The Rosie Project (Don Tillman, #1)

by Graeme Simsion

Gene and Claudia tried for a while to assist me with the Wife Problem. Unfortunately, their approach was based on the traditional dating paradigm, which I had previously abandoned on the basis that the probability of success did not justify the effort and negative experiences.

there is something about me that women find unappealing. I have never found it easy to make friends, and it seems that the deficiencies that caused this problem have also affected my attempts at romantic relationships.

Restaurants are minefields for the socially inept, and I was nervous as always in these situations.

Why do people value others’ time so little? Now we would have the inevitable small talk. I could have spent fifteen minutes at home practicing aikido.

“Emotions can cause major problems.”

Having succeeded in recovering lost time, I was not about to throw my life into chaos again.

Her argument was simple: there’s someone for everyone. Statistically, she was almost certainly correct. Unfortunately, the probability that I would find such a person was vanishingly small. But it created a disturbance in my brain, like a mathematical problem that we know must have a solution.

Supplementary research confirmed that Daphne’s arguments were supported by evidence: married men are happier and live longer.

“What specific topics are you interested in?” “Oh,” she said, “I thought we could just talk generally… get to know each other a bit.” This sounded unfocused. “I need at least a broad indication of the subject domain. What did I say that particularly interested you?” “Oh… I guess the stuff about the computer testers in Denmark.”

A questionnaire! Such an obvious solution. A purpose-built, scientifically valid instrument incorporating current best practice to filter out the time wasters, the disorganized, the ice-cream discriminators, the visual-harassment complainers, the crystal gazers, the horoscope readers, the fashion obsessives, the religious fanatics, the vegans, the sports watchers, the creationists, the smokers, the scientifically illiterate, the homeopaths, leaving, ideally, the perfect partner or, realistically, a manageable short list of candidates.

“Question thirty-five: Do you eat kidneys? Correct answer is (c) occasionally. Testing for food problems. If you ask directly about food preferences, they say, ‘I eat anything,’ and then you discover they’re vegetarian.”

My final non-Internet option was speed dating, an approach I had not previously tried.

“You don’t think you’re setting the bar just a tiny bit high?” I pointed out that I was collecting data to support life’s most critical decision. Compromise would be totally inappropriate. “You always have to compromise,” Gene said. An incredible statement and totally untrue in his case.

“You’re kidding.” It was an odd response. Why would I make a confusing joke with someone I barely knew?

“Our dinner seems to have stopped moving.”

“Where do you hide the corkscrew?” she asked. “Wine is not scheduled for Tuesdays.” “Fuck that,” said Rosie. There was a certain logic underlying Rosie’s response. I would only be eating a single serving of dinner. It was the final step in the abandonment of the evening’s schedule. I announced the change. “Time has been redefined. Previous rules no longer apply. Alcohol is hereby declared mandatory in the Rosie Time Zone.”

“Do we have to eat right away?” asked Rosie, an odd question, since she had claimed that she was starving some hours ago.

I remembered the basic rule of asking a woman to talk about herself.

“Correct. But instincts are incredibly powerful.” “Tell me about it,” said Rosie. I began to explain. “Instinct is an expression of—” “Rhetorical question,” said Rosie. “I’ve lived it. My mother went gene shopping at her medical graduation party.”

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.

Our behavior is strongly affected by instinct.”

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

“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.

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.

“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 behavior 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.

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.

The new machine was located in a small room that had once been a tearoom with sink and refrigerator. For a moment I wished it had been more impressive—an unusual intrusion of ego into my thoughts.

Humans often fail to see what is close to them and obvious to others.

“Do you know how to relax? How to just have fun?” It was too complex a question to answer over the wind noise as we pulled away from the lights. And the pursuit of fun does not lead to overall contentment. Studies have shown this consistently.

Hurtling back to town, in a red Porsche driven by a beautiful woman, with the song playing, I had the sense of standing on the brink of another world. I recognized the feeling, which, if anything, became stronger as the rain started falling and the convertible roof malfunctioned so we were unable to raise it. It was the same feeling that I had experienced looking over the city after the Balcony Meal, and again after Rosie had written down her phone number. Another world, another life, proximate but inaccessible. The elusive… Sat-is-fac-tion.

“You were brilliant,” I said. I had been meaning to convey this for some time. Rosie’s performance as an aspiring medical student had been very impressive.

So, put your prejudices away.” It was a reasonable criticism. I had little contact with people outside academia and had formed my assumptions about the rest of the world primarily from watching films and television as a child.

Why do we focus on certain things at the expense of others? We will risk our lives to save a person from drowning, yet not make a donation that could save dozens of children from starvation.

I consider my own decision making in these areas to be more rational than that of most people, but I also make errors of the same kind. We are genetically programmed to react to stimuli in our immediate vicinity. Responding to complex issues that we cannot perceive directly requires the application of reasoning, which is less powerful than instinct.

It was not the first time that my life had become chaotic, and I had established a protocol for dealing with the problem and the consequent disturbance to rational thinking. I called Claudia.

Research consistently shows that the risks to health outweigh the benefits of drinking alcohol. My argument is that the benefits to my mental health justify the risks. Alcohol seems to both calm me down and elevate my mood, a paradoxical but pleasant combination. And it reduces my discomfort in social situations.

My level of consumption does not of itself qualify me as an alcoholic. However, I suspect that my strong antipathy toward discontinuing it might do so.

“What’s your poison?” said Amghad. “Poison?” “What do you want to drink?” Of course. But why, why, why can’t people just say what they mean?

On a date I’m too focused on not saying odd things myself.”

“The reason I asked the question was that I had a bet with Gene. Gene, who is a sexist pig, bet me that humans were naturally nonmonogamous, and that the evidence was the size of their testicles. He sent me to a genetics expert to settle the bet.”

“Since when do women discuss anything explicitly?” said Gene.

“I think it’s unlikely that any woman would accept me for myself.”

“And what about Rosie?” asked Claudia. “Rosie is totally unsuitable.” “I wasn’t asking that,” said Claudia. “Just whether she accepts you for yourself.” I thought about it for a few moments. It was a difficult question. “I think so. Because she isn’t evaluating me as a partner.” “It’s probably good that you feel like that,” said Claudia.

Feel! Feel, feel, feel! Feelings were disrupting my sense of well-being.

Throughout my life I have been criticized for a perceived lack of emotion, as if this were some absolute fault. Interactions with psychiatrists and psychologists—even including Claudia—start from the premise that I should be more “in touch” with my emotions. What they really mean is that I should give in to them. I am perfectly happy to detect, recognize, and analyze emotions. This is a useful skill and I would like to be better at it. Occasionally an emotion can be enjoyed—the gratitude I felt for my sister, who visited me even during the bad times, the primitive feeling of well-being after a glass of wine—but we need to be vigilant that emotions do not cripple us.

Here, I identified problem number one. My emotions were not aligned with logic. I was reluctant to pursue the opportunity.

Sometimes it is better to be aware of one’s incompetence in these matters, as I am, than to have a false sense of expertise.

“You considered me as a partner?” “Sure,” she said. “Except for the fact that you have no idea of social behavior, your life’s ruled by a whiteboard, and you’re incapable of feeling love—you’re perfect.”

“Don. Nobody is perfect. Eva.”