Einstein in the Attic

By Dana Dargos

Winner of a whopping nine awards and counting, including the Nautilus Award, Cygnus Award, Independent Press Award, Literary Titan Award, Firebird Book Award, Maincrest Media Book Award, Best Book Award Finalist, and three honorable mentions at the prestigious New York, Hollywood, and San Francisco Book Festivals

 

A search for truth by those that transcend time.

 

Set against the backdrop of the war between science and God, reason and faith, Einstein in the Attic is the story of one scientist's search for truth and meaning when faced with the ultimate question: Is there a God? Fleeing war-torn Lebanon, Adam Reemi's faith is shaken by the hardships he has endured, but when he and a colleague successfully construct a nano hadron collider, and using sound waves, Adam finds unheard-of power at his fingertips. To help him answer the greatest question mankind has ever posed, he zaps the best philosophical minds of all time-namely Albert Einstein, Isaac Newton, Soren Kierkegaard, and Baruch Spinoza-from the past and into his attic. Not all goes according to plan, however, and Adam finds himself in a race against time to formulate an answer to the question of intelligent design… or risk losing everything.

 

Einstein in the Attic is a page-turning, thought-provoking, mind-bending sci-fi adventure…with more than a little charm and humor sprinkled in. It will appeal to lovers of intelligent science fiction that grapples with big questions, such as Story of Your Life by Ted Chiang, Embassytown by China Mieville, The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell, and Kindred by Octavia E. Butler.

 

Many readers have praised its exploration of God and existentialism, mental health, (such as anxiety, depression, and PTSD), philosophy, time travel, DNA, science, and elements of story, imagination, originality, dark humor, conflict, and so much more. Critics are calling it one of the "best sci fi books of the year."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dana Dargos
• Release date: Jan 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9798223345046

Dana Dargos

Dana Dargos is an award-winning Lebanese-American writer born and raised in the Bay Area. From the moment she created adventurous, crayon-scribbled tales in kindergarten, she knew writing would forever be a part of her life. She graduated from UC Berkeley with a degree in English Literature and immediately got to work on her acclaimed debut novel, "Einstein in the Attic," with Said. The hit novel amassed nine coveted awards including the Nautilus, Cygnus, and Independent Press honors, among others.   Dana's eloquence extends to captivating public speaking and adept promotion, seen in successful author events, interviews, and podcasts. Her impact has reverberated in various blogs, news articles, and magazines. Beyond accolades, Dana's academic journey boasts distinguished scholarships such as the American Association for University Women, Stewart Dawson Memorial, and Newark Optimist Club Joe Burnett Helping Hands Book Scholarship. Dana Dargos' achievements cement her status as a true rising star in the literary world.   Website: https://danadargos.com Instagram: @officialdanadargos Twitter: @dana_dargos Tiktok: @danadargos

Book preview

Prologue

2019

You know your LHC machine?

Not my machine... Muntz groaned.

Yes, your machine. You know how your idea of how to recreate the big bang was to smash two beams of protons into each other and end it right there afterwards? Well, what if you didn’t turn it off and kept it going? What would it create? Think about it: It would lead to a build-up of more power, gravity, and mass, which would accelerate it into a—

A wormhole, he stared me in the eyes.

Exactly! I shot an excited finger into the air. Think of Einstein’s Rosen-bridge theory; a wormhole is merely a shortcut connecting two points in space. Now, here’s where the white noise comes in: imagine if we used white noise to extract people from the past using their sound waves through that wormhole? It would be a—

...form of time travel!

Chapter One

1987

The wooden door to our home was wide open, and bobbing against the cracked eggshell wall. Nothing unusual. Yet I still held Mama’s hand, burying my head into her fuzzy sweater, as she and Baba led the way in.

I dropped my head down to the floor and noticed beige, floral-imprinted tiling coming into view, which meant we were now in the living room. I peeked from behind Mama’s sleeve and noticed Baba eyeing the brown sofa, which had been moved from its usual position. He grabbed one end of it and began to drag the couch back to its rightful place under the open French window, with its pegs scraping against the tiles.

My mother smirked. Hold on Waleed, let me help you or else you’ll bust something again.

Forget it, Asma. I’ve already got it.

