concerned about you.”
“Me.”
“You are unhappy.”
Violet does not reply.
“I’m sorry. Am I too familiar?” he asks.
“No. I’m grateful for your concern.”
“And is it misplaced?”
The white sun burns through the leaves of the apple tree from its zenith overhead. In a tiny channel between Violet’s stays and her skin, just to the right of her spine, a drop of perspiration trickles downward to disappear into the waistband of her drawers. The air is laden with ripe grass and fruit, toasting quietly in the still summer heat.
“I don’t know how to answer that,” she says.
Einstein continues to shred his blade of grass into fibers of minute width. “I have been thinking about the question you posed me, several weeks ago, just before one of Herr Planck’s little gatherings. Do you remember it?”
“I do.”
“You have an insightful imagination, Frau Grant. I took the liberty of looking into your latest article for the Journal. What a tedious task you have set yourself, and yet you cut no corners. Your observations were extensive, and your conclusions thorough.”
“I think it’s fair to say, Herr Einstein, that the task is not one I’ve set for myself. I have another line of inquiry I’ve been pursuing . . .” Violet catches her breath. In the distance, she can see Walter and Jane and the Hahns walking against a golden-green hillside. The Hahns have stepped ahead, and Jane’s arm is linked with Walter’s beneath the shelter of her parasol. Violet can’t distinguish any details, but she recognizes Walter’s elastic stride, his confident movement, his body like a whip.
“Yes, Frau Grant?” His gentle eyes are upon her face. “What sort of inquiry?”
She looks at him. “I want to break apart the atomic nucleus and see what’s inside.”
“Ah. Like your countryman Rutherford.”
“Not my countryman. I’m American, you remember.”
“But your husband is English.” Though he’s speaking in German, he says the word English in its native pronunciation, with great precision.
“I am not my husband.”
“Hmm. Yes.” He opens his palm and lets the fibers of grass drift to the hot carpet beneath their legs. A bottle of sweating lemonade sits next to his knee; he lifts and drinks. “Frau Grant, I would not have accepted your invitation to stay here this week, without the hope to find a private moment with you.”
“Yes?”
Herr Einstein is watching the progress of the walkers against the hill. A rare breath of wind stirs the wild hair at the back of his head. “I want to make clear, Frau Grant, absolutely clear, that I stand ready to write a letter of recommendation on your behalf, should you find yourself in need of one.”
Violet blinks her eyes and looks down at her ringless hands, spread wide across the limp fabric of her linen dress. Her underarms are prickling, her heart beats relief into her chest.
“Frau Grant?”
She looks up and smiles into his somber face. “Herr Einstein, forgive me, but that is exactly why I asked you to stay.”
? ? ?
WAIT FOR ME, Lionel said, trust me, but Violet knows she can’t sleep another night in the villa. The afternoon deepens, and still no automobile growls up the long drive from the road. She must act for herself.
She enters the warm acid-scented quiet of the laboratory and packs her notes; the apparatuses and materials she must leave behind. As she leaves, she stands at the door and casts her gaze about: the clean surfaces, the singular motes of circling dust. In the center of the room sits the black box with its scintillation screen, its aperture, its chamber lined with lead.
? ? ?
VIOLET BATHES and dresses for dinner. No sign yet of Lionel; he has disappeared into the thick Prussian summer. Through the plaster walls comes the clatter of pots and china, the distinct high laugh of the downstairs maid.