The Rosie Project

by Graeme Simsion

  ‘Quotation marks,’ I said aloud as the idea hit me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You made quotation marks around “father” to draw attention to the fact that the word should not be interpreted in the usual way. Very clever.’

  ‘Well, there you go,’ she said. ‘And there I was thinking you were reflecting on my minor problem with my whole fucking life. And might have something intelligent to say.’

  I corrected her. ‘It’s not a minor problem at all!’ I pointed my finger in the air to indicate an exclamation mark. ‘You should insist on being informed.’ I stabbed the same finger to indicate a full stop. This was quite fun.

  ‘My mother’s dead. She died in a car accident when I was ten. She never told anyone who my father was – not even Phil.’

  ‘Phil?’ I couldn’t think of how to indicate a question mark, and decided to drop the game temporarily. This was no time for experimentation.

  ‘My’ – hands up, fingers wiggled – ‘father. Who’d go ape-shit if I told him I wanted to know.’

  Rosie drank the remaining wine in her glass and refilled it. The second half-bottle was now empty. Her story was sad, but not uncommon. Although my parents continued to make routine, ritual contact, it was my assessment that they had lost interest in me some years ago. Their duty had been completed when I was able to support myself. Her situation was somewhat different, however, as it involved a stepfather. I offered a genetic interpretation.

  ‘His behaviour is completely predictable. You don’t have his genes. Male lions kill the cubs from previous matings when they take over a pride.’

  ‘Thanks for that information.’

  ‘I can recommend some further reading if you are interested. You seem quite intelligent for a barmaid.’

  ‘The compliments just keep on coming.’

  It seemed I was doing well, and I allowed myself a moment of satisfaction, which I shared with Rosie.

  ‘Excellent. I’m not proficient at dating. There are so many rules to remember.’

  ‘You’re doing okay,’ she said. ‘Except for staring at my boobs.’

  This was disappointing feedback. Rosie’s dress was quite revealing, but I had been working hard to maintain eye contact.

  ‘I was just examining your pendant,’ I said. ‘It’s extremely interesting.’

  Rosie immediately covered it with her hand. ‘What’s on it?’

  ‘An image of Isis with an inscription: Sum omnia quae fuerunt suntque eruntque ego. “I am all that has been, is and will be.” ’ I hoped I had read the Latin correctly; the writing was very small.

  Rosie seemed impressed. ‘What about the pendant I had on this morning?’

  ‘Dagger with three small red stones and four white ones.’

  Rosie finished her wine. She seemed to be thinking about something. It turned out not to be anything profound.

  ‘Want to get another bottle?’

  I was a little stunned. We had already drunk the recommended maximum amount. On the other hand, she smoked, so obviously she had a careless attitude to health.

  ‘You want more alcohol?’

  ‘Correct,’ she said, in an odd voice. She may have been mimicking me.

  I went to the kitchen to select another bottle, deciding to reduce the next day’s alcohol intake to compensate. Then I saw the clock: 11.40 p.m. I picked up the phone and ordered a taxi. With any luck it would arrive before the after-midnight tariff commenced. I opened a half-bottle of shiraz to drink while we waited.

  Rosie wanted to continue the conversation about her biological father.

  ‘Do you think there might be some sort of genetic motivation? That it’s built into us to want to know who our parents are?’

  ‘It’s critical for parents to be able to recognise their own children. So they can protect the carriers of their genes. Small children need to be able to locate their parents to get that protection.’

  ‘Maybe it’s some sort of carry-over from that.’

  ‘It seems unlikely. But possible. Our behaviour is strongly affected by instinct.’

  ‘So you said. Whatever it is, it eats me up. Messes with my head.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask the candidates?’

  ‘ “Dear Doctor. Are you my father?” I don’t think so.’

  An obvious thought occurred to me, obvious because I am a geneticist.

  ‘Your hair is a very unusual colour. Possibly –’

  She laughed. ‘There aren’t any genes for this shade of red.’

  She must have seen that I was confused.

