Chapter 19

For a week, I did my best to return to my regular schedule,using the time freed up by Eva’s cleaning and the cancellationof the Father Project to catch up on the karate and aikidotraining that I had been missing.
Sensei, fifth dan, a man who says very little, especially to theblack belts, pulled me aside as I was working the punching bagin the dojo.
‘Something has made you very angry,’ he said. That was all.
He knew me well enough to know that once an emotion wasidentified I would not let it defeat me. But he was right tospeak to me, because I had not realised that I was angry.
I was briefly angry with Rosie because she unexpectedlyrefused me something I wanted. But then I became angry withmyself over the social incompetence that had doubtless causedRosie embarrassment.
I made several attempts to contact Rosie and got heranswering service. Finally I left a message: ‘What if you getleukaemia and don’t know where to source a bone-marrowtransplant? Your biological father would be an excellentcandidate with a strong motivation to assist.
159/290Failure to complete the project could result in death. There areonly eleven candidates remaining.’
She did not return my call.
‘These things happen,’ said Claudia over the third coffeemeeting in four weeks. ‘You get involved with a woman, itdoesn’t work out …’
So that was it. I had, in my own way, become ‘involved’ withRosie.
‘What should I do?’
‘It’s not easy,’ said Claudia, ‘but anyone will give you the sameadvice. Move on. Something else will turn up.’
Claudia’s logic, built on sound theoretical foundations anddrawing on substantial professional experience, was obviouslysuperior to my own irrational feelings. But as I reflected on it,I realised that her advice, and indeed the discipline ofpsychology itself, embodied the results of research on normalhumans. I am well aware that I have some unusualcharacteristics. Was it possible that Claudia’s advice was notappropriate for me?
I decided on a compromise course of action. I would continuethe Wife Project. If (and only if) there was further timeavailable, I would use it for the Father Project, proceedingalone. If I could present Rosie with the solution, perhaps wecould become friends again.
Based on the Bianca Disaster I revised the questionnaire,adding more stringent criteria. I included questions on dancing,racquet sports and bridge to eliminate candidates who wouldrequire me to gain competence in useless activities, andincreased the difficulty of the mathematics, physics and geneticsproblems. Option (c) moderately would be the only acceptableanswer to the alcohol question. I organised for the responses togo directly to Gene, who was obviously engaging in thewell-established research practice of making secondary use ofthe data. He could advise me if anyone met my criteria.
Exactly.
160/290In the absence of Wife Project candidates, I thought hardabout the best way to get DNA samples for the Father Project.
The answer came to me as I was boning a quail. Thecandidates were doctors who would presumably be willing tocontribute to genetics research. I just needed a plausible excuseto ask for their DNA. Thanks to the preparation I had donefor the Asperger’s lecture, I had one.
I pulled out my list of eleven names. Two were confirmeddead, leaving nine, seven of whom were living overseas, whichexplained their absence at the reunion. But two had localphone numbers. One was the head of the Medical ResearchInstitute at my own university. I rang it first.
‘Professor Lefebvre’s office,’ said a woman’s voice.
‘It’s Professor Tillman from the Department of Genetics. I’d liketo invite Professor Lefebvre to participate in a research project.’
‘Professor Lefebvre is on sabbatical in the US. He’ll be back intwo weeks.’
‘Excellent. The project is Presence of Genetic Markers forAutism in High-Achieving Individuals. I require him tocomplete a questionnaire and provide a DNA sample.’
Two days later, I had succeeded in locating all nine livingcandidates and posted them questionnaires, created from theAsperger’s research papers, and cheek scrapers. Thequestionnaires were irrelevant, but were needed to make theresearch appear legitimate. My covering letter made clear mycredentials as a professor of genetics at a prestigious university.
In the meantime, I needed to find relatives of the two deaddoctors.
I found an obituary for Dr Gerhard von Deyn, a victim of aheart attack, on the internet. It mentioned his daughter, amedical student at the time of his death. I had no troubletracking down Dr Brigitte von Deyn and she was happy toparticipate in the survey. Simple.
161/290Geoffrey Case was a much more difficult challenge. He haddied a year after graduating. I had long ago noted his basicdetails from the reunion website. He had not married and hadno (known) children.
Meanwhile the DNA samples trickled back. Two doctors, bothin New York, declined to participate. Why would medicalpractitioners not participate in an important study? Did theyhave something to hide? Such as an illegitimate daughter in thesame city that the request came from? It occurred to me that,if they suspected my motives, they could send a friend’s DNA.
At least refusal was better than cheating.
Seven candidates, including Dr von Deyn, Jr, returned samples.
None of them was Rosie’s father or half-sister. Professor SimonLefebvre returned from his sabbatical and wanted to meet mein person.
‘I’m here to collect a package from Professor Lefebvre,’ I saidto the receptionist at the city hospital where he was based,hoping to avoid an actual meeting and interrogation. I wasunsuccessful. She buzzed the phone, announced my name, andProfessor Lefebvre appeared. He was, I assumed, approximatelyfifty-four years old. I had met many fifty-four-year-olds in thepast thirteen weeks. He was carrying a large envelope,presumably containing the questionnaire, which was destined forthe recycling bin, and his DNA.
