There is a crash and a yelp from the hallway. I wipe my brain clean and hurry through the kitchen.
The foyer between the front door and the lounge usually holds only Mum’s small statue of the Virgin Mary and a side table overflowing with photos of various aunties and uncles and cousins. These things have been pushed to one side, and in their place is a noisy, wobbly treadmill. Toby is running – or at least, his legs are moving in a fashion that resembles running. It also vaguely resembles the gait of a gawky gazelle that’s had one leg mangled in a hunting trap. The ladder from the shed sits in front of the contraption, and one of our chopping boards is slotted through the rungs. Toby’s laptop is balanced precariously on top, along with a stack of books, one of which has clattered to the floor.
‘What are you doing?’ I call out.
Toby shrieks and stumbles, and for a second I am convinced he’s going to face-plant on the moving conveyer belt, a comic pratfall I’ve seen in half a dozen of Elsie’s movies. But then Toby slams a hand on a console button and both the treadmill and Toby’s lame-antelope jog jolt to a stop.
My brother jumps down and wipes his face with his jumper, an old Movie World sweatshirt with the face of Sylvester the Cat on the front. His sweaty black hair is plastered to his forehead.
‘Why are you here?’ he gasps, chest heaving. His glasses immediately fog.
‘I live here. Remember?’ I reply. ‘Where did that come from?’
Toby plants his hands on his hips, still breathing hard. ‘Hired it. Need to start working out.’ He looks hesitantly at me and smooths back his hair. I’m never sure what is passing through my brother’s mind, but I have the oddest suspicion he’s struggling with more than just regaining his breath. ‘Supposed to help boost brain power,’ he says, whipping off his glasses and wiping away the mist. ‘Exercise, I mean.’
‘Well okay, sure. You know, there was this study that said people who exercise a lot have a larger hippocampus – that’s the part of the brain most associated with long-term memory conversion. I remember reading that in a journal.’
‘Of course you did,’ he mutters.
‘Do you want it? I think I still have the issue somewhere.’
For half a second I think my brother might actually respond, or at least, that he might briefly forget that he can’t stand being in the same room as me. But instead he gathers his laptop and books, perspiring face wiped blank, and stomps to his bedroom.
‘Should I take that as a no, then?’ I say into the empty, sweat-tinged space.
The only response is the click of Toby’s door at the end of the corridor.
I retreat to my room with a sigh.
Perelman stares down at me from his place above my computer. His eyes are shadowed, but even if I could see into them, I have no reason to believe I’d have any clue what he is thinking.
And yet, there’s something on the edge of his expression that is almost familiar to me. A glimpse, through his thick muppet eyebrows and out-of-control beard, of a bewilderment that’s at odds with his giant brain. I can just imagine how he must have felt in this moment, stunned by the unwelcome flash of a camera while on a brief, rare foray into the world. No doubt he was on some mundane mission, probably going to the store for pencils or bread. I wonder what he did afterwards. Did he scamper back to the safety of his tiny apartment, heart hammering, or did he soldier on, marching forward despite the intrusive, unsympathetic eyes upon him? Was he thinking about saddle surfaces in Euclidean geometry, the boundlessness of three-dimensional space, or just trying to make it to the shops without tripping over his own feet or stepping in dog poo?
I sit tiredly at my desk and withdraw the parametric equation from my pocket. My heart thuds wildly, curiosity at war with trepidation. I feel like I’ve fallen into a daydream not entirely of my own making, like I’m an unprepared companion on an unscheduled TARDIS trip.
I toss the mathematical heart into my desk drawer and slam it shut, then close my eyes, shivering in my too-thin uniform. I can feel Perelman staring down at me. I doubt there is any judgement in his eyes, though.
I pull the flannel shirt from the back of my chair over my lap as I turn on my computer and compose another quick email to the St Petersburg Steklov Institute. I’m sure I’ve messed up my syntax, and a few of my verbs are conjugated arse-around, but it doesn’t seem important. The only thing that matters is the question.
Hi Professor Kowalevski,
I understand that Doctor Perelman does not wish to be contacted. I think I probably understand why, though I’m still hoping he will make an exception for another Alexandrov geometry fan. I will try again later.
I don’t want to be a nuisance, but I’m hoping you can answer just one thing for me. On the last day that you saw him, did Perelman seem satisfied?
I tug my flannel blanket tighter around my legs.
That word, satisfied, in either English or Russian, isn’t quite what I want. Satisfied implies that it were possible for someone like Perelman to have found the answers to all his questions, that his brain could finally be at rest. It implies that his curiosity had ceased; that he’d discovered everything he needed to, and could therefore be content spending the rest of his life with his feet up in front of the TV.
But then again, what if he had reached his limits? Even someone as brilliant as him had to run out of ideas eventually. Maybe in the end what made him run from the world was the realisation that he’d done the absolute best he could, but his skills could stretch no further. His life was supposed to be an endless series of achievements. It was supposed to be extraordinary. Maybe, after all those expectations, all that potential, he simply couldn’t face the ordinary.
I scan over the email again and hit send.
Then I lie down on my bed, still in my uniform, and fall into a nap until Dad wakes me up for dinner.
Later, Toby disappears to the library, and Mum and Dad park themselves in front of the TV to watch one of the cooking shows they’re obsessed with. They try to include me, as they always do, but there’s only so much conversational mileage I can get out of tears and kale, and it’s not long before I lapse into silence.