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CHAPTER 9
A curious dearth of seagulls.
Maybe the interior designer was intoxicated? How else to explain the selection of a bile-green ottoman (legless – of course!) at the center of an orange-and-white, arch-patterned rug? How befuddled must one be, to upholster a sofa with a diarrhea shade of brown, and then accessorize it with blood-red bolsters? She could not even bear to sit in it, instead taking refuge in a light blue wing chair – the one color in this section of the Halifax hotel that is not reminiscent of a body fluid.
Traci is waiting for Agarwal. He is late.
Clack. Clack. Clack. It is the only sound in the lobby. The receptionist who stands behind the walnut check-in desk performs data entry like there is no tomorrow. Why so many keystrokes? How much computing is required to match customers to their rooms? Clack. Clack. Clack. It reminds Traci of the adage about typing monkeys. Someone has told her (maybe it was Agarwal, she wonders, since he does know a lot of random shit) that a chimpanzee pounding a typewriter throughout its 30-year lifespan has only a 5% percent chance of spelling “bananas”. The entire timeline of the universe – from Big Bang to the proposed Big Crunch - is still too short for the most dedicated of apes to bang out a Shakespearian play.
Traci is concerned as to which of two Agarwals will turn up today. Will it be last month’s version? The one who phoned to cancel his visit to the FIB – a few days before he was scheduled to give a departmental seminar. He had blamed a domestic problem. What is the catastrophe that lurks behind that euphemism? One can hazard a guess as to the nature of a “household emergency” (in Traci’s Florida that would be malfunctioning air-conditioning), or a “family matter” (serious illness?), or even “an emergency at work” (major flooding?). But none of those dilemmas feel sufficiently drastic to account for how terribly morose Agarwal had seemed. Like his world had fallen apart. A going to hell in a handbasket dosage of domestic.
That is why she pins her hopes on encountering the upbeat, alter ego who emailed just last week with a friendly invitation to get together for lunch. But as the minutes drag by, she starts to worry that the apparent turnaround in his demeanor was unrealistically sudden. Is that why he has yet to arrive – is he still pacing his room, trying to muster up the courage to put on a brave face? Will he actually turn up?
A TV monitor is mounted on the wall behind the reception desk. The screen displays the same dreary weather forecast that Traci first read fifteen minutes ago. Rain showers, fifty-five degrees and a wind chill. This is why she wears a cashmere beanie, a navy padded jacket and Merino wool pants. At least it gives her an excuse to text Karen. It’s nippy out. A cold face emoji dings right back.
Traci is working on being a more supportive older sister. At times it requires some compromises. Three weeks ago, Traci had been obliged to maintain a solemn repose while they had driven back-and-forth across Florida, in order to spread their mother’s ashes into the Gulf. She had carefully masked her discomfort at taking the entire day off work. Throughout the day she ignored emails, even when Karen took her turn with the driving, which of course was painful the following morning: the Mail App’s red dot had encircled a three-digit number. She dutifully stayed in her lane while Karen had explained how her business has improved: “with November closing in, we’re seeing more couples with election stress disorder.” Sad though it was to hear how political polarization is damaging personal relationships, she had kept those thoughts private, and instead congratulated her sister for improving her income stream.
An elevator ping signals Agarwal’s belated arrival. He springs through the sliding door wearing a gray, double-breasted pea coat which covers the seat of his black dress pants. He does not wear a hat, so his thinning crown kisses goodbye to ten percent of his body heat. “Good morning, Traci. Great to see you again.” He proffers a wide smile and an enthusiastic handshake. “Sorry I’m late. I had to take an urgent call from my brother.”
It is an unexpected relief for Traci to see his jovial mood. Fingers crossed he can keep this up through lunch.
“And ‘morning’ to you too,” she responds. “But I’ll hold off on the ‘good’, for now. It’s disappointing that Nova Scotia is this cold in the middle of May.” She retrieves leather gloves from a crossbody purse.
Agarwal encourages Traci to exit first through the revolving doorway. In the street, he asks what time she arrived yesterday.
“Ugh! A few minutes after ten.” The cool air stings her cheeks, but she is relieved to discover that the rain has ceased. “It was an eleven-hour journey. I had to connect in Charlotte and again in Toronto. How about you? Direct flight from Philly?”
