Short Fiction

Einstein's Eyes by David Boyne ©1997 All rights reserved

I

It was sunset when we opened the front door of the rambling, grey shingled mansion on Block Island.

Sheldon sneezed. "Smells musty."

I said, "Smells like wet dog."

"Neither," Dixon said. "Smells like money."

The house, worth several million dollars, and the German car in the garage that cost more than I would make in a year if I ever did become a Professor of Physics, belonged to Charles. Charles—brightest star in the University's physics department, heir to a fortune amassed by three generations of dour New England merchants— and mentor to the three ragged, under-grad science majors sniffing the stale air of his island estate.

I pushed past Dixon and Sheldon.

"What's the hurry, Greta?"

"I need aspirin." I had a pounding headache from the throbbing, diesel-fumed ferry ride from the mainland. As I went through the house I opened every window I saw. On the second floor, I found a bathroom and aspirin.

When I went to the kitchen, I found Sheldon, looking anemic inside his bright floral shirt. I tossed him the bottle of aspirin and watched him down two pills with three glasses of water. "I'm dehydrated," he explained.

We found Dixon in the huge library, pawing over Charles' expensive bric-a-brac and memorabilia, snorting out loud when he found a picture of Charles and the President of the United States. "Ten bucks to the first one who finds a photo of Charles with the Pope!"

When Dixon came to the fully stocked wet bar near the ornate fireplace, he poured three tumblers of scotch.

I said, "Not for me."

Dixon grinned. "Still a little queasy, Greta?" He poured my glass into his. "I'll drink for you until you're ready." He handed the third tumbler to Sheldon.

"I don't like scotch," Sheldon said, even as he took the glass and began sipping.



II

It was dark in the library by the time Dixon stood, waved his third glass of scotch, almost knocking over what was probably a genuine Tiffany lamp, and bellowed, "Show some chutzpah! Admit it: you ain't never gonna be a Big Man in Science!"

Sheldon blew his nose, folded his handkerchief. "Many so-called Big Men in Science were the beneficiaries of fortuitous—"

"I'm right," Dixon sneered. "And you know I'm right, you skinny white lab rat."

Dixon turned to me. "Tell him, Greta. Tell Sheldon that we're all measly, petty, trivial, unimportant."

"But you say it so well, Dixon. With such conviction."

Sheldon laughed, practically gargling his mouthful of scotch.

I sighed. "Aren't we a picture. Three surly scientists, has-beens at the tender age of twenty-one. Not even in grad school yet. Lighten up, you guys. We're supposed to be on vacation."

"Vacation from what, Greta?" Dixon asked. "Don't we have to do some real work first? Working with Charles, doing his menial research, counting his goddamn glial cells, is nothing more than ritualized ass-kissing. Christ, by our age, even Einstein the Over-Rated was doing real work. And that was based on ideas he'd had when a damn teenager, for chrissakes."

"Don't start on Einstein," I warned.

"Herr Einstein is Greta's patron saint," Sheldon said.

Dixon bowed. "With all due respect, Einstein is a fine example of my point. He was a Big Man by the age of twenty-six. Twenty-six! Didn't matter that he blew the rest of his life chasing simple-minded—"

"You should be so simple-minded," I said.

Dixon laughed, delighted that I'd risen to his baiting.

"Einstein was more than a great scientist," I said, taking a deep breath. "He was a great humanitarian, a citizen of the world."

Dixon belched.

Sheldon said, "Maybe Dix is right, Greta. Maybe the three of us are mediocrities. I don’t see anyone of us on the path to something like the Theory of Relativity in the next four years."

"You know I'm right." Dixon said. "Everyone knows it: our professors, our peers, who by the way, are our professors and our peers precisely because they are as mediocre as us."

"As we," Sheldon corrected.

"Take a flying fuck at a dangling participle, lab rat." Dixon smiled as he poured more scotch in his and Sheldon's glasses, then he said, "I propose a toast. Here's to Charles the Great: May he take a—"

"Not Charles," I said. "That would be gross ingratitude. And not Einstein. He's my hero."

