The Rosie Project

by Graeme Simsion

  ‘This is Kevin’s third offence, and university policy requires that he be expelled,’ she said.

  The facts seemed to be clear and the necessary action straightforward. I tried to identify the awkwardness that the Dean referred to. ‘Is the evidence insufficient? Is he making a legal challenge?’

  ‘No, that’s all perfectly clear. But the first offence was very naive. He cut and pasted from the internet, and was picked up by the plagiarism software. He was in his first year and his English wasn’t very good. And there are cultural differences.’

  I had not known about this first offence.

  ‘The second time, you reported him because he’d borrowed from an obscure paper that you were somehow familiar with.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Don, none of the other lecturers are as … vigilant … as you.’

  It was unusual for the Dean to compliment me on my wide reading and dedication.

  ‘These kids pay a lot of money to study here. We rely on their fees. We don’t want them stealing blatantly from the internet. But we have to recognise that they need assistance, and … Kevin has only a semester to go. We can’t send him home after three and a half years without a qualification. It’s not a good look.’

  ‘What if he was a medical student? What if you went to the hospital and the doctor who operated on you had cheated in their exams?’

  ‘Kevin’s not a medical student. And he didn’t cheat on his exams, he just got some help with an assignment.’

  It seemed that the Dean had been flattering me only in order to procure unethical behaviour. But the solution to her dilemma was obvious. If she did not want to break the rules, then she should change the rules. I pointed this out.

  I am not good at interpreting expressions, and was not familiar with the one that appeared on the Dean’s face. ‘We can’t be seen to allow cheating.’

  ‘Even though we do?’

  The meeting left me confused and angry. There were serious matters at stake. What if our research was not accepted because we had a reputation for low academic standards? People could die while cures for diseases were delayed. What if a genetics laboratory hired a person whose qualification had been achieved through cheating, and that person made major errors? The Dean seemed more concerned with perceptions than with these crucial matters.

  I reflected on what it would be like to spend my life living with the Dean. It was a truly terrible thought. The underlying problem was the preoccupation with image. My questionnaire would be ruthless in filtering out women who were concerned with appearance.

  4

  Gene opened the door with a glass of red wine in his hand. I parked my bicycle in their hallway, took off my backpack and retrieved the Wife Project folder, pulling out Gene’s copy of the draft. I had pruned it to sixteen double-sided pages.

  ‘Relax, Don, plenty of time,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have a civilised dinner, and then we’ll do the questionnaire. If you’re going to be dating, you need dinner practice.’

  He was, of course, right. Claudia is an excellent cook and Gene has a vast collection of wines, organised by region, vintage and producer. We went to his ‘cellar’, which is not actually below ground, where he showed me his recent purchases and we selected a second bottle. We ate with Carl and Eugenie, and I was able to avoid small talk by playing a memory game with Eugenie. She noticed my folder marked ‘Wife Project’, which I put on the table as soon as I finished dessert.

  ‘Are you getting married, Don?’ she asked.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Who to?’

  I was about to explain, but Claudia sent Eugenie and Carl to their rooms – a good decision, as they did not have the expertise to contribute.

  I handed questionnaires to Claudia and Gene. Gene poured port for all of us. I explained that I had followed best practice in questionnaire design, including multiple-choice questions, Likert scales, cross-validation, dummy questions and surrogates. Claudia asked for an example of the last of these.

  ‘Question 35: Do you eat kidneys? Correct answer is (c) occasionally. Testing for food problems. If you ask directly about food preferences, they say “I eat anything” and then you discover they’re vegetarian.’

  I am aware that there are many arguments in favour of vegetarianism. However, as I eat meat I considered it would be more convenient if my partner did so also. At this early stage, it seemed logical to specify the ideal solution and review the questionnaire later if necessary.

  Claudia and Gene were reading.

  Claudia said, ‘For an appointment, I’m guessing (b) a little early.’

