A short story: Mathematics

 MATHEMATICS

by Daniel Olivero González

Saturday, July 2, 1994

I have completed an exercise on Euclidean geometry. It took effort, but I finally understood the reasoning behind Thales' Theorem. My next challenge: delving into Riemannian geometry. Ever since I saw his image in the Baldor algebra book, I knew that most of the answers lay there.

Imagine the sum of the interior angles of a triangle exceeding 180 degrees. That tiny deviation changes everything. Like the light during certain times of the year: as July approaches, it seems to fade, to die. And then it returns, unaltered. Light is immortal. Like real numbers: dense, infinite. Light resurrects, but I do not.

I think I’ll visit San Diego this week to look for books. López promised to set aside anything related to mathematics for me. Yet, I’ve been hearing too many noises at night. The wood creaks. A whisper. Could it be the Spaniard? He has the unpleasant habit of appearing at 10 AM. Always with his hands resting on his knees. And he stares at me. How do you kill a dead man?

April 4

I lost my notes and my journal. I had to leave in a hurry. That’s what has kept me alive all these years. The proof of Bernoulli’s theorem is gone. Ironic. Bernoulli, who explored the flow of gases—like the one Gutiérrez used on the notary.

The notary. I saw him again last night. The same terrified expression he wore when I detained him. He claimed he supported the Junta. Bad luck. Orders are orders. Yet I don’t understand why he keeps coming back at night, pleading. Does he think the logic of his life can be rewritten? Like an equation solved differently by changing a single sign.

The Spaniard, however, is different. Calm. He stares at me every sunny May morning. Always at 10 AM. I remember the glint of his watch. And his scent—cheap cologne and leather. But now, he smells of damp earth and sweet, rotting flesh. I smell it when he sits down.

May 25

I went to San Diego. Avoided the morning: the Spaniard always lingers at Parque Almagro. After 3 PM, he vanishes. Do the dead take lunch breaks?

I have completed Baldor’s Arithmetic and Geometry. I no longer need to cheat or glance at the answers before solving them. López warned me about some men asking about someone who looked like me. Detectives. Obvious in their methods. They follow me because I wear black. I am in mourning! Black is the absolute zero of color value. God knows I promised to dress this way, naked before Him.

The candle burns low. The wax sputters. A sharp, metallic smell fills the room. But everything must remain dark. It’s the only way to keep them out.

June 25

Gutiérrez. A fool. Claimed he had replicated the Nazis’ gas. He used it on the notary—the same one who visits each night. The candle’s flame dies, yet his face remains illuminated. A whiteness that burns the eyes. And that smell. Like burnt leather.

Real numbers are dense. Nothing truly begins or ends. Cut something, and more appear. Like faces. Like voices.

August 21

 The wails grow louder. The dead do not understand they must remain silent! The density of real numbers, the density of life. The certainty of death. Everything connects. The Riemann triangle. Angles adding up to more than 180 degrees. A curved space. Like time. Like consciousness.

The detectives monitor me. The Spaniard follows. The notary begs. Gutiérrez laughs. The candle flickers. The smell of earth and flesh thickens.

September 5

They knew I would go to church. The detectives waited. Thought their feeble methods could extract something from me. I told them everything: the Spaniard, the notary, Morgan, Gutiérrez. I asked if the dead would finally fall silent. They said yes. They lied.

That night, the Spaniard sat in my only chair. He smelled of damp earth. He smiled. Opened his mouth. The stench—sweet, putrid—forced me to vomit. I ran. Through the night streets, until I reached the General Cemetery. I don’t remember how I entered. I knelt among the graves of the unidentified. Cried out: “Forgive me!” But I wasn’t sincere. It was fear.

A light shone upon me. A voice:

—“Sub-Officer Quiroz, do not be afraid. We are your comrades!”

July 17

The Institution did not abandon me. I regained my pride. Lieutenant Vidal saved my notebooks. Doctor Sáez says continuing to write and solve exercises will help me recover.

The nights are calmer now. But from behind the hospital’s wall, the Spaniard and the notary still watch me. And they smell of earth and sweet, rotting flesh. Like absolute zero. Immutable. Eternal.