"What a poor choice of heroes! The man was too dense to see quantum—"

"Dixon, shut up."

"How about Feynman?" Sheldon suggested. "Might we agree to despise him?"

"No," Dixon said. "He had a sense of humor."

"He sure did," I said. "And he was cute."

"Cute? Interesting criterion." Sheldon wiped his nose. "I must be allergic to something on this island."

"That shirt," I said.

"Einstein!" Dixon interrupted, standing. "We must drink to Einstein."

Sheldon stood. "What the hell."

"Well, Greta?"

"I would never have chosen to become a scientist, Dixon, if it wasn't for Einstein. I mean, for reading about him when I was six."

Sheldon urged, "We're drinking to Albert, Greta. Not against him."

"Then okay." I stood. Dixon poured an inch of scotch for me, grinning as I took the glass.

Straight-faced, he said, "We humbly toast Albert Einstein."

I raised my glass.

Dixon smirked. "May Saint Albert take a flying fuck at the rings of Saturn."

They drank; I sat down.

I stared down at the scotch in my glass. "You guys depress me."

"What depresses you, Greta," Dixon said, "Is knowing that the level of our own incompetence is not very high up."

There was a long silence, which I finally broke by mumbling, "Hi. My name is Greta. And I'm a mediocrity."

I drank the scotch.



III

An hour later, I had stopped drinking, but Dixon and Sheldon hadn't. I suspect it was an urge to impress Dixon that caused Sheldon to blurt out, "Have I told you guys about Charles' new acquisition?"

I put down the book I was scanning, a first edition of Rand Mason's, The Quanta Legacy. "Tell us, Sheldon."

Sheldon stood, wobbling around a tiny axis. "He paid big money for it. Big money for it. It's the jewel of his collection. The jewel."

"I've heard rumors of Charles' collection," I said. "I figured it was just vicious gossip."

Sheldon leaned over me. "You wouldn't believe. Would not believe."

"Tell us," Dixon ordered.

"Tell us," I echoed. "We're scientists, Sheldon. We're wonderfully gullible."

"Charles showed me his whole collection. During winter break. I spent a weekend with him. Here."

Dixon was apoplectic. "What? You what? You spent—Charles invited—you?"

Sheldon loved it; he prolonged his moment of ascendancy. "You'll never guess what Charles—"

"That's right, Sheldon!" Dixon grabbed a fistful of Sheldon's obnoxious shirt. "We won't guess. Tell us."

Sheldon whimpered, "Let go. Let go. I'll show you."



IV

Sheldon switched on the lights in the large, oak paneled basement. "Welcome to the morgue."

I stared at the rows of glass cases displaying Charles' collection. On shelves inside the glass cases were dozens of large jars. Inside the jars were human brains; most were whole, but many were only pieces.

I muttered, "Our mentor is a very strange man."

"Every brain is that of a scientist," Sheldon intoned like a museum guide. "Many were Charles' colleagues."

"How does he persuade them?" I wondered aloud.

"Come off it, Greta," Dixon said. "He probably pays them. What do they need their brains for when they're dead?"

Dixon opened the sliding door of a glass case and lifted a jar. According to an engraved sign affixed to the jar, the thing suspended in clear liquid, looking like a slice of pinkish-gray pate, was a section of Albert Einstein's brain.

Dixon deliberately slurred, "I'd rather have a bottle in front of me, than a frontal lobotomy."

"Ha, ha."

"Put it back on the shelf, Dix. If you drop it—"

"Relax, Sheldon." Dixon replaced the jar. "Do you guys know, the quack who did the autopsy on Herr Einstein sent slivers of the Big Man's brain all over the world?"

"Have you been reading National Enquirer again, Dix?"

Dixon ignored me. "Yes, sir. Mail order yourself a slice-o-genius. I hear China, even head-up-its-butt Communist China, has some of 'ol Albert in a jar."

Sheldon asked, "You guys want to see the new acquisition or not? It's over here."

