‘Are you okay?’ said the Prince.
‘Revisiting some bad memories,’ I said. ‘I was once so depressed I considered suicide.’
‘Tell me about it,’ he said.
I texted Gene to say I would be using the booking, in case he changed his mind about going with Rosie. The Prince and I arrived twelve minutes late, three minutes inside the tolerance limit. I would have preferred to be dining with Rosie, but there would have been the problem of what to say. Despite Sonia’s encouragement, I still had no solution to the Marriage Problem.
But dinner with the Prince was fascinating.
‘George told me he convinced you to take drugs which ultimately resulted in you becoming an addict.’
‘He told you that?’
‘Correct.’
‘Fair play to him. I suppose I can tell you the whole story then.’
The waiter came to take our drinks orders. The Prince ordered a beer. Apparently his recovery program allowed alcohol, so I recommended sake as more compatible with the food. I ordered a club soda for myself.
‘Basically, Dad was doing the whole rock’n’roll thing, and I was the opposite. Except for the drumming. No artificial stimulants for me.’ The Prince used a non-standard intonation for the last sentence, as though he was impersonating a cartoon superhero. ‘But I meant it. And he said, “You can’t go through life without ever getting just a little bit high. Without knowing what it’s like.” And I was such a geek—you know what I’m saying—that I decided if I was going to have one experience, it’d be the best one I could have.’
‘You researched drugs?’
‘I know, it seems crazy.’
It seemed completely sensible. I wondered why I had fallen into drinking alcohol and caffeine without proper research into alternatives—or indeed into the impacts of these two. They were legal, but so were cigarettes. Legality was surely less important than the risk of death. The exception had been amphetamines, which I saw as having a precise, focused purpose. I explained my own experiment as a student, and the exam disaster that resulted.
‘The professor showed me the paper that I had demanded to have re-marked and it was incomprehensible. A rant!’
The Prince laughed. ‘Anyway, I decided that acid was the pick of them—for quality of experience. And safety, everything.’
‘You chose lysergic acid diethylamide? As the optimum drug?’
‘I took one tab of LSD. And you know how everyone says one dose can’t make you an addict? Well I’m the guy they should put in the education videos. Because it was just the best, the most fantastic experience of my life. All I wanted to do was keep repeating it. And you know what?’
‘No.’
‘I couldn’t. Not reliably, anyway. I had bad trips, so-so trips, I had all sorts of shit, and then I started trying other stuff. I tried everything. For a long time. I never got what I wanted again. So I started backing off. Which is where I am now. Just this.’
He waved his sake glass. I was not drinking alcohol, as a result of my recent resolution. It was interesting to watch the Prince’s mood change as the drink took effect. It struck me that Rosie probably had the same experience watching Gene and me descend into intoxication, now that she was temporarily a non-drinker.
‘So you’ve solved the problem,’ I said.
‘Except for wasting the best years of my life. No partner, no kids, no job.’
‘No job?’ Disaster. ‘You require a job. The other things are optional, but you need a job.’
‘I’m a drummer. An all-right drummer. You know how many all-right drummers there are in the world? I thought I might have got something going here, but it didn’t work out.’
My phone vibrated. It was Gene.
With Rosie at Café Wha? WTF are you?
I texted Gene back and he invited me to join them. Commanded me to join them.
‘Do you want to hear some music?’ I asked the Prince. He remained my first priority and, although his emotional state seemed much improved, my own experience told me the problem was not solved.
‘Why not? Maybe the band won’t turn up and I can play a couple of hours of drum solos.’
I told the Prince not to speak. I needed to think. Walking is good for thinking, as are other repetitive activities. Unfortunately, the walk to Greenwich Village was insufficiently long to generate a solution to the Prince’s problem.
The venue was downstairs. As we opened the door, I realised why Gene had uncharacteristically chosen to spend his evening listening to live music. On the front of the band’s drum kit were the words Dead Kings. Behind the drums was George.
I looked at the Prince.
‘You knew he was playing here?’ he said.
‘No. It’s a result of human interconnectedness.’
Although I had heard George practising multiple times, I had never seen him undertake his most characteristic repetitive activity. We stood inside the door and observed for a while. The Prince was watching his father and I was looking for Rosie and Gene. Due to the large number of patrons, I did not succeed in locating them.
I asked the Prince’s opinion of his father’s competence.
‘Better than he used to be.’
‘Better than you?’
