“You should take a shower,” I said. “Try to relax.”

“Why can’t I remember things?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Eigen. Do you remember being given any pills or anything strange to drink?”

“No. At least I remember you.” She smiled.

“A shower will help you feel better. At least the bathroom looks clean.”

“Are we in danger, Wala?”

“I honestly don’t know. I think so.”

Eigen yawned.

“You must be exhausted.”

“I am,” she said. “You, too?”

I nodded. “I’ll get cleaned up after you.”

I lay back next to Trigo while Eigen was in the shower.

It is not easy to judge the value of a problem with any confidence in advance. We can ask if there are necessary and sufficient conditions satisfied for identifying something as a problem. I had always considered, in regard to math, that in order for something to be a problem, when stated it should make complete and total sense to the first person one meets on the street. The problem should be perfect and clean. Such was not the case at that moment. Not only could I not articulate the problem or represent it symbolically, but I could not even be certain that the problem was real and significant.

After a while Eigen came out of the washroom laughing. “Look at this,” she said. She was holding a small plastic bottle of shampoo.

“What about it?”

“Look at the name.”

I took it from her and looked at the label. Young-Laplace. “That’s great,” I said. The Young-Laplace equation was a nonlinear partial differential equation that described capillary pressure that had application regarding the surface of soap bubbles. I looked at Eigen, my friend, with new appreciation. What was wonderful was how unfunny this association was, how many connections she had to traverse to find the humor. Her eyes looked so tired. “You take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“No,” she said.

“It’s fine. I sometimes do it at home. It makes my back feel better.”

“I think I’m scared to sleep alone in the bed.”

“I’ll be right here. First, a shower for me. You can keep Trigo company. He’ll be in bed with you.”

“Fat face.”

The shower felt good. I can’t say that it actually cleared my head, but at least it afforded me some minutes when I didn’t think. Back in the room Eigen was asleep and so was Trigo. I found an extra blanket in the closet, took a pillow from the bed. I wrapped myself in the blanket, not wanting to put my skin against the carpet. My attempt at sleep was protracted by the constant squeaking of nearby beds and the half-hearted, unenthusiastic moaning of dead-eyed prostitutes. Yeah, baby. Give it to me, baby. It’s so big, baby. Come, already, baby. No, no, nonono, wrong hole, baby. How much?

Trigo leaned his fat face over the edge of the bed. “You do realize that this is all about surfaces. You know that, right? That’s what Eigen was unconsciously trying to tell you with the shampoo talk. She’s far smarter than both of us, but she doesn’t know it. It’s endearing, isn’t it?”