The Rosie Project (Don Tillman #1)(52)

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 f*cked-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 “f*cked-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 f*cked-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 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. 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.’