28. The Creation of Black Holes - Lords of Serendipity

On a cool bright day later that spring, Cham took Jack and Katrina to meet Martin. For the record, this was at his request. But actually, Cham didn’t mind having the excuse to be in touch. She’d been fighting a cold war with her mother for almost all of her remembered life. Katrina was the closest thing she had to a friend, in college, in Italy, maybe in the whole world. Did she really want a cold war with her too? So, using Martin’s random request, she tried. And maybe it was her dad’s idea, or maybe, just a little, it was her own, maybe she was also getting tired of this thing between them, but anyway Katrina had said yes, eventually. The three of them took the train south from Rome into dark, forested hills, reaching Castel Gandolfo. Martin met them at the train station in a beat-up station wagon driven by a quiet young Jesuit who took them to the piazza in front of the pope’s summer castle.

It was off-season. Many of the gift and grocery shops were shuttered; the few that were open looked empty. There was a small funeral taking place at the piazza’s magnificent, oversized church. Martin was a chatty, happy tour guide. He pointed out deep gouges on the high building walls, remnants of an American attack on German forces during the Second World War. He showed them the centuries-old clock atop the papal palace and put a gracious Katrina, who had taken to keeping her tattoo-marred hand in her pocket, through an elaborate quiz about what made it such a strange timepiece. When Jack interrupted to point out the clock counted only six hours, Martin applauded and then made a joke about Italians being more on time in ages past, when there was less time to measure.

And now follow me, please, to our feast! he said.

Cham hopped in front of Jack and Katrina and turned so that she was walking backward.

I have no idea what’s going on right now, she said. It’s almost like he’s on something. The last time I saw him, I swear he looked like he was going to kill himself. He said he’d gotten some bad news from his university. But then I spoke to him a little later and he said he’d feel better if he could have lunch with the two of you.

Why us? asked Katrina.

Maybe because Jack’s also a professor? said Cham.

I looked him up on our way here, said Jack. I’m not a professor the way he’s a professor.

Yes you are, Jack! said Katrina.

She grinned.

Jack grinned.

He had been in Rome for three months by then, staying in the simple second-floor apartment he had rented for them in Trastevere. It overlooked the tiled play area of a nursery school. Whether the windows were open or closed, the dishes on the exposed shelves in the kitchen shook three times a day from little feet running around below. Jack and Katrina made a game of calling out recess, lunch, pickup. Katrina was in the writing phase of her independent study. She worked from her laptop in the apartment and at a rotation of nearby espresso bars. Jack was continuing his leave from Arcadia and had yet to hear about any teaching assignments for the next academic year. Methodically visiting famous fountains around Rome, he sat on veined stone ledges and read biographies of mathematicians associated with the Manhattan Project and then a novel about Wittgenstein, G. E. Moore, and Bertrand Russell, all of which summoned visions of universities full of great minds who accomplished good and sometimes even great things. Also bad things, terrible things. But they were never just mediocre and cowardly, like the people in Jack’s university world.

At the end of his daily tour he went to the market and then made simple dinners of bread and cheese and wine, or pasta and blanched rapini, cod fritters and wild chicory, and always with firm fresh fruit. Now and then, Jack and Katrina discussed things. They talked about what had gone wrong with Mather, without mentioning sex; what had gone wrong at Arcadia, without mentioning Allard. Now and then Jack asked if Katrina wanted to invite Cham over for dinner, knowing she was still in Rome, but Katrina always said Cham would say no. Jack didn’t believe her but also could tell Katrina didn’t want to say anything else. She seemed embarrassed about something, and not just embarrassed but sullen and ashamed, too, like when she used to lie to him as a little girl about enjoying ballet. When she had seemed to be lying as much to him as to herself. As he did then, he did now: he took her at her word and left things there. They were both selective in their telling and loyal in their listening.

But when Cham had asked them if they would have lunch with her professor, outside the city, Jack encouraged Katrina to say yes, and to his pleased surprise, she’d agreed. Also, they hadn’t gone out of the city yet, and here was a chance.

Leaving the piazza, Martin led them to a small, dark, sad-feeling restaurant. There was a light gray television showing pixelated news and weather on the wall behind a scored counter. The TV was flanked by drooping flags and football shirts and a heart-shaped bas-relief of a browned, morose-faced Jesus and a dull yellow Mary. On the counter itself was a platter of dried-out pastries under a smudged, bell-shaped glass. The restaurant was empty other than a large German tourist drinking beer and studying a pocket atlas at a tiny table in the front window, and an old woman in a heavy black dress sitting on a stool beside the swinging doors leading to the restaurant’s fluorescent-lit, metal-walled kitchen. She was staring at her phone, ringed fingers pressed against her mouth.