‘He’s good for the Dead Kings. It’s not all about technical expertise. It’s about how you work together. People used to criticise Ringo, but he was a great drummer for the Beatles.’
We waited by the entrance for another three songs. While we listened, my mind completed the problem-solving process. I made a mental note to be less critical of my students’ use of earphones while studying.
The singer announced a short break and I tracked George as he walked to a table in front of the stage. Rosie’s red hair was unmistakable. I instructed the Prince to wait and walked over. George and Gene were pleased to see me, Rosie possibly less so.
‘Nice of you to join us,’ she said. ‘I gather you’ve eaten.’
‘Correct. I need to speak to Gene.’
‘Of course you do.’
I pulled Gene away and explained what I wanted to achieve. I had a theoretical solution, but the social protocols were too complex for me to execute. Gene, of course, was totally confident.
‘I’ll speak to George. You speak to whatever-his-name-is.’
‘The Prince.’
‘The Prince. Right. I’m doing this on two conditions, Don. Number One is you’ve got to, got to, make an effort to fix things up with Rosie.’
‘I’ve made all possible efforts.’
‘Didn’t look like it tonight. Number Two is you have to break a rule.’
A chill ran through my body. Gene was asking a high price. He pointed to a sign: Absolutely no recording or photography.
‘Get your phone out. This is going to be a moment for the ages.’
Gene returned to his table. I could see him speaking to George, who responded by looking around frantically. But the timing was perfect. The band was reassembling and George was required on stage.
They played one song, then George, who had his own microphone, made an announcement.
‘My son is here tonight. I haven’t seen him for a very long time. His name is also George and last time I heard him play he was a sight better than I am.’ There was applause, and the Prince waved. George beckoned him up, and he refused, but I pushed him, and informed him that I would persist if necessary.
The Prince stepped onto the stage and George indicated that he should take his place behind the drums. The band started playing, and George and I sat with Rosie and Gene. George was focused on the stage. The Prince seemed competent. When the song was over, George started to get up. I put down my phone, which had been running the video application that had led to my arrest, and stood in front of him.
‘The change of roles is permanent,’ I said. ‘The Prince requires a job and you need to escape the repeating pattern of Atlantic cruises.’ I detected resistance. ‘It also compensates for the error you made, which temporarily destroyed his life.’
George sat down again and poured himself a glass of red wine.
‘And since he is a superior drummer, the cruise ship patrons will receive better entertainment.’
32
‘Rosie. I need to discuss something with you.’
I was visiting the apartment to check the beer. The system was functioning well; prior to leaving I had checked it only once per week. But the weather was unusually warm for December, and it seemed reasonable to visit more frequently. I had also taken the opportunity to draw the Week 32 diagram of Bud on the tiles. His or her development remained interesting, despite the reduced connection to my own life. Having gone this far, it seemed reasonable to complete the forty weeks.
‘I closed the door for a reason, Don. It doesn’t make it easy for me, you coming in twice a day.’
Gene had indicated that Rosie was not currently receptive to a surprise dinner—or even a scheduled dinner—or to relationship discussions.
‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to give it time,’ he said.
But I was not discussing the relationship.
‘This is a research question. Since you’re considering returning to psychology, you’ll find it interesting.’
‘I’ll reserve judgement.’
I explained the Lesbian Mothers Project. Any justification for refraining from mentioning it was no longer relevant. It was time to begin disclosing the information I had withheld. This was the first, and least risky, step. My participation in the project was not illegal, unethical or weird.
‘This is the project you started to tell me about, right,’ said Rosie. ‘You never mentioned it again.’
‘I didn’t want to invade your territory.’
‘You mean you didn’t want to tell me you were invading my territory.’
‘Correct. The problem is that they don’t want to publish the results.’
‘Why do you think that is?’ asked Rosie.
‘If I knew the answer, I wouldn’t have woken you up to ask.’
‘What do you think of people who take scientific findings out of context to push their own barrows?’
‘You’re referring to Gene?’ I said.
‘Him too. These women are trying to make a point that two women can bring up a child as well as a heterosexual couple.’ She sat up in bed. ‘They don’t want to publish something that suggests otherwise.’
‘Surely that’s pushing their own barrow.’
‘Not to the extent of some dinosaur who’s going to pick it up and say kids who don’t have a father are deprived. Which is an issue that’s a little close to my heart right now. So don’t expect me to be rational about it.’