  This was patently incorrect, demonstrating that even Claudia, who was a good friend, would be unsuitable as a partner.

  ‘The correct answer is (c) on time,’ I said. ‘Habitual earliness is cumulatively a major waste of time.’

  ‘I’d allow a little early,’ said Claudia. ‘She might be trying hard. That’s not a bad thing.’

  An interesting point. I made a note to consider it, but pointed out that (d) a little late and (e) very late were definitely unacceptable.

  ‘I think if a woman describes herself as a brilliant cook she’s a bit up herself,’ said Claudia. ‘Just ask her if she enjoys cooking. Mention that you do too.’

  This was exactly the sort of input I was looking for – subtle nuances of language that I am not conscious of. It struck me that if the respondent was someone like me she would not notice the difference, but it was unreasonable to require that my potential partner share my lack of subtlety.

  ‘No jewellery, no make-up?’ said Claudia, correctly predicting the answers to two questions that had been prompted by my recent interaction with the Dean.

  ‘Jewellery isn’t always about appearance,’ she said. ‘If you have to have a question, drop the jewellery one and keep the make-up. But just ask if she wears it daily.’

  ‘Height, weight and body mass index.’ Gene was skimming ahead. ‘Can’t you do the calculation yourself?’

  ‘That’s the purpose of the question,’ I said. ‘Checking they can do basic arithmetic. I don’t want a partner who’s mathematically illiterate.’

  ‘I thought you might have wanted to get an idea of what they look like,’ said Gene.

  ‘There’s a question on fitness,’ I said.

  ‘I was thinking about sex,’ said Gene.

  ‘Just for a change,’ said Claudia, an odd statement as Gene talks constantly about sex. But he had made a good point.

  ‘I’ll add a question on HIV and herpes.’

  ‘Stop,’ said Claudia. ‘You’re being way too picky.’

  I began to explain that an incurable sexually transmitted disease was a severe negative but Claudia interrupted.

  ‘About everything.’

  It was an understandable response. But my strategy was to minimise the chance of making a type-one error – wasting time on an unsuitable choice. Inevitably, that increased the risk of a type-two error – rejecting a suitable person. But this was an acceptable risk as I was dealing with a very large population.

  Gene’s turn: ‘Non-smoking, fair enough. But what’s the right answer on drinking?’

  ‘Zero.’

  ‘Hang on. You drink.’ He pointed to my port glass, which he had topped up a few moments earlier. ‘You drink quite a bit.’

  I explained that I was expecting some improvement for myself from the project.

  We continued in this manner and I received some excellent feedback. I did feel that the questionnaire was now less discriminating, but was still confident it would eliminate most if not all of the women who had given me problems in the past. Apricot Ice-cream Woman would have failed at least five questions.

  My plan was to advertise on traditional dating sites, but to provide a link to the questionnaire in addition to posting the usual insufficiently discriminating information about height, profession and whether I enjoyed long walks on the beach.

  Gene and Claudia suggested that I also under
take some face-to-face dating to practise my social skills. I could see the value of validating the questionnaires in the field, so, while I waited for online responses to arrive, I printed some questionnaires and returned to the dating process that I thought I had abandoned forever.

  I began by registering with Table for Eight, run by a commercial matchmaking organisation. After an undoubtedly unsound preliminary matching process, based on manifestly inadequate data, four men and four women, including me, were provided with details of a city restaurant at which a booking had been made. I packed four questionnaires and arrived precisely at 8.00 p.m. Only one woman was there! The other three were late. It was a stunning validation of the advantages of field work. These women may well have answered (b) a little early or (c) on time, but their actual behaviour demonstrated otherwise. I decided to temporarily allow (d) a little late, on the basis that a single occasion might not be representative of their overall performance. I could hear Claudia saying, ‘Don, everyone’s late occasionally.’

  There were also two men seated at the table. We shook hands. It struck me that this was equivalent to bowing prior to a martial-arts bout.