I glanced at the adjacent window. Strangely, was open as well; the soldiers were probably unable to tolerate the combined cloud of ash, dust, and fumes that accumulated from the outside world.

Baba stared in my direction. I retreated behind Mother’s petite shoulders, unable to look at the suppressed pain in his hazel eyes.

Son? he asked. I stayed quiet. ...Adam, he tried again, stretching his arm out. Please come here. His voice went up an octave, and he faked a smile, but I remained glued behind Mama.

Baba had been forced to stand underneath the hot sun for hours with his hands folded behind his head, lined up with the other men on the beach. Mama and I had admittedly been forced to do the same, albeit in front of our house, while the soldiers rummaged through our home for two hours. But our exhaustion couldn’t compare to Baba’s; we had had the mercy of the balcony’s shade above our heads, unlike Baba.

"Adam, habibi, Mama shimmied out of my grip and bent down. She brought my hands to her pouting lips and changed the subject: Help me organize the bookshelf? I glanced at the books scattered across the floor, gasped, and nodded. We walked over to the bookcase, hand in hand. A variety of my Albert Einstein books, science textbooks, adventure novels, Batman comics, encyclopedias, and the retro film guides Mama and Baba had collected for me were among the wreckage: my treasure. Mama was about to bend down to pick up my favorite Einstein biography by E.J. Ally, but I beat her to it before she hurt her back. No, let me." I stuck out my short, thin arms.

I placed the book onto the shelf and blinked up to find Mama mouthing something to Baba, who had concern etched in his features, before noticing me and then pretending nothing was wrong. Baba squatted down to my level and grabbed my hand, wrapping his spacious palm around my tiny fingers. Son, we’re OK, he insisted, giving me a reassuring smile, like a quartet of pearl pillars propping up a vault ceiling so it wouldn’t cave in on us. However, even I could see the sand that on which the pillars were constructed. He patted my hand with his other one. We still have each other. And they don’t seem to have taken much. We’re blessed, right Asma? Baba blinked over at Mama.

Blessed?

Baba’s eyes widened, realizing his error, but it was too late. Mama nodded with a weak smile, with her chin and rosy lips quivering, struggling to maintain the facade Yes we are... May God hear our prayers.

God.

My chest filled with uneasiness and dread at hearing that word.

Beads of tears rolled and gathered in Mama’s eyes. She turned away before Baba could say anything. Her shoulders quivered. Everything inside of me slumped to the ground, like layers of thick magma sloshing onto the earth and dissolving it. I stood still, not knowing what to do. I wished I could tear the edges of the scene, crumple it down like a piece of paper, and chuck it into the trash. I wanted to hug Mama and kiss her cheek, but I didn’t want to leave Baba by himself. Baba looked at me, at Mama, and then back at me.

One second, Baba brought his finger to his lips. I nodded. He gave me a peck on the cheek and then went after Mama, having read my mind. I trailed a few steps after them but stopped at the corridor and shyly leaned out from behind. Baba comforted Mama with a tight hug, (as I had anticipated), reassuring her that as long as God kept us together, we were okay. Mama attempted to apologize for losing control, but Baba shushed her. It reminded me of when I’d break down crying for no reason and Baba would carry me in his arms until I was better, whispering that he, Mama, and God were there for me.

God.

A comforting yet unsettling word.

I brushed all thought of Him aside.

I focused back on Mama burying herself into Baba’s neck, waiting with anxious anticipation for the moment where Mama would nod at Baba’s words—because if an adult believed that the end of the war was near, that meant that it was true. Baba then murmured one last thing into her ear, causing them to glance at me. I whipped my head back behind the wall in embarrassment and slid down against the cream floral wallpaper. They weren’t stupid enough to think that I was oblivious about Mama crumbling every now and then. Nevertheless, I still felt ashamed at having injected myself into a private moment between two adults, even if those two adults were my parents.

I fixated on the dirt between the tiles. Everything was quiet for a time, but the silence was interrupted by the clacking of approaching shoes. I ignored it, tracing a curling trail of dust with my finger and reminiscing about the jasmine vines that had once decorated the outside of our apartment, before the war had charred it to a crisp.

I saw a pair of faded black dress shoes and pastel flats in the corner of my eye, both pointing towards me. I kept my head down.

