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  Karin BodewitsYou Must Be Very Intelligent10.1007/978-3-319-59321-0_14

  Chapter 14

  Karin Bodewits1

  (1)Munich, Germany

  Karin Bodewits

  Email: [email protected]

  It is 11:55 a.m. when I open the door with the yellow biohazard sign. For the first time in months I notice a strong E. coli reek filtering into my nose. One of our MSc project students, a blond girl with long curly hair and a pleasing smile, seems to be dancing the day away at a bench. With her headphones on she doesn’t hear me enter so I have time to observe that despite her ample frame, she is a rather groovy mover at least in this unselfconscious state. She started about three months ago, working in our lab just a few hours a week. She confidently ploughs her own furrow, uninterested in the lab’s inmates to an almost rude extent. However, I came to like her somehow, maybe as she conveys the impression that she is one of the most intelligent fishes in the student pool. When she sees me passing the bench on my way to the office she takes one ear-piece out – just one, no need to take too much interest in this loser lab.

  “Finally there is someone!” she says excited, but with a clearly annoyed undertone.

  “Good to see you too Elli, how’re you doing?”

  “Great, I’m stuck with the UV-vis spectrometer. Do you know how to change the wavelength?”

  I walk to the machine and show her how to change the wavelength. “Where is everyone?” she asks while I play around with settings on the software.

  “A few of us are at this global endotoxin conference, in Appleton Tower, downtown. Lucy is in St Andrews. Logan is probably running a practical class for undergrads, and the others doubtless enjoy holiday class II.”

  “Holiday class II?”

  “Yep, that is when Mark is not here.”

  “Whereabouts is he?”

  “At the conference as well.”

  “How is the conference?”

  I shrug, “It’s okay. Much of it isn’t my thing but Mark wants me to sit through it all. I just sneaked out to work on the plasmids that need sending to the US.”

  “You’ve still not finished them?”

  “Nope. It just doesn’t seem to work. This US dude, Prof. Raetz, is at the conference actually.”

  “That is sooo cool! You talked to him?” She talks as if Raetz is a Hollywood celebrity.

  “No. He’s a big shot all right. Mark tried to talk to him, but Raetz is busy with big shot friends… Hanna gave a very good talk.”

  “At the conference?”

  “Yup, she got selected together with two other PhD students to give an oral presentation. It’s a kind of competition.”

  Elli laughs, “Britain’s Got Talent for scientists… Did Hanna win?”

  “We will find out this evening after the conference dinner. It would surprise me if she didn’t win. The other two were bone dry.”

  Hanna had the audience under her dainty thumb the moment she walked on stage this morning, big brown eyes almost crying as she performed her opening. In careful cadences accompanied by eloquent gestures, she expressed her sweet passion, “There are people dying out there… unnecessarily so! And I have it as my target to save them…”

  It was sort of unbeatable; half-parody yet genuinely moving in its own way. Mark, being joyless and bereft of irony, hated it. It seemed he was ashamed of having a PhD student who suffered from emotional incontinence and who did not, like the other speakers, present her work as lists of dry facts “no one apart from myself and maybe my supervisor really understands.”

  “That’s great!”

  “Yeah.”

  “Will you be jealous if she wins?”

  I think about this for a few seconds… about how gutted and disappointed I had felt that I had not been selected after carefully phrasing and re-phrasing my abstract. Hours went into the pointless activity. I feel like being honest with Elli.

  “A bit, I guess.”

  She regards me pitifully as if I just told her that my granny died. Now I think of me pitifully too, so I hastily add: “But she’s two years further into her PhD so it doesn’t hurt too much.”

  I drop my bag under one of the five desks currently shared between seven PhD students, a postdoc and four part-time undergrad students. It is a recent improvement owing to Bubblegum-Bobline and Diet-Coke-Girl being away preparing for their PhD defences. When I return to the lab Elli is really shaking her bootie now in front of the UV-vis spectrometer. I take one of the Styrofoam containers from the sink and walk to the ice machine. I am hanging as far as possible into the tank that would easily fit two human bodies, keeping my centre of gravity just on the right side when the engine spits out a round of ice flakes. I get the full load over me and regret that I didn’t put on my lab coat. I walk back to the lab, where Elli again takes one of the ear-pieces out to enquire how to adjust a setting on the machine.

