The Rosie Project

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 behind, 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. F*ck.’

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.’

‘F*ck, 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 guessed 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.

‘Isaac’s off to Chicago in the morning,’ said Judy. ‘Tell them what you’ll be doing there.’

‘Just a conference,’ said Isaac. He and I did not need to do a great deal of talking to ensure the conversation continued.

He did ask me one thing before we moved to the dining room. ‘What do you do, Austin?’

‘Austin runs a hardware store,’ said Rosie. ‘A very successful one.’

Judy served a delicious meal based on farmed salmon, which she assured Rosie was sustainable. I had eaten very little of the poor-quality aeroplane food, and enjoyed Judy’s meal immensely. Isaac opened some Pinot Gris from Oregon and was generous in refilling my glass. We talked about New York and the differences between Australian and American politics.

‘Well,’ said Judy, ‘I’m so glad you could come. It makes up a little for missing the reunion. Isaac was so sorry not to be there.’

‘Not really,’ said Isaac. ‘Revisiting the past is not something to do lightly.’ He ate the last piece of fish from his plate and looked at Rosie. ‘You look a lot like your mother. She would have been a bit younger than you when I last saw her.’

Judy said, ‘We got married the day after the graduation and moved here. Isaac had the biggest hangover at the wedding. He’d been a bad boy.’ She smiled.

‘I think that’s enough telling tales, Judy,’ said Isaac. ‘It was all a long time ago.’

He stared at Rosie. Rosie stared at him.

Judy picked up Rosie’s plate and mine, one in each hand. I decided that this was the moment to act, with everyone distracted. I stood and picked up Isaac’s plate in one hand and then Judy’s. Isaac was too busy playing the staring game with Rosie to object. I took the plates to the kitchen, swabbing Isaac’s fork on the way.

‘I imagine Austin and Rosie are exhausted,’ said Judy when we returned to the table.

‘You said you’re a hardware man, Austin?’ Isaac stood up. ‘Can you spare five minutes to look at a tap for me? It’s probably a job for a plumber, but maybe it’s just a washer.’

‘He means faucet,’ said Judy, presumably forgetting we came from the same country as Isaac.

Isaac and I went down the stairs to the basement. I was confident I could help with the tap problem. My school holidays had been spent providing advice of exactly this kind. But as we reached the bottom of the stairs, the lights went out. I wasn’t sure what had happened. A power failure?

‘You okay, Don?’ said Isaac, sounding concerned.

‘I’m okay,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

‘What happened is that you answered to Don, Austin.’

We stood there in the dark. I doubted that there were social conventions for dealing with interrogation by a psychiatrist in a dark cellar.

‘How did you know?’ I asked.

‘Two unsolicited communications from the same university in a month. An internet search. You make good dancing partners.’

More silence and darkness.

‘I know the answer to your question. But I made a promise that I would not reveal it. If I thought it was a matter of life or death, or a serious mental health issue, I would reconsider. But I see no reason to break the promise, which was made because the people involved had thought hard about what would be right. You came a long way for my DNA, and I’m guessing you got it when you cleared the plates. You might want to think beyond your girlfriend’s wishes before you proceed.’

He turned on the light.

Something bothered me as we walked up the stairs. At the top, I stopped. ‘If you knew what I wanted, why did you let us come to your house?’

‘Good question,’ he said. ‘Since you asked the question, I’m sure you can work out the answer. I wanted to see Rosie.’