Adam? It was Mama’s silky voice. I granted the floor a bashful smile, hoping to humor Mama without having to meet her eyes. Fabric rustled, and then two warm, veined hands wrapped themselves around my own. Mama tilted her cerulean eyes, pleading for mine to meet them. She pecked me on the forehead. I blinked as a reflex to the feeling of her lips blessing my skin. Palpable sadness traced Mama’s forehead and her swollen eyes, betraying my mother’s front of unwavering strength. She buried her nose in my curly hair and embraced me once more. Baba did the same. Light of my heart, Mama purred. She rose and walked to her bedroom at the end of the corridor, like golden honey pouring through a hole at the bottom of a clay jar.

Baba stayed beside me. Adam, look what I’ve got. He reached out towards me, his hands clasped over each other, concealing something. Last Tuesday, it had been The Best of David Bowie cassette tape that we had listened and sung along to after being forced onto the beach. The time before that, it had been a laser-pen kit that he and I had spent the afternoon putting together. I was excited as to what this surprise would be, but also hated putting him through so much trouble for me. We barely got by, as it was, yet he always made me a priority.

You ready? he asked with a grin. I nodded. Look what I got you, Kiddo. Baba unclasped his hands to reveal a radiant special-edition Whistling Piper lollipop in its golden and red-polka-dotted, Einstein-patterned wrapper glory.

My jaw dropped at such a jewel, and my mouth watered as I imagined savoring the cherry tangs zapping my tongue. Then I gasped in excitement at the thought of blowing the end of that whistle. I know, I was overreacting to a lollipop. But I was a kid of war; give me a break! I hadn’t seen anything remotely as tasty-looking as that for four months, courtesy of soldiers placing strict and erratic curfews on the district, causing shortages at the merchants. We had been stuck with only stale bread and Picon cheese for so long. Curfews were unpredictable. Sometimes Baba was allowed to get us food and supplies every four days. Other times, it would be a week or even more. And there was no way to bend your way out of those curfews. Sneaking out wasn’t an option. It would be an invitation to the soldiers to shoot you, or else you would be robbed, kidnapped, shanked, raped, or killed by thugs lurking in the streets.

Baba noticed the distant look in my eyes. He nudged me and smiled at the gift. I leapt into my Baba’s chest, struggling to wrap my short arms around his long neck. Baba read my mind, picked me up, and placed me onto his lap.

Baba stayed quiet, smiled, and wrapped his arms more tightly around me: his way of saying Don’t mention it. Go on then, he said, Give it a good blow! I blinked at him, trying to think of something to say to buy time. This lollipop’s different from other lollipops, he said, understanding the context of the situation.

Nuh-uh. I shook my head.

Yes it is.

How?

This lollipop here is number 50,050,540,046 born to 50,050,540,030 and 50,050,540,015. When it was made, its parents specifically told it that its pop purpose was to find you and make you smile, he grinned. I laughed. Overwrite the old memory with the new one to make it worth it.

I nodded. Watch me! I grinned like a troll, seized the P-51 jet attachment off the stick and stuck its tip into my mouth. I took a deep breath, puffed out my chest, and blew on the whistle. The whistle screeched like an eagle thundering through the apartment, flying free and powerful. I squealed, clapped my hands, and rocked back and forth like an infant amused by a game of peek-a-boo. Baba roared with laughter back, happy that I was happy. He hugged me close, pressing his cheek against mine. Before I knew it, Mama’s arms joined and wrapped themselves around us in an embrace. My mother and father made me feel like the most cherished kid in the world.

We went on like that for ten minutes straight, until I had to use the bathroom from laughing so hard. I’ll be back. Two minutes. I entered the off-white bathroom, unzipped my pants, and did my business. After finishing up, I turned around, took two steps, and washed my hands with the Levantine soap. Scrub, scrub, scrub, I entertained myself in a low, goblin-like voice, pleased with the foaming bubbles from the faucet. I was reaching forward to place the soap bar back on the countertop when a high-pitched masculine scream rocked the building.

I froze, paralyzed with fear.

It sounded like someone was on fire—no, an explosion—no, a warplane.

