By Tom Hallman Jr.

This story appeared in the Sunday, May 7 issue of The Oregonian. Reprinted with permission from The Oregonian.

Mark Provo dropped the notebook on the nightstand, closed his eyes and leaned on the bed. He wanted to celebrate. But he was trapped in a bare-bones Centralia, Wash., motel room, so broke he couldn't afford a bottle of cheap champagne.

He glanced at a clock. Nearly 2 a.m. His latest session had lasted almost 10 hours. All along he knew the pursuit would test his resolve. Over the centuries, the search had broken many a man. A renowned math professor once predicted that nuclear war would destroy civilization before anyone devised a proof for Fermat's Last Theorem, a simple mathematical law that made perfect sense but which nobody had been able to prove.

The man in Room 114 was certain he had proved the professor wrong, had proved all the experts of the past 340 years wrong. In a matter of months, the world would study his work, astounded by his genius. And in that moment the turmoil of his past would disappear.
 

Provo rose from the bed and stood on a well-worn carpet. Sheets of 81/2-by-11-inch paper, each containing a complex mathematical formula in 2-inch type, covered a wall. A whiteboard with a series of red numbers scrawled across it rested on the room's air conditioner.

He picked up a 200-page ruled notebook, the cheap grocery store variety with blue plastic covers that he called "pads." He walked across the room and dropped it onto a stack of 109 identical notebooks, a tower that reached to the top of a desk.

Over the years, Provo had written on both sides of all 44,000 pages in the stack, scrawling out theories, solutions, diagrams, false starts, dead ends and mathematical insights -- his life's work.

He lived a meager existence, one catastrophe away from the street. The 43-year-old had no home, car or family. He hadn't held a job in years. Two pair of pants and two shirts hung in the closet. Men and women across the country supported him, sending money to someone they had never met because they believed Provo to be a visionary whose name one day would appear in history books.

He walked to a corner table and turned on a single-burner hot plate to reheat dinner, just as he did when he finished work almost every night. He was a creature of order, habit and persistent determination. The room was meticulously neat, the nightstand uncluttered and Provo's few belongings stacked in orderly piles. Since he moved in, he had eaten the same two meals -- chicken or turkey prepared on the hot plate or in the room's microwave -- each day. Often, when he was down to his last dollar, he survived on lettuce.

Provo hadn't cut his brown hair in three years, pulling it into a ponytail that hung between his shoulder blades and made him look like a 1960s hippie. His only exercise was walking to the store, and his once lean 5-foot-7 frame had ballooned to nearly 180 pounds. The lack of sun left his skin pasty. His contact lenses had slipped down the drain years earlier, forcing him to wear old and unfashionable metal-framed glasses.

Over the years, he sent thousands of letters across the country seeking support from scientific corporations and foundations, even lottery winners. None of them replied. He pressed on, sure of himself, and in his view he had succeeded against all odds. But by this July night in 2005, it was time to turn from his grim past and focus on his brilliant future.

Within weeks he would organize his findings and write the mathematical paper he would send to Princeton, Harvard and the California Institute of Technology. And, of course, a news release heralding his work would be sent to Scientific American, The New York Times, ABC News, CNN and the Fox News Channel.

He finished his meal and stepped to the room's only window. He stared at Interstate 5's northbound lanes, watching the beams from headlights bounce as cars crested a hill before dropping down into Centralia. He had lived in Room 114 for almost exactly two years.

By the time Mark Provo climbed onto the Greyhound bus and headed north on I-5 that morning in July 2003, he had lost everything. A supporter had paid for his one-way ticket out of San Diego. The $200 in his pocket was another gift, a stake to a fresh start 1,200 miles to the north. Even as his life disintegrated, Provo believed he would soon solve one of history's most tantalizing math problems.
 

Since 1665, finding a proof for Fermat's Last Theorem had stymied the world's best mathematical minds. A German who planned to commit suicide at midnight started work on the proof, missed his deadline and gave up his suicide plans. When he died -- of natural causes -- his will left a cash prize to anyone who could prove the theorem that had saved his life.

