You Must Be Very Intelligent

by Karin Bodewits

  By now I am wondering if this is the only external examiner Mark could persuade to come to Edinburgh to do my viva. The gilded robes like Homer Simpson and Professor Johnson could probably persuade any self-respecting researcher to fly in and conduct an exam – if only to increase the chance of future collaboration. I guess Mark can only find examiners who have never heard of him before or are delighted to be asked by just about anyone.

  Prof. Green is peering at me. I realise he honestly wants to know about the girl who wrote the thesis in front of him.

  “What kind of job do you want to do next?”

  “I don’t know really.”

  Four years ago, I had dreamt of becoming an excellent scientist. Now I don’t even have the confidence to be sure I would make a good toilet cleaner.

  After finishing, Lucy went off to teach at a school in Senegal; Babette was apparently planting trees in Canada to avoid any human contact; Erico was working on an oil rig close to Greenland; Quinn bought a dog and followed his wife to the US; Hanna moved with her partner to the south of the UK; Diet Coke Girl chilled at her parents’ holiday house in Cyprus; about Linda I’m not sure, as she has never been mentioned again by anyone. But whatever they did and wherever they went, eventually, Stockholm Syndrome claimed most of them and they returned to science. Erico has been the only one to remain outside of academia, on the rig, but he studied something on the side. Maybe I will have a similar fate? I don’t know. I so badly want to be honest and authentic but I don’t have the faintest idea what kind of job I want next. I only know for sure I don’t want this one.

  “Do you feel you learned enough during your PhD to prepare you for the next stage in your career?” Learned enough? Had I learned anything?

  Profs. Gilton and Green are scrutinising me, awaiting a reaction. I take a deep breath. I am trying to overpower tears welling up in my eyes. How can I tell the truth? That I have “learned” as much as a penguin learns when he eats yet another fish? That I had “learned” that I am grossly imperfect, nay downright deficient, and oh-so hopelessly weak?

  “I guess there is always more to learn,” I manage to say as if the question hadn’t nearly made me weep.

  I am desperately hoping we now move on. “Prof. Green is just asking you these questions to calm you down, Karin,” Prof. Gilton says.

  “I know, sorry, I’m just not prepared for them.”

  Both men open a copy of my thesis. Prof. Green’s is scribbled full with notes, and we are only on the acknowledgement page.

  “Before we start, I would just like to know if you are a biologist or a chemist by training,” he says.

  “A biologist!” I reply much quicker than I had intended.

  Within a fraction of a second I have awful flashbacks to my first year viva. Despite Felix’s chemistry boot camp, biology is my much preferred métier.

  “Let’s go through it page by page,” says Prof Green.

  I look at the 250 pages in front of me, and then at all the notes he has made in the margins of his copy. I look despairingly at Prof. Gilton. He avoids my eye, but he too looks alarmed by this barking mad suggestion.

  “Eh… sure,” I say.

  He patiently flicks through the first thirty pages of the introduction. “It’s very good,” he mumbles.

  He doesn’t look up from the pages and he doesn’t ask me any questions. Oh, if we’re going through every single page by looking at it without comment, just checking it exists… great! I should pass no problem because I’m a dab hand when it comes to staring at pages in silence.

  At length he points at a chemical formula, and redraws it for himself. In all seriousness, he informs me that one of the dozens of hydrogen atoms is pointing in the wrong direction. A-ha! You’re a member of the hydrogen atom mafia, which Felix warned me about! You’re one of those many chemists who get their knickers in a knot about the direction of every single atom.

  He continues silently flicking through and arrives at page sixty, whereupon he asks me to draw four different types of sugar molecule. I could do so blindfolded. Prof. Gilton dutifully checks the piece of paper I drew the first two on, and that is as much interest as he can fake in this bewilderingly pointless exercise.

  “Keep on, I’ll be right back,” he says and leaves the room, carefully closing the door behind him lest any noise distract from the dull delineation of a dull sugar molecule.

