"Frameshift" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sawyer Robert J.)Chapter 7Pierre Tardivel became a driven man, committed to his studies. He decided to specialize in genetics — the field that, after all, had turned his life upside down. He distinguished himself at once, and began a brilliant research career in Canada. In March 1993, he read about the breakthrough: the gene for Huntington’s disease had been discovered, making possible a simple, inexpensive DNA test to determine if one had the gene, and therefore would eventually get the disease. Still, Pierre didn’t take the test. He was almost afraid to now. If he didn’t have the disease, would he slack off? Begin wasting his life again? Coast out the decades? At the age of thirty-two, Pierre was appointed a distinguished postdoctoral fellow at the Lawrence Berkeley Laboratory, situated on a hilltop above the University of California, Berkeley. He was assigned to the Human Genome Project, the international attempt to map and sequence all the DNA that makes up a human being. The Berkeley campus was exactly what a university campus should be: sunny and green and full of open spaces, precisely the kind of place one could imagine the free-love movement having been born at. What was less wonderful was Pierre’s new boss, crusty Burian Klimus, who had won a Nobel Prize for his breakthrough in DNA sequencing — the so-called Klimus Technique, now widely used in labs around the world. If Professor Kingsfield from “Don’t worry about Dr. Klimus,” Joan Dawson, the Human Genome Center’s general secretary, had said on Pierre’s first day at his new job. Although Klimus’s full title was William M. Stanley Professor of Biochemistry — about a quarter of LBL’s eleven hundred scientists and engineers had teaching duties at either the Berkeley or San Francisco campuses of UC — Pierre had been told up front that the old man preferred to be called “Doctor,” not “Professor.” He was a thinker, not a mere teacher. Pierre had immediately taken a liking to Joan — although it felt strange to be calling a woman twice his own age by her first name. She was kind and gentle and sweet: the gray-haired and bespectacled den mother to all the absentminded professors as well as the UCB students who did scutwork on the Human Genome Project. Joan often brought in homemade cookies or brownies and left them for everyone to enjoy by the ever-present pot of Peet’s coffee. Indeed, shortly after he’d begun, Pierre found himself seated opposite Joan’s desk, munching on a giant butter cookie with M M’s baked into it, while he waited for an appointment with Dr. Klimus. Joan was squinting at a sheet of paper. “This is delicious,” Pierre said. He gestured at the plate, which still had five big cookies on it. “I don’t know how you can resist them. It must be quite a temptation to keep eating them.” Joan looked up and smiled. “Oh, I don’t eat any myself. I’m a diabetic, you see. Have been for about twenty years. But I love to bake, and people seem to like the goodies I bring in so much. It gives me a lot of pleasure seeing people enjoy them.” Pierre nodded, impressed by the self-sacrifice. He had seen earlier that Joan wore a Medic Alert bracelet; now he understood why. Joan went back to squinting at the page on her desk, but then sighed and proffered it to Pierre. “Would you be a dear, and read that bottom line for me? I can’t make it out.” Pierre took the sheet. “It says, ‘All Q-four staffing reports are due in the director’s office no later than fifteen Sep.’ ” “Thank you.” She sighed. “I’m starting to get cataracts, I’m afraid. I guess I’ll have to have surgery at some point.” Pierre nodded sympathetically — cataracts were common among elderly diabetics. He looked at his watch; his appointment was supposed to have begun four minutes ago. Damn, but he hated wasting time. Although Molly had toyed with trying to get a job at Duke University, which was famous for its research into putative psychic phenomena, she instead accepted an associate professorship at the University of California, Berkeley. She’d chosen UCB because it was far enough away from her mother and Paul (who was hanging in, much to Molly’s surprise) and her sister Jessica (who had now been through a brief marriage and divorce) that they were unlikely to ever visit. A new life, a new town — but still, damn it all, she kept making the same stupid mistakes, kept thinking that, somehow, this time things would be different, that she could take spending an evening sitting across from a guy thinking piggish thoughts about her. Rudy hadn’t been any worse than her previous sporadic dates, until he’d gotten a couple of drinks into him — and then his surface thoughts devolved into nothing more than a constant stream of pornography. She’d tried changing the topic of conversation, but no matter what they were talking about, the thoughts on the surface of Rudy’s mind were like washroom-stall graffiti. Molly observed that the Oakland A’s were doing well this season. Finally, she could take no more of it. It was only 8:40 — awfully early to end a date that had begun at 7:30 — but she had to get out of there. “Excuse me,” said Molly. “I’ve— I think the pesto sauce is disagreeing with me. I don’t feel very well. I think I should go home.” Rudy looked concerned. “I’m sorry,” he said. He signaled for the waiter. “Here, we’ll get going; I’ll take you back to your place.” “No,” said Molly. “No, thank you. I— I’ll walk home. I’m sure a little walk will help my digestion.” “I’ll come with you.” “No, really, I’ll be fine. You’re sweet to offer, though.” She took her wallet out of her little purse. “With tax and tip, my share should be about fifteen dollars,” she said, putting that amount on the tablecloth. Rudy looked disappointed, but at least his concern for her health was genuine enough to have banished the Molly forced a smile. “Me, too,” she said. “I’ll call you,” said Rudy. Molly nodded and hurried out of the restaurant. The night air was warm and pleasant. She started walking without really thinking about where she was heading. All she knew was that she didn’t want to go back to her apartment. Not on a Friday night; it was too lonely, too empty. She was on University Avenue, which, not surprisingly, ended up taking her to the campus. She passed many couples (some straight, some