Blurred Variables

Dear Albert,

I hope this letter finds you in good health in America, and that your research in the realm of quantum theory progresses smoothly. I fear the same cannot be said of my own mental well-being. I have done something unforgivable. Or may not have done. I am of two minds about this. Let me explain.

Along with this letter, I have sent a box that I have wrapped in brown paper, and both letter and box should have arrived concurrently. If this proves to be false, I humbly request that you send one of your assistants to your local post office so as to ascertain the whereabouts of said box. The contents therein are of a sensitive nature, and I would much rather have it in your hands, than bouncing between offices like a loose particle.

As of our last correspondence, I am still living in Dublin. Anny is well, and if she had known that I was writing this, she would have most assuredly sent her regards. I adore my wife, and I can think of no one better with whom to live out the rest of my days. But there are some things that she is not, and can never be, privy to.

I have told you before about my time in Switzerland where I developed my now-famous paper on the nature of electrons. What I failed to mention was that I was not alone during this period. There was a woman. A beautiful Viennese creature full of tenacity and vigor. During the days, I shared my thoughts with her on the work I was doing, and at nights she shared my bed. It was a passionate and stimulating week, the fruits of which, as you know, garnered me the prestige and monetary rewards of the Nobel Prize.

It has been ten years since then. I had gone on to other research, reaping the rewards of my short-lived success, and had thought that chapter of my life closed. It was much to my surprise then, that one day, this same woman showed up here at my door, demanding money for her supposed contributions to my paper. Before she left, she gave me the address to where she was staying in the city, telling me that if I did not deliver some form of recompense, she would expose me as a fraud. I am not a wealthy man -- the prize money having long been spent at this point -- but financial loss aside, her revelation was sure to upset my standing within the scientific community. And that is something I simply would not have.

It was then that -- inspired by a recent thought experiment I am concocting -- I hit upon an idea. I prowled the darkest corners of Dublin, in search of the most desperate men willing to reverse their fortunes by doing the unthinkable. I managed to find one such individual, and having plied him with drink and hush money, proceeded to inform him of my plan. Giving him the woman’s address, I asked him to dispose of the occupants therein. Upon completion of this vile task, I instructed him to seal the evidence of her fate within a box. Then, within a week’s time, if he were to appear at my doorstep, box in hand, I would render unto him full payment commensurate to the gravity of the deed performed.

Nearly a week’s time had gone by when, sure enough, the man appeared at my door with box in hand, neatly wrapped and secured in the manner in which I instructed. The conditions for payment satisfied, I upheld my part of the bargain and he left with nary a word between us.

Now the most obvious conclusion is that he accomplished that which he set out to do. But consider for a moment the number of other possibilities, all of which are equally plausible. Perhaps she shared the flat with a roommate, and what followed was a case of mistaken identity. Perhaps, in a last-minute stroke of conscience, he simply threatened her to leave the city. And perhaps, in all likelihood, the man simply pocketed my money and left an empty box in my hands. Whatever the case, all I know is that the woman has not made good on her threat since. The actual truth of the matter, I can never know for certain, and I admit that the morbid temptation to confirm its veracity is something that has clawed at my conscience for days on end.

Which is why I am sending the box to you. You may do with it as you wish. Report it to the authorities if you must, and have this letter serve as my penitence and confession. But please, for the love of God, if you ever did once consider me as a colleague and a friend, do not apprise me of what is contained therein. As far as I know, she continues to exist, moving between states of life and death. And until the contrary is proven to be true, I plan to run out the rest of my days, secure in the knowledge that she will live on forever.

Yours sincerely,

E. Shrödinger