Unfaithful - Natalie Barelli Page 0,82
know”—he turns to Mila as he says this and I don’t know if he’s talking to her or me—“we, as well as the Forrester Foundation, have attempted a number of times to collect materials from you, unsuccessfully. The department is in a bit of a dilemma. We have put ourselves forward as your sponsors, if you will, as the university and specifically the department that facilitates your work. If the Forrester Foundation is not satisfied, then this puts us in a very bad light.”
“How can they be not satisfied? The proof is there. Who cares how I went about it? I just don’t have the time for this! What does it matter? It’s my proof! It’s perfect as it is!”
“They do care, Anna.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s their policy! It’s in their rules, you know that.”
“But why is it even in their rules?”
“You know why. Officially, anyway, it’s because they consider the experiments, the vision, the inspiration, the creative process as worthy as the proof itself. Having said that, if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say they’re covering their asses. They don’t want, years from now, to be sued because someone else claims they did the work that led to—”
“Someone? Who?”
“A student, a colleague who might have shared some of their thinking process with you.”
Mila politely raises a hand, although not very high. Still, it gets Geoff’s attention. “Yes, Mila?”
“I believe one of the early innovation prizes awarded by the Forrester Foundation later led to accusations of plagiarism. Supplying preliminary work, drafts, notebooks, may be a way out to avoid the situation repeating itself.”
It’s the first time she’s spoken. Then the door opens and June is standing there, looking from me to Geoff to Mila.
“June, please. We’re in the middle of something.”
“Anna, it’s—”
“Can you take a message?”
“But I think it’s important—”
“And whatever it is, I’ll get to it. Can you take a message, please?”
I’m trying to contain my anxiety, but from the look on her face I don’t think I’m doing it very well. She walks away and closes the door.
I turn back to them. “Where were we?” I say. “Ah, yes. Plagiarism. So, what you’re saying—”
“No one is saying anything, Anna. Just that sometimes, work gets copied accidentally…”
“When’s the last time you saw a case of plagiarism in mathematics, Geoff? Accidental or otherwise?” I cross my legs, hold my chin high.
“Well,” he scoffs, “I don’t have the exact cases before me—”
“Izanami Hindle,” Mila pipes up.
Geoff clicks his fingers. “That’s right! From Princeton, right?”
“Stanford. And Jeremiah Pell, who worked with German mathematician Fred Holze on the Poincare—”
“Exactly,” Geoff says, turning to me. “Look. We understand how these things can happen… the pressure…”
I tilt my head at him, my expression naive and pure as a dove at a wedding. “Pressure?”
He turns to Mila. “Don’t we, Mila?”
Her face goes through a number of iterations to show she’s trying to understand how these things might happen, she really is.
“But not to me!” I say brightly. “There’s no pressure on me! I didn’t even make professor, for Christ’s sake!” I laugh, although it comes out strangely high-pitched and deranged. Like that crazy parrot YouTube video Matti was forever showing me last year. “There’s no pressure on me,” I repeat, once I’ve recovered. “Other than to take good, clean minutes. And that’s pressure, for sure, but I can handle it. I’m good under pressure.”
Geoff waits a beat, then says, in a faux-sweet tone, “But that’s the problem, don’t you see? Anna?”
“No, Geoff, I don’t. How is that the problem?”
He’s on his feet, shouting. “Because you’ve never done anything like this before!”
Then Mila, ever helpful, leans forward and says, “You never even applied for a grant to undertake this research, Anna.”
“Exactly!” Geoff says, turning around to look at her. “Unusual, right?”
I sit back and glare at them. “So, what you’re saying is, I stole it.” I feel my cheeks burn.
They both laugh. “No! Of course we’re not saying that.” Geoff sits back down. “We’re just conveying what the Forrester Foundation said, which is—”
“Yes, all right. You’ve made your point. Repeatedly.” I get up, go to the door. “I’ll get you my notebooks first thing.”
They follow my lead. I’m holding the door open and they leave. The moment they’re out they’re whispering to each other. I slam the door. I can’t help myself.
I sit at my desk and start tidying up. I spray my computer screen and wipe it clean, organize paperclips by color, slide the corner of a tissue between the keys on the keyboard. I really