The Rosie Project

by Graeme Simsion

  22

  Telling Rosie my life story was not difficult. Every psychologist and psychiatrist I have seen has asked for a summary, so I have the essential facts clear in my mind.

  My father owns a hardware store in a regional city. He lives there with my mother and my younger brother, who will probably take over when my father retires or dies. My older sister died at the age of forty as a result of medical incompetence. When it happened, my mother did not get out of bed for two weeks, except to attend the funeral. I was very sad about my sister’s death. Yes, I was angry too.

  My father and I have an effective but not emotional relationship. This is satisfactory to both of us. My mother is very caring but I find her stifling. My brother does not like me. I believe this is because he saw me as a threat to his dream of inheriting the hardware store and now does not respect my alternative choice. The hardware store may well have been a metaphor for the affection of our father. If so, my brother won, but I am not unhappy about losing. I do not see my family very often. My mother calls me on Sundays.

  I had an uneventful time at school. I enjoyed the science subjects. I did not have many friends and was briefly the object of bullying. I was the top student in the school in all subjects except English, where I was the top boy. At the end of my schooling I left home to attend university. I originally enrolled in computer science, but on my twenty-first birthday made a decision to change to genetics. This may have been the result of a subconscious desire to remain a student, but it was a logical choice. Genetics was a burgeoning field. There is no family history of mental illness.

  I turned towards Rosie and smiled. I had already told her about my sister and the bullying. The statement about mental illness was correct, unless I included myself in the definition of ‘family’. Somewhere in a medical archive is a twenty-year-old file with my name and the words ‘depression, bipolar disorder? OCD?’ and ‘schizophrenia?’ The question marks are important – beyond the obvious observation that I was depressed, no definitive diagnosis was ever made, despite attempts by the psychiatric profession to fit me into a simplistic category. I now believe that virtually all my problems could be attributed to my brain being configured differently from those of the majority of humans. All the psychiatric symptoms were a result of this, not of any underlying disease. Of course I was depressed: I lacked friends, sex and a social life, due to being incompatible with other people. My intensity and focus were misinterpreted as mania. And my concern with organisation was labelled as obsessive-compulsive disorder. Julie’s Asperger’s kids might well face similar problems in their lives. However, they had been labelled with an underlying syndrome, and perhaps the psychiatric profession would be intelligent enough to apply Occam’s razor and see that the problems they might face would be largely due to their Asperger’s brain configuration.

  ‘What happened on your twenty-first birthday?’ asked Rosie.

  Had Rosie read my thoughts? What happened on my twenty-first birthday was that I decided that I needed to take a new direction in my life, because any change was better than staying in the pit of depression. I actually visualised it as a pit.

  I told Rosie part of the truth. I don’t generally celebrate birthdays, but my family had insisted in this case and had invited numerous friends and relatives to compensate for my own lack of friends.

  My uncle made a speech. I understood that it was traditional to make fun of the guest of honour, but my uncle became so encouraged by his ability to provoke laughter that he kept going, telling story after story. I was shocked to discover that he knew some extremely personal facts, and realised that my mother must have shared them with him. She was pulling at his arm, trying to get him to stop, but he ignored her, and did not stop until he noticed that she was crying by which time he had completed a detailed exposition of my faults and of the embarrassment and pain that they had caused. The core of the problem, it seemed, was that I was a stereotypical computer geek. So I decided to change.

  ‘To a genetics geek,’ said Rosie.

  ‘That wasn’t exactly my goal.’ But it was obviously the outcome. And I got out of the pit to work hard in a new discipline. Where was dinner?

  ‘Tell me more about your father.’

  ‘Why?’ I wasn’t actually interested in why. I was doing the social equivalent of saying ‘over’ to put the responsibility back on Rosie. It was a trick suggested by Claudia for dealing with difficult personal questions. I recalled her advice not to overuse it. But this was the first occasion.

  ‘I guess because I want to see if your dad is the reason you’re fucked-up.’

  ‘I’m not fucked-up.’

  ‘Okay, not fucked-up. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be judgmental. But you’re not exactly average,’ said Rosie, psychology PhD candidate.