  “You do realise that Mark doesn’t like people wearing headphones in the lab, don’t you?” I ask while fiddling around with the software.

  “Doesn’t he?” she replies, conveying the impression that this concerns her about as much as the weather in Ulan Bator.

  “No. He told me off the other day.”

  “Oh well,” says she lifting her hands to shoulder height, trying to be conversational but making it clear that hearing about Mark’s stance on headphones for a second time has actually managed to reduce her interest in the subject.

  “I will be out of here after tomorrow anyway.”

  “Oh really? Tomorrow is your last day? Already?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you coming back for your PhD?”

  “No!” She laughs almost hysterically. “Mark did ask me, but I am not crazy.”

  “You don’t want to continue studying?”

  “Oh, I like science as such. BUT… this place is just grim; Mark being unpredictable and stressed all the time about… whatever. Barry dragging himself up the hill to campus, Babette being ready for mental asylum. And you? …and the others? You don’t even have a desk! And the research coming from here isn’t anything fancy… Maybe I will change my mind one day, but I don’t see this as my future…”

  Stop, stop, stop! I want to scream. We all know that we are working for a B-class scientist in a lab that looks more like a storage dump for a local antique museum than a place where people actually work. We know we aren’t doing any great research; not even anything of interest to the fanatical freaks who spend their time jizzing over obscure articles. And, believe me, I know too well that I don’t have a desk! But at least I am still trying to paint this rosy, bright picture for myself to believe that I can make it work. How else do you think we refrain from slitting our wrists in labs like this? Stop it! Stupid Elli.

  I want to change the settings on the UV-vis back to “unworkable” and spit in her face for uttering those heresies, but instead I say, “I understand your decision.”

  I stare at the screen of the UV-vis, feeling Elli’s eyes on my back.

  “What’s your plan for the future then?” I ask with a bright voice.

  “I’m going to Australia!”

  “Backpacking?”

  “No, not really. I got myself a job there.”

  “Wow. What’s the job?”

  “I’m going to shoot kangaroos, initially for a year.”

  “Shoot kangaroos?”

  She nods, places the ear-piece back in and presses a button on the iPod mini clipped onto her short tartan skirt which now sways with her majestic hips. I stare into the ice bucket, lift up the Eppendorf with competent cells, and mumble to myself, “You look ready for a short heat shock, my friends.”

  I place the Eppendorf in one of the slots of a 50 degree block. This is not as dramatic as shooting wild animals in the Australian Outback, but martial enough to kill the day.

  I hurry back to Appleton Tower as soon as I’ve spread my E. coli cells on an agar plate. I hope Mark has been too busy to miss me. Of course he has bet
ter things to do at a conference than look after his temporarily lost PhD students. I quietly sneak in at the back of the lecture theatre without being noticed and no one comments on my temporary absence.

  I headed home just after six, threw a handful of job ads on Daniel’s desk, and now, less than an hour later, I walk from my flat to the conference dinner; north along Gorgie Road in the direction of Haymarket, passing the tiny alternative video rental shop which is run by two lovely middle-aged men whose development terminated during their teens. During my lonely early weeks in Edinburgh I was a habitué; having a chat and a smoke with the owners whenever I passed. But, having cultivated a semblance of a life and a research project that needs attention, I have deserted these beautiful lost souls. As I am well in time tonight, I pop in to say hello. There is just one customer; a funny looking fellow digging his way through the movies in agitated fashion, clearly distressed at being unable to find the dubious masterpiece he seeks. He sees me, watches me for a couple of seconds too long, drops to his knees and asks me to marry him. Yes, I would love to see the expression on my dad’s face when I bring a chap like you to the next family event.

  “Excellent idea, we could do the celebration in Port O’ Leith,” I reply.

  “You’re saying yes?”

  He comes a step too close. “Oh Charlie, leave her alone,” says Keve, the shop owner. Charlie backs off instantly and leaves the shop – it was all too devastating for him.

