第 17 页

‘Simon Lefebvre,’ he said. ‘So, what are you really after?’

This was totally unexpected. Why should he question my motives?

‘Your DNA,’ I said. ‘And the questionnaire. For a major research study. Critical.’ I was feeling stressed and my voice doubtless reflected it.

‘I’m sure it is.’ Simon laughed. ‘And you randomly select the head of medical research as a subject?’

‘We were looking for high achievers.’

‘What’s Charlie after this time?’

‘Charlie?’ I didn’t know anyone called Charlie.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Dumb question. How much do you want me to put in?’

‘No putting in is required. There is no Charlie involved. I just require the DNA … and the questionnaire.’

Simon laughed, again. ‘You’ve got my attention. You can tell Charlie that. Shoot me through the project description. And the ethics approval. The whole catastrophe.’

‘Then I can have my sample?’ I said. ‘A high response rate is critical for the statistical analysis.’

‘Just send me the paperwork.’

Simon Lefebvre’s request was entirely reasonable. Unfortunately I did not have the required paperwork, because the project was fictitious. To develop a plausible project proposal would potentially require hundreds of hours of work.

I attempted an estimate of the probability that Simon Lefebvre was Rosie’s father. There were now four untested candidates: Lefebvre, Geoffrey Case (dead), and the two New Yorkers, Isaac Esler and Solomon Freyberg. On the basis of Rosie’s information, any one of them had a twenty-five per cent probability of being her father. But having proceeded so far without a positive result, I had to consider other possibilities. Two of our results relied on relatives rather than direct testing. It was possible that one or both of these daughters were, like Rosie, the result of extra-relationship sex, which, as Gene points out, is a more common phenomenon than popularly believed. And there was the possibility that one or more of my respondents to the fictitious research project might have deliberately sent a false sample.

I also had to consider that Rosie’s mother might not have told the truth. It took me a long time to think of this, as my default assumption is that people will be honest. But perhaps Rosie’s mother wanted Rosie to believe that her father was a doctor, as she was, rather than a less prestigious person. On balance, I estimated the chance that Simon Lefebvre was Rosie’s father was sixteen per cent. In developing documentation for the Asperger’s research project I would be doing an enormous amount of work with a low probability that it would provide the answer.

I chose to proceed. The decision was barely rational.

In the midst of this work, I received a phone call from a solicitor to advise me that Daphne had died. Despite the fact that she had been effectively dead for some time, I detected in myself an unexpected feeling of loneliness. Our friendship had been simple. Everything was so much more complicated now.

The reason for the call was that Daphne had left me what the solicitor referred to as a ‘small sum’ in her will. Ten thousand dollars. And she had also left a letter, written before she had gone to live in the nursing home. It was handwritten on decorative paper.

Dear Don,

Thank you for making the final years of my life so stimulating. After Edward was admitted to the nursing home, I did not believe that there was much left for me. I’m sure you know how much you have taught me, and how interesting our conversations have been, but you may not realise what a wonderful companion and support you have been to me.

I once told you that you would make someone a wonderful husband, and, in case you have forgotten, I am telling you again. I’m sure if you look hard enough, you will find the right person. Do not give up, Don.

I know you don’t need my money, and my children do, but I have left you a small sum. I would be pleased if you would use it for something irrational.

Much love,

Your friend,

Daphne Speldewind

It took me less than ten seconds to think of an irrational purchase: in fact I allowed myself only that amount of time to ensure that the decision was not affected by any logical thought process.

The Asperger’s research project was fascinating but very time-consuming. The final proposal was impressive and I was confident it would have passed the peer-review process if it had been submitted to a funding organisation. I was implying it had been, though I stopped short of forging an approval letter. I called Lefebvre’s personal assistant and explained that I had forgotten to send him the documents, but would now bring them personally. I was becoming more competent at deception.

I arrived at reception, and the process of summoning Lefebvre was repeated. This time he was not holding an envelope. I tried to give him the documents and he tried to shake my hand, and we had a repeat of the confusion that had occurred the previous time. Lefebvre seemed to find this funny. I was conscious of being tense. After all this work, I wanted the DNA.

‘Greetings,’ I said. ‘Documentation as requested. All requirements have been fulfilled. I now need the DNA sample and questionnaire.’