‘But the results don’t indicate any requirement for a father,’ I said. ‘Both carers can raise the baby’s oxytocin. It’s just that an unconventional parent uses an unconventional method. I predict zero problem for the child.’
‘Don’t expect the Wall Street Journal to see it that way.’
I had turned to leave when Rosie spoke again.
‘And Don. I’ve got a flight home tomorrow. Judy’s taking me to JFK. I got the cheapest fare. It’s non-refundable.’
I was leaving to check the beer again before dinner when Sonia stopped me.
‘Wait an hour and I’ll come with you.’
‘Why?’
‘We’re going to see Lydia.’
‘She indicated she was unavailable for further consultation. And it’s a Sunday. A Sunday evening.’
‘I know. I called her. I told her that you and Rosie—you and I—had split up as a result of what she said to you. She was a bit blown away: she thought she’d reassured you to stay with me—with Rosie.’
‘She merely provided objective advice.’
‘Well, she’s feeling responsible now. She overstepped the line and she knows it. We’re meeting at your apartment. I couldn’t do it here because of Dave. I’ve told him I’m taking you to see Rosie before she flies home. I haven’t mentioned Lydia. Obviously.’
‘What about Rosie?’
‘Gene’s taking her out.’
‘Gene’s involved in this?’
‘Everyone’s involved, Don. We think you’re both making a mistake, and if you won’t listen to anyone except Lydia, then she can tell you. I’m going to channel Rosie—I’ll be Rosie—and Lydia is going to tell us to stay together. And when she does, you’re going to solve the Marriage Disaster Problem. Am I speaking your language?’
Sonia and I arrived at the apartment two minutes before Lydia was due. I realised Sonia had never visited; it had not occurred to me to invite her and Dave to dinner. It was probably a social error.
‘My God, what’s that smell?’ she said. ‘I think I’m going to throw up. I’ve been feeling terrible all day.’
‘Beer. There’s a small leak that’s impossible to access. Dave blames the workman who replaced the ceiling.’
Sonia smiled. ‘That’s so Dave. How does Rosie cope with it?’
‘Humans adapt to smells quite quickly,’ I said. ‘It’s only recently that regular washing has been conventional. Prior to that humans did not wash for months, and there was no problem. Except disease, obviously.’
Lydia arrived on time.
‘My God, what’s that smell?’ she said.
‘Beer,’ said Sonia. ‘Humans adapt to smells quite quickly. It’s only recently that regular washing has been conventional.’
‘I guess hygiene was not quite at New York standards in a small Italian village.’
‘That’s right. Lucky Don’s a hygiene freak or the baby—’
I gave Sonia a look intended to remind her that she was supposed to be Rosie, who would not be defending weirdness and had not been raised in a small Italian village with poor hygiene. Of course, neither had Sonia. I suspected things were going to become confusing.
Then one of the Georges began drumming.
‘What’s that?’ asked Lydia.
It was a reasonable question, as the initial beats could have been confused with the dischar
ge of a firearm. But the drumming became more rhythmic, and a bass and two electric guitars joined in. Now the answer would be obvious to Lydia, which was fortunate as she could not have heard mine.
We attempted to communicate in rudimentary sign language for approximately three minutes. I deduced that Lydia was asking, ‘How will the baby sleep?’ and Sonia was responding, ‘Skull, bye-bye, bird, kangaroo, no, no, no, eating spaghetti.’
The music stopped. Sonia said, ‘I am thinking about flying home to Italy.’
‘And if you stay? If you and Don are able to get through this misunderstanding?’
I led them to Gene’s room, where I had stowed the gift from my father.
‘Oh God, it’s a coffin,’ said Lydia. ‘A transparent coffin.’
‘Don’t be ludicrous,’ said Sonia. ‘I feel like you’re trying to find reasons to criticise Don.’
‘What is it then? A spaceship?’
In fact the soundproof crib was incompatible with space travel as it was permeable to air. I set the alarm on my phone, and as soon as it started ringing put it in the crib and secured the lid. The noise disappeared.
‘But if the phone needed to breathe, it could do so,’ I said.
‘What if it cries?’ asked Lydia.
‘The phone?’ I realised my error and pointed out the microphone and transmitter in the crib. ‘Rosie will sleep with earphones. I will have earplugs, hence not be disturbed by the baby myself.’
‘Nice for you,’ said Lydia. She looked around. ‘Is someone else sleeping here?’
‘My friend. His wife evicted him for immoral behaviour and now he’s living with Rosie.’
The Rosie Effect Page 29