“Yes. I flew in yesterday afternoon. Sorry your travels were difficult.” He does not dwell on that subject. “Shall we take the waterfront route? It’s notable for being one of the world’s longest urban boardwalks.”
The town’s wooden platform zig-zags along the Halifax Harbor for two-and-a-half miles, feeding several short finger-piers that jut into the estuary, like mismatched clothespins on a washing line. Traci feels fortunate that her Kiziks have grippy rubber soles, since the wet boards appear slippery. She contemplates whether there is any feature other than its length that justifies any interest in this boardwalk. Not the bracing wind, for sure. Nor her enmity towards tacky souvenir sheds, and the piercing war-cries of dive-bombing seagulls. Traci is not a fan of coastal tourism.
She senses that the other visitors are not having much fun either. They are small in number, and mostly wear expressions of grim determination to not waste their vacation funds cooped up in a hotel room. An inevitable jogger dashes by, immune to both the dangers of falling, and the windchill (he is dressed in shorts and a T-shirt).
“Ted Worthington recommended this restaurant,” says Agarwal. “We exchanged emails a few days ago. I told him that you and I were getting together for lunch. He was very kind: he made the reservation for us. Didn’t he work at the FIB a while back?” He walks quickly to make up for lost time, even though this challenges his short legs.
Traci speculates that her companion has strapped on seven league boots. “Up until three-or-four years ago. He chaired the signaling department before I took over. But I have never met him. He’d quit before I was recruited.”
They whizz past a group of grade-schoolers clambering over a blue sculpture of a twelve feet high, plunging breaker. Opposite the Wave, toddlers are excited by an orange playground submarine (it has a cameo in an episode of The Simpsons, according to her self-appointed docent). The parents huddle together in their winter gear, while half-watching their offspring let off steam.
Ah, children playing outside. It is a Sunday. If Traci were not traveling, she would be at home. But she generally avoids her office at the front of the house. It is partly an attempt to secure one day each week that is separated from work. It also protects her from the disconcerting reminder of the emptiness in her cul-de-sac. She knows kids live across the street, having seen them being driven by their parents. She supposes that they prefer to be in their bedrooms with video games. Or are they required to attend church? Different roads, same destination. She views pursuit of both activities as requiring immersion in worlds of fantasy.
Compared to the general population, a scientist is ten-times more likely to reject belief in God. But even when she is among colleagues, Traci rarely discusses being an atheist. It can get people all riled up. As it did, the last time she attended her mahjong group. The other women were all regular churchgoers, but that had not been an issue until Peach had developed an irritating need to proselytize. Traci had tried to get her to back-off by dismissing the afterlife as a product of human imagination. Peach had responded by adding a condescending delivery to her nasally voice: “Oh, sweetheart, it makes me so sad to hear you say that. But you are a good person. I will pray for your salvation.”
“Please don’t waste your time in church,” Traci had snapped back. “Surely my denial of God means I'm a lost cause, as far as your heaven is concerned?"
Traci does regret that she had not been more patient that night. She could have anticipated that an emotional outburst might result from her criticism of such core beliefs. She could also have apologized for causing distress. Instead, she had simply walked out, and decided these were no longer her kind of people. She has even convinced herself she does not really miss mahjong. Too often a hand ends in a wall game, where nobody wins.
“. . . In nineteen-seventeen a ship full of ammunition and explosives caught fire in the harbor.”
Traci realizes she has zoned out, as she grasps that Agarwal is explaining the outcome of his research into the most powerful non-nuclear detonations in human history.
“It caused the World’s largest man-made explosion,” Agarwal explains. “This entire area was flattened. Nine thousand were injured. Two thousand deaths.” He sweeps an arm towards nine stories of vertically-stacked offices, so as to illustrate his next point. “There were many who had watched the fire from behind windows. They were caught in a hail of shattered glass from the force of the blast. Hundreds were blinded.”
“Oh, really?” Traci needs the distraction of a more interesting topic. Pretty much any other topic. “Your talk is this afternoon, right? Will you be presenting any updates on your metabolic studies?”
Agarwal welcomes the opportunity to discuss a scientific success. “Yes. I’m going to show how Steve has made great progress with this project.”
Steve? For a moment, Traci cannot fit a face to that name. Then she remembers: Agarwal’s new post-doc. English Steve, the beer-drinker.
“We have a paper in press in PNAS. We used some of the SP-210 that we acquired a few years ago.” It is among the most well-known of Spinnit’s reagents.