Lefebvre laughed again, and looked me up and down. Was there something odd about my appearance? My t-shirt was the one I wear on alternate days, featuring the periodic table, a birthday gift from the year after my graduation, and my trousers were the serviceable pair that are equally suitable for walking, lecturing, research and physical tasks. Plus high-quality running shoes. The only error was that my socks, which would have been visible below my trousers, were of slightly different colours, a common error when dressing in poor light. But Simon Lefebvre seemed to find everything amusing.

‘Beautiful,’ he said. Then he repeated my words in what seemed to be an attempt to imitate my intonation: ‘All requirements have been fulfilled.’ He added, in his normal voice, ‘Tell Charlie I promise I’ll read the proposal.’

Charlie again! This was ridiculous.

‘The DNA,’ I said, forcefully. ‘I need the sample.’

Lefebvre laughed as though I had made the biggest joke of all time. There were tears running down his face. Actual tears.

‘You’ve made my day.’

He grabbed a tissue from a box on the reception desk, wiped his face, blew his nose and tossed the used tissue in the bin as he left with my proposal.

I walked to the bin and retrieved the tissue.

20

I sat with a newspaper in the University Club reading room for the third day in succession. I wanted this to look accidental. From my position, I could observe the queue at the counter where Rosie sometimes purchased her lunch, even though she was not qualified to be a member. Gene had given me this information, reluctantly.

‘Don, I think it’s time to leave this one alone. You’re going to get hurt.’

I disagreed. I am very good at dealing with emotions. I was prepared for rejection.

Rosie walked in and joined the queue. I got up and slipped in behind her.

‘Don,’ she said. ‘What a coincidence.’

‘I have news on the project.’

‘There’s no project. I’m sorry about … last time you saw me. Shit! You embarrass me and I say sorry.’

‘Apology accepted,’ I said. ‘I need you to come to New York with me.’

‘What? No. No, Don. Absolutely not.’

We had reached the cash register and failed to select any food and had to return to the tail of the queue. By the time we sat down, I had explained the Asperger’s research project. ‘I had to invent an entire proposal – three hundred and seventy-one pages – for this one professor. I’m now an expert on the Savant phenomenon.’

It was difficult to decode Rosie’s reaction but she appeared to be more amazed than impressed.

‘An unemployed expert if you get caught,’ she said. ‘I gather he’s not my father.’

‘Correct.’ I had been relieved when Lefebvre’s sample had tested negative, even after the considerable effort that had been required to obtain it. I had already made plans, and a positive test would have disrupted them.

‘There are now only three possibilities left. Two are in New York, and both refused to participate in the study. Hence, I have categorised them as difficult, and hence I need you to come to New York with me.’

‘New York! Don, no. No, no, no, no. You’re not going to New York and neither am I.’

I had considered the possibility that Rosie would refuse. But Daphne’s legacy had been sufficient to purchase two tickets.

‘If necessary I will go alone. But I’m not confident I can handle the social aspects of the collection.’

Rosie shook her head. ‘This is seriously crazy.’

‘You don’t want to know who they are?’ I said. ‘Two of the three men who may be your father?’

‘Go on.’

‘Isaac Esler. Psychiatrist.’

I could see Rosie digging deep into her memory.

‘Maybe. Isaac. I think so. Maybe a friend of someone. Shit, it’s so long ago.’ She paused. ‘And?’

‘Solomon Freyberg. Surgeon.’

‘No relation to Max Freyberg?’

‘Maxwell is his middle name.’

‘Shit. Max Freyberg. He’s gone to New York now? No way. You’re saying I’ve got one chance in three of being his daughter. And two chances in three of being Jewish.’

‘Assuming your mother told the truth.’

‘My mother wouldn’t have lied.’

‘How old were you when she died?’

‘Ten. I know what you’re thinking. But I know I’m right.’

It was obviously not possible to discuss this issue rationally. I moved to her other statement.

‘Is there a problem with being Jewish?’

‘Jewish is fine. Freyberg is not fine. But if it’s Freyberg it would explain why my mother kept mum. No pun intended. You’ve never heard of him?’

‘Only as a result of this project.’

‘If you followed football you would have.’

‘He was a footballer?’

‘A club president. And well-known jerk. What about the third person?’

‘Geoffrey Case.’

‘Oh my God.’ Rosie went white. ‘He died.’

‘Correct.’

