The Rosie Project

by Graeme Simsion

  Before I could protest, Rosie had flagged down a minivan taxi with sufficient capacity for my bike.

  ‘Where do you live?’ she asked.

  7

  ‘Wow, Mr Neat. How come there are no pictures on the walls?’

  I had not had visitors since Daphne moved out of the building. I knew that I only needed to put out an extra plate and cutlery. But it had already been a stressful evening, and the adrenaline-induced euphoria that had immediately followed the Jacket Incident had evaporated, at least on my part. Rosie seemed to be in a permanently manic state.

  We were in the living area, which adjoins the kitchen.

  ‘Because after a while I would stop noticing them. The human brain is wired to focus on differences in its environment – so it can rapidly discern a predator. If I installed pictures or other decorative objects, I would notice them for a few days and then my brain would ignore them. If I want to see art, I go to the gallery. The paintings there are of higher quality, and the total expenditure over time is less than the purchase price of cheap posters.’ In fact, I had not been to an art gallery since the tenth of May, three years before. But this information would weaken my argument and I saw no reason to share it with Rosie and open up other aspects of my personal life to interrogation.

  Rosie had moved on and was now examining my CD collection. The investigation was becoming annoying. Dinner was already late.

  ‘You really love Bach,’ she said. This was a reasonable deduction, as my CD collection consists only of the works of that composer. But it was not correct.

  ‘I decided to focus on Bach after reading Gödel, Escher, Bach by Douglas Hofstadter. Unfortunately I haven’t made much progress. I don’t think my brain works fast enough to decode the patterns in the music.’

  ‘You don’t listen to it for fun?’

  This was beginning to sound like the initial dinner conversations with Daphne and I didn’t answer.

  ‘You’ve got an iPhone?’ she said.

  ‘Of course, but I don’t use it for music. I download podcasts.’

  ‘Let me guess – on genetics.’

  ‘Science in general.’

  I moved to the kitchen to begin dinner preparation and Rosie followed me, stopping to look at my whiteboard schedule.

  ‘Wow,’ she said, again. This reaction was becoming predictable. I wondered what her response to DNA or evolution would be.

  I commenced retrieval of vegetables and herbs from the refrigerator. ‘Let me help,’ she said. ‘I can chop or something.’ The implication was that chopping could be done by an inexperienced person unfamiliar with the recipe. After her comment that she was unable to cook even in a life-threatening situation, I had visions of huge chunks of leek and fragments of herbs too fine to sieve out.

  ‘No assistance is required,’ I said. ‘I recommend reading a book.’

  I watched Rosie walk to the bookshelf, briefly peruse the contents, then walk away. Perhaps she used IBM rather than Mac software, although many of the manuals applied to both.

  The sound system has an iPod port that I use to play podcasts while I cook. Rosie plugged in her phone, and music emanated from the speakers. It was not loud, but I was certain that if I had put on a podcast without asking permission when visiting someone’s house, I would have been accused of a social error. Very certain, as I had made this exact mistake at a dinner party four years and sixty-seven days ago.

  Rosie continued her exploration, like an animal in a new environment, which of course was what she was. She opened the blinds and raised them, creating some dust. I consider myself fastidious in my cleaning, but I do not need to open the blinds and there must have been dust in places not reachable without doing so. Behind the blinds are doors, and Rosie released the bolts and opened them.

  I was feeling very uncomfortable at this violation of my personal environment. I tried to concentrate on food preparation as Rosie stepped out of sight onto the balcony. I could hear her dragging the two big pot plants, which presumably were dead after all these years. I put the herb and vegetable mixture in the large saucepan with the water, salt, rice wine vinegar, mirin, orange peel and coriander seeds.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re cooking,’ Rosie called out, ‘but I’m basically vegetarian.’

  Vegetarian! I had already commenced cooking! Based on ingredients purchased on the assumption that I would be eating alone. And what did ‘basically’ mean – did it imply some limited level of flexibility, like my colleague Esther, who admitted, only under rigorous questioning, that she would eat pork if necessary to survive?

  Vegetarians and vegans can be incredibly annoying. Gene has a joke: ‘How can you tell if someone is a vegan? Just wait ten minutes and they’ll tell you.’ If this were so, it would not be so much of a problem. No! Vegetarians arrive for dinner and then say, ‘I don’t eat meat.’ This was the second time. The Pig’s Trotter Disaster happened six years ago, when Gene suggested that I invite a woman to dinner at my apartment. He argued that my cooking expertise would make me more desirable and I would not have to deal with the pressure of a restaurant environment. ‘And you can drink as much as you like and stagger to the bedroom.’

  The woman’s name was Bethany, and her internet profile did not mention vegetarianism. Realising that the quality of the meal would be critical, I borrowed a recently published book of ‘nose to tail’ recipes from the library, and planned a multi-course meal featuring various parts of the animal: brains, tongue, mesentery, pancreas, kidneys, etc.

  Bethany arrived on time and seemed very pleasant. We had a glass of wine, and then things went downhill. We started with fried pig’s trotter, which had been quite complex to prepare, and Bethany ate very little of hers.

