第 4 页

There were also two men seated at the table. We shook hands. It struck me that this was equivalent to bowing prior to a martial-arts bout.

I assessed my competition. The man who had introduced himself as Craig was about my own age, but overweight, in a white business shirt that was too tight for him. He had a moustache, and his teeth were poorly maintained. The second, Danny, was probably a few years younger than me, and appeared to be in good health. He wore a white t-shirt. He had tattoos on his arms and his black hair contained some form of cosmetic additive.

The on-time woman’s name was Olivia, and she initially (and logically) divided her attention among the three men. She told us she was an anthropologist. Danny confused it with an archaeologist and then Craig made a racist joke about pygmies. It was obvious, even to me, that Olivia was unimpressed by these responses, and I enjoyed a rare moment of not feeling like the least socially competent person in the room. Olivia turned to me, and I had just responded to her question about my job when we were interrupted by the arrival of the fourth man, who introduced himself as Gerry, a lawyer, and two women, Sharon and Maria, who were, respectively, an accountant and a nurse. It was a hot night, and Maria had chosen a dress with the twin advantages of coolness and overt sexual display. Sharon was wearing the conventional corporate uniform of trousers and jacket. I guessed that they were both about my age.

Olivia resumed talking to me while the others engaged in small talk – an extraordinary waste of time when a major life decision was at stake. On Claudia’s advice, I had memorised the questionnaire. She thought that asking questions directly from the forms could create the wrong ‘dynamic’ and that I should attempt to incorporate them subtly into conversation. Subtlety, I had reminded her, is not my strength. She suggested that I not ask about sexually transmitted diseases and that I make my own estimates of weight, height and body mass index. I estimated Olivia’s BMI at nineteen: slim, but no signs of anorexia. I estimated Sharon the Accountant’s at twenty-three, and Maria the Nurse’s at twenty-eight. The recommended healthy maximum is twenty-five.

Rather than ask about IQ, I decided to make an estimate based on Olivia’s responses to questions about the historical impact of variations in susceptibility to syphilis across native South American populations. We had a fascinating conversation, and I felt that the topic might even allow me to slip in the sexually-transmitted-diseases question. Her IQ was definitely above the required minimum. Gerry the Lawyer offered a few comments that I think were meant to be jokes, but eventually left us to continue uninterrupted.

At this point, the missing woman arrived, twenty-eight minutes late. While Olivia was distracted, I took the opportunity to record the data I had acquired so far on three of the four questionnaires in my lap. I did not waste paper on the most recent arrival, as she announced that she was ‘always late’. This did not seem to concern Gerry the Lawyer, who presumably billed by the six-minute interval, and should consequently have considered time to be of great value. He obviously valued sex more highly as his conversation began to resemble that of Gene.

With the arrival of Late Woman, the waiter appeared with menus. Olivia scanned hers then asked, ‘The pumpkin soup, is it made with vegetable stock?’

I did not hear the answer. The question provided the critical information. Vegetarian.

She may have noted my expression of disappointment. ‘I’m Hindu.’

I had previously deduced that Olivia was probably Indian from her sari and physical attributes. I was not sure whether the term ‘Hindu’ was being used as a genuine statement of religious belief or as an indicator of cultural heritage. I had been reprimanded for failing to make this distinction in the past.

‘Do you eat ice-cream?’ I asked. The question seemed appropriate after the vegetarian statement. Very neat.

‘Oh yes, I am not vegan. As long as it is not made with eggs.’

This was not getting any better.

‘Do you have a favourite flavour?’

‘Pistachio. Very definitely pistachio.’ She smiled.

Maria and Danny had stepped outside for a cigarette. With three women eliminated, including Late Woman, my task was almost complete.

My lambs’ brains arrived, and I cut one in half, exposing the internal structure. I tapped Sharon, who was engaged in conversation with Craig the Racist, and pointed it out to her. ‘Do you like brains?’

Four down, job complete. I continued my conversation with Olivia, who was excellent company, and even ordered an additional drink after the others had departed in the pairs that they had formed. We stayed, talking, until we were the last people in the restaurant. As I put the questionnaires in my backpack, Olivia gave me her contact information, which I wrote down in order not to be rude. Then we went our separate ways.