  I assessed my competition. The man who had introduced himself as Craig was about my own age, but overweight, in a white business shirt that was too tight for him. He had a moustache, and his teeth were poorly maintained. The second, Danny, was probably a few years younger than me, and appeared to be in good health. He wore a white t-shirt. He had tattoos on his arms and his black hair contained some form of cosmetic additive.

  The on-time woman’s name was Olivia, and she initially (and logically) divided her attention among the three men. She told us she was an anthropologist. Danny confused it with an archaeologist and then Craig made a racist joke about pygmies. It was obvious, even to me, that Olivia was unimpressed by these responses, and I enjoyed a rare moment of not feeling like the least socially competent person in the room. Olivia turned to me, and I had just responded to her question about my job when we were interrupted by the arrival of the fourth man, who introduced himself as Gerry, a lawyer, and two women, Sharon and Maria, who were, respectively, an accountant and a nurse. It was a hot night, and Maria had chosen a dress with the twin advantages of coolness and overt sexual display. Sharon was wearing the conventional corporate uniform of trousers and jacket. I guessed that they were both about my age.

  Olivia resumed talking to me while the others engaged in small talk – an extraordinary waste of time when a major life decision was at stake. On Claudia’s advice, I had memorised the questionnaire. She thought that asking questions directly from the forms could create the wrong ‘dynamic’ and that I should attempt to incorporate them subtly into conversation. Subtlety, I had reminded her, is not my strength. She suggested that I not ask about sexually transmitted diseases and that I make my own estimates of weight, height and body mass index. I estimated Olivia’s BMI at nineteen: slim, but no signs of anorexia. I estimated Sharon the Accountant’s at twenty-three, and Maria the Nurse’s at twenty-eight. The recommended healthy maximum is twenty-five.

  Rather than ask about IQ, I decided to make an estimate based on Olivia’s responses to questions about the historical impact of variations in susceptibility to syphilis across native South American populations. We had a fascinating conversation, and I felt that the topic might even allow me to slip in the sexually-transmitted-diseases question. Her IQ was definitely above the required minimum. Gerry the Lawyer offered a few comments that I think were meant to be jokes, but eventually left us to continue uninterrupted.

  At this point, the missing woman arrived, twenty-eight minutes late. While Olivia was distracted, I took the opportunity to record the data I had acquired so far on three of the four questionnaires in my lap. I did not waste paper on the most recent arrival, as she announced that she was ‘always late’. This did not seem to concern Gerry the Lawyer, who presumably billed by the six-minute interval, and should consequently have considered time to be of great value. He obviously valued sex more highly as his conversation began to resemble that of Gene.

  With the arrival of Late Woman, the waiter appeared with menus. Olivia scanned hers then asked, ‘The pumpkin soup, is it made with vegetable stock?’

  I did not hear the answer. The question provided the critical information. Vegetarian.

  She may have noted my expression of disappointment. ‘I’m Hindu.’

  I had previously deduced that Olivia was probably Indian from her sari and physical attributes. I was not sure whether the term ‘Hindu’ was being used as a genuine statement of religious belief or as an indicator of cultural heritage. I had been reprimanded for failing to make this distinction in the past.

  ‘Do you eat ice-cream?’ I asked. The question seemed appropriate after the vegetarian statement. Very neat.

  ‘Oh yes, I am not vegan. As long as it is not made with eggs.’

  This was not getting any better.

  ‘Do you have a favourite flavour?’

  ‘Pistachio. Very definitely pistachio.’ She smiled.

  Maria and Danny had stepped outside for a cigarette. With three women eliminated, including Late Woman, my task was almost complete.

  My lambs’ brains arrived, and I cut one in half, exposing the internal structure. I tapped Sharon, who was engaged in conversation with Craig the Racist, and pointed it out to her. ‘Do you like brains?’