  ‘I’m not big on pig’s trotters,’ she said. This was not entirely unreasonable: we all have preferences and perhaps she was concerned about fat and cholesterol. But when I outlined the courses to follow, she declared herself to be a vegetarian. Unbelievable!

  She offered to buy dinner at a restaurant but, having spent so much time in preparation, I did not want to abandon the food. I ate alone and did not see Bethany again.

  Now Rosie. In this case it might be a good thing. Rosie could leave and life would return to normal. She had obviously not filled in the questionnaire honestly, or Gene had made an error. Or possibly he had selected her for her high level of sexual attractiveness, imposing his own preferences on me.

  Rosie came back inside, looking at me, as if expecting a response. ‘Seafood is okay,’ she said. ‘If it’s sustainable.’

  I had mixed feelings. It is always satisfying to have the solution to a problem, but now Rosie would be staying for dinner. I walked to the bathroom, and Rosie followed. I picked up the lobster from the bath, where it had been crawling around.

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Rosie.

  ‘You don’t like lobster?’ I carried it back to the kitchen.

  ‘I love lobster but …’

  The problem was now obvious and I could sympathise.

  ‘You find the killing process unpleasant. Agreed.’

  I put the lobster in the freezer, and explained to Rosie that I had researched lobster-execution methods, and the freezer method was considered the most humane. I gave her a website reference.

  While the lobster died, Rosie continued her sniffing around. She opened the pantry and seemed impressed with its level of organisation: one shelf for each day of the week, plus storage spaces for common resources, alcohol, breakfast, etc., and stock data on the back of the door.

  ‘You want to come and sort out my place?’

  ‘You want to implement the Standardised Meal System?’ Despite its substantial advantages, most people consider it odd.

  ‘Just cleaning out the refrigerator would do,’ she said. ‘I’m guessing you want Tuesday ingredients?’

  I informed her that, as today was Tuesday, no guessing was required.

  She handed me the nori sheets and bonito flakes. I requested macadamia nut o
il, sea salt and the pepper grinder from the common resources area.

  ‘Chinese rice wine,’ I added. ‘Filed under alcohol.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Rosie.

  She passed me the wine, then began looking at the other bottles in the alcohol section. I purchase my wine in half-bottles.

  ‘So, you cook this same meal every Tuesday, right?’

  ‘Correct.’ I listed the eight major advantages of the Standardised Meal System.

  No need to accumulate recipe books.

  Standard shopping list – hence very efficient shopping.

  Almost zero waste – nothing in the refrigerator or pantry unless required for one of the recipes.

  Diet planned and nutritionally balanced in advance.

  No time wasted wondering what to cook.

  No mistakes, no unpleasant surprises.

  Excellent food, superior to most restaurants at a much lower price (see point 3).

  Minimal cognitive load required.

  ‘Cognitive load?’

  ‘The cooking procedures are in my cerebellum – virtually no conscious effort is required.’

  ‘Like riding a bike.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘You can make lobster whatever without thinking?’

  ‘Lobster, mango and avocado salad with wasabi-coated flying fish roe and crispy seaweed and deep-fried leek garnish. Correct. My current project is quail-boning. It still requires conscious effort.’

  Rosie was laughing. It brought back memories of school days. Good ones.

  As I retrieved additional ingredients for the dressing from the refrigerator, Rosie brushed past me with two half-bottles of chablis and put them in the freezer with the lobster.

  ‘Our dinner seems to have stopped moving.’

  ‘Further time is required to be certain of death,’ I said. ‘Unfortunately, the Jacket Incident has disrupted the preparation schedule. All times will need to be recalculated.’ I realised at this point that I should have put the lobster in the freezer as soon as we arrived home, but my brain had been overloaded by the problems created by Rosie’s presence. I went to the whiteboard and started writing up revised preparation times. Rosie was examining the ingredients.

  ‘You were going to eat all this by yourself?’

  I had not revised the Standardised Meal System since Daphne’s departure, and now ate the lobster salad by myself on Tuesdays, deleting the wine to compensate for the additional calorie intake.

  ‘The quantity is sufficient for two,’ I said. ‘The recipe can’t be scaled down. It’s infeasible to purchase a fraction of a live lobster.’ I had intended the last part as a mild joke, and Rosie reacted by laughing. I had another unexpected moment of feeling good as I continued recalculating times.

  Rosie interrupted again. ‘If you were on your usual schedule, what time would it be now?’

  ‘6.38 p.m.’

  The clock on the oven showed 9.09 p.m. Rosie located the controls and started adjusting the time. I realised what she was doing. A perfect solution. When she was finished, it showed 6.38 p.m. No recalculations required. I congratulated her on her thinking. ‘You’ve created a new time zone. Dinner will be ready at 8.55 p.m. – Rosie time.’

  ‘Beats doing the maths,’ she said.

  Her observation gave me an opportunity for another Wife Project question. ‘Do you find mathematics difficult?’

  She laughed. ‘It’s only the single hardest part of what I do. Drives me nuts.’

  If the simple arithmetic of bar and restaurant bills was beyond her, it was hard to imagine how we could have meaningful discussions.

  ‘Where do you hide the corkscrew?’ she asked.

