The Invention of Ana by Mikkel Rosengaard

Author:Mikkel Rosengaard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2018-02-13T05:00:00+00:00

It was shortly after the new year that the story took a new turn. When the dean of the Institute told him the news, Ciprian got up out of his chair so quickly he banged his knee against the desk. He shook the dean’s hand—thank you, thank you, thank you so very much!—and hobbled out of the office, forgetting both his briefcase and jacket in his haste. Here it was at last: his chance, his harvest of righteousness, justice being done. Okay, so perhaps it wasn’t exactly what he’d imagined, but it was a research position nonetheless. Pausing on the landing, he gazed at the portraits of the professors and pictured his future: the untangling of topological problems, the proofs and the theorems, promotions and a corner office, the lectern at mathematical conferences.

When Maria returned from the reading room he’d bought wine and turbot, and an elaborate bouquet of lilies was waiting on the kitchen table.

Oh my goodness, what are we celebrating? she asked.

My new job as a research assistant, he said.

There was a moment’s disbelief, and then she squealed and threw her arms around him. That evening they smoked and drank like kings, and as they lay in bed later, high on wine and sex, Maria said: It doesn’t get better than this, does it?

Nope, he said, and nearly believed it. He blew smoke at her nipple, the right one—the bumpy, raisin-like one he secretly preferred.

What did you say the professor was called, again?

Elena, he said. After all, it was her first name, although nobody ever used it.

Elena. I don’t know her, said Maria, running her fingers through his chest hair. Maybe you could invite her for dinner? Might be nice. Then we can meet each other.

Ciprian wriggled free of her arm and sat up in bed. We’ll have to see about that, he said, stubbing out his cigarette.

Fine, she said. It was only a suggestion.

One week later Ciprian put on his best suit and stood outside the third-floor office, his hands shaking as he waited. She hadn’t arrived yet, but out of the window he saw a white cabriolet enter the parking lot, a rumored gift from the Shah. She swung long legs onto the asphalt, all red jeans and a spotted silk shirt, while a dark-colored Dacia with tinted windows pulled up. Suddenly she was standing in front of him, smiling: Elena Zoia Ceaușescu, the Great Winter Shoemaker’s youngest offspring, and only daughter.

You must be Ciprian? she said, stretching out her hand. I’ve heard very good things about you.

Thank you, Miss Ceaușescu, he said, and had to stop himself from bowing. It’s a great honor.

Please, call me Zoia, she said with a smile. We’re not at a gala.

Sure enough, the dictator’s jet-setting daughter was a mathematician. While Papa Nicolae was busy handling the crisis in Czechoslovakia, Zoia had sneakily done a PhD in mathematics, and having received top marks the whole way through, the obvious next step was to continue down the path of academia. Before the

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