Writer's Competition - Entry No 9

[Juan Aneiros]

The Hidden Variables of René Fabre
By John Farrell

Mr. Bettel lumbered out of his office in the kitchen, greeting René Fabre, as they went to the main dining room of the Docking Bay restaurant. Ito was standing near the windows, looking across Boston harbor. The Japanese chef stood no more than five feet tall with a narrow tapered head.
"Bad storm," he said in his low murmur. "Maybe power failure, maybe worse today. The refrigerators..."
René Fabre stared at the crawling surface of the harbor. Outside, The Continental Congress rocked next to the pier on a steel cradle. The old steamboat was used to store liquor and dry goods for his 50-year-old restaurant. He shrugged as if he didn't care.

René recognized the brown-wrapped package in his secretary's hands. He thanked her, grasped the pile of mail and told her he was not to be disturbed unless Professor Homerford called. Then he went back to his suite.
René peeled the paper wrapping off and examined the binding of the volume. Le Système du Monde by Pierre Duhem. He did not turn when Ito brought up his breakfast. "You find a new book, Mr. Fabre?"
"Volume five. I haven't been able to locate the third. The dealer said he was having trouble with that one. Did you know, Ito, that my great uncle was working outside Paris when he wrote Le Système? Not far from where I was born. All by himself he worked on this. Not even a secretary to help him. I have a secretary but I never went farther than the sixth grade."
"But you give many people work. This good."
René crossed the room to the antique Hepplewhite sideboard and placed volume five of Le Système next to number two.
Ito looked at the ceiling.
René snapped, "Well, what is it?"
"Di potato. I tell Bettel. We need more-"
"Diced potatoes?"
Ito nodded, "Di potato."

Professor Kenneth Homerford arrived before the lower dining room opened for lunch. René found him trying to hide behind the coat rack.
"Is everything all right, professor?"
Homerford gasped when he saw the restaurateur. "Thank God it's you, René. They've been hounding me all morning."
"Who?"
"Reporters. Is there somewhere we can get away from them?"
Even from six feet away, René was struck by the scotch he could smell on his breath.
Homerford featured a substantial paunch underneath the wool turtleneck sweater and corduroy jacket. His hair stood out in several directions. He drew himself up to full height. "I found out last night my nomination to the National Academy of Sciences ... has been rejected."
"That's terrible! No doubt, some oversight-"
"I've been getting nothing but calls since then."
"Let's get you upstairs in my suite-"
Homerford disentangled his arm from the older man's and walked over to the photo display case by the lobster pool.
"You haven't put my picture in here yet," said Homerford, peering at the framed glossies of local politicians and Hollywood celebrities.
"I just had one framed-"
"Which one?"
"The day we met. With the Canadian scholars."
"From McGill? That's good. I still had a beard then."
Homerford turned back to the display case. "Can we have that photo put in today, before the guests arrive?"
"Well, I'll have to remove one of the others-"
"What's this black and white one? With the ragged edges inside the frame?"
"My younger brother. He sent that to me...about five years after I came here."
"Is he also a restaurateur?"
"My brother?" said René. "No. We had a little agreement. I - I had no interest in academics at that time. So it fell upon my brother to go to the lycée, and then to the Ecole Normale....He was killed when the Germans invaded Paris."
Homerford nodded quickly. "Certainly the picture should stay for the duration. I was just thinking about today, you know. Just for the day, mine could go in its place."
René blinked once, took out a small pair of keys and unlocked the door to the display case. He removed the picture of his dead brother and held it close to his chest. Then he picked up the phone at the front desk and barked to his secretary to have Homerford's picture put up.

Homerford pulled off his jacket, ragged turtle-neck and took a virtual bath at René's marble-top sink.
René stood at the sideboard, fingering through pages of his uncle's work. When Homerford settled himself onto the couch with a scotch he said, "What's that? A new antique acquisition?"
René smiled. "In a sense it is an antique. It's out of print. But it's much more personal. I told you before that my great uncle was a physicist at the University of Bordeaux."
Homerford gazed out the window where snow had begun to fill the sky. "Yes, I looked up his name on the database."
René smiled delightedly. "Really? What did you find?"
Homerford chuckled. "Well, the reason he was at the University of Bordeaux-is because they wouldn't allow him into the University of Paris."
René's smile faded.
"In fact, Duhem was one of the few French physicists who held out against Einstein. Not the kind of thing the Paris faculty treated kindly."
René coughed into his hand. "No, I don't suppose it is. Well, most of his work was historical, wasn't it?" He felt himself flush.
Homerford shrugged. "He did some research on medieval science that many historians think valuable, that's true. But the history of science begins with Galileo, René, not some monks at the University of Paris."
René looked at his shoes. "I was the only one in the family, you know, who didn't go to the lycée. Came here from Cabrespine to work..." He trailed off because he thought Homerford was actually becoming interested in one of the volumes. He reached a hand out to pull one away from the face of the Hepplewhite.
"How much did this sideboard cost? My wife would love one of these."
René felt the veins in his temple bulge. "Fifteen-hundred. I bought it after I opened the Pequod in Gloucester."
"Well, your family shouldn't be ashamed of that."
"Why don't you have another drink and I'll make sure everything's set." René handed the Johnny Walker to Homerford and left.

The wind was rattling the large window by the patio entrance. A bus pulled up in the parking lot and René hurried the attendants to usher the guests into the foyer.
Homerford sauntered down to the Standish Room. If he'd expected tough questions from the press, he got worse ones from his colleagues.
"Well, there you are, Homerford..." René instinctively recoiled from the loudest, a fiftyish-looking man with a ponytail. He wore a suit jacket over a ratty shirt with blue jeans and moccasins.
"Still moping? There's nothing unreasonable about expecting members of the Academy to contribute a significant research paper to their field. Fund-raising and promotional writing isn't the same thing, you know."
Homerford acted as though he didn't hear the words, but René could see him turning red as he lead everyone to their tables.
René made himself busy, checking names and hurrying the water boys around to each table. He felt the looming presence of Bettel at his side. "Mr. Fabre, I think maybe we want to send some of the waitresses home. The storm is getting worse."

René hung back in the doorway, never moving during the dinner. He watched Homerford rocking back and forth in his seat at the head table; the professor must have had three more scotches since he sat down.
Ito and Bettel watched René in the meantime as they served the plates. In spite of all his hard work, René felt left out. At last he asked the wine steward to bring him a glass of chablis and withdrew to his suite.
It wasn't until he had taken off his jacket that he noticed one of his great-uncle's volumes was missing. The text to Homerford's speech was still sitting on the coffee table.
René seized the papers and darted back downstairs.
The professor had already risen to the lectern. René could see Homerford playfully standing the volume up on its side, with the cover open to hold it up next to the microphone.
He's going to humiliate me