“Congratulations,” Traci says, but it takes some effort. Agarwal’s pace is challenging her lung capacity. There was an earlier version of herself that actively participated in a walking group. Which she gave up because she no longer finds the time. It is a rude awakening - her job has impaired her health. This’ll be the death of me if I don’t fix it.
“Our study uncovers a new path to reducing the levels of aging biomarkers in cultured cells.” Agarwal’s excitement is barely controlled. “It was actually a relief to finally get this work published. There was a slight hiccup a couple of months ago. We were revising the manuscript after the referees gave it a favorable review, when Steve told me he could not replicate a previous postdoc’s real-time PCR data. . . ”
Real-time PCR. Traci scrunches her face. No other molecular technology has a wider reach across society. It is the gold-standard method to amplify genetic material. It is how medical examiners establish a suspect, or identify remains. Healthcare professionals use it to detect pathogens, most famously the Covid virus. Research scientists use it to quantify dynamic changes in gene activities - but not always with appropriate rigor. It has been estimated that thousands of scientific papers may fail to adequately perform or report real-time PCR data.
“Steve told me a joke from his previous lab: in the wrong hands, PCR is an acronym for publishing crappy results. This is why he scrutinized the methods and the raw data that the other postdoc had left with me. Steve wasn’t happy with some of it. He chose to redo all of these experiments. He worked day and night to make sure the paper would be accepted with quality data. He said he wasn’t going to ‘do a Wakefield’. . .”
Traci has not heard of this individual. Or perhaps she has forgotten who it is? In her profession, one is expected to readily connect individuals to their specific discoveries, or their blunders. But is it less about assessing other scientists’ contributions, and more to do with acquiring social capital through name-dropping? Yet, all too often, she finds herself bluffing her way through such discussions. But in this case, she throws in the towel: “Wakefield?” The query struggles out between two tight breaths.
Agarwal stokes his goatee before answering. “Andrew Wakefield. He studied gastrointestinal disorders at a London hospital, about twenty-five years ago. He co-authored a paper with real-time PCR data that were utterly appalling. The study was riddled with elementary mistakes.”
A two-second horn blast announces the departure of the ferry to Dartmouth. Traci reflexively looks towards the water, but the boat still hides behind the passenger terminal. There is something else that is missing from this scene – and then she realizes. It is the unexpected dearth of seagulls. How curious, she thinks. But what is in her vision is a gloomy chaos of wind-whipped waves. She pulls her hat further across her ears, which Agarwal must notice, she thinks, because he seems to be talking louder now.
“That’s not the worst of it,” Agarwal continues. “This was one of several papers in which Wakefield claimed to link the measles vaccine to autism. All courtesy of his forging medical records. This is the guy who started this entire, cockamamie concept.”
This is a new experience for Traci – the growing possibility that one of Agarwal’s lectures might be of some interest. Too bad it turns out to be a real-life horror story.
“He was found guilty of professional misconduct and lost his job. The UK disbarred him from practicing medicine. The mess he made with PCR methodology drew attention to its more widespread abuse. It prompted an international group of molecular biologists to assemble procedures and guidelines.
"Just imagine if you were Wakefield in that situation. You’re exposed as a fraud, you’ve been hounded out of your career, and an international commission is needed, to bag up all of the turds you’ve dumped on the field of molecular biology. You’d want to fade into obscurity, right?”
But he didn’t, Traci assumes. She guesses there is a more depressing outcome.
“Not Wakefield. This deception was now his cash cow. He sold his services to lawyers suing the companies who produced the vaccines. He moved to Texas and reinvented himself as a victim of injustice, persecuted by the medical establishment and the UK Government, who of course were all in cahoots with the pharmaceutical industry. The anti-vax community over here lapped it up; they hero-worship him now. He buddied up with Robert Kennedy Junior. The pair of them enjoy spreading vaccine mistrust together, at rallies and in podcasts. Wakefield still talks about his own papers, even though they’ve all been discredited by the scientific community. He’s even got Donald Trump’s ear.”
Traci has never seen Agarwal wired up before. He flaps his hands, as if he is trying to swat away an annoying wasp. His face has reddened – and she knows it is not because of the cold wind.
“Meanwhile, how many unvaccinated kids will die? How many parents of autistic children are going to suffer unwarranted grief, shouldering the blame for their vaccine decisions? It just goes to show - scientists may believe they can kill off ill-formed concepts, but conspiracy theorists armed with social media hold much more sway over the undead.”