  ‘This colour only comes out of a bottle.’

  I realised what she was saying. She had deliberately dyed her hair an unnaturally bright colour. Incredible. It hadn’t even occurred to me to include hair dyeing on the questionnaire. I made a mental note to do so.

  The doorbell buzzed. I had not mentioned the taxi to her, so brought her up to date with my plan. She quickly finished her wine, then stuck her hand out and it seemed to me that I was not the only one feeling awkward.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s been an evening. Have a good life.’

  It was a non-standard way of saying goodnight. I thought it safer to stick with convention.

  ‘Goodnight. I’ve really enjoyed this evening.’ I added, ‘Good luck finding your father’ to the formula.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Then she left.

  I was agitated, but not in a bad way. It was more a case of sensory overload. I was pleased to find some wine left in the bottle. I poured it into my glass and phoned Gene. Claudia answered and I dispensed with pleasantries.

  ‘I need to speak with Gene.’

  ‘He’s not home,’ said Claudia. She sounded disoriented. Perhaps she had been drinking. ‘I thought he was having lobster with you.’

  ‘Gene sent me the world’s most incompatible woman. A barmaid. Late, vegetarian, disorganised, irrational, unhealthy, smoker – smoker! – psychological problems, can’t cook, mathematically incompetent, unnatural hair colour. I presume he was making a joke.’

  Claudia must have interpreted this as a statement of distress because she said, ‘Are you all right, Don?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘She was highly entertaining. But totally unsuitable for the Wife Project.’ As I said these words, indisputably factual, I felt a twinge of regret at odds with my intellectual assessment. Claudia interrupted my attempt to reconcile the conflicting brain states.

  ‘Don, do you know what time it is?’

  I wasn’t wearing a watch. And then I realised my error. I had used the kitchen clock as my reference when phoning the taxi. The clock that Rosie had reset. It must have been almost 2.30 a.m. How could I have lost track of time like that? It was a severe lesson in the dangers of messing with the schedule. Rosie would be paying the after-midnight tariff in the taxi.

  I let Claudia return to sleep. As I picked up the two plates and two glasses to bring them inside, I looked again at the night-time view of the city – the view I had never seen before even though it had been there all the time.

  I decided to skip my pre-bed aikido routine. And to leave the makeshift table in place.

  9

  ‘I threw her in as a wild card,’ said Gene when I woke him up from the unscheduled sleep he was taking under his desk the next day.

  Gene looked terrible and I told him he should refrain from staying up so late – although for once I had been guilty of the same error. It was important that he eat lunch at the correct time to get his circadian rhythm back on schedule. He had a packed lunch from home, and we headed for a grassy area in the university grounds. I collected seaweed salad, miso soup and an apple from the Japanese café on the way.

  It was a fine day. Unfortunately this meant that there were a number of females in brief clothing sitting on the grass and walking by to distract Gene. Gene is fifty-six years old, although that information is not supposed to be disclosed. At that age, his testosterone should have fallen to a level where his sex d
rive was significantly reduced. It is my theory that his unusually high focus on sex is due to mental habit. But human physiology varies, and he may be an exception.

  Conversely, I think Gene believes I have an abnormally low sex drive. This is not true – rather I am not as skilled as Gene in expressing it in a socially appropriate way. My occasional attempts to imitate Gene have been unsuccessful in the extreme.

  We found a bench to sit on and Gene commenced his explanation.

  ‘She’s someone I know,’ he said.

  ‘No questionnaire?’

  ‘No questionnaire.’

  This explained the smoking. In fact, it explained everything. Gene had reverted to the inefficient practice of recommending acquaintances for dates. My expression must have conveyed my annoyance.

  ‘You’re wasting your time with the questionnaire. You’d be better off measuring the length of their earlobes.’

  Sexual attraction is Gene’s area of expertise. ‘There’s a correlation?’ I asked.

  ‘People with long earlobes are more likely to choose partners with long earlobes. It’s a better predictor than IQ.’