  ‘Agreed. Does “fucked-up” mean “not exactly average”?’

  ‘Bad choice of words. Start again. I guess I’m asking because my father is the reason that I’m fucked-up.’

  An extraordinary statement. With the exception of her careless attitude to health, Rosie had never exhibited any sign of brain malfunction.

  ‘What are the symptoms of being fucked-up?’

  ‘I’ve got crap in my life that I wish I hadn’t. And I’m not good at dealing with it. Am I making sense?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Unwanted events occur and you lack certain skills for minimising the personal impact. I thought when you said “fucked-up” that there was some problem with your personality that you wanted to rectify.’

  ‘No, I’m okay with being me.’

  ‘So what is the nature of the damage caused by Phil?’

  Rosie did not have an instant reply to this critical question. Perhaps this was a symptom of being fucked-up. Finally she spoke. ‘Jesus, what’s taking them so long with dinner?’

  Rosie went to the bathroom, and I took the opportunity to unwrap the presents that Gene and Claudia had given me. They had driven me to the airport, so it was impossible not to accept the packages. It was fortunate that Rosie was not watching when I opened them. Gene’s present was a new book of sexual positions and he had inscribed it: ‘In case you run out of ideas.’ He had drawn the gene symbol that he uses as his signature underneath. Claudia’s present was not embarrassing, but was irrelevant to the trip – a pair of jeans and a shirt. Clothes are always useful, but I had already packed a spare shirt, and did not see a need for additional trousers in only eight days.

  Gene had again misconstrued the current nature of my relationship with Rosie, but this was understandable. I could not explain the real purpose for taking Rosie to New York and Gene had made an assumption consistent with his world view. On the way to the airport, I had asked Claudia for advice on dealing with so much time in the company of one person.

  ‘Remember to listen,’ said Claudia. ‘If she asks you an awkward question, ask her why she’s asking. Turn it back to her. If she’s a psychology student, she’ll love talking about herself. Take notice of your emotions as well as logic. Emotions have their own logic. And try to go with the flow.’

  In fact, Rosie spent most of the remainder of the flight to Los Angeles either sleeping or watching films, but confirmed – twice – that I had not offended her and she just needed time out.

  I did not complain.

  23

  We survived US Immigration. Previous experience had taught me not to offer observations or suggestions, and I did not need to use my letter of recommendation from David Borenstein at Columbia University characterising me as a sane and competent person. Rosie seemed extremely nervous, even to someone who is poor at judging emotional states, and I was worried that she would cause suspicion and that we would be refused entry for no justifiable reason, as had happened to me on a previous occasion.

  The official asked, ‘What do you do?’ and I said, ‘Genetics researcher,’ and he said, ‘Best in the world?’ and I said, ‘Yes.’ We were through. Rosie almost ran towards Customs and then to the exit. I was several metres behin
d, carrying both bags. Something was obviously wrong.

  I caught up to her outside the automatic doors, reaching into her handbag.

  ‘Cigarette,’ she said. She lit a cigarette and took a long drag. ‘Just don’t say anything, okay? If I ever needed a reason to give up, I’ve got one now. Eighteen and a half hours. Fuck.’

  It was fortunate that Rosie had told me not to say anything. I remained silent but shocked at the impact of addiction on her life.

  She finished her cigarette and we headed to the bar. It was only 7.48 a.m. in Los Angeles, but we could be on Melbourne time until our arrival in New York.

  ‘What was the deal about “best geneticist on the planet”?’

  I explained that I had a special O-1 Visa for Aliens of Extraordinary Ability. I had needed a visa after the occasion when I was refused entry and this was deemed the safest choice. O-1 visas were quite rare and ‘yes’ was the correct answer to any question about the extraordinariness of my abilities. Rosie found the word ‘alien’ amusing. Correction, hilarious.

  Since we did not have bags checked, and the immigration process had proceeded smoothly, I was able to implement my best-case alternative and we caught an earlier flight to New York. I had made plans for the time gained through this manoeuvre.