The theorem itself is deceptively simple. Fermat (pronounced Fair-MAH) started with a basic equation, one of the most common in all math: x\UNSTRIP + y\UNSTRIP = z\UNSTRIP. He discovered that any number of values for x, y and z will result in a solution for the equation that doesn't require fractions. In other words, a whole-number solution.

For example, 3\UNSTRIP (9) + 4\UNSTRIP (16) = 5\UNSTRIP (25). Or 5\UNSTRIP (25) + 12\UNSTRIP (144) = 13\UNSTRIP (169).

But Fermat couldn't find any whole-number solutions if the exponents -- the "2" in x\UNSTRIP and y\UNSTRIP -- were anything larger than 2. So he came up with what came to be known as Fermat's Last Theorem: Given the equation xn plus yn = zn , there is no whole-number solution for z if n is bigger than 2.

The intuitive truth of the theorem was obvious. Plug in any value for "n" that is larger than 2, and you will never come up with a whole-number solution to the equation. Math buffs have been trying for hundreds of years. Nobody's done it yet.

But formally proving the theorem is something else, something even beyond the capabilities of supercomputers. How do you prove a negative? It was like trying to prove that the value for pi extended to an infinite number of decimal places. A supercomputer can calculate pi to a million decimal places without reaching an end, but that doesn't prove it won't reach an end if it calculates a million and one.

So how could Mark Provo prove that somebody wouldn't -- someday, somewhere, somehow -- come up with a value for "n" that results in a whole-number solution for Fermat's simple little equation?

Provo slung a backpack over his shoulders and grabbed a window seat. He would use the two-day trip north to work on Fermat, which he discovered decades earlier while a student at Gresham's Mt. Hood Community College. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a pad. He wrote the date on the upper left corner -- July 5, 2003 -- and got to work.

The Greyhound pulled into Centralia just after 7:30 p.m. Provo shoved his few belongings into his backpack and got off the bus. Although he graduated from the University of Washington, Provo never had been in Centralia and knew only one person in the surrounding area, an old friend who had offered to meet him. If all went as planned, he would spend a week in town, contributions from his supporters would catch up with him and he would be on his way.

The driver set Provo's two suitcases onto the pavement -- his computer would arrive in the mail in a couple of days. Provo spotted his friend and loaded his suitcases into his car. They drove to the Peppertree West Motor Inn, where Provo paid $175 cash, the weekly rate. He took the key to Room 114, tucked away in a bunkerlike building standing alone in a potholed asphalt parking lot. He stuck the key into the lock, stepped inside and unpacked. He closed the blinds and settled onto his bed. He reached for his pad.
 

Weeks passed. Months. Years.

Provo slept in on the day of his big discovery, posting a note on the door to let the maids know not to bring clean towels until after noon. Late in the day, he turned his attention to his news release. He wasn't sure where to start, but decided to focus on Fermat's Last Theorem and Pierre de Fermat himself.

The French lawyer and amateur mathematician studied number theory, an esoteric branch of pure mathematics involving the patterns and relationships among whole numbers. Provo felt a kinship with Fermat, whose work in the 1600s established the foundations of probability theory, the basis of modern survey research and polling.

Fermat's life turned toward mathematics after he read "Arithmetica," written in 250 A.D. He first encountered the simple little equation that would drive math buffs crazy when the ancient text discussed Pythagoras' theorem: The square of the longest side of a right triangle equals the sum of the squares of the two other sides, expressed as x\UNSTRIP + y\UNSTRIP = z\UNSTRIP. Fermat apparently played around and found no possible solution when the exponent was larger than 2. In his copy of the book, Fermat scribbled what one historian said was "the most tantalizing comment in the history of science": "I have a truly marvelous demonstration of this proposition, which this margin is too narrow to contain."

When Fermat died in 1665, his son gathered his papers and discovered the note. He published Fermat's observations and a number of his theorems. Over the years mathematicians proved every one of Fermat's theorems, except for what became know as Fermat's Last Theorem, the mystery theorem hinted at in the margin note.