Cycling home, I reflected on the dinner. It had been a grossly inefficient method of selection, but the questionnaire had been of significant value. Without the questions it prompted, I would undoubtedly have attempted a second date with Olivia, who was an interesting and nice person. Perhaps we would have gone on a third and fourth and fifth date, then one day, when all of the desserts at the restaurant contained egg, we would have crossed the road to the ice-cream parlour, and discovered they had no egg-free pistachio. It was better to find out before we made an investment in the relationship.

5

I stood inside the entrance of a suburban house that reminded me of my parents’ brick veneer residence in Shepparton. I had resolved never to attend another singles party, but the questionnaire allowed me to avoid the agony of unstructured social interaction with strangers.

As the female guests arrived, I gave each a questionnaire to complete at their convenience and return to me either at the party or by mail. The host, a woman, initially invited me to join the crowd in the living room, but I explained my strategy and she left me alone. After two hours, a woman of about thirty-five, estimated BMI twenty-one, returned from the living room, holding two glasses of sparkling wine. In her other hand was a questionnaire.

She passed me a glass. ‘I thought you might be thirsty,’ she said in an attractive French accent.

I was not thirsty, but I was pleased to be offered alcohol. I had decided that I would not give up drinking unless I found a non-drinking partner. And, after some self-analysis, I had concluded that (c) moderately was an acceptable answer to the drinking question and made a note to update the questionnaire.

‘Thank you.’ I hoped she would give me the questionnaire and that it might, improbably, signal the end of my quest. She was extremely attractive, and her gesture with the wine indicated a high level of consideration not exhibited by any of the other guests or the host.

‘You are a researcher, am I right?’ She tapped the questionnaire.

‘Correct.’

‘Me, also,’ she said. ‘There are not many academics here tonight.’ Although it is dangerous to draw conclusions based on manner and conversation topics, my assessment of the guests was consistent with this observation.

‘I’m Fabienne,’ she said, and extended her free hand, which I shook, careful to apply the recommended level of firmness. ‘This is terrible wine, no?’

I agreed. It was a carbonated sweet wine, acceptable only because of its alcohol content.

‘You think we should go to a wine bar and get something better?’ she asked.

I shook my head. The poor wine quality was annoying but not critical.

Fabienne took a deep breath. ‘Listen. I have drunk two glasses of wine, I have not had sex for six weeks, and I would rather wait six more than try anyone else here. Now, can I buy you a drink?’

It was a very kind offer. But it was still early in the evening. I said, ‘More guests are expected. You may find someone suitable if you wait.’

Fabienne gave me her questionnaire and said, ‘I presume you will be notifying the winners in due course.’ I told her that I would. When she had gone, I quickly checked her questionnaire. Predictably, she failed in a number of dimensions. It was disappointing.

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

The venue was a function room in a hotel. At my insistence, the convenor disclosed the actual start time, and I waited in the bar to avoid aimless interaction until then. When I returned, I took the last remaining seat at a long table, opposite a person labelled Frances, aged approximately fifty, BMI approximately twenty-eight, not conventionally attractive.

The convenor rang a bell and my three minutes with Frances commenced.

I pulled out my questionnaire and scribbled her name on it – there was no time for subtlety under these circumstances.

‘I’ve sequenced the questions for maximum speed of elimination,’ I explained. ‘I believe I can eliminate most women in less than forty seconds. Then you can choose the topic of discussion for the remaining time.’

‘But then it won’t matter,’ said Frances. ‘I’ll have been eliminated.’

‘Only as a potential partner. We may still be able to have an interesting discussion.’

‘But I’ll have been eliminated.’

I nodded. ‘Do you smoke?’

‘Occasionally,’ she said.

I put the questionnaire away.

‘Excellent.’ I was pleased that my question sequencing was working so well. We could have wasted time talking about ice-cream flavours and make-up only to find that she smoked. Needless to say, smoking was not negotiable. ‘No more questions. What would you like to discuss?’

Disappointingly, Frances was not interested in further conversation after I had determined that we were not compatible. This turned out to be the pattern for the remainder of the event.

