Source of the Cipher
A Mathematical Romance
By Nathaniel Hellerstein
1. Portrait of a Goddess
2. Behold the Woman
3. Rug Dealers
4. Computer’s Delight
5. Nothing To It
6. Much Ado
7. Her Life Justified
1. Portrait of a Goddess
“He is not... to be trusted... Your Highness,” the vizier
panted. He scurried to keep up with Prince Rahni. “His offer... sounds fine...
but you know... Arabian... rug dealers...”
Prince Rahni slowed down, stopped
walking, and furrowed his brow.
“Well...” he said, “In fact, I don't know. How must I deal with him?”
The vizier caught up with the
Prince, then paused to huff and puff while the Prince looked down at him
genially. Once he caught his breath, the vizier looked left, then right. In the
banquet hall at the near end of the corridor, serving-girls were preparing the
welcoming feast; and at the far end of the corridor, daylight gleamed. In the
middle of the corridor, a washerwoman was busy scrubbing a statue.
Nobody of consequence was present,
so the vizier spoke plainly. “Be exacting, Your Highness! Be specific and
precise! Demand a full accounting of every rug he gives us, every spool of
thread we give him! No fiber without fabric! No credits, no guesses! If he
gives money, make sure that it's coin, not paper! If he gives coin, make sure
it's gold and silver, not copper, nor base metal! Don't repeat previous mistakes! Not that Your
Highness would ever make a mistake...”
“No, of course I wouldn't,” Prince
Rahni agreed.
“... but above all, remember that
business is business! May the buyer beware!”
“Business is business, may the buyer
beware,” Prince Rahni agreed, and he lurched into motion. To match his long
stride, the vizier had to start trotting again.
“If I may make... another
suggestion... Your Highness...” he managed to gasp.
“And that might be?”
“Show off... the hot spices... after...
the flowering tops...”
They turned a corner and disappeared
from view. Prince Rhani’s stride sounded a stately klop, klop, klop, klop, and
the vizier’s trot went toc-toc-toc-toc-toc-toc. These sounds slowly faded into
the distance.
The washerwoman kept scrubbing. Of
course she overheard every word; how could she not? The West Corridor's
acoustics were superb, as were the twelve devotional statues that the
washerwoman was supposed to clean. The washerwoman had often noticed such
conversations, but had never been noticed noticing them. This suited her fine;
she was glad that her husband got all the public scrutiny, and not her.
She wrung grey water out her
cleaning rag, picked up her bucket, and moved on to the next statue. From down
the hall sounded another pair of footfalls; tic-tic-tic-tic-tic-tic alongside
thud, thud, thud. The washerwoman recognized the former as the Lady Nan-See and
the latter as her man-servant. The washerwoman quickly got down on her knees
and started swabbing the statue’s toes with extreme care. The job needed to be
done, and besides it was always prudent to stay out of the caustic Lady
Nan-See’s sight.
Thud, thud, thud,
tic-tic-tic-tic-tic-tic, closer and closer. The washerwoman scrubbed industriously. Suddenly - O terror!
- they stopped, just yards away!
The Lady Nan-See snapped her fan
shut and said, “Filthy!”
Her man-servant rumbled, “No doubt
they will all be cleaned soon.”
“Yes, clean soon; so I order! But it
not matter. All twelve statues, West Corridor, filthy whether clean or not!”
“I do not understand, Your
Ladyship.”
“Women! Men! Naked, doing dirty
things!” Nan-See snapped her fan open and fanned herself rapidly. “Oh why I
leave Middle Kingdom?” she asked the air, not for the first time. “Why leave
center of world, go marry outer barbarian prince with palaceful smutty goddess
statues? Like these twelve! Miss January! Miss February! Miss March and
boyfriend! Down to Miss December!”
Her man-servant said, “Actually,
these divinities are named...”
“I not care!” Nan-See snapped. “Twelve
statues, so I say twelve months! But Prince like them, so they stay. So be it!
And so very much like him!”
“I do not understand, Your
Ladyship.”
“Soon he just like his father!
