The Last Theorem - Arthur Charles Clarke [101]
Ranjit, having no better idea of his own, did. He did the Russian multiplication and the finger-counting and the one where he wrote down the heads-tails permutations of a row of coins of unknown length—he used actual coins, and let the students blindfold him while someone covered up a part of the row. Myra had been right. The students were amused. One or two of them begged for more, which sent Ranjit to the library’s stacks, where he found an ancient copy of a Martin Gardner book on mathematical games and puzzles, and so he got through the six weeks of the seminar unscathed.
Or so he thought.
Then Dr. Davoodbhoy invited him to drop by for a chat. “I hope you won’t mind, Ranjit,” he said, pouring them each a stemmed glass of sherry, “but now and then, especially when we’re trying something new, we ask the students themselves for comments. I’ve just been going over the comment sheets on your seminar.”
“Huh,” said Ranjit. “I hope they’re all right.”
The provost sighed. “Not entirely, I’m afraid,” he said.
Indeed they were not entirely all right, Ranjit admitted that night at dinner. “Some of them said I was giving them nightclub magician tricks instead of math,” he told his wife and Mevrouw. “And nearly all of them didn’t like being taught right out of the book.”
“But I thought they enjoyed the tricks,” Mevrouw Vorhulst said, frowning.
“I suppose they did—in a way—but they said it wasn’t what they had signed up for.” He moodily peeled an orange. “I guess it wasn’t, either. I just don’t know what they want.”
Myra patted his hand, accepting an orange wedge. “Well,” she said, “that’s why you did this seminar, isn’t it? To see if this format would work? And apparently it didn’t, so now you’ll try something else.” She wiped the orange juice from her lips, leaned forward, kissed the top of his head. “So let’s give Tashy her bath, and then you and I can go for a swim in the pool to cheer ourselves up.”
All of which they did. It did cheer them up, too. When you came right down to it, just about everything about living in the Vorhulst household was cheering. The staff was visibly proud of their distinguished guests and, of course, quite infatuated with Natasha as well. True, Myra was still spending an hour or two most days searching for a flat for the three of them to move into, but no such flat appeared. Some seemed promising at first encounter, but Mevrouw Vorhulst helpfully pointed out the hidden flaws: bad neighborhood, long commute to the university, rooms that were tiny or dark or both. Oh, there were a thousand flaws a flat might have that would make it wrong for the Subramanians, and Beatrix Vorhulst was assiduous at finding them. “Of course,” Myra told her husband in one night’s pillow talk, “she really just wants us to stay, you know. With Joris away I think she’s lonely.”
Ranjit drowsily said, “Huh.” Then, yawning, “You know, there could be worse things than just staying here.”
Which was inarguably true. Chez Vorhulst their every need was met without effort on their part, and the price was certainly right. Ranjit had pleaded to be allowed to reimburse the Vorhulst family for at least the out-of-pocket expenses involved in housing them. Mevrouw declined. Declined affectionately and fondly, but definitely declined. “Oh, well,” Ranjit said to Myra as they lounged beside the pool that evening. “If it gives her pleasure to spoil us rotten, why should we deprive her?”
If Ranjit had a wish, it was that the outside world would be as pleasing. It wasn’t. The example of Korea notwithstanding, the globe of Earth was still pockmarked with small wars and acts of violence. There had been a sort of hiccupy pause right after Silent Thunder, while combatants worldwide hesitated in case they were next. They weren’t. Silent Thunder was not immediately repeated, and within a month the guns and the bombs outside North Korea were back to normal.
From time to time Ranjit wished that Gamini Bandara might drop by to give him