  This was incredible, but much behaviour that developed in the ancestral environment seems incredible when considered in the context of the current world. Evolution has not kept up. But earlobes! Could there be a more irrational basis for a relationship? No wonder marriages fail.

  ‘So, did you have fun?’ asked Gene.

  I informed him that his question was irrelevant: my goal was to find a partner and Rosie was patently unsuitable. Gene had caused me to waste an evening.

  ‘But did you have fun?’ he repeated.

  Did he expect a different answer to the same question? To be fair, I had not given him a proper answer, but for a good reason. I had not had time to reflect on the evening and determine a proper response. I guessed that ‘fun’ was going to be an over-simplification of a very complex experience.

  I provided Gene with a summary of events. As I related the story of the dinner on the balcony, Gene interrupted. ‘If you see her again –’

  ‘There is zero reason for me to see her again.’

  ‘If you see her again,’ Gene continued, ‘it’s probably not a good idea to mention the Wife Project. Since she didn’t measure up.’

  Ignoring the incorrect assumption about seeing Rosie again, this seemed like good advice.

  At that point, the conversation changed direction dramatically, and I did not have an opportunity to find out how Gene had met Rosie. The reason for the change was Gene’s sandwich. He took a bite, then called out in pain and snatched my water bottle.

  ‘Oh shit. Oh shit. Claudia put chillies in my sandwich.’

  It was difficult to see how Claudia could make an error of this kind. But the priority was to reduce the pain. Chilli is insoluble in water, so drinking from my bottle would not be effective. I advised him to find some oil. We headed back to the Japanese café, and were not able to have any further conversation about Rosie. However, I had the basic information I needed. Gene had selected a woman without reference to the questionnaire. To see her again would be in total contradiction to the rationale for the Wife Project.

  Riding home, I reconsidered. I could see three reasons that it might be necessary to see Rosie again.

  Good experimental design requires the use of a control group. It would be interesting to use Rosie as a benchmark to compare with women selected by the questionnaire.

  The questionnaire had not produced any matches to date. I could interact with Rosie in the meantime.

  As a geneticist with access to DNA analysis, and the knowledge to interpret it, I was in a position to help Rosie find her biological father.

  Reasons 1 and 2 were invalid. Rosie was clearly not a suitable life partner. There was no point in interaction with someone so patently inappropriate. But Reason 3 deserved consideration. Using my skills to assist her in a search for important knowledge aligned with my life purpose. I could do it in the time set aside for the Wife Project until a suitable candidate emerged.

  In order to proceed, I needed to re-establish contact with Rosie. I did not want to tell Gene that I planned to see her again so soon after telling him that the probability of my doing so was zero. Fortunately, I recalled the name of the bar she worked at: the Marquess of Queensbury.

  There was only one bar of that name, in a back street of an inner suburb. I had already modified the day’s schedule, cancelling my market trip to catch up on the lost sleep. I would purchase a ready-made dinner instead. I am sometimes accused of being inflexible, but I think this demonstrates an ability to adapt to even the strangest of circumstances.

  I arrived at 7.04 p.m. only to find that the bar did not open until 9.00 p.m. Incredible. No wonder people make mistakes at work. Would it be full of surgeons and flight controllers, drinking until after midnight then working the next day?

  I ate dinner at a nearby Indian restaurant. By the time I had worked my way through the banquet, and returned to the bar, it was 9.27 p.m. There was a security official at the door, and I prepared myself for a repeat of the previous night. He examined me carefully, then asked, ‘Do you know what sort of place this is?’

  I am quite familiar with bars, perhaps even more familiar than most people. When I travel to conferences, I generally find a pleasant bar near my hotel and eat and drink there every evening. I replied in the affirmative and entered.

  I wondered if I had come to the right location. The most obvious characteristic of Rosie was that she was female, and the patrons at the Marquess of Queensbury were without exception male. Many were wearing unusual costumes, and I took a few minutes to examine the range. Two men noted me looking at them and one smiled broadly and nodded. I smiled back. It seemed to be a friendly place.