As he reached me, I tried to take the envelope, but heextended his other hand to shake mine. It was awkward, butthe net result was that we shook hands and he retained theenvelope.
‘Simon Lefebvre,’ he said. ‘So, what are you really after?’
This was totally unexpected. Why should he question mymotives?
‘Your DNA,’ I said. ‘And the questionnaire. For a majorresearch study. Critical.’ I was feeling stressed and my voicedoubtless reflected it.
‘I’m sure it is.’ Simon laughed. ‘And you randomly select thehead of medical research as a subject?’
‘We were looking for high achievers.’
162/290‘What’s Charlie after this time?’
‘Charlie?’ I didn’t know anyone called Charlie.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Dumb question. How much do you wantme to put in?’
‘No putting in is required. There is no Charlie involved. I justrequire the DNA … and the questionnaire.’
Simon laughed, again. ‘You’ve got my attention. You can tellCharlie that. Shoot me through the project description. And theethics approval. The whole catastrophe.’
‘Then I can have my sample?’ I said. ‘A high response rate iscritical for the statistical analysis.’
‘Just send me the paperwork.’
Simon Lefebvre’s request was entirely reasonable. UnfortunatelyI did not have the required paperwork, because the projectwas fictitious. To develop a plausible project proposal wouldpotentially require hundreds of hours of work.
I attempted an estimate of the probability that Simon Lefebvrewas 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’sinformation, any one of them had a twenty-five per centprobability of being her father. But having proceeded so farwithout 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, likeRosie, the result of extra-relationship sex, which, as Gene pointsout, is a more common phenomenon than popularly believed.
And there was the possibility that one or more of myrespondents to the fictitious research project might havedeliberately sent a false sample.
I also had to consider that Rosie’s mother might not have toldthe truth. It took me a long time to think of this, as mydefault assumption is that people will be honest. But perhapsRosie’s mother wanted Rosie163/290to believe that her father was a doctor, as she was, ratherthan a less prestigious person. On balance, I estimated thechance that Simon Lefebvre was Rosie’s father was sixteen percent. In developing documentation for the Asperger’s researchproject I would be doing an enormous amount of work with alow 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 asolicitor to advise me that Daphne had died. Despite the factthat she had been effectively dead for some time, I detected inmyself an unexpected feeling of loneliness. Our friendship hadbeen simple. Everything was so much more complicated now.
The reason for the call was that Daphne had left me what thesolicitor referred to as a ‘small sum’ in her will. Ten thousanddollars. And she had also left a letter, written before she hadgone to live in the nursing home. It was handwritten ondecorative paper.
Dear Don,Thank you for making the final years of my life sostimulating. After Edward was admitted to the nursinghome, I did not believe that there was much left for me.
I’m sure you know how much you have taught me, andhow interesting our conversations have been, but you maynot realise what a wonderful companion and support youhave been to me.
I once told you that you would make someone a wonderfulhusband, and, in case you have forgotten, I am telling youagain. I’m sure if you look hard enough, you will find theright person. Do not give up, Don.
I know you don’t need my money, and my children do, butI have left you a small sum. I would be pleased if youwould use it for something irrational.
Much love,Your friend,Daphne Speldewind164/290It took me less than ten seconds to think of an irrationalpurchase: in fact I allowed myself only that amount of time toensure that the decision was not affected by any logical thoughtprocess.
The Asperger’s research project was fascinating but verytime-consuming. The final proposal was impressive and I wasconfident it would have passed the peer-review process if it hadbeen submitted to a funding organisation. I was implying it hadbeen, though I stopped short of forging an approval letter. Icalled Lefebvre’s personal assistant and explained that I hadforgotten to send him the documents, but would now bringthem personally. I was becoming more competent at deception.
I arrived at reception, and the process of summoning Lefebvrewas repeated. This time he was not holding an envelope. Itried to give him the documents and he tried to shake myhand, and we had a repeat of the confusion that had occurredthe previous time. Lefebvre seemed to find this funny. I wasconscious of being tense. After all this work, I wanted theDNA.
‘Greetings,’ I said. ‘Documentation as requested. All requirementshave been fulfilled. I now need the DNA sample andquestionnaire.’
Lefebvre laughed again, and looked me up and down. Wasthere something odd about my appearance? My t-shirt was theone I wear on alternate days, featuring the periodic table, abirthday gift from the year after my graduation, and mytrousers were the serviceable pair that are equally suitable forwalking, lecturing, research and physical tasks. Plus high-qualityrunning shoes. The only error was that my socks, which wouldhave been visible below my trousers, were of slightly differentcolours, 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 whatseemed to be an attempt to imitate my intonation: ‘Allrequirements have been165/290fulfilled.’ He added, in his normal voice, ‘Tell Charlie I promiseI’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 alltime.
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, wipedhis face, blew his nose and tossed the used tissue in the binas he left with my proposal.
I walked to the bin and retrieved the tissue.