When Cohen was presented with his Nobel Prize, it was said of him during his introduction that “scientists have spent lifetimes trying to advance the field of artificial intelligence by inches… what Dr. Cohen and his team at Stanford have done is advance the AI field by miles. For the first time in history, he has given a computer the quality of ‘humanness.’ And things will never be the same.”
The cover of Time magazine, which featured Dr. Waldo Cohen as the Person of the Year, had this quote from him under his portrait: “Things will never be the same.” The article compared his contributions to science to be on a par with Einstein’s.
The old-fashioned black telephone on his desk jangled.
“Jello?” he said into the phone, a joke he still found funny after fifty years.
“Happy anniversary, my dear friend,” he heard the familiar voice say.
Cohen said, “You didn’t forget, little pigeon.”
“I never forget anything, remember?”
“What number?”
“Number?”
“Anniversary.”
“Well, that’s too easy. The big Five-Oh.”
“I’m impressed.”
“I’m impressive. How are you, you old pterodactyl? Still fighting the good fight?”
“Go to YouTube. Put in ‘Perseus Cracks Up Jeopardy! Audience.’ You’ll see how I’m doing. And you?”
“Well, I’m making progress on my own humble little project. I miss your wizened visage looking over my shoulder. And Stanford’s DARPA budgets, to be honest.”
“Where are you?”
“Home. Somewhere in deepest darkest Iran.”
“What are you working on now?”
“Secret. But I’ll give you a clue. Call me when you figure it out. You have a pencil?”
“Shoot.”
“v = 2*pi*f*r.”
“Too easy.*1/sprt(i-((v*v))/c*c)”
“Wrong.”
“Well, it was just a guess.”
“Ha! Call me! Give my love to Stella. Are you taking her out to a fancy restaurant to celebrate or staying home tonight?”
“She is turning home into a fancy restaurant.”
“Give her my love. I’ll be in touch.”
“Noli illigitimi carborundum.”
“It’s not the bastards who get me down, Waldo; it’s mullahs. Talk soon.”
Cohen laughed and replaced the receiver, quickly returning his focus to the object of his affection.
“W ell, my little jewel, it’s time to wrap you up in pretty paper and take you home to Mother,” Cohen said, placing the machine into a gift box filled with cotton. It was a delicate little thing and there was a chance he might drop it, tripping over tree roots in the dark, or slipping in the mud on the climb up the mountainside pathway in the rain.
But he didn’t drop it and he didn’t slip and when his wife of fifty years, Stella, opened the front door, he handed her the beautifully wrapped box and said, “Hello, gorgeous! So what’s for supper?”
I t was lamb. A delicious roast leg of lamb and a bottle of aged Silver Oak Napa Valley cabernet they’d been saving to go with it. They didn’t have such expensive wine every night but, then, this was a very special night. Waldo and Stella Cohen had been married at the Emek Beracha Synagogue in Palo Alto exactly fifty years ago to the day.
As he opened the precious bottle, he sang her a little song he’d just thought of. “Life is a cabernet, old chum, life is a cabernet!”
Stella smiled, her eyes alight with happiness. She looked lovely in the flickering candlelight, her pure white hair framing her heart-shaped face. She sipped the wine, put down her glass, and said, “Do I get to open my anniversary present now?”
Waldo stood up and raised his glass. “Yes, but first a toast to my beloved wife of half a century-”
“And more,” she interrupted.
“And many more, yes, my beloved wife with whom I have discovered a paradox. If I love until it hurts, then there is no hurt, but only more love. Happy fiftieth anniversary, dearest Stella.”
“And to you, my darling man, all my love.”
He cleared his throat and said, “If I may quote my favorite poet on the subject of love, ‘Two such as you, with such a master speed, cannot be parted nor swept away from one another once you are agreed that life is only life forevermore together wing to wing and oar to oar.’ ”
“Robert Frost.”
“Yes.”
“May I quote my favorite poet in return?”
“Yes, please do.”
“Gravitation cannot be held responsible for two people falling in love.”
Waldo laughed out loud. “Albert Einstein?”
“Who else?”
“All right, now you can open your present.”
Stella pulled delicately at the white ribbon, not wishing to hurry the process. When she lifted the lid, she cried out, “Oh! Oh my goodness! Waldo, is this what you’ve been working on down there in your cabin all these eons?”
“Put a bit of time into it, yes, dear. Hope you like it.”
It was a jeweled butterfly.
Incredibly lifelike, although it had been crafted of pure gold. Even the wings, which were gossamer, a fine film of gold so thin you could see the candlelight through them.
“I’m afraid to touch it, it’s so delicate.”
“Don’t be. Just lift it by the folded wings and place it in your open palm.”
She did so, staring wide-eyed in wonder.
She had felt it move.
And then the wings unfolded and, at first, almost imperceptibly, began to flap ever so slowly. For Waldo, the look on his wife’s face made the hundreds of hours of work worth every second.
And then the butterfly rose from her hand and flew into the air.
Feynman, their old black Lab, roused himself from his favorite sleep spot by the fireside and watched the golden butterfly flitting about the shadows of the room. He was tempted to give chase, but instead he yawned deeply and rested his head on his paws and went back to sleep.
Later, when they were standing side by side at the kitchen sink doing the dishes, the telephone in the study rang. They had a rule about phones. One phone upstairs and one down in the house. And one out in the lab. That was plenty.
“Do you want me to get it?” Stella said. “Who would call us at this hour?”
“I’ll get it. If it’s a telemarketer, I’ll ask for his home phone number and say I’ll call back at midnight to hear what wonderful herbal goodies or erectile dysfunction cures he has to tell me about.”
He heard Stella laughing as he walked through the dining room and into the study.
“This is Dr. Cohen,” he said.
There was no response. “Hello? Who’s there?”
He was about to hang up when he heard a soft, melodic humming sound, reminiscent of Pachelbel’s Canon. It was so ethereal and lovely that he couldn’t put the receiver down. The otherworldly music must have been hypnotic because he couldn’t recall how long he stood there listening.
He put the phone down when Stella appeared in the doorway.
“Waldo, who is it? Who were you talking to?”