I continued to hold still, hoping to hear whatever else it might be. But everything was quiet again with only the water running down the drain echoing in the bathroom. ...No, but it wasn't a warplane. Where’s the whirring—the shaking missiles—the apartments crumbling—kids screaming?

A commotion started then. I leapt over to the edge of the bathtub and slammed open the window’s blurred panel. I leaned out to see what was going on and found a yelping crowd forming ten feet away from the roadblock.

A malnourished 30-something-year-old man was on the ground, disoriented eyes locked towards the scorching sky. Not a limb or nerve twitched. Blood was spreading out from underneath his ribs toward the trembling crowd. A soldier stood in front of the injured man, his hands still propped on his FN FAL assault rifle.

Adam! A distant pounding catapulted the door behind me.

None of it was real.

The blood was fake.

The guns, the debris, the roadblock, the crowd, the soldier. It was all fake.

Adam! Adam, open up! Open the goddamn door, son!

Familiar, drained-out voices.

It was all just a film set.

You son-of-a-bitch! A muscular man emerged from the crowd, taking two steps towards the soldier. Have you no shame? No honor?

Gibran, don’t! a lady in a beige dress stretched out. He swatted her arm away and proceeded towards the soldier. More screaming commenced from the crowd.

The soldier brandished his gun towards Gibran. Move," he spat in heavy Arabic.

To loot our homes? To kick us out, arms folded as if we’ve done shit to you? —

Stop.

To kill our loved ones in cold blood and tell us it’s for our protection? To destroy our country? To take away all we value? Our dignity, our respect— Gibran pointed to the man lying on the floor.

He blinked. Enough or shoot.

Please, Gibran! his wife begged him.

Gibran twitched, halting in his steps, Look at him. He needs help, goddammit! Have you no mercy? Help! Help! Help! Doesn’t your bastard brain understand what the hell you’ve done? Gibran was only a crouch away from the injured man. H-E-L-P! He kicked at the crunching gravel.

Beg, the soldier kept a firm voice, impaling Gibran with a javelin.

What? Gibran was caught off guard.

Beg he sneered.

In your fucking dreams, scum.

Then watch. Shoot another filthy one.

Gibran snapped back towards the crowd in disbelief. You’re bluffing.

Don’t try.

Gibran! the woman called again. Shut your mouth. Stop talking back or else he’ll really do it. She clasped her hands together in a pleading gesticulation. Gibran continued to stare the soldier dead in the face.

The soldier clicked his gun.

Gibran gulped. Please, he muttered through gritted teeth.

Not begging. Down. Ground, the soldier demanded.

Gibran glared into the soldier’s eyes with a hateful vengeance as he sank to the floor. His forehead veins were throbbing, ready to pop out through his temples. Pus dripped from the crevices of his callused, crumpled hands.

Pray to God so he helps you.

My heart skipped a beat.

Gibran’s stare dripped of death.

Well? the soldier asked.

...May God curse you and your house. May you taste the fires of hell as raw as you deserve them—

The soldier smirked.

Something exploded behind me and sent wood chips clattering into my hair and onto the floor. Arms wrapped themselves around me, picked me up, and took me away from the bathroom as I began to process what was happening.

No, put me down! I shouted.

Are you OK? Are you hurt? Your back’s soaking with sweat! my mother sobbed.

Mama, please—!

A gunshot clacked outside and echoed into the sky between the apartments.

No! No!

Chapter Two

The day had flown by, but I still couldn’t feel or process anything. I felt like an alien to the concept of emotion. The only thing I did feel was a bizarre emptiness that had lulled me into a flustering calm.

None of what had happened was real. Yet, I couldn’t help but replay the day’s events over and over again. The pool of crimson blood illuminated by the grey sky. The man’s endless stare into nothingness. The soldier. Gibran. The words he had spoken to the soldier. The soldier’s cruelty.

The events that unfolded beneath God.

How could everything happen under his watch?

The war, people dying, the innocent being oppressed, good people like my family and others suffering for no reason. I hated to think it, but it was like God was indifferent to any of it—as if he wasn’t even there.

Stop! I slapped my cheek.

How could I even think that? How could I question God when he had kept us alive? When Mama and Baba told me to never lose faith in him—when blessings were bound to greet us eventually? And besides, what if I was focusing only on the negative and not on the positive? I mean... I had parents when I could’ve been an orphan. That was one example, wasn’t it?