  At JFK, I steered Rosie towards the AirTrain. ‘We have two subway options.’

  ‘I supposed you’ve memorised the timetable,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Not worth the effort. I just know the lines and stations we need for our journeys.’ I love New York. The layout is so logical, at least uptown from 14th Street.

  When Rosie had telephoned Isaac Esler’s wife she was very positive about some contact from Australia and news from the reunion. On the subway, Rosie said, ‘You’ll need an alias. In case Esler recognises your name from the Asperger’s survey.’

  I had already considered this. ‘Austin,’ I said. ‘From Austin Powers. International Man of Mystery.’ Rosie thought this was hilarious. I had made a successful, deliberate joke that was not related to exhibiting some quirk in my personality. A memorable moment.

  ‘Profession?’ she asked.

  ‘Hardware-store owner.’ The idea appeared in my brain spontaneously.

  ‘Okaaaaaay,’ said Rosie. ‘Right.’

  We took the E train to Lexington Avenue and 53rd Street and headed uptown.

  ‘Where’s the hotel?’ Rosie asked as I steered us towards Madison Avenue.

  ‘Lower East Side. But we have to shop first.’

  ‘Fuck, Don, it’s after 5.30. We’re due at the Eslers’ at 7.30. We don’t have time for shopping. I need time to change.’

  I looked at Rosie. She was wearing jeans and shirt – conventional attire. I could not see the problem, but we had time. ‘I hadn’t planned to go to the hotel before dinner, but since we arrived early –’

  ‘Don, I’ve been flying for twenty-four hours. We are doing nothing more with your schedule until I’ve checked it for craziness.’

  ‘I’ve scheduled four minutes for the transaction,’ I said. We were already outside the Hermès store, which my research had identified as the world’s best scarf shop. I walked in and Rosie followed.

  The shop was empty except for us. Perfect.

  ‘Don, you’re not exactly dressed for this.’

  Dressed for shopping! I was dressed for travelling, eating, socialising, museum-visiting – and shopping: runners, cargo pants, t-shirt and the jumper knitted by my mother. This was not Le Gavroche. It seemed highly unlikely that they would refuse to participate in a commercial exchange on the basis of my costume. I was right.

  Two women stood behind the counter, one (age approximately fifty-five, BMI approximately nineteen) wearing rings on all eight fingers, and the other (age approximately twenty, BMI approximately twenty-two) wearing huge purple glasses creating the impression of a human ant. They were very formally dressed. I initiated the transaction.

  ‘I require a high-quality scarf.’

  Ring Woman smiled. ‘I can help you with that. It’s for the lady?’

  ‘No. For Claudia.’ I realised that this was not helpful but was not sure how to elaborate.

  ‘And Claudia is’ – she made circles with her hand – ‘what age?’

  ‘Forty-one years, three hundred and fifty-six days.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ring Woman, ‘so we have a birthday coming up.’

  ‘Just Claudia.’ My birthday was thirty-two days away, so it surely did not qualify as ‘coming up’. ‘Claudia wears scarves, even in hot weather, to cover lines on her neck which she considers unattractive. So the scarf does not need to be functional, only decorative.’

  Ring Woman produced a scarf. ‘What do you think of this?’

  It was remarkably light – and would offer almost zero protection against wind and cold. But it was certainly decorative, as specified.

  ‘Excellent. How much?’ We were running to schedule.

  ‘This one is twelve hundred dollars.’

  I opened my wallet and extracted my credit card.

  ‘Whoa whoa whoa,’ said Rosie. ‘I think we’d like to see what else you have before we rush into anything.’

  I turned to Rosie. ‘Our four minutes is almost up.’

  Ring Woman put three more scarves on the counter. Rosie looked at one. I copied her, looking at another. It seemed nice. They all seemed nice. I had no framework for discrimination.

  It continued. Ring Woman kept throwing more scarves on the counter and Rosie and I looked at them. Ant Woman came to help. I finally identified one that I could comment intelligently on.

  ‘This scarf has a fault! It’s not symmetrical. Symmetry is a key component of human beauty.’