We followed Sheldon to the end of the glass cases. He moved a small Matisse-like painting from above an antique rolltop desk.

Dixon was impressed. "A wall safe?"

"I know the combination," Sheldon said. He also knew how jealous this fact would make Dixon. "Charles entrusted it to me. He told me to check the fluid level of the new acquisition."

"Exactly who is this new acquisition?" I asked. "Anyone we might know?"

Sheldon only chuckled. He opened the safe door. He removed a large jar from the safe. He set it on the desk, and snapped on the desk lamp. Suppressing a giggle, he said, "Feast your eyes."

Inside the jar, floating in clear, viscous liquid, was a pair of human eyes.

"It's a whole visual cortex." Dixon whispered.

"Whose eyes, Sheldon?" I asked.

"Albert Einstein's."

The word came from me in a hoarse whisper, "No!"

"Yes."

Dixon was practical. "Why are they tied together like that?"

"That was Charles' idea," Sheldon said. "He wanted to look eye-to-eye with Albert. He tied them, used surgical tape or something, so they'd float parallel. He told me when he's stuck on a problem he comes down here and meditates while staring into Einstein's eyes."

"Charles is disturbed," I said.

Dixon chuckled. "Can you just imagine the autopsy?"

"The autopsy?"

As Sheldon and I watched, Dixon acted out his fantasy of Einstein's autopsy.

'Excuse me, old boy. Couldn't help but notice. Is that Einstein you're working on?

'Why, yes, it is indeed.'

'Jolly! Might I have a look? I'm Board Certified and the family's personal ophthalmologist, you know.'

'But of course. I was just about to scoop out the Great Man's brain. Scientific interest, you understand.'

'Oh, quite. Quite.'

'Thought I'd pickle it, send slices to brother quacks all over the world. Free of charge, of course. Nothing mercenary about it, you understand.'

'Absolutely! Yes. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't mind removing those famous oglers of the old boy's. What do you think?'

'Oh, do! Be my guest. Here, use my scissors and forceps. Have a go, old boy!'

We were all laughing hysterically when the phone on Charles' desk rang.

We shut up instantly. After the second ring, Dixon hissed at Sheldon, "Answer it!"

Sheldon cleared his throat and picked up the phone.

Dixon took the opportunity to grab the jar from him.

Sheldon covered the phone with one hand. "Be careful!"

Dixon ignored him, and held the jar in front of me. "Meet your patron saint, Greta."

I stared at the eyes drifting in the viscous solution, and they stared back, yet, beyond. I could not look away.

Sheldon hung up the phone. "That was Professor Roth. You know, head geek in the History Department? He's having a big party. Charles told him we’d be here on the island, so he’s inviting us."

I said nothing, entranced by the large, floating eyes.

"Good papa Charles," Dixon said. "Always looking out for his three kiddies. I could do with a big loud party."

"Well," Sheldon said, taking the jar from Dixon. "Professor Roth invited the three of us."

Dixon grabbed the jar back. The solution slopped against the sealed top, but the cadaveric eyes only bobbed serenely. "Correction, Sheldon. He invited the four of us."

V

Dixon drove. Sheldon rode in the back, a beach towel wrapped around the big jar cradled on his lap. He kept telling Dix to slow down on corners. I rode up front, happy to be outside in the warm night.

We found the correct unpaved road; it was lined with expensive cars parked half in the tall grass. Dixon snugged Charles' big car between a pair of white Land Rovers.

We walked along the dirt road to the base of a big hill. There, we stopped and gawked. Batteries of lights on tall poles around a tennis court and a swimming pool illuminated acres of perfect lawn. A giant house covered the top of the hill.

"Money," Dixon said.

"What happens when an architect runs amok," I said.

"Too many people," Sheldon said. "Let's not go."

Raucous sounds from the party carried to where we stood. There were several hundred people; we saw them in the house's many large, oddly shaped windows, and milling on the lawns, swimming in the pool, dancing on the tennis courts to a live band and eating at candle-lit tables under circus-sized canopies.

