‘Dave caused this.’ The crying appeared to have stopped. ‘Don, you’ve saved my life.’
‘Incorrect. I—’
‘I know, I know. Don, when you said a therapist told you that you weren’t right for Rosie, I couldn’t ask in front of Dave, but you weren’t talking about Lydia, were you?’
English is annoying in not having unambiguous responses for answering a question framed in the negative. The simple addition of the equivalent of the French word si (‘Yes, I am talking about Lydia’) would solve the problem. Sonia, however, must have read my expression, as no verbal reply was required.
‘Don. Lydia doesn’t even know Rosie. She knows me.’
‘That’s the problem. I was approved for parenthood with you, but not with someone like Rosie. Lydia described Rosie perfectly.’
‘Oh God, Don, you’re making a terrible mistake.’
‘I’m following the best advice available. Objective, research-based, professional advice.’
Sonia would not accept the clear evidence that Rosie did not want me, evidence that was additional to Lydia’s assessment.
‘Do you want this marriage to work or not?’ she said.
‘My spreadsheet identified—’
I interpreted Sonia’s expression as I don’t want to hear about your fucking spreadsheet. Do you, emotionally, as a whole mature person, want to live the rest of your life with Rosie and the Baby Under Development or are you going to let a computer make that decision for you, you pathetic geek?
‘Work. But I don’t think—’
‘You think too much. Take her out to dinner and talk it over.’
31
Gene, Inge and I had a total of seven connections to the Momofuku Ko website: a notebook computer and a mobile phone each, plus the desktop computer in my office at Columbia. I was issuing instructions, calculated to maximise our chances of securing a table when reservations opened.
Gene had supported Sonia’s idea of taking Rosie to dinner. ‘Regardless of whether you can repair this, you’re going to be parents of a child. She doesn’t seem to have many other friends, besides her Jewish mama who’s been around every day.’ I assumed he was referring to Judy Esler.
On our first visit to New York together, a year and eight months earlier, Rosie had organised dinner at Momofuku Ko, and it had been the best meal of my life. Rosie had been similarly impressed.
At exactly 10.00 a.m. we clicked the reservation button. Available slots on the newly opened day popped up and we selected different times as planned.
‘Gone,’ said Gene. Someone had taken his slot already. ‘Trying the second option.’
‘Mine are also gone,’ said Inge.
‘Missed that one too,’ said Gene.
‘Gone,’ said Inge.
My messages came back. We had failed, mere humans attempting a task better handled by software.
I refreshed the screen. It was possible that someone employing a similar strategy had secured multiple bookings and would now release one. I refreshed again. No success.
‘What’s wrong with that one?’ said Inge, who had been looking over my shoulder. She pointed to the screen.
I had been focused on the newly opened bookings ten days ahead and had not observed a single unreserved spot at 8.00 p.m. under today’s date. It had probably been there all the time. I clicked on it, and the booking program responded with a request for credit card details. I had a reservation for two for this evening!
‘Believe me,’ said Gene. ‘She won’t have made plans. I’ll lock her in for dinner with me to make sure, and you can roll up and surprise her.’
‘What happened to your shirt?’ said Sonia.
‘A laundry accident.’
‘It looks like you tie-dyed it. You can’t go out looking like that.’
‘The restaurant is highly unlikely to refuse me entry. If my shirt was unhygienic or I had failed to wash or—’
‘It’s not about the restaurant. It’s about Rosie.’
‘Rosie knows me.’
‘Then it’s about time you were a bit less predictable. In the right direction.’
‘I’ll borrow—’
‘You will not borrow one of Dave’s. Have you looked at Dave lately?’ Dave’s weight reduction project was going as badly as my marriage.
I detoured to Bloomingdale’s on the way to the apartment. There were other menswear shops closer to the route, but it would be inefficient to navigate an unfamiliar layout. Expert salesmanship resulted in a new pair of jeans to accommodate a change in my waist measurement. I estimated my current BMI at twenty-four, an increase of two points. This was totally unexpected. My return to a version of the Standardised Meal System meant my carbohydrate intake was again tightly managed. My exercise effort of running, cycling and martial-arts classes had been stable, and I should have been burning additional kilojoules in the cold weather. A few seconds of reflection sufficed to identify the variable factor: alcohol. I now had another reason to reduce my drinking.
As I walked towards the apartment building, a man of about my own age approached from the opposite direction carrying a coffee in each hand. He smiled and waited for me to enter the security code for the front door. University laboratories and computer rooms are similarly secured, and our compulsory training had covered exactly this scenario.
‘Let me take one of your coffees,’ I said. ‘So you can enter the code and I am not complicit in a security violation.’
‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ he said. ‘Game’s not worth the candle.’ He began to walk away.
It seemed that I had foiled an attempted break-in. Unless I alerted the police, the man would be back to take advantage of a less conscientious tenant. He could be a murderer, rapist or a person who might violate one of the many building bylaws with impunity. And Rosie was in the building!
As I unclipped my phone from my belt to dial 911, another possibility occurred to me. The man’s accent was familiar, as was the metaphor comparing the cost of illumination with the enjoyment of recreation. I called out to him.
‘Are you visiting George?’
He walked back.
‘That was the idea.’
‘You can press the buzzer. He’s on the top floor.’
‘I know. I wanted to knock on his door.’
‘Better to use the buzzer. That way if he doesn’t want to see you he doesn’t have to open the door.’
‘You worked it out.’
I had made the right decision. It was easy to forget that George was a rock star, or at least a former rock star, and therefore likely to be pursued by autograph hunters and other stalkers.
‘Are you a fan of the Dead Kings?’ I said.
‘Not really. I got enough of them growing up. George is my father.’
My facial-recognition ability is poor, and humans tend to over-recognise patterns, due to the greater risk of failing to recognise them. But there was a distinct resemblance in the thin face and the long, curved nose.
‘You’re the drug addict?’
‘I think the term they use here is recovering addict. I’m George.’
‘George too?’ I said.
‘Actually, George Four. Started with my great-grandfather George. So my old man’s George the Third. You’ve met him?’