Over centuries, tens of thousands of math professionals and amateurs have taken a run at the proof. All failed. Even so, the failures led to advances in number theory that affect everyday life -- for example, the security of credit card numbers sent over the Internet.

In 1993, Andrew Wiles, chairman of Princeton University's math department, made worldwide news with the announcement that he had proved Fermat's Last Theorem indirectly by a method called contradiction. But Wiles had to lecture for a week to explain his incredibly complicated proof, which in writing ran to more than 200 pages. Understanding Wiles required a familiarity with abstract algebra -- dealing with groups, rings and fields -- as well as linear algebra, calculus and complex analysis.

Provo, on the other hand, believed he had a simple and direct proof that could be boiled down to 90 pages. To be verified, his work would have to be examined by university professors. But Provo wasn't a member of the mainstream academic community. He had only an undergraduate math degree, and he worried that Ph.D.s might not take him seriously. Still, he felt his work was so revolutionary that they would be unable to ignore him. He would be famous, ready to take his place among pioneers such as Neil Armstrong, somebody who had gone where no one had before.

He did not pursue Fermat for so long to get rich or to advance his career. He chased the proof because someone had said it couldn't be done.

His one regret was that his mother was dead. She would never know that she was wrong about him.
 

Mark Provo scrimped for postage, cutting back on meals, and sent out news releases. While waiting for the attention he was sure would follow his discovery, Provo tried bouncing his ideas off people.

To the few neighbors who even knew he was there -- the motel desk clerk, residents of a nearby trailer park -- the man in Room 114 remained a mystery. No one knew what he was doing in that room. He worked late into the night, his window the only lighted one in the building. The maids spoke no English, but he saw them glancing at the wall, staring at his calculations and numbers.

As he fine-tuned his proof, he dropped into the office and talked with the clerk to explain his theories about Fermat and math. He expounded on his new insights with the neighbors. Soon he became known around the motel as "the professor."

He lost most listeners the moment he moved beyond basic arithmetic, but Provo was so passionate, so sure of himself, that his audience came away believing he was onto something.

And then, when he was done talking, he slipped back to Room 114.

He had given up a house, family, children and wife because of Fermat and number theory. His parents were dead. He had no siblings or relatives. What he had, what he had always had, were numbers.

The search for Fermat had been thrilling, and he felt relieved it was over. But once he finished his work, doubt crept in. If no one learned what he had done, what would become of him?

Provo skipped two meals and took the money he saved to buy the newest issue of Scientific American. He was drawn to science for the same reasons he was drawn to math. Math never judged. There was always an answer. If he was dedicated enough, he could discover it. To succeed, he had to count only on himself, something he learned to do early in life.

His mother was a meat wrapper in a Seaview, Wash., grocery store, on the Long Beach Peninsula. She also was a drunk. When Mark Provo was 3, his parents divorced, and his father -- never an influence in his life -- died five years later.

Provo didn't hunt or fish, two hobbies that often defined peninsula boys. But he was a good student and by the sixth grade was working on advanced math, something providing order and structure, two things lacking at home. When his mother drank, she poured mean criticism on her son. She brought scraps of meat to the 30 feral cats that gathered by her back door, giving them more attention than she ever gave Provo. She would go off on something he did or said, heading to the Elks Lodge to drink the night away.
 

Provo's grandmother provided some stability. He would go to her house after school to wait for his mother. He liked to read essays by Isaac Asimov, the science-fiction writer, and he carried Asimov's paperbacks with him in a metal briefcase. He lost himself in the words and dreamed of a different life.

When he graduated from high school, he learned that the national Elks provided tuition money for children of dead members. Provo received a stipend to move to the Portland area. Six weeks later, his grandmother died. In her will, she left Provo's mother $1. Provo got the house, which he sold to start a new life. He enrolled at Mt. Hood Community College as a journalism student, and the school paper assigned him to cover the math and physics department. His interest in numbers rekindled, he changed majors and earned an associate's degree in science. With money from his grandmother's estate, he enrolled at the University of Washington, where he later graduated with a math degree.

He worked as a math tutor and then became chairman of the math department at a private prep school. In 1993, he began teaching math at Shoreline Community College, where he met his future wife.