  Prof. Green looks worried and confused about Prof. Gilton leaving the exam. I guess university policy stipulates that there should be at least two people present during a PhD viva – not only to help out in cases of disagreement but also to prevent accusations of sexual interactions between examiner and student. Alex and Chris had told me in the pub that they had been offered blow jobs by a female undergrad in return for a higher grade. “Did you take it?” I asked curiously, knowing that if they did accept it they probably would not have told the story to Lucy and me.

  “Of course not! In my case she was gorgeous, but it would simply be wrong,” Alex had declared.

  “The girl who offered it to me was just too ugly,” Chris had added, ironically.

  We had asked them if this was a common occurrence. They both said it only happened to them once, but they had heard whispers and rumours from other male colleagues. I had wondered how that might play out? How could the girl hold him to the deal? How could she complain to the Faculty about having sex for a better grade which was then not forthcoming? “I’m going to sue! My sexual technique is worth a First! I’ll prove it in court!”… And could he say: “What? Just one blow job?! Excuse me, my good lady, but the going rate is several nights of depraved and torrid sex!” The whole dishonourable business would require an enormous degree of trust between shifty manipulators.

  For now, while we await the return of Prof. Gilton, I regard Prof. Green on the other side of the table, sitting with rounded, hanging shoulders in his outsized clothes, and I wonder if there are any students desperate enough to give him a blow job in return for a pass mark. Would I be willing to do that? I try to imagine Prof. Green in skinny jeans, nice T-shirt and hip glasses, but I conclude that he is irredeemably unattractive or, at the very kindest, really not my type in a million lifetimes. I feel disturbed by that thought; so sex is not an option purely because he is too unattractive? What if he were a guy I could fancy? What if Alex was conducting the exam? A momentary feeling of relief mingled with dignity passes through me as I realise it would never be an option, I would never offer my body in return for a full degree. Phew, my moral core has not entirely atrophied…

  Cruelly and inaccurately – and in a manner I will regret afterwards – I wonder if Prof. Green is of a particular type of academic; of that stripe which will inevitably be reduced to preying upon impressionable undergrads. As I said before, in my more cynical moments I sometimes wonder if academia is maintained partly to give males without sex appeal some chance of sex at some point in their otherwise barren love lives…

  I fear I may have been staring at Prof. Green for too long with a subtle – or maybe not subtle enough – expression of distaste on my face. He is raising his eyebrows, looking at me as if he can read my thoughts, seemingly asking me to please focus on the stupid drawing of the stupid sugar molecules again.

  “You and Prof. Gilton do not know each other, do you?” I ask quickly.

  “No, we don’t.”

  “He’ll be back. He probably just went for a smoke.”

  Prof. Green looks at me as if I just told him that Gilton has gone to collect his weekly supply of Rohypnol. Briefly I consider mentioning that he is probably downing a few shots of Jägermeister as well. But I concentrate on drawing the molecules instead.

  Half an hour into the exam, Prof. Gilton returns to fill the room with the odour of someone who just smoked a cigar in a closed office room. Prof. Green asks me questions about the techniques I used, my results and how I came to certain conclusions. All the questions I am asked – none of which are about me as a person – I am able to answe
r. Shortly afterwards the question-answer scenario gives way to a normal grown-up conversation between adults about research. I am not nervous anymore. The sweat in my palms has evaporated. I am confident I will pass.

  Just after the hour mark Prof. Gilton opts for another break. Again Prof. Green looks distressed, but not to the same extent as the first time he had been alone with me. Again Prof. Gilton returns smelling of smoke, but this time he had kindly brought coffee as well. We were all rubbing along fine.

  Almost two hours in, Prof. Green is approaching the end of the thesis.

  “So you published two papers, and might submit the third soon, right?” he asks looking at the Angewandte-Chemie-Christmas-present-co-authorship and the silly LpxC paper in the appendix.