  “Drugs,” Keve states, nodding at Charlie’s back. “Anyway, how’re you doing, flower?”

  Every time Keve speaks slivers of saliva fly through the air. He is missing at least three front teeth and, from what I can see, molars are in short supply too.

  “Fine thanks. Yourself?”

  “Good! Haven’t seen you for ages!”

  “I don’t have so much need to rent movies anymore, seem to have some sort of social life now.”

  “Aaah, you made some friends? That is good, flower… that is good. How’s your boyfriend? What’s his name again?”

  “Daniel. He’s fine. In his own world. Looking for a job.”

  “Tough times for jobs.”

  “It surely is. But I am not over-impressed with his determination to find one.”

  “Too comfy for him at home?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “Stop paying the heating bill. That will get him going.”

  This light-hearted remark gets me thinking… I am hardly at home, I wouldn’t suffer too much. Keve is clearly a man of the world when it comes to indolent types.

  “Maybe I could give it a shot in autumn? Just now it won’t have much effect.”

  “Breadcrumbs on his side of the bed? Or give him blue balls?”

  “Blue balls? Like kicking him?”

  Keve laughs, releasing even more saliva than when he talks.

  “No, don’t kick him to make them blue! Never mind. You going anywhere, flower? You look dressed up.”

  It’s weird but I feel more cared for in here than I do at home or in the lab.

  “Yeah, conference dinner in the Hilton hotel.”

  “That shithole on Grosvenor Street?”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “Used to be. They refurbished it recently. But I don’t care for posh shite, refurbished or not.”

  No, not your bag really, full sets of teeth and egghead preciousness, but I appreciate your tricks for shifting couch potatoes, you’re an expert in your field…

  I move towards the door, “I have to hurry now.”

  “Yeah, nice to see you again, flower. Give your boyfriend a kick up the arse!”

  Oh I think I will! Or at least I really think I might make his arse cold…

  At Haymarket there are a couple of drunks lying on the pavement in front of Ryries Bar. As it is Friday evening in Scotland’s capital, it would have been more surprising if there were no drunks languishing thus. Just across the main intersection and into Grosvenor Street is the Hilton. The street is residential, no bars and restaurants. It’s a strange location. The ginormous shed with the gaudy neon lights reading Hilton seems to sort of violate the sedate surroundings, and I wonder why permission for a hotel chain was granted here.

  One of the doormen welcomes me and relieves me of my coat as if I were royalty. I enter a large hall called the Roseberry Suite. It is at least as posh as the name suggests. Round tables are decorated with white table cloths, gold girandoles and carefully folded serviettes. They are positioned around a polished, wooden dance floor. The walls and roof have a yellowish colour and built-in spot lights to enhance their warm texture. Everyone is already sitting at a table and I am one of the last to arrive. Slightly uncomfortable, I move through the seated mass to find the right table. It is only a few seconds walk but feels akin to a catwalk, being watched by hundreds of eyes. I feel out of place but I am probably not the only one feeling a tad iffy. This is how to get scientists out of their comfort zone. Not only would most scientists agree with me that folding napkins into intricate shapes is a complete waste of energy, but most of the people in this room could, privately, never ever afford such refinements, not on a university salary. I’m sure most guests would feel much more at home in a burger joint. But that would make me feel much less important than I feel now. And yes I do feel important being a guest in such a room, funded by the pharmaceutical industry. It is as if we are playing in the big league, and I am part of a winning team. This is a stopover on the road on to the Nobel… It’s hilarious, the dreams we indulge to keep us going…

  I sit down next to Hanna and a waiter hands me a glass of prosecco. The voice of the dapper organiser booms through the state-of-the-art PA to announce the winners of various prizes: “This year’s winner of the Young Investigator Award is Hanna Blom!”

  Jubilation resounds around the table; through me, Mark, James, Hanna, Brian, Erico and even two strangers who couldn’t find seats anywhere else. Hanna gets out of her chair and slaps her hand in front of her mouth with expertise that Gwyneth Paltrow would envy. The power to imbue speech and gesture with emotion is a power Hanna has in spades. It is a power Mark seems to despise. It is also, arguably, the power that won her this award.