  ‘Wine is not scheduled for Tuesdays.’

  ‘Fuck that,’ said Rosie.

  There was a certain logic underlying Rosie’s response. I would only be eating a single serve of dinner. It was the final step in the abandonment of the evening’s schedule.

  I announced the change. ‘Time has been redefined. Previous rules no longer apply. Alcohol is hereby declared mandatory in the Rosie Time Zone.’

  8

  As I completed dinner preparation, Rosie set the table – not the conventional dining table in the living room, but a makeshift table on the balcony, created by taking a whiteboard from the kitchen wall and placing it on top of the two big plant pots, from which the dead plants had been removed. A white sheet from the linen cupboard had been added in the role of tablecloth. Silver cutlery – a housewarming gift from my parents that had never been used – and the decorative wine glasses were on the table. She was destroying my apartment!

  It had never occurred to me to eat on the balcony. The rain from early in the evening had cleared when I came outside with the food, and I estimated the temperature at twenty-two degrees.

  ‘Do we have to eat right away?’ asked Rosie, an odd question, since she had claimed that she was starving some hours ago.

  ‘No, it won’t get cold. It’s already cold.’ I was conscious of sounding awkward. ‘Is there some reason to delay?’

  ‘The city lights. The view’s amazing.’

  ‘Unfortunately it’s static. Once you’ve examined it, there’s no reason to look again. Like paintings.’

  ‘But it changes all the time. What about in the early morning? Or when it rains? What about coming up here just to sit?’

  I had no answer that was likely to satisfy her. I had seen the view when I bought the apartment. It did not change much in different conditions. And the only times I just sat were when I was waiting for an appointment or if I was reflecting on a problem, in which case interesting surroundings would be a distraction.

  I moved into the space beside Rosie and refilled her glass. She smiled. She was almost certainly wearing lipstick.

  I attempt to produce a standard, repeatable meal, but obviously ingredients vary in their quality from week to week. Today’s seemed to be of unusually high standard. The lobster salad had never tasted so good.

  I remembered the basic rule of asking a woman to talk about herself. Rosie had already raised the topic of dealing with difficult customers in a bar, so I asked her to elaborate. This was an excellent move. She had a number of hilarious stories, and I noted some interpersonal techniques for possible future use.

  We finished the lobster. Then Rosie opened her bag and pulled out a pack of cigarettes! How can I convey my horror? Smoking is not only unhealthy in itself, and dangerous to others in the vicinity. It is a clear indication of an irrational approach to life. There was a good reason for it being the first item on my questionnaire.

  Rosie must have noticed my shock. ‘Relax. We’re outside.’

  There was no point in arguing. I would not be seeing her again after tonight. The lighter flamed and she held it to the cigarette between her artificially red lips.

  ‘Anyhow, I’ve got a genetics question,’ she said.

  ‘Proceed.’ I was back in the world I knew.

  ‘Someone told me you can tell if a person’s monogamous by the size of their testicles.’

  The sexual aspects of biology regularly feature in the popular press, so this was not as stupid a statement as it might appear, although it embodied a typical misconception. It occurred to me that it could be some sort of code for a sexual advance, but I decided to play safe and respond to the question literally.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ I said.

  Rosie seemed very pleased with my answer.

  ‘You’re a star,’ she said. ‘I’ve just won a bet.’

  I proceeded to elaborate and noted that Rosie’s expression of satisfaction faded. I guessed that she had oversimplified her question and that my more detailed explanation was in fact what she had been told.

  ‘There may be some correlation at the individual level, but the rule applies to species. Homo sapiens are basically monogamous, but tactically unfaithful. Males benefit from impregnating as many females as possible, but are able to support only one set of offspring. Females seek maximum-quality
genes for their children plus a male to support them.’

  I was just settling into the familiar role of lecturer when Rosie interrupted.

  ‘What about the testicles?’

  ‘Bigger testicles produce more semen. Monogamous species require only sufficient for their mate. Humans need extra to take advantage of random opportunities and to attack the sperm of recent intruders.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Not really. The behaviour evolved in the ancestral environment. The modern world requires additional rules.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Rosie. ‘Like being there for your kids.’

  ‘Correct. But instincts are incredibly powerful.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Rosie.

  I began to explain. ‘Instinct is an expression of –’

  ‘Rhetorical question,’ said Rosie. ‘I’ve lived it. My mother went gene shopping at her medical graduation party.’

  ‘These behaviours are unconscious. People don’t deliberately –’

  ‘I get that.’

  I doubted it. Non-professionals frequently misinterpret the findings of evolutionary psychology. But the story was interesting.

  ‘You’re saying your mother engaged in unprotected sex outside her primary relationship?’

  ‘With some other student,’ replied Rosie. ‘While she was dating my’ – at this point Rosie raised her hands and made a downwards movement, twice, with the index and middle fingers of both hands – ‘father. My real dad’s a doctor. I just don’t know which one. Really, really pisses me off.’

  I was fascinated by the hand movements and silent for a while as I tried to work them out. Were they a sign of distress at not knowing who her father was? If so, it was not one I was familiar with. And why had she chosen to punctuate her speech at that point … of course! Punctuation!