These personal interactions were, of course, secondary. I was relying on the internet, and completed questionnaires began to flow in shortly after my initial postings. I scheduled a review meeting in my office with Gene.

‘How many responses?’ he asked.

‘Two hundred and seventy-nine.’

He was clearly impressed. I did not tell him that the quality of responses varied widely, with many questionnaires only partially completed.

‘No photos?’

Many women had included photos, but I had suppressed them in the database display to allow space for more important data.

‘Let’s see the photos,’ Gene said.

I modified the settings to show photos, and Gene scanned a few before double-clicking on one. The resolution was impressive. It seemed that he approved, but a quick check of the data showed that the candidate was totally unsuitable. I took the mouse back and deleted her. Gene protested.

‘Wha wha wha? What’re you doing?’

‘She believes in astrology and homeopathy. And she calculated her BMI incorrectly.’

‘What was it?’

‘Twenty-three point five.’

‘Nice. Can you undelete her?’

‘She’s totally unsuitable.’

‘How many are suitable?’ asked Gene, finally getting to the point.

‘So far, zero. The questionnaire is an excellent filter.’

‘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 found the perfect wife. Highly intelligent, extremely beautiful and she lets you have sex with other women.’

Gene suggested that I not congratulate Claudia in person for her tolerance, and asked me to repeat the number of questionnaires that had been completed. The actual total was greater than the number I had told him, as I had not included the paper questionnaires. Three hundred and four.

‘Give me your list,’ said Gene. ‘I’ll pick out a few out for you.’

‘None of them meet the criteria. They all have some fault.’

‘Treat it as practice.’

He did have a point. I had thought a few times about Olivia the Indian Anthropologist, and considered the implications of living with a Hindu vegetarian with a strong ice-cream preference. Only reminding myself that I should wait until an exact match turned up had stopped me from contacting her. I had even rechecked the questionnaire from Fabienne the Sex-Deprived Researcher.

I emailed the spreadsheet to Gene.

‘No smokers.’

‘Okay,’ said Gene, ‘but you have to ask them out. To dinner. At a proper restaurant.’

Gene could probably tell that I was not excited by the prospect. He cleverly addressed the problem by proposing an even less acceptable alternative.

‘There’s always the faculty ball.’

‘Restaurant.’

Gene smiled as if to compensate for my lack of enthusiasm. ‘It’s easy. “How about we do dinner tonight?” Say it after me.’

‘How about we do dinner tonight?’ I repeated.

‘See, that wasn’t so hard. Make only positive comments about their appearance. Pay for the meal. Do not mention sex.’ Gene walked to the door, then turned back. ‘What about the paper ones?’

I gave him my questionnaires from Table for Eight, the singles party and, at his insistence, even the partially completed ones from the speed dating. Now it was out of my hands.

6

Approximately two hours after Gene left my office with the completed Wife Project questionnaires, there was a knock on the door. I was weighing student essays, an activity that is not forbidden, but I suspect only because nobody is aware that I am doing it. It was part of a project to reduce the effort of assessment, by looking for easily measured parameters such as the inclusion of a table of contents, or a typed versus handwritten cover sheet, factors which might provide as good an indication of quality as the tedious process of reading the entire assignment.

I slipped the scales under my desk as the door opened and looked up to see a woman I did not recognise standing in the doorway. I estimated her age as thirty and her body mass index at twenty.

‘Professor Tillman?’

As my name is on the door, this was not a particularly astute question.

‘Correct.’

‘Professor Barrow suggested I see you.’

I was amazed at Gene’s efficiency, and looked at the woman more carefully as she approached my desk. There were no obvious signs of unsuitability. I did not detect any make-up. Her body shape and skin tone were consistent with health and fitness. She wore glasses with heavy frames that revived bad memories of Apricot Ice-cream Woman, a long black t-shirt that was torn in several places, and a black belt with metal chains. It was lucky that the jewellery question had been deleted because she was wearing big metal earrings and an interesting pendant round her neck.

Although I am usually oblivious to dress, hers seemed incompatible with my expectation of a highly qualified academic or professional and with the summer weather. I could only guess that she was self-employed or on holiday and, freed from workplace rules, had chosen her clothes randomly. I could relate to this.