You Must Be Very Intelligent

by Karin Bodewits

  “Mark?”

  “Not so far.”

  Gilton sighs, irritated.

  “It’s always the same with him,” he says wearily. “You’ve got all the bullet points done that we agreed on during your second year viva?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good. If you run into trouble just come to me, Karin.”

  He stands up to indicate that we are finished.

  I leave his office, and walk to the lab. Barry is standing at the UV-vis talking to one of his new project students. I look in his direction, but he’s avoiding eye contact.

  “Frustrated fuck trumpet,” I mumble.

  © Springer International Publishing AG 2017

  Karin BodewitsYou Must Be Very Intelligent10.1007/978-3-319-59321-0_41

  Chapter 41

  Karin Bodewits1

  (1)Munich, Germany

  Karin Bodewits

  Email: office@karinbodewits.com

  I take my whole drawer out of the fridge in which I have stored the largest part of my samples over the past three years, and place it on the bench. One by one I go through all the tubes. On many of the older samples the text on the lids has faded and I have no idea what is inside. Others I didn’t document properly and, despite the text being crystal clear, it could be pretty much anything in there. But, with most I know exactly what is in the tube and if I dig deep inside myself I can recall the anxiety-arousing memories of what it had taken to create these samples – memories I have been managing to suppress rather well lately. Even though I only stayed home for two weeks in a row to finish writing, the experimental part of my PhD seems like years ago.

  Carefully I place a few stocks of the plasmids I created in the common Lab 262 plasmid box. I sigh deeply and let all other samples drop in the large yellow bio-waste bin next to the bench. I follow the same procedure with all the stuff I kept in the −80 degrees freezer; only three glycose stocks with modified bugs I place in the common box; the rest I unceremoniously dump in the bin as well. I am looking down at the 100s of samples, feeling a mixture of pain and relief to see all the hours I invested being thrown away – it’s closure on a sad waste of time.

  I already tidied up my bench in the hospital a few weeks ago, when I said goodbye to Sharon and Leonie. James had officially retired and despite him still coming to the office every day, his lab had closed. Leonie started a new postdoc in England and Sharon had found a position as a technician at the Roslin Institute, where Dolly the sheep was famously created. Brian moved to Cork.

  I tidy the cold room and when I think I am finished, I walk to the office. My desk is empty; a few weeks ago I took home all the papers to write up my thesis.

  “Ready?” Logan asks.

  “Still need to submit,” I reply, happy in a strange way that it is not yet time to say goodbye.

  I check the clock to see if the College Office has opened; another ten minutes to go. The time hangs heavy so I decide to take a few filled-out forms and the two heavy copies of my thesis, along with a USB stick (containing the same file electronically) to wait at the Office entrance door. I enter as soon as it is unlocked. Two friendly ladies greet me and I place everything on the counter. It takes less than five minutes and I am standing outside again, much lighter in every sense.

  I walk back to the lab. I had thought the chances of still seeing Mark before my departure were slim. Linn told me they heard from Barry that Mark became a father last week and they had not seen him since. But now he is there, standing with sad Barry at the UV-vis.

  “Logan?” he shouts into the office, in an annoyed tone.

  “Yes.”

  “What happened with the software on this computer?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Logan replies while walking towards Mark and Barry, who both completely ignore my presence.

  A few seconds later Logan is at the machine. “Congratulations, Mark, with your son!” Logan says.

  He extends his hand to shake Mark’s, who tries to keep Logan’s hand at a distance and looks irritated by the gesture and topic.

  “Are we now talking about babies or about this software?” he barks aggressively. Sociopath.

  Logan raises his eyebrows, takes a half-step backwards and starts to type on the keyboard to fix the error.

  “I submitted my thesis,” I dare to say, standing at the bench behind them.

  Mark turns around. “Good. And now?” he asks, much more friendly than I anticipated.

  “I leave for South America tomorrow. Backpacking for a few months.”

  I don’t say that the location as such has been secondary in the decision where to fly to. That I just need a break before embarking on a new stage in my life, though I have no clue what or where this new stage is. As there is at least a month between submission and the PhD defence, I thought this would be the right time to get away from this phase of my life.

  “If you think that is the right place to prepare for your defence…”

  “I think it is.”

  “Write me when you are ready and I’ll book a date with the examiners.”

  “Thanks.”

  I walk to the office and chat for a few minutes with Linn, until Mark and Barry have left the lab and I can say goodbye to Logan.

  “I wish I was flying to Buenos Aires tomorrow,” Logan says when he enters the office.

  He is being funded for four years instead of three. Hence he still has a year to go. “I’ll send you a card!”

  I lift my backpack and jumper. “Okay, time to leave!” I say.

  “Have a good trip, and see you for your viva,” Logan says.

  “Take care, Ka,” Linn adds.

  We had already properly said goodbye yesterday evening on my farewell night, so it seemed over the top to make a big fuss about it now. Plus, I would be back… in a few months… I suppose… I really don’t want to think about it though… I smile and walk out of the door.

  It is just after five when Greg and Felix buzz my doorbell.

  “Your movers have arrived,” Felix says, smiling at the apocalyptic wasteland that is now my flat.