They reach the restaurant, so even Agarwal appreciates he should wrap up this tirade. He opens the door to usher Traci inside. She pushes her hat and gloves into her purse, and takes a deep breath, partly to counter the anxiety raised by Agarwal’s story. And partly to restore her blood oxygen levels.
They have entered one of those rustic chic establishments, where the ambience relies on being wowed by exposed pipes, air-conditioning ductwork, and bare bulbs on pendants. But business is certainly booming. Even though it is not yet noon, and not even the holiday season, almost every table is occupied. Yet, the atmosphere is rather muted, not the expected hubbub. The absence of children is partly responsible. The damper that the weather has deposited on outdoor activities might be another. Many of these tourists are phone in hand so that, Traci imagines, they can peruse the town’s limited indoor options. The Maritime Museum perhaps, or the art gallery, or the Immigration Museum. Or maybe they just thumb texts to their friends back home: left the kids with Mom and Dad, but this vacation still sucks.
They are only ten minutes beyond their reservation time, but their table has been given away. At least there is a promise that alternate seating will be available shortly. It gives them time to peruse the menu. It is one that advertises itself as farm to table, using locally-sourced ingredients. Being able to decide on their orders now is helpful: they are on the clock. GigantoPharm’s Drug Discovery Forum begins later this afternoon. Agarwal informs Traci he intends to order a veggie burger, with a side salad rather than fries. This tempts her to consider the healthier options too. She is attracted to a so-called power salad, without fully comprehending what that implies.
The hostess guides them through a haphazard grid of tightly-packed green plaid tablecloths (an “excuse-me” or two are required). They are relegated to the loser’s table for two that is squashed into a far corner. They place their coats over the chair backs. Traci thinks her companion’s crew neck charcoal sweater has a surprisingly streamlined appearance. He has definitely lost weight since their last meeting, and it suits him. These prompts that she should get back in shape are rolling in like summer storms.
As Traci slides into her seat, the chairback scrapes against bare brickwork. She endures the discomfort of tucking her long legs under the chair, to avoid an inadvertent footsie with her companion. To her left is a closed glass doorway that, on better days, would open a passage to a paved patio where the seating would not be upended, legs pointed skywards so as to vaguely imitate an anti-aircraft battery. Through that window, she sees a darker shade of gray clouds approaching ominously. Behind Agarwal, on the far wall, a TV split-screens head-shots of presidential candidates above a banner: “Trump and Biden to debate on June 27.”
A tablecloth approaches them. The lime green patterning is the same, but this one is fashioned into a halter-top apron. The server wears it on top of a wide-collared, white shirt. Her brown hair is pulled back into a tight bun, which contributes to her forehead looking tall enough to abseil down. She has those carefully sculpted brows that look at their best on a youthful face. A long, delicate nose rests above narrow lips. Traci wonders whether this woman has even graduated from high school. But of course, college kids are not actually becoming younger. It is the age-gap between them and Traci that is getting depressingly longer.
Grace introduces herself with minimal effort. Her dour expression and patently apathetic manner indicate that serving customers is not where her mind is focused. Traci and Agarwal order water. Traci politely requests “no ice, please.” Her goal is to warm up, not cool down.
Agarwal asks Traci if she recalls his arrangement to meet with Lydia Goode at his recent AAG meeting in New Orleans. She does, and so he explains how it went. “She seemed genuine to me. I did not get the impression Lydia has a beef with Standish. She asked for my opinions on the value of his scientific contributions. I had nothing negative to say about him.”
Traci is aware that Agarwal has witnessed the distress caused when Chuck’s theatrical put-downs at conferences would occasionally cross the line. Surely the temptation to endear himself to Lydia would have led him to spill some beans?
“But there’s something more important that I want you to know. Do you remember Nick Robbins accosting us at the meeting in Texas? He told us he had met with Lydia. He claimed she was collecting ‘dirt’ on Standish. Well, I challenged her on this. She denied it.”
“Well, she would say that.” It is a knee-jerk response that Traci instantly regrets, especially as she has come to doubt Robbins’ version of this story.
“I know she told the truth,” Agarwal asserts. “Lydia recorded their meeting. Robbins hadn’t given his permission, but she did it secretly.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“That’s what I asked. Her answer was: ‘only if she were caught’. She recorded our interview too. I said it was OK. I have nothing to hide.
