The Time Roads

In truth, Síomón wanted nothing more than to retreat to his own rooms, but he suspected his friends would not allow it. He politely smiled. “Certainly, sir.”

“We’ll come by later,” Susanna told him.

Síomón followed Ó Dónaill into the faculty quadrant, which proved to be nearly empty, and into the building occupied by the mathematics professors. Ó Dónaill ushered Síomón inside his office, then shut the door and turned the lock.

“I heard what happened with you and De Mora,” Ó Dónaill said. “Terrible shock. Terrible. Come, sit.” He indicated a chair in the corner.

Ó Dónaill kept his office in cheerful disorder, with stacks of books arranged on and around his desk. More books occupied a table off to one side, and these were mixed with loose papers, covered in calculations. Used cups and saucers were shoved up against the coffeepot and tins of spices, which bore Arabic lettering. Papers covered Ó Dónaill’s desk as well.

Síomón edged around the stacks of books to the chair.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Ó Dónaill said. “No, it seems I have none. Will coffee be acceptable? I brewed a pot not long ago.”

He offered Síomón a cup of hot, bitter coffee, seasoned with cardamom and lightened by thick cream. Then he filled his own cup and busied himself with the spice tins a moment.

“You know about classes being suspended?” he said. “Good idea. I’m glad Ó Néill decided for it. As late as yesterday afternoon, he wanted to keep up the pretense, but after Levi died…” Ó Dónaill shook his head. “I’m babbling. My apologies. I am distressed about the murders, but talk will cure nothing. So then, let us be forthright. You should know that I’m taking a short sabbatical.”

Síomón started. “Why, sir?”

“Let us call it a break in habit. Mathematics requires a suppleness of mind, and I hope to regain a certain flexibility, shall we say.” He shot Síomón a sharp glance. “Are you worried about your studies?”

“I hardly know, sir.”

Ó Dónaill nodded. “You are though. I can see it. However, do not fret. As I said, I’m taking a sabbatical, but I shan’t disappear from the university.”

He moved a heap of papers to one side of his desk. They contained rows and rows of calculations, Síomón noticed, as he glanced over them. Then his skin went cold as he recognized the complicated formulae. He had presented these same ones to Ó Dónaill the previous semester.

And he’d rejected them.

He glanced up to see Ó Dónaill studying him.

“How goes your research?” Ó Dónaill said.

“It goes … with difficulty, sir.”

“I warned you about that.”

“You did, sir.”

Síomón took another sip of coffee. He wondered if Ó Dónaill would admit to reviewing Síomón’s work, but the professor’s next comment was about a new monograph from a Frankish mathematician that had caused a stir. They discussed the theory a while. When Síomón finished his coffee, Ó Dónaill offered him more, but Síomón politely declined.

“Then I must beg your indulgence and bid you good day,” Ó Dónaill said. “I’ve stumbled upon an interesting line of research and would like to mark good progress before the day ends. But do come again, especially if you have questions concerning your research. I would not like it said that I abandoned my students. And speaking of that, I meant to ask before—how goes it with your sister?”

Síomón’s stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch at this change in topic. “Not well, sir. But the doctors are hopeful.”

Ó Dónaill shook his head. “Then we must hope, but it grieves me to see such promise lost.”

Their interview trailed off into commonplace exchanges, and Ó Dónaill’s repeated assurances that Síomón should not hesitate to come again if he had questions. Síomón descended the stairs, more dissatisfied with himself than before.

He took a footpath to the nearest gates, which opened onto Gúilidhe Square, a wide expanse paved with gray cobblestones, and fountains in each of the four corners. In the past two hours, the chill had vanished from the air, the sun had already burned away the fog, and the sky overhead had cleared to a pale blue, speckled with clouds. Here, outside the university grounds, motorcars and carriages choked the avenues bordering the plaza. The world in general appeared oblivious to the murders.

Síomón threaded his way directly across the square. He had just gained the northern edge, when a boy in a shabby coat thrust a newssheet at Síomón. “News! News of the day! Death in high places. Scandal in the capital.” Then as Simon shook his head, he added, “Just ten penny, sir.”

With a muttered curse for the boy’s persistence, Síomón paid the boy and stuffed the newssheet into his pocket. He had to get away from the traffic and the noise. As soon as he could break free, he hailed a cab.

“To Aonach Sanitarium,” he said, climbing inside the first one that approached.

“Right, sir.”