In the spring of 1994, Provo was walking across his living room when this thought -- "What about numbers?" -- popped into his head. It was so intense that he stopped, feeling as if someone actually were speaking to him.

The thoughts continued. When a rock falls to the ground because of gravity, people see math in action. Math explains patterns in the world, establishing the laws of science.

Provo jotted down ideas on a piece of paper, then walked to a bookshelf and pulled out a volume on number theory. He flipped the pages, scanning. Then he ran into the black hole of number theory -- Fermat's Last Theorem. He remembered it from his days at Mt. Hood Community College, where a teacher had mentioned Fermat and briefly explained the theorem's rich history.

He closed the book. He would find the proof. When his wife arrived home from an errand, he told her he was headed someplace special.

Summer was over, and the news releases had generated no interest. But he had to get somebody to read his work. Provo spent hours on his balky, outdated computer to print documents university professors could evaluate.

He developed a toothache but had no money for painkillers. He rubbed aloe-vera hand lotion on his gums, closing his eyes and ignoring the pain. He steadied himself with the resolve he had drawn on when he first tackled the proof 11 years earlier. Back then, he quit his job and restructured his life to chase elusive numbers. His wife supported his quest, but problems in the relationship cropped up. In 1997 the couple divorced.

Provo sought refuge at a buddy's house, living on donations from friends while he devoted himself to math. He knew acquaintances assumed he was a loner. In fact, he enjoyed people and had treasured his time in the classroom. The proof demanded his full concentration. He devoted 14 hours a day to it, calculating and exploring the deep mathematical structure behind Fermat.
 

Days, weeks and months passed. He was no closer than when he started.

Desperate for support, Provo searched the Internet and sent e-mails explaining his research to any site dealing with alternative thinking. One man, who focused on the paranormal and strange discoveries in science, posted a short interview with Provo on the Internet. A Colorado man happened onto the interview and contacted Provo. He told him he could put him in touch with a wealthy backer.

The timing was perfect. Provo's Seattle friend was planning to take in a foster child, and Provo needed to leave the house. He decided to move to San Diego for the good weather. He checked into a motel there and waited for the funding, described as "just around the corner." The Colorado supporter finally said a crooked lawyer had embezzled the money. Provo, broke and discouraged, had nowhere to turn. That is when he headed to Centralia.

Two years later, frustrated and waiting for someone to notice him in Room 114, Provo walked to his computer and signed on to look for e-mail from supporters.

The Internet allowed him to tap into a subculture fascinated with provocative theories about math and the Fermat legend. A German promised to send money but never did. A group of potential investors wanted Provo to explore the use of ionized plasma to run car engines. Other believers sent money to pay the rent for Room 114, his Internet service and food. But by late summer of 2005 the supporters had dwindled to a handful.

He clicked on the mail icon to see whether his most loyal backer, a 90-year-old retired Florida banker, had written. The man, a Stanford University graduate, knew nothing about number theory. He was, though, fascinated by Provo's work.

Provo stared at the screen. No mail, no money. He shuffled back to his bed, lay his head against the wall and closed his eyes. For the first time in years, he felt fear. He rolled off the bed and paced the room. With each step he grew more bitter.

He never heard from the chairmen of the nation's most prestigious math departments. His work, he assumed, had been tossed into the garbage. He suspected they figured him to be a math crank, a term professors use to dismiss amateurs who try to prove Fermat or to solve other great math problems -- squaring the circle, or trisecting a right angle using only a compass and a ruler. Provo knew he wasn't a crank, no more than were Srinivasa Ramanujan and Evariste Galois, two 19th century amateurs who cracked problems that had defied the math establishment. Provo considered their examples inspirational.

But Provo never would get a chance to become another fabled mathematical amateur unless he could get professional mathematicians to certify his proof. After he submitted it to Harvard and Princeton, with no responses, he turned to Northwest colleges, which ignored him, too. And then, in late February 2006, Neal Koblitz, a University of Washington math professor, agreed to read Provo's work. Provo went through all his papers one final time. He examined the pages dealing with Fermat, making a headline on that page: "The Simple Proof for Fermat's Last Theorem."

Everything was perfect. He loaded the papers onto an e-mail as an attachment. He typed in the e-mail address to Koblitz. He hit send.
 

Provo had expected Koblitz would take days to thoroughly read his proof and supporting papers. But three hours after sending them off, he again signed on to his computer and was surprised to find a return e-mail. He clicked the mail open, began reading and stopped at one particular paragraph: "Unfortunately your chapter on the 'simple proof' does not contain a true mathematical proof. There is no logical sequence of arguments that shows that there couldn't be a solution to the Fermat equation."

Provo couldn't believe he had received such a response. Koblitz had cited one of his examples as wrong, noting it was on Page 93 when, in fact, it was on Page 82, all of which showed -- to Provo -- that Koblitz had given the papers only a cursory read. The letter went on for several more paragraphs, the professor discussing flaws in various equations and variables, before Koblitz apologized for "sounding so negative."

Provo stared at the letter's last line -- "Best wishes on your further studies of mathematics." Even though universities were supposed to be places that searched for truth, Provo told himself, the professor had blown him off.

He pushed away from the computer. He had devoted 12 years of his life to this work. He planned to go over his entire proof line by line to find the flaw in the professor's logic, which clearly had been colored because Provo lacked a Ph.D. But greatness could emerge from the shadows. After all, Albert Einstein had once been a low-level clerk.

But Provo's indignity and outrage provided only so much fuel. He sat in his chair, for the first time unable to plot his next move. When he needed a boost in the past, Provo played Elvis Presley on his small stereo. His favorite song was "The Impossible Dream."

On this night, though, he hit bottom. Even Elvis couldn't raise his spirits. He took stock of his assets: A cheap computer and stereo, $40 and 110 notebooks. Oh, and a new suit from Sears. His 90-year-old Florida supporter, expecting that great news was just around the corner, had sent Provo money so that he could buy something dressy to look presentable at presentations and news conferences.

Provo closed Koblitz's e-mail and turned from the computer. His body ached, and he was exhausted. He had been kept awake the past several weeks by a noisy couple in Room 113. He needed fresh air and figured a walk to the store would cheer him up.

Most of his adult life was built around a philosophy of discovery. He remembered reading that great breakthroughs could be made only by walking through a wall of fire. His wall of fire had been Room 114. Discovery, he believed, required courage, fortitude and the ability to endure suffering and deprivation -- his life, in other words, since 1997.

A cold front had moved into Centralia and rain was expected. Provo hustled to the store. He walked past the office where he had checked in so long ago, telling a clerk he planned to stay for just a week. All told, he had spent nearly 800 straight days in Room 114.

For what?
 

He missed having a girlfriend, going to the movies, reading a book and driving a car. He had been cut off from so much of the world for so long. Numbers were wonderful. He had always be drawn to their mystery. But he longed for the human connection that can't be broken down into a mathematical equation.

Provo remembered that President Kennedy once said that the future is the frontier and that Americans were supposed to be the world's pioneers. By the time he returned to his room, that's what he considered himself. He had a plan to ensure that his work did not die.

He would circumvent the system and let the people decide whether he was right or wrong by posting his body of work on the Internet. Centuries earlier, great work lay undiscovered until someone stumbled onto an old notebook or jotting in the margins of a text. That wouldn't happen to him.

Provo made his meal -- chicken cooked on the hot plate -- and thought about how best to get everything out to the world beyond Room 114. His few supporters had sent enough to cover the rent. But once his work reached a mass audience, he would be able to move and properly continue his research.

After dinner, he lay on his bed and watched the news. Beyond the foot of the bed he could see his life's work. The 110 notebooks he called pads.

And then he had a thought.

He reached for a pad -- No. 111 -- and got to work.

 Neal Koblitz, a University of Washington professor, read Mark Provo's attempt to prove Fermat's Last Theorem in response to a request from The Oregonian. Provo's attempted proof is posted on his Web site: www.markprovo.com

Tom Hallman Jr.: 503-221-8224; tomhallman@news.oregonian.com.