  “This is the stuff I’m bringing,” I say, pointing at a large backpack in the middle of the room, surrounded by a few boxes to send to my parents, plus some loose pans that didn’t fit in the boxes I have asked Greg to keep until my return.

  “What are we going to do with the rest? Second hand shop downstairs?” Greg asks, referring to all the furniture in my flat.

  It would have been so easy to just drop off everything in the shop below my flat, and it would have had an appealing tidiness about it. Alas, I had asked if they wanted it, and they politely declined. I couldn’t remonstrate; the cheapest furniture IKEA has to offer with three years of wear. My furniture is just awkwardly stacked firewood.

  “They don’t want it,” I say.

  “Then we have to make them want it,” Felix says.

  None of us possesses a car, so getting rid of furniture is a major hassle.

  “Yep. They have two entrances, and sort of two rooms, right?” Greg asks.

  “Sort of, yes,” I confirm.

  “So you distract them at one end of the shop while Felix and I dump the stuff at the other end.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  “We need to hurry though, they’re closing soon,” Felix says.

  I walk downstairs and enter the second hand shop yet another time in just an hour. The middle-aged lady behind the counter obviously recognises me as the mad Dutch girl who thought all her ghastly cheap worn-out furniture was sellable.

  “Anything else I can help you with?” she asks curiously, with the same friendly voice she had before.

  “Yes. I actually decided against moving and am interested in the table you have over there.”

  “Right…,” she says and, without doubt, looks utterly perplexed but not yet suspicious as such. I told her an hour earlier I’m emigrating to an unknown destination. She probably just thinks I’m mentally ill.

  “I kn
ow, don’t ask, it’s all very strange,” I say, hopefully taking her worry away and leading her to a table as far as possible from the entrance Felix and Greg will use.

  The shop spans the ground floor of two large tenements, with a wall and a small door in between, so it is large and sufficiently separated that one can never be sure what is happening on the other side of the shop. Nevertheless, between all the questions I ask her about the butt-ugly granny table and the accompanying chairs, I can hear Felix and Greg dragging my furniture into the shop. There are lots of people bustling about and a wide variety of noises so, thankfully, the lady doesn’t seem to register Felix and Greg’s contribution to the backdrop. After just over five minutes and enquiring about every silly little detail of the table, I ask her to tell me something about the even uglier table next to it. With little passion, and an increasingly suspicious undertone, she says a few words about the oval table which, presumably, she probably also finds butt ugly. A few sentences later and the suspicion is palpable, and unbearable. Oh God, what if she thinks we’re robbing the place?

  I tell her that I just need to let everything sink in, but will probably fetch one of these two beauties tomorrow. At undoubtedly suspicious speed, I leave the shop through the nearest exit. I walk along the pavement to the other exit and see my sofa, rocking chair, metallic kitchen table and red bench piled up in the shop window.

  “We’re not finished yet, flower,” Greg says walking down with the second red bench in his hand, clearly disappointed to see me.

  “She got too suspicious.”

  “Right. Then we have to wait until they are closed and we place the rest in front of the shop,” Felix says.

  We walk back upstairs and we all open one of the beers that Greg brought. Less than thirty minutes later we are taking furniture down again. We place it in front of the shop but it turns out there are plenty of people passing who see a use for my old tat. Most of the stuff we place outside the shop is taken by the time we are back upstairs. Maybe I could have just left everything there and avoided the suspicious subterfuge?

  “Wow, this is a real gypsy move,” Felix says.

  Enthusiastically, he runs back upstairs to fetch the next load. It only takes half an hour until it is only my bed and a wardrobe left.

  “Where are my pans?” I ask, staring at the pile of stuff in the middle of the room.

  “Felix just brought them down,” Greg says.

  “I did indeed.”

  “Oh no!” I shriek and run empty-handed down the stairs.

  Frantically I look around the pavement, but the pans are gone. My last trace of personal wealth has been taken by a stranger.

  “What’s wrong?” Felix asks, looking at the stuff on the pavement.

  “You donated the best pans ever to a complete stranger!”

  Felix looks genuinely sorry. “I’ll buy you new ones.”

  “No, forget it. I don’t need pans in South America.”

  It is after ten in the evening before the whole flat is in a sort of reasonable state. The few boxes with stuff I want to keep are at Greg’s place, and it is only me, my backpack and a few dirty towels left. I walk once more to the window sill and look outside. At Gorgie Road. At the City Farm. At the Hearts supporters pub. I am torn by emotions that I know can only be numbed with sleep; happiness to have had my last day at Lab 262, excitement about penguins, Latinos, salsa, wine and all the other things waiting for me, and desperate sadness for all the good people I am leaving behind. There are a few tears running down my cheek. Greg is standing next to me and puts an arm round my shoulder. “It’s fine, flower. All will be fine.”

  We drink another beer, the three of us in the empty flat, and close the front door behind us before midnight. I write a short thank you note to the agent who had let me the flat for three years, tape it to the keys and throw the keys in the mailbox. We head to Felix’s shared apartment, drink more and the next thing I remember is the alarm going off at an unseemly hour. It’s time to leave.