gay) going the other way, and picked up clearly sexual thoughts from those who unavoidably entered her zone — but that was fine, since the thoughts weren’t about her. She came to Doe Library and decided to go in. The pesto sauce was in fact making her intestines grumble a bit, so a trip to the washroom might indeed be in order. After she finished, she went up to the main floor. The library was mostly empty. Who wanted to be studying on a Friday night, after all, especially this early in the academic year? “ ‘Evening, Professor Bond,” said a librarian sitting at an information desk. He was a lanky, middle-aged man. “Hi, Pablo. Not many people here tonight.” Pablo nodded and smiled. “True. Still, we’ve got our regulars. The night watchman is here, as usual.” He jerked a thumb at an oak table some distance away. A handsome man in his early thirties with a round face and chocolate hair sat hunched over a book. “Night watchman?” said Molly. “Doc Tardivel,” said Pablo, “from LBL. Been coming in here most nights lately and stays right up to closing. Keeps sending me back to the stacks for various journals.” Molly glanced at the fellow again. She didn’t know the name and didn’t recall ever seeing him around the campus. She left Pablo and ambled into the main reading room. The copies of many current journals were stored in a wooden shelving unit that happened to be close to the table this Tardivel fellow was using. Molly made her way over to the unit and began looking for a recent issue of A thought impinged upon her consciousness, like the lighting of a feather on naked skin — but it was unintelligible. The journals were out of chronological order. She worked her way through the pile, reshuffling them so that the most recent issues were on top. Another thought fluttered against her consciousness. And suddenly she realized the cause for her difficulty in reading it. The thought was in French; Molly recognized the mental sound of the language. She found last month’s copy of French. The guy thought in French. And a foxy guy he was, too. Molly sat down next to him and opened her journal. He looked up, a slightly surprised expression on his face. She smiled at him and then, without really thinking about it, said, “Nice night.” He smiled back. “It sure is.” Molly’s heart pounded. He was still thinking in French. She’d known foreigners before, but all of them had switched to thinking in English when speaking that language. “Oooh, what a lovely accent!” said Molly. “Are you French?” “French-Canadian,” said Pierre. “From Montreal.” “Are you an exchange student?” asked Molly, knowing full well from what Pablo had said that he was not. “No, no,” he said. “I’m a postdoc at LBL.” “Oh, so you must know Burian Klimus.” Molly feigned a shudder. “There’s a cold character.” Pierre laughed. “That he is.” “I’m Molly Bond,” said Molly. “I’m an associate professor in the psych department.” “ “Wow,” said Molly softly. “Wow?” “You really do that. Canadians, I mean. You really say ‘eh.’ ” Pierre seemed to blush a little. “We also say ‘You’re welcome.’ ” “What?” “Out here, if you say ‘Thank you’ to someone, they all seem to reply ‘Uh-huh.’ We say ‘You’re welcome.’ ” Molly laughed. “Touche,” she said. And then she touched her hand to her mouth. “Hey — I guess I know some French after all.” Pierre smiled. It was a very nice smile indeed. “So,” said Molly, looking around at the musty shelves of books, “you come here often?” Pierre nodded. There were lots of thoughts on the surface of his mind, but to Molly’s delight she could make sense out of none of them. And French — French was such a beautiful language, it was almost like soft background music rather than the irritating noise of most people’s articulated thoughts. Before she had really considered it all the way through, the words were out. “Would you like to get a cup of coffee?” she said. And then, as if the suggestion needed some justification, added, “There’s a great cappuccino place on Bancroft.” Pierre had an odd look on his face, a mixture of disbelief and pleasant surprise at his unexpected good fortune. “That would be nice,” he said. Yes, thought Molly. It would indeed. They talked for hours, the background accompaniment of Pierre’s French thoughts never intrusive. He might be as big a pig as most other men, but Molly doubted that. Pierre seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say, listening attentively. And he had a wonderful sense of humor; Molly couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed anyone’s company so much. Molly had heard it said that French men — both Canadian and European French — had a different attitude toward women than American men did. They were more relaxed around them, less likely to be Suddenly it was midnight and the cafe was closing. “My God,” she said. “Where did the time go?” “It went,” said Pierre, “into the past — and I enjoyed every moment of it.” He shook his head. “I haven’t taken a break like this for weeks.” His eyes met hers. “ Molly smiled. “At this time of night, surely you should be escorted safely to your car or home,” said Pierre. “May I walk you there?” Molly smiled again. “That would be nice. I live just a few blocks from here.” They left the cafe. Pierre walked with his hands clasped behind his back. Molly wondered if he was going to try to hold her hand, but he didn’t. “I really need to see more of this area,” said Pierre. “I’ve been thinking about going over to San Francisco tomorrow, do a little sight-seeing.” “Would you like company?” They had arrived at the entrance to her apartment building. “I’d love that,” said Pierre. “Thank you.” There was a moment of silence. Molly was thinking, well, of course, we’d have to meet up again in the morning, unless — the thought, or maybe just the nighttime breeze, made her shiver — unless he spent the night. But what Pierre was thinking was a complete mystery. “Perhaps we could meet for brunch at eleven,” he said. “Sure. That place right across the street is great,” Molly said, pointing. She wondered if he was going to kiss her. It was exciting not knowing what he was thinking of doing. The moment stretched. He didn’t make his move — and that was exciting, too. “Till tomorrow, then,” he said. “ Molly went inside. She was grinning from ear to ear. |
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