  When Hanna stands on the wooden floor to shake hands and accept the award, Mark pokes me in my side, “Next year, you!”

  “Sure!” I reply.

  Next year’s conference is in the US and I know Mark would never fund me for a journey beyond the street corner. Still, this was a Prize; not the Nobel, and not me winning it. But I was there and happy for Hanna. It’s a small step in the right direction, I somehow manage to believe…

  Soon after the ceremony a five course dinner is dished up and I feel properly blown up to bursting point after just the third course.

  A young sporty guy in pink shirt and with some sort of Dali moustache comes to our table and kneels down next to my seat.

  “Care for a dance?” he asks with a low voice and a smile that shifts the pointy ends of his moustache almost to his cheek bones. Wow, I’ve been upgraded from a drug addict in a video shop to a founding father of the retro movement.

  I look at the dance floor where several scientists are actively proving that dancing is not their forte. “I’m not much of a dancer,” I say.

  “Me neither, but I’ll have a crack if you will.”

  “How sweet – willing to reveal your lack of talent if I reveal mine.”

  He looks me in the eye. I feel myself blushing. But he’s a good sport, “Drink that up and we’ll get on the floor!”

  He extends his hand graciously and I drink up, stand and follow him to the dance floor.

  “Are you more into tango, salsa or ballroom?” he asks, wrapping his arm casually around my back.

  “Eh?… Freestyle?”

  “I can do that.”

  Much too fast we move from one side of the ballroom to the other, not very skilfully and with precious little connection to the music playing. At the end of the song we pause, to my surprise.
>
  “It’s lovely here, isn’t it?” he says.

  “Bit posh.”

  “Glad you said it. Are you enjoying yourself anyway?”

  “This part of it, yes.”

  “That is sweet of you,” he says with a mock grandeur that goes well with his over-arty moustache. “Another dance, young lady? We seemed to be getting the hang of it…”

  “Well, we scared most people out of our way as we rolled along blindly like a tsunami. Okay, let’s do it again.”

  That was my posh night on big pharma coffers; being part of a double act, a comic liability charging around the dance floor for hours. It was fun because Retro-King was a gentleman. It was also desultory and peripatetic, not just for me but, I suspect, for all the PhD paupers present; all glimpsing a luxurious lifestyle which has nothing to do with our likely fate.

  Around midnight I finally fall into the taxi James had insisted upon. On Gorgie Road I see the light in the kitchen is still on; Daniel is awake. I say hi and walk to the window sill. Daniel follows me. He looks great in faded twist jeans and a T-shirt that is just the right amount of tight to show off his muscled chest below. His hair is all over the place and his eyes are red – maybe he has been crying, maybe just tired – I feel I should know which, yet I don’t. We smoke a cigarette together while watching the night scenes on the street below.

  © Springer International Publishing AG 2017

  Karin BodewitsYou Must Be Very Intelligent10.1007/978-3-319-59321-0_15

  Chapter 15

  Karin Bodewits1

  (1)Munich, Germany

  Karin Bodewits

  Email: [email protected]

  I slightly lift my head, close my eyes and make the sign of the cross while standing about twenty metres from the entrance to Little France Hospital. A prayer goes through my mind, though “prayer” is not an appropriate word for my thoughts. I am not religious, but I am desperate, and I will praise anyone if He or She will grant me just one measly successful experiment. I am spending hours and hours on the bench but apart from this lucky Angewandte Chemie paper, which I still don’t understand after reading it three times, this is not a fruitful investment of time and energy; I face only failure after failure after failure… I can unearth not one single result that might lead to something promising. I read scientific articles like an automaton, and have intellectually grown from barely knowing how to spell cystic fibrosis to becoming some sort of expert. But as long as I remain unpublished in the field I might as well play Sudoku all day or amble along Berwick beach with a metal detector or otherwise live into the solitary existence which will be my destiny. No one will take me seriously. I won’t be selected to give a talk. I won’t win a single prize. And it might get damn hard to finish my PhD in time.