“Well, anyway, she played the recording to me. It is clear to me that Lydia is not going after Standish.” Agarwal explains that he had listened to Robbins describe his discovery of a novel pseudokinase. The very same protein that Standish went on to report as being important to the development of pancreatic cancer. “Robbins told Lydia that he was the one who advised Standish to pursue that line of research, and so should have been a co-author of the manuscript. But Standish refused. Do you know about that? Is it true?”
“All I know is that they fought over this.” Traci admits. It is the same dispute that Traci remembers discussing with Karen a couple of months ago. Since then, she has read a survey in which half of all research scientists reported experiencing disagreements over some aspect of co-authorship. “Has this ever happened to you?”
“Never.” Agarwal returns a snooty smile and shakes his head. “With all of my collaborations, I make sure we agree right from the start how we wish to credit each other’s contributions.”
“But this was a different situation,” Traci retorts. “From what I understand, Robbins shared some information that was already approved for publication. He only wanted to brag about it. He never proposed that the two of them should work together. He only became interested in gaining credit after he realized that Chuck’s study was so important.”
“Well, there’s more,” Agarwal continues. “In this recording, Robbins also paints a grim picture of Standish being a complete asshole towards Roger Spinnitt. And we know that’s true. We’ve both seen it happen.”
Traci sighs. She does not wish to defend Spinnit. He is not an easy person to like. A couple of drinks is all it takes to unmask his weasel-like personality. He has the distasteful ability to walk into a group and replace the ongoing conversation. He talks aggressively, with a tendency to force out sibilant syllables in a spray of saliva. Like a defective lawn sprinkler, his head jerks around erratically, beady eyes trying to catch someone out for not paying him enough attention.
“I believe there may be a good reason Chuck was so antagonistic towards Spinnit. I never got Chuck to share the details, but I definitely had the impression this dispute goes way back, to something very serious.”
Agarwal takes a sip of water and decides to proceed more cautiously. He rests both sets of fingertips on the table, as if preparing to play a piano chord. “We know that Standish and Spinnit had issues.” Both hands move up an octave. “I’m not trying to blame one side. . .” Now he reaches for an octave below “. . . or the other.
“I am just letting you know that I don’t believe Lydia’s goal is to tarnish Standish. It’s Robbins who does that. For whatever reason.”
This explanation does not bring Traci any relief. “Still, if Lydia believes all of that, the end product is the same.”
“Here’s something else,” says Agarwal. “Remember how Robbins told us he got annoyed with the direction the interview was taking, and so he kicked her out of his office? That’s a lie. The recording tells a very different story. Lydia gets upset with the manner in which Robbins treats his technician.”
It occurs to Traci that maybe Agarwal has been taking lessons in Italian-style communication. His next effort at speaking with his hands is to open his palms in a you’ll-never-believe-this gesture. “He expresses annoyance at her request to leave the lab to pick up her sick child from school. Lydia speaks up in her defense, and Robbins shouts at her too. The recording reveals it was she who walked out of the meeting.”
This information is revelatory for Traci. Should you reconsider her judgement of this journalist? Is she a kindred spirit, pushing back against male chauvinism and disrespect?
Agarwal explains that Lydia quizzed him about the hours leading up to Standish’s murder. “She has learned that he openly clashed with Spinnit at the San Diego meeting. She asked me if I witnessed it? But I hadn’t. I told her I was in bed early that night.”
Grace stands over their table again, resolute in her determination not to be mistaken for employee of the week. She returns a lower lip pout when Traci rejects water as cold as the server: “I did ask for it without ice . . .” But then she worries that Grace’s service has the potential to decline further, so she attempts to butter her up with a wide smile. “. . . when you get a minute, if you don’t mind.”
“Are you ready to order?” The question is delivered robotically. Grace scribbles their requests into a tiny notebook.
Agarwal also asks for directions to the restroom. Traci is left alone with Lydia’s question hanging like a bad smell in still air. Did I witness it? That is what the police had asked her last September. Yes, she saw Chuck and Spinnit cross paths in the outdoor dining area just before dinner. Chuck had wagged a finger. Yes, like a threat was being issued. No, she did not hear what was said. Yes, she was sure it was Spinnit who initiated a pushing and shoving contest. It had not been a pleasant sight. For a few moments, two spindly, middle-aged men had been prepared to elevate a physical altercation to a point that would have guaranteed mutually assured embarrassment. Fortunately, hotel staff had stepped in.