  © Springer International Publishing AG 2017

  Karin BodewitsYou Must Be Very Intelligent10.1007/978-3-319-59321-0_42

  Chapter 42

  Karin Bodewits1

  (1)Munich, Germany

  Karin Bodewits

  Email: office@karinbodewits.com

  I follow Prof. Gilton through the chemistry building on auto pilot. Is my PhD defence really finally happening?… I have postponed this oral exam as much as anyone can. Under my arm I carry a copy of my thesis, full of dubiously scribbled notes, while my legs move forward unprompted and my hands all but squelch with sweat.

  For two months I have revised, from early morning to late evening, all the facts and theories around all the techniques I used during my PhD – every last one of them. Felix has donated hours and hours of his free evenings and weekends to explain to me every bit of chemistry in my thesis right down to the last dull detail. He turns out to be a born teacher; he has instructed me better than any Russian spy might be briefed before infiltrating the CIA. Just yesterday, it seemed I knew everything, but now my head feels empty.

  “How are you, Karin?” Prof. Gilton asks, opening a door to the new part of the building.

  “Considering the circumstances I am quite fine.”

  “You said hello to Mark?”

  “No, I avoided him.”

  With a supportive smile, Prof. Gilton turns to face me. “Say hi afterwards, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  We enter a small room at the back of the chemistry building, where I have never actually been before. Prof. Gilton tapes a note to the door: “Viva in progress. Please do not disturb!”

  A grey-haired guy, initially sitting with his back to the entrance, springs up to introduce himself.

  “Hi Karin, Professor Walt Green, University of Aberdeen, pleasure to meet you.”

  He speaks with a soft voice and offers me a cold, limp-fish hand. He is attired in a pair of dark blue trousers which are not only too long but also far too wide. The curious garment is held to his body by a brown belt. The short-sleeved white shirt with grey stripes is also at least two sizes too large for this man of normal size and weight. What is that about? Do they not do small sizes up North? He’s wearing a pair of grey eighties glasses that he probably bought during his college days – I can’t imagine anyone still selling them, not even in a charity shop. Something in his careful smile tells me he knows I gave him the once over and judged his clothing. Woops.

  I smile back at him. Oh dear, he looks vulnerable. Suddenly I picture him as a schoolboy being relieved of his lunch box by bullies, daily, always the last boy picked to join a sports team. We haven’t even started and I’m already feeling sorry for my examiner. How weird. And I get the impression he is somehow more afraid of this exam than I am. Who the hell brought this loser here?!

  I sit on a chair on the other side of the table. Despite Prof. Green being much less scary than I had nervously envisaged, my anxiety levels remain stratospheric. This man will decide if I pass or not. Very soon…

  “Who do we have here?” Prof. Green asks in a friendly voice. Who could I be? Has he been lured into this at the last minute and he has not actually seen my thesis?

  “Eh… I am Karin…”

  “I know your name. But I would like to learn a bit about you before we start. What drives you?” WTF dude! I am here to be grilled about my thesis. Since when was I ever asked what drives me, the person carrying around four limbs, two of which can hold a pipette? I thought that was all that mattered here.

  I stare at Prof. Green, not knowing what to say. For several seconds I grapple to find an authentic answer. I don’t have one. Apart from passing this exam, all that drives me these days is an old hobby I recently picked back up – painting nudes, always women and ideally prostitutes. But that seems a rather obscure thing to mention during my PhD viva. In the past, love of science drove me, but today I have no clue what motivates me or why I am here, going through this farce to get my hollowed-o
ut PhD.

  “I am not sure… I guess at the moment I’m mainly driven by wanting to have this exam out of the way,” my voice is trembling.

  “Do you have a job?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Karin has been travelling the last few months,” Prof. Gilton says to Prof. Green, trying to tweak the conversation in a different direction.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Argentina, Bolivia and Colombia,” I answer.

  At least I could answer that. Despite my PhD defence hanging over me like the sword of Damocles, it had been a great trip.

  “How was Colombia?” Prof. Green asks, truly curious.

  “I learned to paraglide there.”

  “Paraglide?”

  “Yes.”

  “Something you always wanted to do?”

  “Not really, but… I took the opportunity when it came along.”

  I don’t mention that I took a paragliding course, lasting several weeks, on a mountainside in Colombia with an instructor so stiff-dazed full of cocaine that he wouldn’t have noticed had one of his students crashed into a pylon right in front of his nose. Owing to all-round incompetence, I flew mere inches above electricity cables and almost landed in a river due to incomprehensible instructions from a voice destroyed by alcohol and smoking. I watched peers make full-body tree-landings, crying for help with feet dangling inches above ground. I don’t mention any of it, though it occurred to me at the time that three years before I wouldn’t have signed up for these evidently suicidal exercises. Briefly I wondered if my time at the University of Edinburgh has rendered me nihilistic, feeling worthless, nothing to lose…

  Prof. Green looks at me and smiles. “So you like to put your feet above ground.”

  “Actually no, I’m afraid of heights.”

  “You did a paragliding course whilst being afraid of heights?” Prof. Green asks, in disbelief.

  “It was awful,” I say, laughing uncomfortably.