The Rosie Project (Don Tillman #1)(69)

My next market visit was predictably strange. I arrived at the seafood stall and the proprietor turned to pull a lobster from the tank.

‘Change of plan,’ I said. ‘What’s good today?’

‘Lobster,’ he said, in his heavily accented English. ‘Lobster good every Tuesday for you.’ He laughed, and waved his hand at his other customers. He was making a joke about me. Rosie had a facial expression that she used when she said, ‘Don’t f*ck with me.’ I tried the expression. It seemed to work by itself.

‘I’m joking,’ he said. ‘Swordfish is beautiful. Oysters. You eat oysters?’

I ate oysters, though I had never prepared them at home. I ordered them unshucked as quality restaurants promoted their oysters as being freshly shucked.

I arrived home with a selection of food not associated with any particular recipe. The oysters proved challenging. I could not get a knife in to open them without risking injury to my hand through slippage. I could have looked up the technique on the internet, but it would have taken time. This was why I had a schedule based around familiar items. I could remove the meat from a lobster with my eyes closed while my brain worked on a genetics problem. What was wrong with standardisation? Another oyster failed to provide an opening for my knife. I was getting annoyed and about to throw the full dozen in the bin when I had an idea.

I put one in the microwave and heated it for a few seconds. It opened easily. It was warm but delicious. I tried a second, this time adding a squeeze of lemon juice and a grind of pepper. Sensational! I could feel a whole world opening up to me. I hoped the oysters were sustainable, because I wanted to share my new skills with Rosie.





31


My focus on self-improvement meant that I had little time to consider and respond to the Dean’s threat of dismissal. I had decided not to take up Gene’s offer to construct an alibi; now that the breach of rules was in my conscious mind, it would be a violation of my personal integrity to compound the error.

I succeeded in suppressing thoughts of my professional future, but could not stop the Dean’s parting comment about Kevin Yu and my plagiarism complaint from intruding into my conscious mind. After much thought, I concluded that the Dean was not offering me an unethical deal: ‘Withdraw the complaint and you can keep your job.’ What she said was bothering me because I had myself broken the rules in pursuing the Father Project. Gene had once told me a religious joke when I questioned the morality of his behaviour.

Jesus addresses the angry mob who are stoning a prostitute: ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ A stone flies through the air and hits the woman. Jesus turns around and says, ‘Sometimes you really piss me off, Mother.’

I could no longer be equated with the Virgin Mary. I had been corrupted. I was like everyone else. My stone-casting credibility had been significantly compromised.

I summoned Kevin to a meeting in my office. He was from mainland China, and aged approximately twenty-eight (estimated BMI nineteen). I interpreted his expression and demeanour as ‘nervous’.

I had his essay, partly or entirely written by his tutor, in my hand and showed it to him. I asked the obvious question: Why had he not written it himself?

He averted his gaze – which I interpreted as a cultural signal of respect rather than of shiftiness – but instead of answering my question, he started to explain the consequences of his probable expulsion. He had a wife and child in China, and had not yet told them of the problem. He hoped some day to emigrate, or, if not, at least to work in genetics. His unwise behaviour would mean the end of his dreams and those of his wife, who had managed for almost four years without him. He was crying.

In the past, I would have regarded this as sad but irrelevant. A rule had been broken. But now I was also a rule-breaker. I had not broken the rules deliberately, or at least not with any conscious thought. Perhaps Kevin’s behaviour had been similarly unconsidered.

I asked Kevin, ‘What are the principal arguments advanced against the use of genetically modified crops?’ The essay had been on the ethical and legal issues raised by advances in genetics. Kevin gave a comprehensive summary. I followed with further questions, which Kevin also answered well. He seemed to have a good knowledge of the topic.

‘Why didn’t you write this yourself?’ I asked.

‘I am a scientist. I am not confident writing in English about moral and cultural questions. I wanted to be sure not to fail. I did not think.’

I did not know how to respond to Kevin. Acting without thinking was anathema to me, and I did not want to encourage it in future scientists. Nor did I want my own weakness to affect a correct decision regarding Kevin. I would pay for my own error in this regard, as I deserved to. But losing my job would not have the same consequences for me as expulsion would for Kevin. I doubted he would be offered a potentially lucrative partnership in a cocktail bar as an alternative.

I thought for quite a long time. Kevin just sat. He must have realised that I was considering some form of reprieve. But I was incredibly uncomfortable in this position of judgement as I weighed the impact of various decisions. Was this what the Dean had to do every day? For the first time, I felt some respect for her.

I was not confident I could solve the problem in a short time. But I realised that it would be cruel to leave Kevin wondering if his life had been destroyed.

‘I understand …’ I started, and realised that this was not a phrase I was accustomed to using when talking about people. I stopped the sentence and thought for a while longer. ‘I will create a supplementary task – probably an essay on personal ethics. As an alternative to expulsion.’