Martin guided them through the restaurant to a glass door that gave way to a large terrace overlooking a broad, shining lake. Nodding and smiling and accepting their unspoken gratitude for his selection of a perfect place, he explained that the emperor Caligula had once kept pleasure ships on this very lake. He added that a goddess of sweet things was known to hide in the bushes around the water. According to local legend, she cried tears that became strawberries.

Katrina and Cham exchanged looks. Which felt so good, after so long.

The way he said pleasure and goddess and bushes and strawberries, right? said Cham.

Gross, said Katrina.

They smiled at each other. Here they were again, suddenly: on the inside of something, together.

Martin didn’t notice. He was talking and talking while trying to figure out how to bring up what he really wanted to talk about: himself, and his recent, excellent news.

He called the waiter. He wanted to drink something expensive and Chinese, like a good bottle of baijiu. The restaurant didn’t have anything like that, the waiter said. Martin sighed and ordered a bottle of prosecco.

Pretty sure we’re not in Sichuan province, Jack said.

Baijiu’s become my champagne because of some recent, excellent news, said Martin.

Ganbei, Jack said.

Ganbei! Yes! Yes, that’s what we should say! Ganbei!

They touched glasses.

Martin refilled his and did the same for Jack. He waited for Jack to ask him about his recent, excellent news. Jack didn’t.

So, you know a lot about Chinese alcohol?

We have a lot of international students at my university.

Yes! Same, said Martin. And I know from Cham that you’re not just a university parent, but also a professor! Where, remind me?

Arcadia Tech.

Arcadia . . . Tech?

Yes.

Full?

Um, we haven’t even eaten yet, said Cham.

I’m an associate professor, said Jack.

Okay, okay. Great! And Arcadia Tech! An interesting place, I’m sure.

Not really. It’s a carp of an institution.

Same! My university is the same! I’m sure you’ve seen all the terrible ways my university has been in the news lately.

Yes. Everyone has.

Exactly. This is what happens when you’re the world leader. What an embarrassment, the way people have been carrying on. The president crawling around on her knees at all the usual places, begging forgiveness from the usual big donors. Inviting people from Congress to a Shabbat dinner on the front quad, for god’s sake. How disgraceful, to behave like this, just because one candidate gets more votes than the other for president and certain people have money and terrible stories from the past. I’m originally from Poland, by the way. I’ve seen the tattoos.

Katrina moved her hands under the table.

Tell me, said Martin, are you surprised to hear me speak so freely to people I don’t know?

You’re a tenured professor at the best university in the world. You can say whatever you want, said Jack.

Yes, I know, I know. Academic freedom, academic freedom! My hysterical colleagues in the humanities go on about this all the time. But really? Academic freedom to go around marching in bandit masks and camping with students? Please. I’ve lived in the United States for a very long time but I still remember what my European teachers said about American academics. “Be careful, Martin. They have lots of food and money, but those people are not serious.” But that’s not why I feel so free. I’m free because I don’t have to worry about making donors happy in order to do my research anymore!

Congratulations, said Jack.

Thank you.

Martin waited for Jack to ask him why he didn’t have to worry about donors anymore. Jack didn’t.

Anyway, said Martin, the campuses these days! They used to be insane asylums for smart people. Then they became Disneylands for billionaires. Then military occupations for angry children and now military invasions to take away the angry children before they all shoot each other to save stupid democracy. I don’t care, actually. I don’t. I’m just so glad I’m on sabbatical!

Same, said Jack.

And can’t we all agree that the only thing that matters is the research? Speaking of which, Jack, what do you work on?

Universities have been like this for years, said Jack. It’s just that everyone else is finally noticing. Not just the lawyers.

Now, this is an honor, to have lunch with a professor who tells the truth! And what do you work on?

Jack poured himself a third glass of prosecco.

Professor, said Cham. It’s so great that you’re hosting us for this visit, thank you. And also that we’re already having such an interesting conversation. But did you maybe want Katrina and Jack to introduce themselves properly?

Of course! Please!

Jack and Katrina each offered a single sentence.

Really? Your appointment is in statistics? Tell me, Jack, are you more of a mathematician or computer scientist?

Are you asking because you don’t think statistics is a legitimate academic discipline?

Well, you’re the one who doesn’t think the university is legitimate anymore.

I’ve done work on predictive statistics using the Monte Carlo method, but these days, AI seems to be doing more and more of that.

Artificial intelligence, Martin said with disgust. Give me human intelligence any day. When I have data, I want a human being working on it. Do you know what I mean, Jack?