I rolled to the side of my futon and strived to think of something else. My mind then drifted off to the books I had picked up off the floor, on subjects including my hero, Albert Einstein. I wondered what he would’ve done in this situation—what he would’ve believed in. I hadn’t read much on his religious beliefs, but I thought I should have done so, to gain a wider scope of knowledge.

He would’ve wanted me to be curious. Einstein himself would have questioned everything around him...

I brushed my hair back. I had to stop. I raised my head off the mattress and scanned the bedroom. Mama and Baba were both asleep next to me. I slipped away from Mama and tiptoed out of the room, easing the door shut behind me. I crept down the corridor barefoot and stopped at the entrance of the bathroom. The door had been gone since Baba had broken it down. It would have to do regardless of privacy.

I walked inside, closed the toilet’s lid, sat on it, and brought my knees to my body. The only way I’d get myself to stop thinking and finally go to sleep was to force myself to go over every single detail of what had happened and get it out of my system.

Any smart person, such as Einstein, would’ve done the same.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and began my descent.

The man’s scream combined with the soldier’s clacking gunfire; my toes digging into the blunt edge of the worn-out bathtub; my hands grasping the concrete edge of the window; the man staring wide-eyed into the sky; his soaked green, plaid shirt; the soldier’s nonchalance. Gibran—Gibran hollering; the soldier angling his FN FAL assault rifle towards—his FN FAL assault rifle.

His FN FAL assault rifle.

His FN FAL assault rifle.

His FN FAL assault rifle.

"Remember something else. Were you sweating? No."

The way Gibran submitted to the soldier.

Gibran’s submission.

Gibran’s submission.

Gibran’s submission.

Feel something. You should be upset. Crying, scared, something. Feel and process something—

My heart thumped and prattled. Yet I still couldn’t feel anything, although my mind was playing the events on a loop. I wanted that tangled mess out of me, but it just wasn’t happening.

I sighed in defeat. It looked like it would be a wound that time would sterilize. I got up and slumped back to bed.

When I got back there, I found Baba, awake and sitting on the edge of the mattress with the lights on. Mama was still asleep. He was grasping a book. I cocked my head askance to get a better view of what he was holding. It was my favorite Einstein book.

Baba?

Remember when I got you this? he asked. I nodded. Three years ago, you had no idea who Albert Einstein even was. And look at you now: he’s the man you look up to, he smiled. I heard you whispering in the bathroom.

I gulped. I look up to you more, Baba, I whispered.

Baba tilted his head and narrowed his eyes with thoughtfulness. Come here, he whispered. I did as I was told and walked to him. He placed me on his lap and hugged me. I was too exhausted from what had happened to hug him back. Can you tell me why he’s your favorite role model?

I sat back against Baba in contemplation. I never exactly knew why I liked Albert Einstein. It was just... a feeling I got from him, a positive one.

Open up to one of the pages you always look at. I hesitated. Baba took the lead and opened the book himself. Here’s a page. I always see you reading this one, about his childhood. He pointed at an illustration of Albert Einstein as a child, sporting a black bowtie and a fedora hat in one hand. Look at the caption—look how it says that he didn’t learn how to speak until he was four years old, how he was dyslexic, and how he was quieter than the other kids. People doubted his intelligence and didn’t even think he had a future. And where is he now, son?

A dead genius that we all remember.

No. He lives—he continues to live in all of our minds because of his hard work that resulted in an unforgotten legacy. He was successful despite all the odds that were against him, because he believed in himself. I sat up straighter and leaned in closer, focusing on every single word Baba was telling me. Never forget that hope always leads to a better future.

Chapter Three

1989

I had been gazing wide-eyed at the bold, Algerian-font headline for half an hour now, but my brain still couldn’t process the words on the Maroon Chronicle’s front page. I slid my dry fingers across the creased paper to confirm that I was reading the correct headline and not the one underneath it. The release date danced in the corner: December 5, 1989. In just two weeks, Pomegranate Inc’s new PomeSeed would be in the palm of my hand. I remembered the headline flashing throughout the year: Will this be your destiny? Grab the power of the seed! And now after all the car washes, lawn mowing, and leaf-raking I had endured for the past two years since its initial announcement, it was time to use the beautiful wad of money I had saved to get myself that little handheld. Einstein himself would’ve gone crazy over such fine technology.

