Whenever we met in the evenings Parkinson or Josh would ask what I had done during the day, and the answer was invariably I walked on the waterfront.
Sunlight is a forbidden pleasure, something I have not experienced directly since childhood. The south of France in the winter was a perfect solution – it was bright and cold and I wandered around bundled up, absorbing the rays of the sun without exposing myself to the dangers inherent in the activity.
Every morning I visited the market at Cours Saleya and bought cheese, olives, bread, vegetables and fruit before setting off on my adventures. Mostly this involved walking to Vieux Port and sitting on a bench in the sun writing, or many hours on the beach at Castel Plage, eating picnic lunches and filling up notebooks.
There were long conversations in cafes with Andreas, and many chance encounters with other scientists I see all over the world.
I heard that Andy the Decadent Australian was in town and remembered how he came to see me read in NYC seven or eight years ago. At the time I was baffled that he was in the city to buy new glasses; now I’m the sort who flies to that city for the same purpose. I looked but never found him, never had the opportunity to congratulate him on his marriage.
One afternoon during a walk I stumbled across Josh, Andrey, and Nick taking a stroll when they should have been at the conference. I took my earphones out, wagged a finger, and said Busted!
Josh replied We’re on strike.
I was already dashing away but I turned back, spread my arms out wide, and shouted This is my job!
My thrashed leg hurt quite a lot, throwing off my posture and making both hips ache. I showed someone the bruises from the bike accident and he said It looks like someone took a ballpeen hammer and beat the shit out of you!
No injury could have kept me away from the 300 foot climb up the Colline du Chateaux to see the ruins and visit the cemeteries, including the Mercedes family tomb. One day I stopped at the Chapelle de l’Annonciation to light a candle for St. Rita, patron saint of terminally ill, but there were none for sale so I gave my tribute to a beggar on the doorstep.
Later there were candles at the Chathedrale de Ste-Reparte and I nodded at the wax statue of a fifteen-year-old virgin martyr towed to Nice by angels in a flowery boat.
I even explored the New Town and attempted to shop, without much thrill or success because I had nobody to direct the activity.
In the evenings I headed back to the hotel, admiring the yellow building on the corner of cours Saleya where Matisse lived, with brilliant light striking it as the sun prepared to set.
I worked on the terrace as the light changed:
Then it was time to meet up with scientists for a series of banquets, receptions, and dinners.
In my adolescence I aspired to be a geek but they weren’t having me; I was too strange in a way that did not mesh with their pathologies. Now I run around the planet with the super-elite of that world, and I’m not sure how it happened.
When I stumbled across him the first time Byron was just another broken boy: there was no indication at the time that he would end up having a career at all, let alone becoming a research scientist.
One night while I was taking notes about their behavior one of the mathematicians asked Will we be in your next book?
The answer is no. I like these people in part because they offer no references to my favorite topics.
There were many fabulous meals, my favorite at La Merenda, a tiny restaurant with no phone that does not accept credit cards but has some of the best food I’ve eaten anywhere in the world.
One evening I was chatting with the East London Massive about Byron’s so-called midlife crisis (which appears to have started at birth) and explained that it is actually a phenomenon that happens every two years, always requiring some major change in his material circumstances.
Peter asked So you’ve seen this happen seven times?
I nodded. The problem this time, I said, is the fact that he likes his job and can’t find anything else to fixate on — he certainly can’t blame anyone for any of his problems.
Peter considered the point and replied He would be a fool to throw any of it away!
I shrugged and said That is exactly how I feel about the whole thing. Josh and Peter raised their glasses in a toast.
When Byron appeared we collectively refused to tell him what we had been talking about.
It was simply genius to stay out late then retire to a hotel cut into the cliff of the Colline du Chateau, listening to the sound of the waves as I fell asleep:
