The Rosie Project

by Graeme Simsion

  Some weeks later, eating in the University Club, I found a means of making the point succinctly. As I walked to the bar, I noticed one of the members eating a flounder, with its head still in place. After a slightly awkward conversation, I obtained the head and skeleton, which I wrapped and stored in my backpack.

  Four days later, I had the class. I located Faith Healer, and asked him a preliminary question. ‘Do you believe that fish were created in their current forms by an intelligent designer?’

  He seemed surprised at the question, perhaps because it had been seven weeks since we had suspended the discussion. But he nodded in agreement.

  I unwrapped the flounder. It had acquired a strong smell, but medical students should be prepared to deal with unpleasant organic objects in the interests of learning. I indicated the head: ‘Observe that the eyes are not symmetrical.’ In fact the eyes had decomposed, but the location of the eye sockets was quite clear. ‘This is because the flounder evolved from a conventional fish with eyes on opposite sides of the head. One eye slowly migrated around, but just far enough to function effectively. Evolution did not bother to tidy up. But surely an intelligent designer would not have created a fish with this imperfection.’ I gave Faith Healer the fish to enable him to examine it and continued the lecture.

  He waited until the beginning of the new teaching year to lodge his complaint.

  In my discussion with the Dean, she implied that I had tried to humiliate Faith Healer, whereas my intent had been to advance an argument. Since he had used the term ‘creation science’, with no mention of religion, I made the case that I was not guilty of denigrating religion. I was merely contrasting one theory with another. He was welcome to bring counter-examples to class.

  ‘Don,’ she said, ‘as usual you haven’t technically broken any rules. But – how can I put it? – if someone told me that a lecturer had brought a dead fish to class and given it to a student who had made a statement of religious faith, I would guess that the lecturer was you. Do you understand where I’m coming from?’

  ‘You’re saying that I am the person in the faculty most likely to act unconventionally. And you want me to act more conventionally. That seems an unreasonable request to make of a scientist.’

  ‘I just don’t want you to upset people.’

  ‘Being upset and complaining because your theory is disproven is unscientific.’

  The argument ended, once again, with the Dean being unhappy with me, though I had not broken any rules, and me being reminded that I needed to try harder to ‘fit in’. As I left her office, her personal assistant, Regina, stopped me.

  ‘I don’t think I have you down for the faculty ball yet, Professor Tillman. I think you’re the only professor who hasn’t bought tickets.’

  Riding home, I was aware of a tightness in my chest and realised it was a physical response to the Dean’s advice. I knew that, if I could not ‘fit in’ in a science department of a university, I could not fit in anywhere.

  Natalie McPhee, daughter of the late Dr Alan McPhee, potential biological father of Rosie, lived eighteen kilometres from the city, within riding distance, but Rosie decided we should travel by car. I was amazed to find that she drove a red Porsche convertible.

  ‘It’s Phil’s.’

  ‘Your “father’s”?’ I did the air quotes.

  ‘Yeah, he’s in Thailand.’

  ‘I thought he didn’t like you. But he lent you his car?’

  ‘That’s the sort of thing he does. No love, just stuff.’

  The Porsche would be the perfect vehicle to lend to someone you did not like. It was seventeen years old (thus using old emissions technology), had appalling fuel economy, little leg room, high wind noise and a non-functioning air-conditioning system. Rosie confirmed my guess that it was unreliable and expensive to maintain.

  As we arrived at Natalie’s, I realised I had spent the entire journey listing and elaborating on the deficiencies of the vehicle. I had avoided small talk, but had not briefed Rosie on the DNA collection method.

  ‘Your task is to occupy her in conversation while I collect DNA.’ This would make best use of our respective skills.

  It soon became clear that my back-up plan would be necessary. Natalie did not want to drink: she was abstaining from alcohol while breastfeeding her baby, and it was too late for coffee. These were responsible choices, but we would not be able to swab a cup or glass.

  I deployed Plan B.

  ‘Can I see the baby?’

  ‘He’s asleep,’ she said, ‘so you’ll have to be quiet.’

  I stood up and so did she.

  ‘Just tell me where to go,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  The more I insisted that I wanted to see the baby alone, the more she objected. We went to its room and, as she had predicted, it was sleeping. This was very annoying, as I had a number of plans that involved collecting DNA in a totally non-invasive way from the baby, who was, of course, also related to Alan McPhee. Unfortunately I had not factored in the mother’s protective instinct. Every time I found a reason to leave the room, Natalie followed me. It was very awkward.

  Finally, Rosie excused herself to go to the bathroom. Even if she had known what to do, she could not have visited the baby, as Natalie had positioned herself so that she could see the bedroom door and was checking frequently.

  ‘Have you heard about the Genographic Project?’ I asked.

  She hadn’t and was not interested. She changed the topic.

  ‘You seem very interested in babies.’

  There was surely an opportunity here if I could find a way to exploit it. ‘I’m interested in their behaviour. Without the corrupting influence of a parent present.’

  She looked at me strangely. ‘Do you do any stuff with kids? I mean Scouts, church groups …’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s unlikely that I’d be suitable.’

  Rosie returned and the baby started crying.

  ‘Feeding time,’ said Natalie.

  ‘We should be going,’ said Rosie.

  Failure! Social skills had been the problem. With good social skills I could surely have got to the baby.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said as we walked to Phil’s ridiculous vehicle.

  ‘Don’t be.’ Rosie reached into her handbag and pulled out a wad of hair. ‘I cleaned her hairbrush for her.’

  ‘We need roots,’ I said. But there was a lot of hair, so it was likely we would find a strand with its root attached.

  She reached into her bag again and retrieved a toothbrush. It took me a few moments to realise what this meant.

  ‘You stole her toothbrush!’

  ‘There was a spare in the cupboard. It was time for a new one.’

  I was shocked at the theft, but we would now almost certainly have a usable sample of DNA. It was difficult not to be impressed by Rosie’s resourcefulness. And if Natalie was not replacing her toothbrush at regular intervals Rosie had done her a favour.

  Rosie did not want to analyse the hair or toothbrush immediately. She wanted to collect DNA from the final candidate and test the two samples together. This struck me as illogical. If Natalie’s sample were a match, we would not need to collect further DNA. However, Rosie did not seem to grasp the concept of sequencing tasks to minimise cost and risk.

  After the problem with the baby access, we decided to collaborate on the most appropriate approach for Dr Peter Enticott.

  ‘I’ll tell him I’m thinking about studying medicine,’ she said. Dr Enticott was now in the Medical Faculty at Deakin University.

  She would arrange to meet him over coffee, which would provide an opportunity to use the coffee-cup swab procedure that currently had a one hundred per cent failure rate. I thought it unlikely that a barmaid could convince a professor that she had the credentials to study medicine. Rosie seemed insulted by this, and argued that it did not matter in any case. We only had to persuade him to have a drink with us.

  A bigger problem was ho
w to present me, as Rosie did not think she could do the job alone. ‘You’re my boyfriend,’ she said. ‘You’ll be financing my studies, so you’re a stakeholder.’ She looked at me hard. ‘You don’t need to overplay it.’

  On a Wednesday afternoon, with Gene covering a lecture for me in return for the Asperger’s night, we travelled in Phil’s toy car to Deakin University. I had been there many times before for guest lectures and collaborative research. I even knew some researchers in the Medical Faculty, though not Peter Enticott.

  We met him at an outdoor café crowded with medical students back early from the summer break. Rosie was amazing! She spoke intelligently about medicine, and even psychiatry, in which she said she hoped to specialise. She claimed to have an honours degree in behavioural science and postgraduate research experience.

  Peter seemed obsessed with the resemblance between Rosie and her mother, which was irrelevant for our purposes. Three times he interrupted Rosie to remind her of their physical similarity, and I wondered if this might indicate some particular bond between him and Rosie’s mother – and hence be a predictor of paternity. I looked, as I had done in Eamonn Hughes’s living room, for any physical similarities between Rosie and her potential father, but could see nothing obvious.

  ‘That all sounds very positive, Rosie,’ said Peter. ‘I don’t have anything to do with the selection process – at least officially.’ His wording appeared to imply the possibility of unofficial, and hence unethical, assistance. Was this a sign of nepotism and thus a clue that he was Rosie’s father?

  ‘Your academic background is fine, but you’ll have to do the GAMSAT.’ Peter turned to me. ‘The standard admission test for the MD programme.’

  ‘I did it last year,’ said Rosie. ‘I got seventy-four.’

  Peter looked hugely impressed. ‘You can walk into Harvard with that score. But we take other factors into account here, so, if you do decide to apply, make sure you let me know.’

  I hoped he never went for a drink at the Marquess of Queensbury.

  A waiter brought the bill. As he went to take Peter’s cup, I automatically put my hand on it to stop him. The waiter looked at me extremely unpleasantly and snatched it away. I watched as he took it to a cart and added it to a tray of crockery.

  Peter looked at his phone. ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘But now that you’ve made contact, stay in touch.’

  As Peter left, I could see the waiter looking towards the cart.

  ‘You need to distract him,’ I said.

  ‘Just get the cup,’ said Rosie.

  I walked towards the cart. The waiter was watching me but, just as I reached the tray, he snapped his head in Rosie’s direction and began walking quickly towards her. I grabbed the cup.

  We met at the car, which was parked some distance away. The walk gave me time to process the fact that I had, under pressure to achieve a goal, been guilty of theft. Should I send a cheque to the café? What was a cup worth? Cups were broken all the time, but by random events. If everyone stole cups, the café would probably become financially non-viable.

  ‘Did you get the cup?’

  I held it up.

  ‘Is it the right one?’ she said.

  I am not good at non-verbal communication, but I believe I managed to convey the fact that while I might be a petty thief I do not make errors of observation.

  ‘Did you pay the bill?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s how I distracted him.’

  ‘By paying the bill?’

  ‘No, you pay at the counter. I just took off.’

  ‘We have to go back.’

  ‘Fuck ’em,’ said Rosie, as we climbed into the Porsche and sped off.

  What was happening to me?

  12

  We drove towards the university and the lab. The Father Project would soon be over. The weather was warm, though there were dark clouds on the horizon, and Rosie lowered the convertible roof. I was mulling over the theft.

  ‘You still obsessing about the bill, Don?’ Rosie shouted over the wind noise. ‘You’re hilarious. We’re stealing DNA, and you’re worried about a cup of coffee.’

  ‘It’s not illegal to take DNA samples,’ I shouted back. This was true, although in the UK we would have been in violation of the Human Tissue Act of 2004. ‘We should go back.’

  ‘Highly inefficient use of time,’ said Rosie in a strange voice, as we pulled up at traffic lights and were briefly able to communicate properly. She laughed and I realised she had been imitating me. Her statement was correct, but there was a moral question involved, and acting morally should override other issues.

  ‘Relax,’ she said. ‘It’s a beautiful day, we’re going to find out who my father is and I’ll put a cheque in the mail for the coffee. Promise.’ She looked at me. ‘Do you know how to relax? How to just have fun?’

  It was too complex a question to answer over the wind noise as we pulled away from the lights. And the pursuit of fun does not lead to overall contentment. Studies have shown this consistently.

  ‘You missed the exit,’ I said.

  ‘Correct,’ she replied, in the joke voice. ‘We’re going to the beach.’ She spoke right over the top of my protests. ‘Can’t hear you, can’t hear you.’

  Then she put on some music – very loud rock music. Now she really couldn’t hear me. I was being kidnapped! We drove for ninety-four minutes. I could not see the speedometer, and was not accustomed to travelling in an open vehicle, but I estimated that we were consistently exceeding the speed limit.

  Discordant sound, wind, risk of death – I tried to assume the mental state that I used at the dentist.

  Finally, we stopped in a beachside car park. It was almost empty on a weekday afternoon.

  Rosie looked at me. ‘Smile. We’re going for a walk, then we’re going to the lab, and then I’m going to take you home. And you’ll never see me again.’

  ‘Can’t we just go home now?’ I said, and realised that I sounded like a child. I reminded myself that I was an adult male, ten years older and more experienced than the person with me, and that there must be a purpose for what she was doing. I asked what it was.

  ‘I’m about to find out who my dad is. I need to clear my head. So can we walk for half an hour or so, and can you just pretend to be a regular human being and listen to me?’

  I was not sure how well I could imitate a regular human being, but I agreed to the walk. It was obvious that Rosie was confused by emotions, and I respected her attempt to overcome them. As it turned out, she hardly spoke at all. This made the walk quite pleasant – it was virtually the same as walking alone.

  As we approached the car on our return, Rosie asked, ‘What music do you like?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You didn’t like what I was playing on the drive down, did you?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So, your turn going back. But I don’t have any Bach.’

  ‘I don’t really listen to music,’ I said. ‘The Bach was an experiment that didn’t work.’

  ‘You can’t go through life not listening to music.’

  ‘I just don’t pay it any attention. I prefer to listen to information.’

  There was a long silence. We had reached the car.

  ‘Did your parents listen to music? Brothers and sisters?’

  ‘My parents listened to rock music. Primarily my father. From the era in which he was young.’

  We got in the car and Rosie lowered the roof again. She played with her iPhone, which she was using as the music source.

  ‘Blast from the past,’ she said, and activated the music.

  I was just settling into the dentist’s chair again when I realised the accuracy of Rosie’s words. I knew this music. It had been in the background when I was growing up. I was suddenly taken back to my room, door closed, writing in BASIC on my early-generation computer, the song in the background.

  ‘I know this song!’

  Rosie laughed. ‘If you didn’t, that’d be the final
proof that you’re from Mars.’

  Hurtling back to town, in a red Porsche driven by a beautiful woman, with the song playing, I had the sense of standing on the brink of another world. I recognised the feeling, which, if anything, became stronger as the rain started falling and the convertible roof malfunctioned so we were unable to raise it. It was the same feeling that I had experienced looking over the city after the Balcony Meal, and again after Rosie had written down her phone number. Another world, another life, proximate but inaccessible.

  The elusive … Sat-is-fac-tion.

  It was dark when we arrived back at the university. We were both wet. With the aid of the instruction manual, I was able to close the car roof manually.

  In the lab, I opened two beers (no cough-signal required) and Rosie tapped her bottle against mine.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said. ‘Well done.’

  ‘You promise to send a cheque to the café?’

  ‘Whatever. Promise.’ Good.

  ‘You were brilliant,’ I said. I had been meaning to convey this for some time. Rosie’s performance as an aspiring medical student had been very impressive. ‘But why did you claim such a high score on the medical admission test?’

  ‘Why do you think?’

  I explained that if I could have deduced the answer, I would not have asked.

  ‘Because I didn’t want to look stupid.’

  ‘To your potential father?’

  ‘Yeah. To him. To anybody. I’m getting a bit sick of certain people thinking I’m stupid.’

  ‘I consider you remarkably intelligent –’

  ‘Don’t say it.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘For a barmaid. You were going to say that, weren’t you?’

  Rosie had predicted correctly.

  ‘My mother was a doctor. So is my father, if you’re talking about genes. And you don’t have to be a professor to be smart. I saw your face when I said I got seventy-four on the GAMSAT. You were thinking, “He won’t believe this woman is that smart.” But he did. So, put your prejudices away.’