I was proud to announce that hard work did indeed power the American Dream. Thank God for me having immigrated with Mama and Baba.

Mama and Baba, I remembered.

I glanced at my Batman watch. The clock struck 1:00 pm and Batman’s batarang swung. In five minutes, I’d have to sprint to catch the bus down to Kaiser’s hospital. I hoped they were doing OK. "Inshallah, by the will of God," I corrected myself. I smiled, imagining their proud reactions upon seeing me getting a PomeSeed all by myself in addition to now regularly using Inshallah. Putting grins on their faces was exactly what they needed right now. But I still needed to buy the actual product. Until then, I needed to entertain them in some kind of way. I looked up at where I was: the library. Five minutes was enough to browse the Fremont City library.

I collected my scattered notes regarding Pomegranate Inc and other tech-related topics, pushed my wooden chair back over the grey carpet, and jostled my way to the back of the library.

I arched my index finger above my lips in contemplation, walking past the multitude of aisles. Biographies, technology guides, superhero encyclopedias, film guides, mythology, history books, comic books, sci-fi, adventure novels, and philosophical tales: these were some of my favorite things.

What would Mama and Baba appreciate the most? I tried to think back to our days in the war and what we’d done together as a family—what we had enjoyed every now and then.

Marching out of our home together; the soldiers raiding us; bullets cracking; missiles launching; the body—No, no! My eyes shot open, ending the flood of phantom nightmares. I redirected my focus to the books again, hoping to distract myself. "Something entertaining. Video Games? No. Star Wars? Already checked out each book approximately forty-eight times. Lord of the Rings? I’ve already memorized it. Pomegranate Computers Inc.? You were just reading about that five minutes ago!" I wanted to slap myself for being so indecisive. I had read nearly everything here already. I checked my watch again. 1:03 pm Two more minutes. The best option at that point was to check the New Releases bookshelf. But even reading the synopsis of every book available would take time.

I dashed to the front of the library. Mrs. Porta, the librarian, peeked up from her desk, her face amused and full like a chipmunk’s, hands clasped around a bologna sandwich. Mrs. Porta! I slammed my hands down against the surface of her U-shaped desk, startling her into nearly tossing her tinfoil-wrapped lunch. Sorry, I smiled sheepishly.

No worries. You’re my favorite visitor, she wiped a dab of mustard from the corner of her mouth.

I grinned. "I need your help. You see that New Releases shelf? I need to choose something from there in exactly two minutes, but I don’t have time to read the back covers of all of them. Do you have any recommendations? Something entertaining yet—"

You?

Yup.

Hmmm, Mrs. Gomez brushed a stray hair back into her bun. "How about...The Age of Man: A Psychological Evolution."

Is it entertaining? I need to show it to my parents.

It’s one of our most popular releases. Intellectual yet entertaining.

Well... Mama and Baba weren’t exactly into those types of books, but I didn’t have any more time. It had to do. I would just poke fun at it along with my other nerdy interests to make them laugh a bit. I’ll take it.

I jogged to the shelf. The cover’s border was embroidered with various multi-colored DNA carvings intertwined with one another. In the center, against a coal-black background, there was a pink brain with numerous sectioned off pictures of men through history: cavemen, Ancient Egyptians, a lad from Medieval Europe, etc. The illustration matched the title: The Age of Man: A Psychological Evolution by Goldberg Jameson.

I took my polaroid camera out of my backpack, stretched out my hand whilst grinning with the book at the camera and snapped a shot, proud of the perfect memory I was about to create with Mama and Baba. I tucked the image away into my denim pocket for safe keeping.

***

The number 162 was printed in faded golden digits on the white door. I hesitated before knocking.

Come in, both of my parents’ voices answered me, their tones undecipherable.

I gulped, muttered "Bismillah," turned the knob, and entered. Mama and Baba smiled, their luminous eyes glowing with renewed optimism. My heart ripped its threads apart from the inside out. Their positivity could never alleviate the sight of Mama in bed.

Her usually animated form