‘Correct.’

‘Stop, enough,’ said Judy. Four people. Six interactions.

Isaac raised his hand and nodded. Seymour apparently interpreted the combination of signals as approval to continue. All five of us were now involved in a conversation with invisible agendas.

‘You’re happy? Happily married?’ I wasn’t sure what Seymour’s questioning was about, but I concluded that he was a fundamentally nice person who was trying to support me by demonstrating that at least one person liked me enough to live with me.

‘Extremely.’

‘In touch with your family?’

‘Seymour!’ said Judy.

I answered Seymour’s question, which was benign. ‘My mother phones me every Saturday; Sunday, Australian Eastern Standard Time. I don’t have any children of my own.’

‘Gainfully employed?’

‘I’m an associate professor of genetics at Columbia. I consider that my work has social value in addition to providing an adequate income. I also work in a bar.’

‘Mixing comfortably with people in a generally relaxed but sometimes challenging social environment with an eye on the commercial imperatives. Enjoying life?’

‘Yes’ seemed to be the most useful answer.

‘So you’re not autistic. That’s a professional opinion. The diagnostic criteria require dysfunction and you’re enjoying a good life. Go on enjoying it and stay away from people who think you’ve got a problem.’

‘Good,’ said Judy. ‘Can we pull some food now and have a pleasant lunch?’

‘Screw you,’ said Lydia. She was talking to Seymour, not Judy. ‘You need to pull your head out of your diagnostic manual and go into the street. Go visit some real people’s homes and see what your airline pilots do.’

She stood and picked up her bag. ‘Order whatever you want.’ She turned to me. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. You’re not going to undo whatever trauma happened in your childhood. But don’t let some fat little shrink tell you it doesn’t matter. And do me and the world one favour.’

I assumed she was going to mention the bluefin tuna again. I was wrong.

‘Don’t ever have children.’

8

‘Earth to Don. Are you still reading me? I asked how you were feeling about becoming a father.’

I did not need Rosie’s reminder. My reflections on the Bluefin Tuna Incident had been replaced by a struggle to answer her question and I was not making much progress. I suspected that Claudia’s recommended response to difficult personal enquiries—Why are you asking?—would not work here. It was obvious why Rosie was asking. She wanted to ensure that I was psychologically ready for the most challenging and important task of my life. And the truth was that I had already been judged, professionally judged, by a social worker accustomed to dealing with family disasters, as unfit.

In describing the lunch to Rosie seven weeks earlier, I had focused on matters that would be of immediate interest to her: the restaurant, the food and Seymour’s book about guilt. I did not mention Lydia’s assessment of my suitability as a father, since it was only a single—albeit expert—opinion, and of no immediate relevance.

My mother had given me a useful rule when I was young: before sharing interesting information that has not been solicited, think carefully about whether it has the potential to cause distress. She had repeated it on a number of occasions, usually after I had shared some interesting information. I was still thinking carefully when the doorbell rang.

‘Shit. Who’s that?’ said Rosie.

I could predict who it was, with a high degree of certainty, taking into account the scheduled arrival time of the Qantas flight from Melbourne via Los Angeles and travel time from JFK. I released the security lock and Rosie jumped up to open the door. When Gene emerged from the elevator, he was carrying two suitcases and a bunch of flowers, which he immediately gave to Rosie. Even I could see that his arrival had caused a change in the human dynamics. A few moments earlier, I was struggling to find the correct words to say. Now, the problem had been transferred to Rosie.

Fortunately, Gene is an expert in social interaction. He moved towards me as if to hug me, then, detecting my body language or remembering our past protocols, shook my hand instead. After releasing it, he hugged Rosie.

Gene is my best friend, yet I find hugging him uncomfortable. In fact, I only enjoy close contact with people with whom I have sex, a category containing one person only. Rosie dislikes Gene, yet she managed to hug him for approximately four seconds without a break.

‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,’ said Gene. ‘I know you’re not my biggest fan.’ He was speaking to Rosie, of course. I have always liked Gene, although this has required forgiveness for some immoral behaviour.

‘You’ve gained weight,’ I said. ‘We need to schedule some running.’ I estimated Gene’s BMI as twenty-eight, three points higher than when I had last seen him ten months earlier.

‘How long are you staying?’ said Rosie. ‘Has Don told you I’m pregnant?’

‘He has not,’ said Gene. ‘That’s wonderful news. Congratulations.’ He used the wonderful news as an excuse to repeat the hug and avoid answering the question about the duration of his visit.

Gene looked around. ‘I really do appreciate this. What a great place. Columbia must pay better than I thought. But I’m interrupting dinner.’