Inspired by A. Chekov's short "The Orator."
Helen Sodre, the youngest mathematics professor ever tenured at Yale, unlocks her door. It has a name plate “Professor Helen Sodre” above the paper tray mounted beside her door. She enters her office and dumps a pile of papers and books on a chair. To anyone else, it’s a messy office, but to her it is carefully organized. She knows where everything is. If you were to ask her, where’s Zalivsky’s paper on the classification of strongly regular signed graphs? She’d tell you it’s the third paper under the red book by Gramwood on combinatorics in the pile on the floor near the window.
Emily, her only graduate student (meaning, Helen’s Emily’s thesis advisor), knocks on the doorframe and comes in asking a math question. “What if I use Kramer’s method to do the estimate?” Emily’s about the same age as Helen. They communicate like equals.
“Good idea, Emily. Try it,” Helen said, as she sits in front of her computer reading emails. “Did you ever meet Jorgensen?” Helen asks.
“Jorgensen spelled with an ‘son’ or with an ‘sen”’ Emily asks.
“Spelled with an ‘sen”’ Helen says.
“No. I heard he got cancer the year before I arrived. Why?”
“I knew him pretty well until he got sick. He mentored me when I first got here. The organizers of his memorial conference have asked me to give a talk. Wanna go?”
“Where is it?”
“Bowdoin.”
“Maine in the summer? Sounds nice. Thanks Professor.”
“It kind of does, doesn’t it? Let’s go. Pack light, no sweaters or coats.”
Helen and Emily depart a shuttle van in downtown Bowdoin, each wearing a short-sleeved shirt and dragging two-wheeled luggage behind them. A “Welcome to Bowdoin” sign is ahead. They see a Bank of Bowdoin sign with a time of 2pm and a temperature of 35 degrees. Next door to the bank is Annie’s Tavern.
“Why do we have to fly into Bowdoin the one day of the summer when it’s friggin’ freezing?” Helen asks.
“That tavern looks warm.” They head to Annie’s Tavern.
Once inside, Helen and Emily sit at a small table, with their luggage beside them. “Nice and toasty in here,” Helen says, taking her coat off. A waiter walks up. “Just two beers,” she orders.
“You got it,” the waiter says, then leaves.
“What are you going to say about Jorgensen in your talk?” Emily asks.
“Good question. I guess people what to know what it’s like to work with him. I knew him as a co-worker, not as a co-author or advisor.”
The waiter returns with their beers. “Here you go,” he says, putting the bill down as well.
“Were you friends?”
“God no. He got my friend Matilda pregnant. She had to leave grad school to have the baby. She never told him.”
“I had no idea. Are you going to tell everyone that?”
“Should I? What do you think? He’s dead, what good would it do?”
“Won’t his widow be at the talk?”
“He never married,” Helen says.
“What if Matilda's not the only one? What difference does it make?”
Helen thinks about it as they finish their beers.
“We should make it to our rooms. Your talk is at 5 o’clock, right?” Emily says.
“Yeah, let’s go,” Helen says, putting a ten down down for the bill as they put their coats back on.
Outside, Helen and Emily start to shiver as soon as they leave the tavern. Dragging her two-wheeler suitcase behind her, Helen says “Holy crap, it’s cold. Did the temperature drop that fast?”
Emily points ahead. "See The College Tavern a block ahead? Let’s stop in there just to warm up,” she suggests. They head to The College Tavern.
Inside, Helen and Emily sit at a small table, with their luggage beside them. “My teeth were chattering out there,” Emily says.
“This feels much better. The heater’s overhead.” A waitress walks up. “Just two light beers,” Helen says.
"Did he ever hit on you?" Emily asks. "Jorgensen, I mean, with the -sen."
"Back then? Let me think. I think it was more sexist jokes. I didn't laugh."
"Sounds like a misogynist jerk."
"He wasn't that bad. Is that a problem with you or the other female graduate students?"
"At a grad student mixer, one guy said he wanted to fuck me right there. Just like that. We'd just met that day."