  “I don’t know if the third paper is going to be submitted soon.”

  “Do you still need more results?”

  “Not really, no. But it has been on Mark’s desk for months now, so I’m not sure if it’s ever going to be published.”

  I omit the story about the authorship argument I had with Barry. I have no clue what happened, but I suspect Mark and Prof. Gilton have talked about the incident. And I presume Mark has decided against publishing it altogether. In other words, a possible side effect of this academic over-competitiveness is that people suffering from a deadly disease will not benefit from the small chance that this research might have one day brought forth a life-saving treatment. But I can’t ask Mark about it anymore. Even though publications are the be-all-and-end-all of academic achievement, allegedly, I would rather leave my PhD with one publication less than dredge up stuff that cost me so many sleepless nights.

  Prof. Green does not enquire further and indicates to Prof. Gilton that he has now finished his part of the exam.

  “Okay, Karin,” Prof Gilton says. “I ask you to leave the room and wait outside for five minutes or so.”

  I stand and notice that I have left a most undignified sweat stain on the plastic chair. Quickly I push it under the table, smile at both gentlemen and walk out of the room. I can hear their voices from the corridor, but I can’t understand what they say. In contrast to my first year viva, where I had been a nervous wreck during the wait outside of the room, I feel totally at ease. There was nothing to hint that I would not pass. I had answered everything they had asked. And they did not say anything about my profound lack of interesting results, or voice misgivings to suggest I might have to repeat or redo anything.

  I lean against the wall and my head starts to throb painfully. It seems my body, finally able to relax after hours of stress, can now reveal that it feels terrible after this prolonged suppression of normal operation. The headache is followed by cramps in my empty stomach and a huge heaviness in my legs. I close my eyes for a moment and take a few deep breaths. I feel light-headed as if I just stood up after a too-warm bath. I have an out-of-body moment and see myself standing in front of the door where the PhD defence had taken place. I see a disillusioned and defeated doctor-to-be, without any future plans, to whom a degree from a famous university means nothing anymore. It is the same girl who started her PhD almost four years ago feeling ambitious and energetic, manically driven with the desire to become a scientist. Now she is just drained and bored, and not very healthy.

  “Karin?”

  I open my eyes. Prof. Gilton’s yellow tobacco fingers are patting my shoulder.

  “You can come back inside,” he says quietly.

  I follow him, and sit down on the same chair.

  “Congratulations,” Prof. Green says, with an excitement I do not feel, and shakes my hand.

  “You passed, very well done!” Prof. Gilton adds.

  I smile but I don’t know what to say. I am not sure if I should be proud or, weirdly, feel humiliated.

  “Just four hydrogen atoms to correct and that’s you done,” Prof. Green says.

  “Is that all?” I ask, in disbelief.

  “Yes, that’s all.”

  “Wow! Thank you very much.”

  “It has been a pleasure discussing your PhD with you, Karin,” says Prof. Green. “You have some good ideas in your head.”

  I press my lips together and glance downwards, not knowing how to handle the compliment.

  “Can I ask you one more personal question?”

  “Sure.”

  “What did you like most about your PhD?”

  “Writing my thesis,” I say.

  I had put a lot of time into the writing, especially the sixty page introduction; a review of the literature ending with where I had hoped to contribute to the scientific world. I had loved digging through literature, finding interesting facts that I could add to make my text more engaging. I had spent many long and happy hours at my desk in the living room reading and writing rather extraneous stuff.

  “I suspected you liked that. It is very well written. Let’s be honest with you: your research results are okay but not flabbergasting. But, I actually very much enjoyed reading your thesis. Do something with that.” I will.

  I walk out of the bathroom and scroll through my contacts for Felix’s number.

  “And?” he says without even a “Hi.”

  “Your boot camp got me through,” I say, finally feeling excited.

  “Cool! Any corrections to do?”

  I look up and down the hallway to check for Prof. Green. “He turned out to be one of those hydrogen atom freaks you warned me about. So I need to change the direction of a few in some molecules.”