Dixon said, "I loathe rich people. I always have."

I said, "Maybe Jay Gatsby is there."

Sheldon said, "I'm nervous. Charles paid a lot of money for...these." He hefted the towel-wrapped jar.

I patted his cheek. "Don't worry, Sheldon. I'll look out for Albert."



VI

At the party Dixon and Sheldon, already drunk, proceeded to get drunker. In his urgency not to lisp or slur, Dixon was quite amusing; his speech became so fast, so antic, the slurring seemed part of the act. Sheldon laughed at, agreed with, and admired everything Dixon said or did.

Every ten seconds someone came up and asked Dixon what he was carrying in the towel.

Dixon always answered, "I'd love to show you. But the unveiling is intended as a gift for our hosts. If you see them, send them over."

Bored with the whole adolescent prank, I wandered off on my own. The big jazz band on the tennis courts bopped out versions of Gershwin and Berlin and Porter. I rejected three young, tanned, over-dressed men who asked me to dance. I danced alone, my sneakers chirping on the green surface of the court. Maybe it was the lingering effect of the scotch I had drunk that made all the faces of the dancers around me seem to be made of liquid. I had an urge to walk away, to go to the rocky cliffs, scramble down to the beach, and spend my evening alone, staring at the moonlight on the ocean.

The trouble began when I caught sight of Dixon and Sheldon, eating barbecued chicken at one of the tables on the lawn just beyond the tennis courts. Moving toward them, I saw Professor Roth and his wife.

I reached the table just as Mrs. Roth got down to business. "I must tell you, whatever you are carrying wrapped in that towel has become the talk of the party."

"Really?" Dixon's deadpan was quite good.

People began hovering near our little group, listening and watching.

"Yes, really," Professor Roth echoed his wife, confident in his authority, letting a note of impatience influence his tone.

I couldn't resist stirring the action. "What is it you have in that towel, Dixon?"

"A friend, Greta."

I grinned, happy to play straight man. "A friend? Whatever do you mean?"

Mrs. Roth asked, "Do you mean, someone's ashes?"

"Not a bad guess," Dixon said. "Very close to the mark. Bodily remains, but of a different sort."

Professor Roth coaxed, "Now, I know you boys are up to some interesting things over in the science buildings, but you're not carrying around some weird genetically engineered critter, are you?"

There was a beat of silence. Then Dixon and Sheldon were laughing, too loud. Professor Roth joined in the laughter, surprised to have made a good joke. Mrs. Roth held onto her husband's arm, smiling, showing a straight edge of tiny, expertly whitened and bonded teeth.

Dixon stood, speaking in a way that included the circle of onlookers. "Well, you see, Professor Roth, we've taken the liberty of bringing along a revered elder. He doesn't get out much. In fact, he's been...bottled up."

Dixon unwrapped the towel and held the jar in front of our hosts.

"Is that—are those—" Mrs. Roth wrinkled her nose and went no further.

Her husband was braver. "Eyes? Human...aren't they?"

"Yes," Dixon said. "Dem dere is eyes! Human. And a fine set, too, don't you agree? In fact, a matchless set."

Mrs. Roth, her nose still wrinkled, asked, "Why?" And, for some reason, looked straight at me.

"Not your ordinary garden variety eyes," Dixon assured her. "These eyes are famous. Look closely. See if you can tell whose—"

"Really, that's not necessary!" Professor Roth stiffened, but people were pressing close, intrigued and excited, so he said no more.

The band finished a tango and the only noise now came from the crowd buzzing around us. Dixon, more drunk than I had realized, began impersonating a sleazy carnival barker on amphetamines. "Step right up ladies and germs! Take a guess and win a prize. Yes, sir! The first gent or lady to guess the name of the o-rig-i-nal owner of this handsome pair of peepers, these fine oglers, gorgeous gawkers, these wondrous windows on the soul— will win ten dollars!"

Our hosts stared at Dixon as if he were a lunatic. It was exquisite.