I do, yes.

I’m glad to hear that. I want to hear more about you, but it’s not just the two of us at the table, is it? Everyone knows Cham, of course. Did you all know she is originally from Sri Lanka? Which is also, by the way, home to the great Arthur C. Clarke, Martin continued. He’s my favorite writer and I’m so happy Cham is writing a paper about religion and science in his novels. Yes, I’m a scientist who reads literature and has been advising on an independent study for an excellent student on this subject. It’s been very helpful to the book I’m writing on my sabbatical, which is about how religion and science can learn more from each other.

Martin waited, but no one asked about his book. Which was fine. He probably wouldn’t bother finishing it now. He didn’t need a bestseller. He didn’t need to become one of those professors. Going on the radio, on television even. Known to ordinary people. Forever ignored by serious people. But anyway, the main focus of this lunch wasn’t, in fact, Martin, but Jack. Not that Jack knew this, yet.

Um, did you want me to say more about what I’m working on, Professor? said Cham.

Yes! Of course, Martin said. In a moment. But first I want to tell you, Jack, that Sri Lanka has several universities doing very exciting work in data science. Or at least one university, which is set to become a leading center for data science.

I’m sure that would be of interest to you, given your work, said Jack.

Martin took a deep breath of cold Italian hilltop air.

Oh, you know my work already?

Um, I kind of think we all know you and your work, said Cham.

Is that true? Martin was looking only at Jack.

You’re an astronomer. You work on supernovas and you have the top transfer rate in your field between the observable evidence, the statistical analysis of the data, the fits, and the theoretical modeling.

Martin leaned closer to Jack.

That’s very well said.

Thanks.

He sat back and continued to study Jack, turning his glass of prosecco.

Um, Professor?

Yes, Cham? Oh right, yes. Tell us about your independent study.

I will, but first, sorry, but, um, so . . . the last time we met, well, you were sort of . . .

I was in the dump of dumps, right?

Um, so, yeah. Sort of.

Well, the last time we met, Cham, I was in the dump of dumps because, well, I had lost something very, very special to me. Special, really, to the entire field, and it’s silly to say this, but you could make the case that the work had some importance for the world, the universe, even. But again, that’s ridiculous to say. Unless you think about the implications of my research.

Don’t you want to hear more about my dad’s research? asked Katrina.

Jack looked down, smiling.

Of course I do! said Martin. Please go ahead.

No, it’s fine, said Jack. You first.

Are you sure? Really? Well, if you insist. But I do want to hear all about yours too. Briefly, very briefly, in regards to what Cham mentioned about my recent state of mind, without going into details—although you can read all about it in The New York Times—let’s just say a certain kind of donor, a very influential kind of donor, was very upset with my university about what it was doing, or what it was not doing—who actually cares?—about some two-thousand-year-old fight in the Middle East that is never going to end. The new president was on CNN or testifying before Congress or something and didn’t say whatever she was supposed to say. So just like that, the donor took away his donations. I lost my research chair, my funding, just before I was about to start work on a very big and very important new international project that involves an amazing new telescope in Chile that will study colliding stars and the creation of black holes. But I was suddenly an astronomer with no funding. The most useless person on the planet, maybe! But I have since regained my funding. Sorry. Correction. More funding, in fact, than I’ve ever had!

Congratulations, said Jack. Did you win a new grant?

I’m always winning new grants. Even these days. That’s not what I meant.

Jack nodded and studied his menu. Martin was staring at him. Jack kept studying the menu.

Would you like to know what I meant?

Only if you want to tell me, said Jack.

Martin turned away a carafe of house wine and instead asked for the restaurant’s best bottle of red and best bottle of white.

I really do want to tell you. And maybe get your help with putting together the right team for a very exciting new project.

The Chinese first wrote to him a few days after Martin lost his research chair. He wasn’t sure how they had found him so fast. Was it the press release from the university? Or was it thanks to one of the thin, friendly Jesuit scientists in jeans and utility vests at the research institute who’d listened in silence to his troubles with donors during meals?

Or had the Chinese been watching him the whole time and just been waiting for him to become free? Regardless, they had found him and offered a global research chair, $250,000 a year in salary—on top of the $475,000 he already made at his home university—and whatever he needed for his research, his graduate students, and his postdocs, as long as his home university was willing to receive funds from the Chinese Institute of Science, Technology, and Friendship, which it was not. So-called national security concerns. The Chinese were expecting this, it seemed, because of how quickly they offered an alternative option: keeping his current academic position at an institution in the greater Boston area while running his new research program out of a different university, outside the United States.