  Four down, job complete. I continued my conversation with Olivia, who was excellent company, and even ordered an additional drink after the others had departed in the pairs that they had formed. We stayed, talking, until we were the last people in the restaurant. As I put the questionnaires in my backpack, Olivia gave me her contact information, which I wrote down in order not to be rude. Then we went our separate ways.

  Cycling home, I reflected on the dinner. It had been a grossly inefficient method of selection, but the questionnaire had been of significant value. Without the questions it prompted, I would undoubtedly have attempted a second date with Olivia, who was an interesting and nice person. Perhaps we would have gone on a third and fourth and fifth date, then one day, when all of the desserts at the restaurant contained egg, we would have crossed the road to the ice-cream parlour, and discovered they had no egg-free pistachio. It was better to find out before we made an investment in the relationship.

  5

  I stood inside the entrance of a suburban house that reminded me of my parents’ brick veneer residence in Shepparton. I had resolved never to attend another singles party, but the questionnaire allowed me to avoid the agony of unstructured social interaction with strangers.

  As the female guests arrived, I gave each a questionnaire to complete at their convenience and return to me either at the party or by mail. The host, a woman, initially invited me to join the crowd in the living room, but I explained my strategy and she left me alone. After two hours, a woman of about thirty-five, estimated BMI twenty-one, returned from the living room, holding two glasses of sparkling wine. In her other hand was a questionnaire.

  She passed me a glass. ‘I thought you might be thirsty,’ she said in an attractive French accent.

  I was not thirsty, but I was pleased to be offered alcohol. I had decided that I would not give up drinking unless I found a non-drinking partner. And, after some self-analysis, I had concluded that (c) moderately was an acceptable answer to the drinking question and made a note to update the questionnaire.

  ‘Thank you.’ I hoped she would give me the questionnaire and that it might, improbably, signal the end of my quest. She was extremely attractive, and her gesture with the wine indicated a high level of consideration not exhibited by any of the other guests or the host.

  ‘You are a researcher, am I right?’ She tapped the questionnaire.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Me, also,’ she said. ‘There are not many academics here tonight.’ Although it is dangerous to draw conclusions based on manner and conversation topics, my assessment of the guests was consisten
t with this observation.

  ‘I’m Fabienne,’ she said, and extended her free hand, which I shook, careful to apply the recommended level of firmness. ‘This is terrible wine, no?’

  I agreed. It was a carbonated sweet wine, acceptable only because of its alcohol content.

  ‘You think we should go to a wine bar and get something better?’ she asked.

  I shook my head. The poor wine quality was annoying but not critical.

  Fabienne took a deep breath. ‘Listen. I have drunk two glasses of wine, I have not had sex for six weeks, and I would rather wait six more than try anyone else here. Now, can I buy you a drink?’

  It was a very kind offer. But it was still early in the evening. I said, ‘More guests are expected. You may find someone suitable if you wait.’

  Fabienne gave me her questionnaire and said, ‘I presume you will be notifying the winners in due course.’ I told her that I would. When she had gone, I quickly checked her questionnaire. Predictably, she failed in a number of dimensions. It was disappointing.

  My final non-internet option was speed dating, an approach I had not previously tried.

  The venue was a function room in a hotel. At my insistence, the convenor disclosed the actual start time, and I waited in the bar to avoid aimless interaction until then. When I returned, I took the last remaining seat at a long table, opposite a person labelled Frances, aged approximately fifty, BMI approximately twenty-eight, not conventionally attractive.

  The convenor rang a bell and my three minutes with Frances commenced.

  I pulled out my questionnaire and scribbled her name on it – there was no time for subtlety under these circumstances.

  ‘I’ve sequenced the questions for maximum speed of elimination,’ I explained. ‘I believe I can eliminate most women in less than forty seconds. Then you can choose the topic of discussion for the remaining time.’

  ‘But then it won’t matter,’ said Frances. ‘I’ll have been eliminated.’