  Rosie had a brilliant response. ‘Maybe the scarf’s lack of symmetry will highlight Claudia’s symmetry.’

  Ant Woman produced a pink scarf with fluffy bits. Even I could see that Claudia would not approve and dropped it immediately on the reject pile.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ said Rosie.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s unsuitable.’

  ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘you can do better than that. Imagine who might wear it.’

  ‘Barbara Cartland,’ said Ring Woman.

  I was not familiar with this name, but the answer suddenly came to me. ‘The Dean! At the ball.’

  Rosie burst out laughing. ‘Corrrrr-ect.’ She pulled another scarf from the pile. ‘What about this one?’ It was virtually transparent.

  ‘Julie,’ I said automatically, then explained to Rosie and the two women about the Asperger’s counsellor and her revealing costume. Presumably she would not want a scarf to reduce its impact.

  ‘This one?’

  It was a scarf that I had quite liked because of its bright colours, but Rosie had rejected as too ‘loud’.

  ‘Bianca.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Rosie had not stopped laughing. ‘You know more about clothes than you think you do.’

  Ant Woman produced a scarf covered in pictures of birds. I picked it up – the pictures were remarkably accurate. It was quite beautiful.

  ‘Birds of the world,’ Ant Woman said.

  ‘Oh my God, no!’ said Rosie. ‘Not for Claudia.’

  ‘Why not? It’s extremely interesting.’

  ‘Birds of the world! Think about it. Gene.’

  Scarves were being sourced from multiple locations, piling rapidly, being evaluated, tossed aside. It was happening so quickly that I was reminded of the Great Cocktail Night, except that we were the customers. I wondered if the women were enjoying their work as much as I had.

  In the end I left the choice to Rosie. She chose the first scarf that they had shown us.

  As we walked out of the store, Rosie said, ‘I think I just wasted an hour of your life.’

  ‘No, no, the outcome was irrelevant,’ I said. ‘It was so entertaining.’

  ‘Well,’ said Rosie, ‘any time you need entertaining, I could use a pair of Manolo Blahniks.’ From the word ‘pair’, I gue
ssed that she was referring to shoes.

  ‘Do we have time?’ We had already used the time that Rosie had intended for the hotel visit.

  ‘I’m kidding, I’m kidding.’

  It was fortunate, as we had to move quickly to arrive at the Eslers’ on schedule. But Rosie needed to change. There was a bathroom at Union Square station. Rosie dashed in and reappeared looking amazingly different.

  ‘That was incredible,’ I said. ‘So quick.’

  Rosie looked at me. ‘You’re going like that?’ Her tone suggested dissatisfaction.

  ‘These are my clothes,’ I said. ‘I have a spare shirt.’

  ‘Show it to me.’

  I reached into the bag to get the alternative shirt, which I doubted Rosie would prefer, and remembered Claudia’s gift. I showed the shirt to Rosie.

  ‘It was a gift from Claudia,’ I said. ‘I’ve got jeans as well, if that helps.’

  ‘All hail Claudia,’ said Rosie. ‘She earned the scarf.’

  ‘We’ll be late.’

  ‘Politely late is fine.’

  Isaac and Judy Esler had an apartment in Williamsburg. My US cell-phone card was working to specification, and we were able to navigate by GPS to the location. I hoped that forty-six minutes met Rosie’s definition of ‘politely late’.

  ‘Austin, remember,’ said Rosie as she rang the bell.

  Judy answered the door. I estimated her age as fifty and her BMI as twenty-six. She spoke with a New York accent, and was concerned that we might have become lost. Her husband Isaac was a caricature of a psychiatrist: mid-fifties, short, receding hair, black goatee beard, BMI nineteen. He was not as friendly as his wife.

  They offered us martinis. I remembered the effect this drink had had on me during the preparation for the Great Cocktail Night and resolved that I would have no more than three. Judy had made some fish-based canapés, and asked for details of our trip. She wanted to know whether we had been to New York before, what season it was in Australia (not a challenging question) and whether we planned to do any shopping and see any museums. Rosie handled all of these questions.