2 Incremental Consensus
We might have noticed a small headline about Sindy on a discarded newspaper, but if we did, it did not register with any of us. I was working on refactoring a proof program for a theorem in N-dimensional geometry, and I’m sure the other Residue Class members were similarly occupied with high level problems. Only Cosette’s mind was on more mundane matters. She told me later she was focused like a dragonfly on one topic and one topic alone: acceptance as a member of the Residue Class.
Right now, I feared, she wasn’t making it.
More than that, she knew she wasn’t making it.
How did I know she wasn’t making it? Josh had a process of processing candidates for our very special group of junior mathematicians. He called it “open incremental consensus.”
The “open” part meant that nothing about the process was done in secret. That guaranteed that the candidate knew where she stood at all times.
The “incremental” part meant that the Residue Class was built up one person at a time. At this moment, Cosette was the potential increment. Before the group could consider another increment, she had to be either voted in or voted out. Right now, though, she was in limbo.
The “consensus” part meant that no person would become part of the Residue Class unless and until all existing members approved. Currently, Cosette lacked a consensus—and because the process was open, both she and I knew exactly who was against her.
Against her?
That’s probably inaccurate. In the first place most of the group was clearly for her. To begin with, she and I are best friends, and I’m the one who discovered her in her obscure Swiss village. Sonia is also my best friend. (I know two “best” friends doesn’t compute mathematically, but that’s the way it is.) Sonia will vote whatever way I vote.
Josh is definitely for her, though he knows almost nothing about her. Most of the time he’s out of town on some important mission, but when I introduced her to the group, he greeted her with a taxing examination of her math abilities. He said it wasn’t possible to examine anyone as thoroughly as he would like, but he “was satisfied that if Libby (me) said she was a genius, that was good enough for him. It was also good enough to make me blush.
Carmela, his wife, was far more cautious, which I suppose fits, given that she’s a former police detective, now an anthropologist, whose math doesn’t extend much beyond adding a grocery bill. But she’s made an explicit effort to spend time with Cosette, getting to know her. Now her vote is definitely in Cosette’s column.
That leaves Raj and Helen. I can’t really say they’re against her. “Not for her” would be a more accurate description. Helen, for example, admits she doesn’t understand Cosette. In particular, she can’t understand how she could give away a fortune to a bunch of nuns in Africa.
One day at supper, Helen asked Cosette, “How do you intend to support yourself here in America? We’re not a charity. I understand you gave away your inheritance, to some religious people in Africa.”
It was clear in Helen’s voice that she didn’t understand the practice of giving money to “religious people.” She may not have accepted all the economic principles of Chinese Communism, but she had swallowed their entire set of beliefs about religion.
“I tried to give the entire sum to Les Soeurs de Notre-Dame d’Afrique,” Cosette said, “but the sisters wouldn’t leave me penniless. From them, I have a small monthly stipend, enough to rent a room in town, and not starve.”
“You have no savings?”
Helen didn’t believe in sin, but not having savings was pretty much in the same category as torturing puppies. “I’m Swiss,” Cosette said. “Of course I have savings. Enough to tide me over if the Sisters’ check is lost in the Mauritanian mail, which is non-zero probability.”
Helen’s head rocked side to side, as if to say, “Could be better, but maybe she can improve.”
I thought it might help my friend’s cause to add something Helen hadn’t asked about. Something Cosette would be reluctant to tell because she didn’t want to appear defensive. I said, “She does have a small amount of additional income from doing translations and copy editing French and German manuscripts. It’s just getting started, but she’s gotten good comments on her work.”
“You should get those comments in writing,” Helen advised.
She was, of course, already doing that, but Cosette wisely thought it best to let Helen think she was taking her advice. “Thanks, Helen. I’ll do that. That’s good advice.” I noticed Carmela trying to hide a smile. She had recommended Cosette to some of her faculty colleagues and brought their comments to her once they’d seen her work.
Helen seemed satisfied with Cosette’s financial condition, or at least what she’d said about it. But Helen was always hard to read. I’m avoiding the term “inscrutable” because it’s narrow-minded, but also doesn’t completely describe Helen. I can often read Helen’s response to things, but about money she resembled a professional poker player. Four aces or a busted hand, she showed the world exactly the same face.
When we took a health break, I followed Helen when she went outside for her un-health cigarette break. (Carmela forbids even chewing tobacco in the Rosemont home. Doesn’t bother me. I don’t chew the leaf.) I asked Helen directly how she planned to vote on Cosette, but all she would say was that she was neither for nor against. Exhaling one last huge drag from her coffin nail, she said, “Why make a decision before it’s necessary?”
Without another word, she stubbed out her Marlboro, retained the dead butt, and went back inside.