Before saying yes, he’d made one request, something that had to be fulfilled before anything else could happen. Martin needed to have sole ownership and continued control over any and all raw data and statistical analysis he had done so far. No one else could see his data. The Chinese didn’t ask why. They just took care of it. He loved the Chinese.

As part of the deal, he was to deliver a public talk once a year at a location of their choosing, consult on future initiatives, and serve as the founding director of a new data science institute in one of several new partner universities in Africa and South Asia. Also, for the rest of his career, in addition to his home institution, he had to list, on all of his publications and grant applications, sponsorship by the Chinese Institute of Science, Technology, and Friendship and affiliation with whichever new partner university he chose.

It was up to him, and Martin chose the university the Chinese had recently taken over in Sri Lanka for the new data science institute. Serendipity. But this wasn’t because of Cham, that sweet, simple undergraduate. No. It was because of Arthur C. Clarke. Martin never questioned his own successes—getting the PhD or becoming the first assistant professor to receive tenure in his department since 1950, or getting a research chair from a billionaire, or getting a full research program from the most powerful country in the world. But he had never imagined getting the chance to do science in Sri Lanka, like his idol.

Serendipity indeed!

Because now it appeared he could. Martin was having lunch with an academic who was friendly to China (Jack knew about baijiu), who appeared to understand something of his research, didn’t seem to like his current university, and, most important, wasn’t a particularly distinguished person in his own field, statistics. This was the very field that Martin needed someone working in, someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions about Martin’s data. The Chinese had agreed to fund an associate director to move to Sri Lanka and lead the new institute, with Martin visiting occasionally. It could definitely be Jack.

While they ate and drank, Martin asked question after question, to learn as much as he could about Jack’s work and about Jack’s understanding of his own work. He was confirming that Jack was the statistician he needed. Martin could no longer conduct statistical analysis on his own, the way he had throughout his career, first cutting corners in small ways when he was an assistant professor who had to teach while trying to keep up with the Germans, and then in larger and larger ways. Everyone in the field had to deal with noise, with varying measurements of the same phenomena. Martin just got rid of more noise than anyone else by filtering it out up front. More than others might consider honest, perhaps. But no one ever asked. The theorists he worked with were always excited to receive his extremely fast and clean findings—excellent fits with their models, again and again!—and they left the data sections of their papers to him to write. He drew on his own findings and always confirmed them, himself.

And now, with the new project, Martin had an idea. Entering this next phase of his career, he wanted to do more than just his usual best-in-class work, running the world’s fastest data pipeline between telescope images and the theorems. However important, it rarely earned him lead author status on papers. His h-index was above 50, but no one except other researchers understood what that said about the volume and influence of his scholarship. Meanwhile, the outside world was already set against him. There was no Nobel Prize for astronomy. And he didn’t need one of those little MacArthur genius grants, thanks to the Chinese. But he could get a star named after him, before he died, couldn’t he? So that he could leave a lasting legacy in this world? But to get into star-naming conversations, he needed to discover things. Which he would, with this new project.

He had an excellent plan.

The amount of data involved with the images that would be captured every day, given this new telescope’s sensitivity to the faintest signals, was far greater than anything else available in the field. So even if you were looking for the celestial events Martin was going to invent and insert in the data, it would be impossible to find them. But no one would ever look. They would just trust what Martin would say he’d discovered, given his reputation. Now he just needed someone who didn’t know much about astronomy but knew enough about statistics to be fed the invented, inserted material and confirm what Martin was planning to discover about colliding neutron stars.

But Jack was not that easy a flunky, it seemed. More than once, Martin said he had a serious research problem and waited for Jack to ask him more, but Jack never did. Nor did Jack say much about what he was working on, himself, these days. That there wasn’t much to learn only made Martin more interested. They had coffee and Amaro and Martin joined the waiter in begging everyone to order dessert.

The girls, bored with the prof talk, said they wanted gelato, knowing it wasn’t on the menu. Quick eye contact, nods, and they got up before either man could say anything, promising to meet at the entrance gate of the research institute in half an hour, for a tour. Jack and Martin stayed where they were. They smiled at each other, feeling overfull and pleasantly cloudy headed. The waiter returned. Jack said he didn’t want dessert. Martin made a pouty face. Jack said he could be persuaded to have another drink.

Martin smiled.

Does that mean you’ll help me with my research problem? It’s a statistics problem that has to do with a recent, exciting career opportunity in international data science. If you get involved, your h-index is going to rise like crazy. Do you want to hear more?

Let’s see their single-malt list first.

Excellent! Are you aware that Arthur C. Clarke did his best work while living in Sri Lanka?

Yes. Already mentioned. Why are you telling me all this?