Senile, drooling, incontinent, forget names, faces, everything! Each day he
grow more stupid!” Lady Nan-See snapped her fan shut. “But then I there for
him. Protect him, guide him.”
“A glorious prospect, O Lady!”
The Lady Nan-See turned a gimlet eye
on the washerwoman. “You! Girl! Up!”
The washerwoman scrambled to her
feet, her heart pounding. Grey water streamed out of the rag squeezed tightly
in her clenched hand.
Nan-See looked at the washerwoman,
then at the statue she had been working on. “Good,” she said; to the statue,
not to the woman. Then Lady Nan-See wheeled right and set off down the
corridor. Her manservant followed. Their
fading footfalls went tic-tic-tic-tic-tic, thud, thud, thud.
Immensely relieved, the washerwoman
returned to her labor; which was after all far less tiring than these meetings
with the management. She scrubbed, she scrubbed, and she scrubbed. It was
relaxing activity, vigorous yet contemplative, and therefore its own reward,
unlike the maneuverings she constantly overheard in Prince Rahni’s corridors.
Another pair of footfalls
approached; clipity-clipity-clipity-clipity. Girl’s laughter wafted down the
corridor.
“... so dreamy,” said one
serving-girl. “Handsome, brilliant...”
“Married,” the other added.
“Besides, he’s just a computer.”
“Well, somebody has to compute the
Prince’s wealth! And he’s a Brahmin!”
“A very poor Brahmin,” the other
added. “Still, he is good at sums...”
“And still,” sighed the other, “he is
married... to... uh... what’s her name?”
“Namagiri.”
“That’s it; Namagiri! Why is a catch
like Ramanujan married to such a nobody? What does he see in her?”
“She’s named for a lioness, yet
she’s such a mouse!” the other added cattily.
Girl’s laughter echoed down the
corridor. Clipity clipity clipity clipity.
Namagiri the washerwoman (for it was
she) was quietly amused by the serving-girls’ gibes; for she had often
overheard others call those two far worse names. They had not noticed her
because she had been scrubbing Miss November’s back.
Eleven statues done; and now for the
last. Namagiri stood up, wrung out her washrag, put hands on hips, and
inspected the last statue. The Lady Nan-See had sarcastically called it “Miss
December”; but its real name was -
“Namagiri! There you are!” yelled
Ramanujan from down the hall.
Him? Here? Now? Just what she was
dreading! For the goddess was far better looking than she was, and she hated to
be bested in front of her husband.
When he arrived he said, “But what
is the matter, my dear?”
“That statue,” she said. “Namagiri;
consort of the lion god.”
Ramanujan looked at the statue named
Namagiri. Then he looked at the woman named Namagiri. Then the statue, then the
woman, then the statue, then the woman. He gestured toward the statue and said,
“That is not a goddess.”
Then he embraced his wife, and they
kissed. This took awhile.
But alas, when they came up for air
he broke the mood by saying with utter seriousness, “It is a portrait of
a goddess.”
She laughed, then pushed him away.
“Be off now, you oh-so-logical computer! Go change clothes; you've been kissing
the washerwoman!”
“And am I not allowed to kiss the
washerwoman, if she happens to be my wife?”
“And then go see Prince and Sheik
all rumpled and damp? Nonsense! Go change into something decent for our guest!
Go! Go, go!” She shooed him away.
Namagiri watched Ramanujan walk all
the way down the corridor. When he finally turned from view, Namagiri faced her
namesake statue and said, “All right, goddess, it's time for your bath!” And
she set to it with a will.
Soon enough the job was done. Namagiri
set down the bucket and wiped her brow. Then she spoke to the statue. “Tell me,
Namagiri, what's it all coming to? All these plots and schemes... why? What
for? What will they accomplish?”
The woman listened intently.
No reply. In the near distance
servants bustled. In the further distance a bird sang, wagons clattered, wind
rustled through trees. Beyond the sounds... silence.
Namagiri smiled. “Thank you, dear
namesake. I agree.”
Then she picked up the bucket and
trudged down the hall. The East Corridor awaited, and woman's work is never
done.
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