  But I was there to find Rosie. I walked to the bar. The two men followed and sat on either side of me. The clean-shaven one was wearing a cut-off t-shirt and clearly spent time at the gym. Steroids could also have been involved. The one with the moustache wore a leather costume and a black cap.

  ‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ said Black Cap.

  I gave him the simple explanation. ‘I haven’t been here before.’

  ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

  ‘You’re offering to buy my drink?’ It was an unusual proposition from a stranger, and I guessed that I would be expected to reciprocate in some way.

  ‘I think that’s what I said,’ said Black Cap. ‘What can we tempt you with?’

  I told him that the flavour didn’t matter, as long as it contained alcohol. As in most social situations, I was nervous.

  Then Rosie appeared from the other side of the bar, dressed conventionally for her role in a collared black shirt. I was hugely relieved. I had come to the correct place and she was on duty. Black Cap waved to her. He ordered three Budweisers. Then Rosie saw me.

  ‘Don.’

  ‘Greetings.’

  Rosie looked at us and asked, ‘Are you guys together?’

  ‘Give us a few minutes,’ said Steroid Man.

  Rosie said, ‘I think Don’s here to see me.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Well, pardon us interrupting your social life with drinks orders,’ Black Cap said to Rosie.

  ‘You could use DNA,’ I said.

  Rosie clearly didn’t follow, due to lack of context. ‘What?’

  ‘To identify your father. DNA is the obvious approach.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Rosie. ‘Obvious. “Please send me your DNA so I can see if you’re my father.” Forget it, I was just mouthing off.’

  ‘You could collect it.’ I wasn’t sure how Rosie would respond to the next part of my suggestion. ‘Surreptitiously.’

  Rosie went silent. She was at least considering the idea. Or perhaps wondering whether to report me. Her response supported the first possibility. ‘And who’s going to analyse it?’

  ‘I’m a geneticist.’

  ‘You’re saying if I got a sample, you could
analyse it for me?’

  ‘Trivial,’ I said. ‘How many samples do we need to test?’

  ‘Probably only one. I’ve got a pretty good idea. He’s a family friend.’

  Steroid Man coughed loudly, and Rosie fetched two beers from the refrigerator. Black Cap put a twenty-dollar note on the counter, but Rosie pushed it back and waved them away.

  I tried the cough trick myself. Rosie took a moment to interpret the message this time, but then got me a beer.

  ‘What do you need?’ she asked. ‘To test the DNA?’

  I explained that normally we would use scrapings from the inner cheek, but that it would be impractical to obtain these without the subject’s knowledge. ‘Blood is excellent, but skin scrapings, mucus, urine –’

  ‘Pass,’ said Rosie.

  ‘– faecal material, semen –’

  ‘It keeps getting better,’ said Rosie. ‘I can screw a sixty-year-old family friend in the hope that he turns out to be my father.’

  I was shocked. ‘You’d have sex –’

  Rosie explained that she was making a joke. On such a serious matter! It was getting busy around the bar, and there were a lot of cough signals happening. An effective way to spread disease. Rosie wrote a telephone number on a piece of paper.

  ‘Call me.’

  10

  The next morning, I returned with some relief to the routine that had been so severely disrupted over the past two days. My Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday runs to the market are a feature of my schedule, combining exercise, meal-ingredients purchase and an opportunity for reflection. I was in great need of the last of these.

  A woman had given me her phone number and told me to call her. More than the Jacket Incident, the Balcony Meal and even the excitement of the potential Father Project, this had disrupted my world. I knew that it happened regularly: people in books, films and TV shows do exactly what Rosie had done. But it had never happened to me. No woman had ever casually, unthinkingly, automatically, written down her phone number, given it to me and said, ‘Call me.’ I had temporarily been included in a culture that I considered closed to me. Although it was entirely logical that Rosie should provide me with a means of contacting her, I had an irrational feeling that, when I called, Rosie would realise she had made some kind of error.