Dixon climbed on a chair. "Did I say ten dollars? Why, bless my miserly heart! I meant to say one hundred dollars! A big fat c-note to anyone who can guess whose pickled eyes are bobbing in this jar of secret solution!"

There was laughter; names were shouted, including politicians, criminals, movie stars and athletes. It was probably someone from the English department who shouted Oedipus, but not one scientist was named. Dixon waved the jar above their heads and urged the crowd on, "People! People, please! Elevate yourselves! Here's a clue: think of Big Men in Science!"

Some woman shrieked, "Nostradamus!"

Dixon was furious. He slapped his own forehead and roared, "No, you dumb broad! Try: Al-bert Fuck-ing Ein-stein!"

There was a stretched moment of silence. I had time to realize how much I regretted not having gone for my walk along the cliffs. The next moment the crowd surged forward. Dixon's chair wobbled. He fell, or jumped, into the crowd.

Sheldon screamed, "Don't drop the eyes!" Then he plowed into the back of the mob.

One man bellowed like a bull trader on the floor of a stock exchange, "Fifty thousand for them!"

A woman sang in piercing soprano, "One hundred thousand! One hundred thousand!"

The band began a loud rendition of Fly Me To The Moon.

Someone stepped on my sneakers. I shoved them off. Someone screamed an obscenity in my ear. I rammed my elbow in a soft belly. I couldn't see Dixon or Sheldon, but when I was spun around by the crowd, I saw Professor Roth pressing a handkerchief to his wife's nose, the handkerchief red with blood. I lowered my head, covered my face with my hands, and began pushing out from the press of bodies, clearing a path by stomping on any barefoot or sandal or white buckskin shoe that got in my way.



VII

I stumbled across the lawn, having sustained nothing worse than an elbow in my left eye and a fingernail dragged down my right forearm. I passed the swimming pool as swimmers pulled themselves out of the water and loungers got up from their chairs, walked, then sprinted toward the ruckus at the tennis courts. A stunned bartender, watching the departing bathers, held an unopened bottle of champagne.

"How thoughtful," I said, and took the bottle. I popped the cork; it arced over the blue-green lawn, under the bright light. Cold wine foamed over my hands.

Recovering his professionalism, the bartender offered me a glass. I declined, and drank from the bottle.

He asked, "What's happening down there?"

I took another gulp of the frothy wine, then told him. "Albert Einstein's come back from the dead."

The bartender hesitated, then ran toward the tennis courts.

I laughed and licked my sticky fingers, chugged from the bottle, and considered taking that long hike on the bluffs. I imagined myself, pleasantly drunk on champagne, savoring the moon's vanilla reflection on the licorice-black ocean, granting any thought that dared to approach, free passage through my reverie. I raised my bottle and made a solemn pledge, "I promise to find a room, in some cozy bed and breakfast or some flea-bag motel, and spend the rest of my vacation blessedly alone!"

Right after I sealed my pledge with a long drink from the bottle, I saw the mob. At first, I didn't know what I was looking at. Then everything took shape. Streaming out from the tennis courts and across the lawn, hundreds of people were chasing two dark figures: Sheldon and Dixon.

I called out, "Dix! Sheldon! Over here!"

Instantly, Dixon turned toward me, and the mob followed. I heard Sheldon scream, "They're going to catch me!"

I saw Dixon stop, then run toward Sheldon. Just as the mob overtook Sheldon, he lobbed the jar to Dixon. Dixon ran toward me.

The mob swarmed over Sheldon, hesitated, but did not stop. They charged after Dixon.

With a burst of energy, Dixon came up the hill. I could hear his grunting breaths even before I could see his face. "Greta! Start running!"

I said something suitably inane and frightened, like, "Oh, my god!" and started running, half-turned backward, toward Dixon.

The next moment, the edge of the mob had caught up to Dixon. Just as hands grabbed his shirt, his hair, his leg, his neck, he launched the jar toward me.