She had also helped the police reconstruct Chuck’s timeline that evening. She had sat with him at the hotel’s outdoor bar, along with half-a-dozen Ph.D students and postdocs who had already benefitted from his academic guidance at the afternoon poster session – an event that several of the other senior academics had skipped. They had played hooky at the San Diego Zoo, to enjoy its diverse collections of wildlife and craft beers.
That evening Chuck had picked up the bar tab, and handed out career advice. His dedication to mentoring young scientists is one of the reasons she had been so fond of him. He had guided those in the job market towards the better labs, and were also advised which to avoid. Such as Spinnit’s. Naturally. “I don’t understand why some hold him in high regard,” Chuck had said. “I once heard him fawningly introduced at a meeting as ‘Roger Spinnit, an icon in the field of Chemical Biology.’ It made me wonder. Is ‘icon’ one word, or two?”
She had also explained to the police that when the outdoor bar had finally closed around 11 pm, she had left the group and returned to her room. It is a painful memory of the last time the two of them had spent time together. Life just isn’t the same without him. Gloom threatens to swamp her, so it is a relief to be distracted from such dark thoughts by Agarwal’s return.
He still has a little more to say about his interview in New Orleans. “Lydia is really keen to meet with one or two of Standish’s closest colleagues. Someone he might have confided in. I gave her your name – I hope that isn’t a problem. She said she tried to reach out to you a couple of times already, but did not get any response.”
Traci shuts this down. “I’ve just been swamped recently.” It has become a catch-all excuse. But not a reason. She could choose not to be so very busy at work.
Agarwal shrugs his shoulders, as if to convey that Traci’s reluctance is of no consequence. “Anyway, I also suggested Barry Pike. His fishing buddy. I provided his university email address. It’s still active, even though he retired last year.”
Poor Barry. That had been the consensus of opinion last September. He had arrived two days early for the San Diego symposium even though he had not been one of the speakers. He and Chuck had arranged for some deep-sea fishing before the meeting began. But Barry had hurriedly left the next morning. His son had been extricated from a highway pileup. For several minutes they piece together what little they know about the accident, which segues into a conversation about how young folk drive far too fast and inconsiderately, with loud music blaring from open windows. And finally, they conclude it was fortunate that Barry’s son escaped with only broken ribs and contusions.
Grace presents them with their lunch, to the chagrin of an elderly pair at an adjacent table. Traci turns her head to the right, and observes frowning eyebrows that send disapproval in her direction. “We placed our order a half-hour ago, well before that table.” Their aristocratic accents betray their nationality. “The service here leaves much to be desired.” The server is unapologetic; Traci hears her casually throw the kitchen staff under the bus.
This disturbance drags her sideways glance beyond the agitated English couple (and their “well, I never. . . ”), and towards a foursome who have all read the business casual memo. She reflects on their highly photogenic attributes and ethnic diversity. Are they auditioning for an advertisement in their company’s promotional literature? One of the two woman is Asian, the other reminds Traci of a character from Modern Family (Gloria, she thinks – but what is that actress’ name?). The younger of the two men is African-American, and the other one is. . .
She remembers him from the photo that is displayed on the inside cover of GigantoPharm's conference handbook. A full face with the slightly weathered skin of a man born around the time that Nixon resigned. Smokey-brown hair is closely-cropped and parted at the side. It falls forward in a short fringe – a style that some men of this age adopt to counter the signs of a receding hairline. Well-groomed stubble enhances a strong jawline. Under his unbuttoned gray blazer, he wears a white shirt and a blue tie. That’s the meeting organizer. Ted the head. She has the distinct impression he is giving instructions to each of the others in turn. Of course, the older white guy is in charge.
“How is your meal?” Agarwal asks.
Traci does not respond immediately. Her first attempt to dine out healthily is unraveling. She has been fooled by the farm-to-table tag line – the insinuation of fresher and more flavorful ingredients. Maybe it was still true in the oughts, when this practice first went mainstream. But these days, it seems the rustic authenticity has been looted by poor imitators. Like the dish in front of her right now. The undercooked chickpeas are tough, and dry; they roll around her mouth like tiny marbles. An over-abundance of kale and red cabbage is too bitter for her taste (a memory from a decade ago: her mom complains that in her native Germany, kale would only be allowed at the dinner table after it had been mercilessly stewed with fat and onions). And what’s up with the quinoa? It does not provide the nutty flavor she expects. Quinoa? Is this even grown on a farm anywhere near Halifax?
