The Goddess of Small Victories Read Free Page A

prescriptions!”
    “Or an unpublished manuscript, who knows?”
    “We’re unlikely to come across anything fundamental. He lost his bearings somewhat in his last years.”
    “The gropings of a genius still bear a trace of genius.”
    “My dear Anna, in your line of work, romanticism is a mark of amateurishness.”
    His contempt-laced tone of familiarity revolted her. Anna had known Calvin Adams since childhood, but she would never have the right to call him by his first name. Certainly not within the precincts of the Institute. Next he would be patting her on the thigh. And the mention of Gödel’s genius hadn’t been naïve, her fascination with him was genuine. In fifty years the mythical recluse had published little, yet by all accounts he had never stopped working. Why was it unreasonable to expect more from these documents than a daily reckoning? Anna was determined not to be just a go-between. She would get the
Nachlass
and make Calvin Adams choke on his condescension. “Would you happento know anything about bourbon, sir?” A superfluous question for anyone who came in contact with his breath in the morning.
    Early that afternoon, Anna headed back to the retirement home, ready to renew her attack. The duty nurse stopped her short. Mrs. Gödel was undergoing treatment and Anna would have to wait. The young woman made her way to the waiting area and chose a seat where she could see Adele’s door. A woman well over a hundred years old called to her from the end of the hallway. “Did you bring any chocolates?” When Anna said nothing, she vanished.
    Unwilling to become engrossed in her novel lest she miss Adele’s return, Anna found her impatience mounting. When she saw the housekeeper enter the room and leave the door open. Anna seized her chance.
    Acting as though she belonged there, she dropped her coat and purse on a chair and washed her hands at the sink before quietly taking stock of the space. On her first visit, she had been too anxious to notice any details. The walls, painted a bold turquoise, managed to reconcile the dark-oak Formica of the bed and the dirty beige of the roller table. A brand-new armchair, also blue, stood ready to receive visitors, one at a time. She was shocked to find that the only reading material was a worn Bible and a few trivial magazines. She also noticed a few more personal objects: a crocheted bedspread, a pillow slip with a floral motif, and a bedside lamp with glass beads. Through the venetian blinds came a golden light. Everything was neatly in its place. Other than the intrusive presence of medical equipment and the television mounted high on a wall bracket, the room was cozy. Anna would have gladly sipped a cup of hot tea by the window.
    A white plastic radio alarm clock reminded her that the day was shot. The cleaning lady wiped the floor with a damp cloth,then set off to do other chores. On the nightstand were some fusty knickknacks, nothing of any value. Inside a tin whose faded colors announced violet candies from the Café Demel,
Produziert in Österreich
, nothing was left but a few withered, shapeless lumps. Anna set it down in disgust. She lingered over some photographs in tawdry frames. The profile of a very young Adele, her marcelled hair cut short, had a softness that no longer survived. She was pretty, despite the vapid expression that seems to have been required in old studio portraits. She must have been a chestnut blond, but the black-and-white photo resisted too precise a reading. Her eyebrows were darker and drawn with a pencil in the fashion of the times. In a wedding photo, no longer quite so attractive and once more in profile, she had become a platinum blonde. By her side, Mr. Gödel eyed the lens skeptically. A group shot with the Mediterranean in the background showed her, large and ebullient, without her husband.
    “You’re taking an inventory before the auction?”
    Anna cast about for an excuse. She was doing her work, after all. It was her