THE FUZZY LOGIC OF PATTERN RECOGNITION

He steps out of the shower, vigorously rubs his pecs with the complimentary towel and catches himself thinking about the room number. Number 7, again. What were the odds of being shown to the same room twice in a week? A few hours earlier a tired hotel maid had pointed to the room she had just made ready, without giving him a second look. He is sure she didn’t recognize him, not with all the traffic this hourly hotel sees in a week. In any case he doesn't care. The only thing Paul Yeung cares about at 7 am is whether he will have enough time to go home, change shirt and gel his hair before the first meeting of the day. He doesn’t need to shave every day, but can’t live without hair gel.

In the taxi he reassesses the evening again. One step closer to the Golden Fleece, but not there yet. Olga, age 25 (2+5, 7 again!), tall, naturally blonde, nice ass, small boobs, but…completely shaven. She is in town for 7 weeks, how uncanny is that? Who knows, he may see her again. Unless a Ludmila or a Natasha or some other auspicious seven-letter name crosses his path. He likes number 7. He senses that there is a connection between the Golden Fleece and number 7 but he can’t explain it.

The taxi fare is 68 dollars, he gives the driver a 2 dollar tip, to make it 70, and everybody is happy.

He steps out of the taxi and turns around to face the cluster of identical residential towers. In the huge mass of concrete and glass penetrated by the early morning sunshine he spots an uninterrupted row of opaque squares, squares of lowered curtains; the reassuring markers of rhythmic, orderly lives. He likes that. He often feels that his existence is a struggle against entropy.

His flat is a bastion against disorder. He slides the door of his spacious walk-in wardrobe and notices with dismay that his helper hanged a white shirt among light-blue ones. As he moves it where it should be, a striped shirt catches his eye. Why is it nesting between two chequered ones? What’s wrong with this woman? How many times has he told her that his shirts must be arranged by color and pattern? His eyebrows punctuate his inner dialogue as he opens the briar wood box that contains his cufflinks.

Paul never takes any girl back to his apartment.

Sure, he would like to see them swaying on their slender ankles when he leads them along the corridor, but can’t bear the thought of them scattering their shoes across the solid beech flooring of his bedroom, streaking his pillowcase with mascara or leaving a Tampax under the bed. Girls are messy.

If one of them stayed long enough in his life, maybe a pattern would emerge, who knows, things that often seem random are really just following their own set of rules. Given time, he would find a pattern. That’s what he does, but the data volume needs to be much, much larger. After a few months he would be able to predict where her shoes fall, or when she would leave a blood stain on his bed sheets.

But the calculus of love requires dedication. He is still dedicating himself to the quest of the Golden Fleece… and to the application of mathematical models.

He likes to think that the patterns of financial markets are akin to natural systems, such as tropical typhoons or the flooding of river basins. But that’s where the analogy ends. As a chaologist and Chief Investment Officer of Argo Asset Management, his forecasts are more handsomely rewarded than those of any meteorologist.

For most of his life Paul has relied on math to make sense of the ineffable and find order among the seemingly random. He often wonders how most people can go on living without algorithms in such a perplexing world.

Standing in front of his large bathroom mirror he squirts a quarter-size amount of gel in his left palm, rubs his hands together, then massages it into his hair. With a smile of self-satisfaction, he takes a horn comb from the chrome rack and perfects his side parting.

Fresh shirt, hair firmly held in place, a dab of cologne, he is ready to head to his office.

At 9:00 the lift is crowded, 7 people with black hair and a blonde woman with a sleek ponytail he has never seen before. When the lift stops on his floor, she is the only one to get out with him. He pretends to check his phone, slows down to let her walk ahead of him.

From behind he can assess her potential. He has learned that the neck hairline offers the most reliable clue to a girl’s original hair colour. Her high ponytail allows a perfect view of the back of her head. Yes, her hair looks natural.

She can’t be a model. Not tall enough. Not in this building at 9 am. Slightly shorter than him, her ankles are delightfully slim, her calves toned without being muscular, her grey skirt clings tightly to her thighs making her hips sway as she glides on high heels through the corridor.

She stops at room 1510. His office! Swipes her pass and strides past the reception of Argo Asset Management. He is still behind her when she suddenly stops in front of a cubicle, turns and meets his gaze. He doesn’t know what to say. He must say something.

He nervously fingers the collar of his shirt. “Hi. I have never seen you before. Are you working here?” “Hi, I am Natalya. I am the new HR manager. Wait. Haven’t we met before, like, a couple of years ago? Paul?? ”

He tries to avoid her blue-green eyes, the interrogative knitting of her brows. He lowers his gaze and quickly scans her body for clues. No, he doesn’t remember her.

He sees others like her, rooms like the one he left a couple of hours earlier, clothes like hers, bodies like hers, replicated hundreds of times, a fractal explosion. He feels slightly dizzy. Needs breakfast. Soon.

He tries to picture her head thrown back, lying on a pillow, her eyes half-closed, a sharp, sweet line of teeth, her white throat. His hands floating onto her breast. Other faces are now superimposed on hers.

No, he doesn’t recognize her.

“I haven’t changed much, my hair is longer, that’s all. You really don’t remember? I am Jason’s wife. You attended our wedding. Two years ago”.

Paul sighs with relief. He knows and yet doesn’t ‘know’ this Natalya. She is working in his office. That could be a problem, but not if he plays his cards right. She is married. But Paul never let marital status dampen his enthusiasm.

Her husband’s name is Jason. Actually, this is a very good omen. Jason could have reached the Golden Fleece before Paul, but who says that he has exclusive rights to it?

“Sorry Natalya, I didn’t sleep much last night. Of course. Your wedding. We all had too much to drink. By the way, long hair suits you. I need breakfast. Catch up later.”

He smells promise in the air. A luminous pattern is emerging.

If only his mother had her way, Paul would have been called Jason. Argh, his mother! A blonde girl who 34 years ago married a Chinese man with no time for Greek mythology, let alone the beauty of fractals.