  Felix laughs. “That’s all?”

  “Yup.”

  “Very good.”

  “I need to pass the lab and will be in KB House in half an hour for an urgent beer.”

  “I’m already there, having coffee with Greg, waiting for you.”

  Nervously I let my mobile slip into my bag and press my upper body against the heavy door of Lab 262 to open it. Carefully I walk in, as if placing my feet on forbidden ground. I look around but there’s no one working at the benches. Nothing has changed in the last nine months, since I was last in this room. Profoundly reassuring. The huge authentic autoclave stands in the same position. The note “not in use” is tacked on its door. The benches are messy and old machines are stored under it. I walk to the office. My desk contains the old computer with the broken fan, which I had gotten from my parents almost two years into my PhD. I had given it to the two new PhD students who started the day after I left.

  “Good to see you, Ka!” Logan says.

  “Good to see you, too!” I say, wishing I could hug the guy I worked with for a few years. But I suppress the urge to wrap my arms around him. I know too well he isn’t the type for it.

  “Did you pass?”

  “I did.”

  “Congratulations!”

  “Thanks.”

  “How did it go?”

  “It was kind of strange. They were both very friendly. They asked me a few questions and then the whole thing just went into, well, an interesting conversation about science. And the external examiner was a bit like a… a pussy. But nice.”

  “Don’t say that, Ka,” Logan says, smiling.

  “Well, he was! Anyway, Prof. Gilton went out twice during the exam for a smoke. Can you believe it?”

  “No way,” Linn says, just entering the office.

  “Way.”

  Logan smiles. “Good old Gilton.”

  “Have you seen Mark yet? He complained this morning that you didn’t go to his office to say you’d arrived.”

  “Not yet, no. I was too nervous to handle Mark on top.”

  “How was your trip?”

  “Very good. Nice weather, nice food, hot Latinos…”

  “No details, please!” Logan says.

  “You don’t want to know how they swing their hips?”

  “No!”

  “But I want to know…” Linn says, playfully curious.

  “How are things here?”

  “Same old shit.”

  “Kate is babysitting Mark�
�s baby, once a week,” Linn whispers.

  Kate is one of the new PhD students, who I have only seen once; a beautiful young English girl with cascading brown hair.

  “Does she want to do that?” I ask, feeling terribly sorry for her already.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Does she get paid for it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Poor girl.”

  We hear the door of the lab open, and the key chain we are all so familiar with. All three of us fall silent. Linn and Logan turn to their desks and pretend to read. I’m just standing there like a lost animal in an alien environment, waiting for Mark to enter the office. We hear him talking enthusiastically in the lab.

  “Ah, someone’s here for an interview,” Logan says with a soft voice.

  Mark shows the guy round. “Don’t worry about the mess… in the process of tidying it all up…”

  I walk into the lab as it would be just too weird – and obviously cowardly – to stay silent in the office.

  “Hi,” I say not overly enthusiastic.

  Mark looks towards me.

  “I heard you passed your exam, congratulations,” Mark says, trying to sound relaxed, but the tension is electric.

  “This is Karin, she’s been working on the LPS project, wrote an excellent thesis, just passed her viva,” he says, in a voice that smacks of forced levity, to the young, black-haired guy standing next to him.

  “I didn’t know you read it,” I say, with a sarcastic smile on my face.

  Mark’s eyes are shooting fire at me but he laughs my barb away for the benefit of the prospective employee.

  “Hi, a pleasure to meet you,” I say, extending my hand.

  “Sebastian,” the guy says in a lively, youthful way.

  “There’s a bottle of champagne in the cold room,” Mark says. “I won’t have time to drink it with you so just help yourself.”

  His eyes are still shooting fire at me but he strains, successfully, to keep the tone friendly. He walks to the office where Linn and Logan are still pretending to work behind their computer. Sebastian follows closely behind.