It sailed up in a high arc, lights glinting from its glass at the apex, then it was coming down. I stood, watched it fall, thought how like a capsule reentering the earth's atmosphere it appeared, then caught it with both hands, taking the impact with my chest.

For the briefest moment, I was stunned, standing still, and facing the mob. I heard a young male voice scream, "She's got the eyes!"

I turned and ran.

VIII

With that decision, that instinctive choice of flight over fight, having never considered the possibility of surrender, everything in my life came together in one magnificent athletic expenditure of energy.

As I ran I noticed how fresh and damp the air was with the smell of ocean. Why hadn't I noticed this earlier? I ran, for a long moment blinded from the darkness, and then the moon smoothly slid out from behind a bank of clouds, illuminating my getaway path. Oddly, I thought how the sneakers I wore, the most recent pair in a succession of expensive runner's shoes I had worn since I was twelve, were for the first time ever, being used to run!

I tucked the big jar in the crook of one arm, as I'd seen football players do, and ran faster. It seemed only a moment before I was across the lawn, and into a wood of widely spaced, stunted trees. I found a thin ribbon of path on the very edge of the bluff. Small stones spit out from under my shoes as I sprinted. I leaped over a fallen branch, holding the jar ahead of me. I wanted to laugh aloud, but I was straining to suck air into my heaving lungs. My body moved instinctively, faster than my brain could have consciously instructed it. My thoughts drifted into a memory of some long-forgotten short story I'd read in high school, about a middle-aged jock who caught an eighty yard pass when he was twenty and couldn't stop reliving the moment. I wanted to yell: I understand! I understand! Even as I ran, I started to cry, overwhelmed by a preposterous compassion for that fictitious dumb jock.

Then I sensed someone was getting close to me. I glanced over my shoulder. He was my age, dressed in a dark polo shirt and khaki slacks. He was going to catch me. I did not panic. I stopped, and faced him. He stopped. Panting lightly, he was about to say something. I kicked him in the groin.

I sang, "Surprise, surprise!" Then turned and ran.

One man in the group still chasing me gasped, "Did you see that!"

I ran harder, delighted by the note of fear in his voice. Fifty yards ahead, along the twisting path on the very rim of the bluffs, I saw an outcropping of rock and scrubby trees. My sides ached. I knew I wouldn't last much longer. I stumbled, whacked my knee on something, but held the jar tight. I regained my footing, thinking that falling off the cliff would make the obituary of my short and unspectacular life truly ridiculous.

Then something wonderful happened. A wave of calm, confident power swept up within me. I knew what it was; I had experienced such astounding surges of energy several times, but always intellectually, when studying hard for exams or intuitively grasping the solution to a complex calculation. But now I was experiencing the mysterious Second Wind physically.

I was inspired. I heard myself yelling some strange, inarticulate sound of triumph. I out-ran all my pursuers.

IX

When I stopped running I was in a woods, maybe three miles from the start of my mad dash.

In a precious euphoria, I dropped carefully to my knees, protecting the jar. I fumbled to open the metal clamp. There was a pop of escaping air.

I reached into the solution, and grasped the eyes. They slid through my shaking fingers.

I wedged both hands into the jar, hoisted the slimy eyes, and stood. I should have been breathing like a horse having a heart attack. I wasn't. I walked out of the woods and down to the beach, every muscle in my legs quivering, but my steps sure.

I sat in the surf. The cold ocean rushed over the hot skin of my legs. I held the eyes high, the warm, viscous fluid from them streaming down my arms. I stared at the dark parts of the sky and chanted softly, "Starry, starry night. Starry, starry, night."

I don't know why.

Then I started talking to Albert Einstein. I talked for a long, long time. I held his gaze, and confessed every weakness of character I was cursed with. I even admitted to a handful of virtues. Einstein understood. Einstein accepted. Einstein liked me.

Finally, shivering with a cold fatigue, I stood. I stretched to loosen my stiffened muscles. Then, cupping the eyes in both hands, I spun around like an Olympic hammer thrower.

And flung the eyes into the dark sky above the black ocean.

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