``Sounds like a jerk. I hope you slapped his face."
"Look at the time," Emily says, changing the topic. Helen and Emily leave the tavern dragging two-wheelers behind them.
“Holy mother of christ, it’s freezing out here,” Emily says, teeth chattering. Helen points to a "The Polar Bear Bar & Grill" sign a block ahead.
Inside, Helen and Emily sit at a small table, with a large neon “Polar Bear Bar & Grill” above the bar on the other side of the room. Emily is shivering. “I’m starting to defrost,” Emily says.
A waitress walks up. “T-t-two beers, p-p-please,” Helen says, teeth chattering. In a moment, the waitress returns with their beers. “I gave you ladies ale’s. No up-charge,” she says, putting the bill down as well.
“Thank you,” Helen says, taking a large sip.
“So Jorgensen with an 'e' slept with at least five grad students, getting three of them pregnant?” Emily asks. “I heard Jorgenson spelled with an 'o', who's much younger, slept with some of his students. Almost sounds like him.”
“No, we’re talking about Jorgensen spelled with an ‘e.’ Plus, Jorgensen stole Smottle’s construction of strongly regular graphs.”
“You mean, Jorgensen graphs are actually Smottle graphs?”
“Yep. Smottle slept with the chairman’s wife around the same time Jorgensen refereed his paper. Jorgensen put his name on it and told Smottle to shut up about it to keep the affair secret,” Helen says.
“That’s the worst case of academic dishonesty I’ve ever heard of. I thought the Jorgenson in Jorgenson graphs were spelled with an ‘o.”’
“‘E’, Emily, not ‘o.’ That jerk Jorgensen will not be missed.” They finish their beers.
“It’s 4 o’clock and your talk is at 5,” Emily says.
“We'd better go straight to the auditorium,” Helen says.
Helen and Emily sit at the edge of the front row of a crowded auditorium. Helen belches loudly.
Professor Morgenstern introduces Helen. “Our last speaker of the day is the youngest mathematics professor ever tenured at Yale. She’s also the only scientist who’s won both the Abel Prize and the Wolff Prize: Professor Helen Sodre!”
To generous applause, Helen mounts the stairs to the stage, tripping drunkenly over the top step.
“Here did that fucker come from?” Helen jokes on her way to the podium. Helen looks over the crowd of smiling faces. A elderly woman in black sits in the center of the front row. Behind her sits Professor Jorgenson. (That’s Jorgenson with an ‘o,’ for those keeping score at home.) “We are here to reflect on the memories of by former colleague Professor Jorgensen. What a man,” Helen says.
The elderly woman in the center sniffs and dabs her eyes with a hankerchief.
“We mathematicians are personifications of truth and rigor,” Helen says. Everyone nods. “I want to share the truth about Jorgensen.”
“Oh, no,” Emily says. She slouches down in her seat.
“I have a friend named Matilda who he got pregnant. She had to leave grad school to have the baby she had with Jorgensen,” Helen says.
“What did you say?” asks the elderly woman in the center.
“She never told him,” Helen adds.
“What did you say?” Jorgenson asks.
“Is there an echo in here?” Helen asks. Then she belches.
“She wasn’t the first,” Helen continues.
The elderly woman in the center breaks down and cries.
Helen belches. “But that wasn’t all. Have you heard of Jorgensen graphs?”
Jorgenson gets up with an embarrassed huff and quickly leaves.
“Jorgensen graphs ... wait, Jorgenson graphs are spelled ‘son’ not ‘sen”,’ Helen says.
“That’s what I told you before,” Emily says.
“After three beers, I can’t understand what you are saying,” Helen says.
“Are you saying my husband stole his results?” asks the crying elderly widow.
“Who are you?” Helen asks.
“Mrs Jorgensen,” she replies.
Beellccchh. “Is that spelled ‘son’ or ‘sen”,’ Helen asks.
Professor Morgenstern mounts the stairs to the stage shouting, “Let us thank our speaker?”
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