‘Mum talked about him a lot. He had an accident. Or some illness – maybe cancer. Something bad, obviously. But I didn’t think he was in her year.’

It struck me now that we had been extremely careless in the way we had addressed the project, primarily because of the misunderstandings that had led to temporary abandonments followed by restarts. If we had worked through the names at the outset, such obvious possibilities would not have been overlooked.

‘Do you know any more about him?’

‘No. Mum was really sad about what happened to him. Shit. It makes total sense, doesn’t it? Why she wouldn’t tell me.’

It made no sense to me.

‘He was from the country,’ Rosie said. ‘I think his father had a practice out in the sticks.’

The website had provided the information that Geoffrey Case was from Moree in northern New South Wales, but this hardly explained why Rosie’s mother would have hidden his identity if he was the father. His only other distinguishing feature was that he was dead, so perhaps it was this to which Rosie was referring – her mother not wanting to tell her that her father had died. But surely Phil could have been given this information to pass on when Rosie was old enough to deal with it.

While we were talking, Gene entered. With Bianca! They waved to us then went upstairs to the private dining section. Incredible.

‘Gross,’ said Rosie.

‘He’s researching attraction to different nationalities.’

‘Right. I just pity his wife.’

I told Rosie that Gene and Claudia had an open marriage.

‘Lucky her,’ said Rosie. ‘Are you planning to offer the same deal to the winner of the Wife Project?’

‘Of course,’ I said.

‘Of course,’ said Rosie.

‘If that was what she wanted,’ I added in case Rosie had misinterpreted.

‘You think that’s likely?’

‘If I find a partner, which seems increasingly unlikely, I wouldn’t want a sexual relationship with anyone else. But I’m not good at understanding what other people want.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ said Rosie for no obvious reason.

I quickly searched my mind for an interesting fact. ‘Ahhh … The testicles of drone bees and wasp spiders explode during sex.’

It was annoying that the first thing that occurred to me was related to sex. As a psychology graduate, Rosie may have made some sort of Freudian interpretation. But she looked at me and shook her head. Then she laughed. ‘I can’t afford to go to New York. But you’re not safe by yourself.’

There was a phone number listed for an M. Case in Moree. The woman who answered told me that Dr Case, Sr, whose name was confusingly also Geoffrey, had passed away some years ago and that his widow Margaret had been in the local nursing home with Alzheimer’s disease for the past two years. This was good news. Better that the mother was alive than the father – there is seldom any doubt about the identity of the biological mother.

I could have asked Rosie to come with me, but she had already agreed to the New York visit and I did not want to create an opportunity for a social error that might jeopardise the trip. I knew from my experience with Daphne that it would be easy to collect a DNA sample from a person with Alzheimer’s disease. I hired a car and packed swabs, cheek-scraper, zip-lock bags and tweezers. I also took a university business card from before I was promoted to associate professor. Doctor Don Tillman receives superior service in medical facilities.

Moree is one thousand two hundred and thirty kilometres from Melbourne. I collected the hire car at 3.43 p.m. after my last lecture on the Friday. The internet route-planner estimated fourteen hours and thirty-four minutes of driving each way.

When I was a university student, I had regularly driven to and from my parents’ home in Shepparton, and found that the long journeys had a similar effect to my market jogs. Research has shown that creativity is enhanced when performing straightforward mechanical tasks such as jogging, cooking and driving. Unobstructed thinking time is always useful.

I took the Hume Highway north, and used the precise speed indication on the GPS to set the cruise control to the exact speed limit, rather than relying on the artificially inflated figure provided by the speedometer. This would save me some minutes without the risk of law-breaking. Alone in the car, I had the feeling that my whole life had been transformed into an adventure, which would culminate in the trip to New York.

I had decided not to play podcasts on the journey in order to reduce cognitive load and encourage my subconscious to process its recent inputs. But after three hours I found myself becoming bored. I take little notice of my surroundings beyond the need to avoid accidents, and in any case the freeway was largely devoid of interest. The radio would be as distracting as podcasts, so I decided to purchase my first CD since the Bach experiment. The service station just short of the New South Wales border had a limited selection but I recognised a few albums from my father’s collection. I settled on Jackson Browne’s Running on Empty. With the repeat button on, it became the soundtrack to my driving and reflections over three days. Unlike many people, I am very comfortable with repetition. It was probably fortunate that I was driving alone.