But she does not want to make fuss. “It’s good, thanks. And yours?” His response – “It’s OK.” – belies her observation that his veggie burger appears dense and crumbly, like it might be cooked sawdust. And his greens plus one lonely tomato is not a side salad in Traci’s cook-book. Hard times are being had by the local farm that purportedly provided those ingredients.
To add insult to her injury, she sees the English couple receive their long-awaited meals. Half-cut, deep-fried chicken and a generous portion of fingerling potatoes for him, and for her, a thick chunk of honey mustard salmon rests upon steaming jasmine rice. Traci feels as if she has just unwrapped socks on a Christmas morning. She vows never again to go vegetarian in a restaurant.
And the replacement glass of water does not arrive.
It would be standard etiquette for two scientists to pause between mouthfuls for work-talk. For example, one might enquire about the other’s latest research highlights. (Traci has already asked that question, and is slighted that Agarwal does not reciprocate). Alternately, one might discuss the latest paper from the lab of Professor Famous, or the content of recent issues of the top journals. Another option is to express disquiet over the difficulties scientists face in securing funding for their work, although that topic will only be introduced if the narrator’s own applications are recently successful. However, an unspoken lack of enthusiasm for their food suppresses the desire to prolong the experience.
This is a restaurant in which servers are trained to snatch away tableware as soon as the diners rest their cutlery. While Grace seizes the plates, Traci requests the check. In her peripheral vision, she glimpses that the GigantoPharm group are leaving. Except for their leader, who detours towards them, weaving between a couple of tables like a course-correcting missile.
His tailored jacket now draws tight across his body. It enhances the athletic appearance of sharp shoulders and narrow waist. Crisp lapels plunge in a deep “V”. His tie is carefully secured into an immaculate Windsor knot. “Allow me to introduce myself. Ted Worthington. And I believe you are Agarwal Rakesh and Traci Weber? Good to meet you both. Please don’t get up.”
It does not surprise Traci that Worthington chose to dine at this restaurant. After all, they are only a ten minute walk from the downtown conference center, where their meeting will shortly begin shortly. It also does not perturb her that he recognizes them; they had been required to attach a snapshot to the resumes they submitted to him some months ago. As for his brief handshake seeming more perfunctory than sincere, that is not troublesome either. Well, it is a bit weird that he insists they remain seated. But to be fair, it has been only about fifty years since Western culture widely adopted a handshake for an initial, mixed-gender introduction. That is why the procedure’s nuances still remain to be resolved. How many pumps? How firm should be the grip – for confidence but not dominance? There are people who still need more time to get used to this novel idea.
But what does bother Traci is that Worthington’s smile is fake. It does not reach his narrowed, cold eyes. Something is not quite right, she thinks.
“We are looking forward to your presentations. We’ll talk more at the conference.”
Worthington turns on his heels. The hasty departure also concerns Traci. Is that disdain? Anger? What is wrong with him?
“He seems a nice guy,” says Agarwal, with childlike innocence.
Grace returns for a final visit. The one where the customer will expect to be thanked for visiting their restaurant, before a follow-up stipulation to enjoy the rest of their day. But pleasantries are not Grace’s style. “They told me at the front desk to let you know that Doctor Worthington from GigantoPharm has paid for your meals.”
This is compensation from a prohibited source. Traci is fully conversant with the legal terminology. She should be, after the number of times she has been indoctrinated with the phrase while enduring Federal ethics training. She could be in deep trouble, if anyone reported this. “No, that can’t happen,” Traci exclaims. “I need to pay for it myself.”
“The company has an account with us,” Grace counters. “It’s already been charged to their credit card. We can’t change that now.”
These events make no sense. It seems harsh to even consider that Worthington has set her up. But has he? She wonders if Agarwal might be able to assist her with this difficult situation, but something from outside the window whisks away his attention.
Whatever he observes, it inspires him. “On our walk here, did you think it strange there are so few seagulls? It's because Nova scares them off.”
Traci shoots him an open-mouthed, what-the-fuck face. She won’t say that out loud. She does not drop F-bombs.
Agarwal cluelessly interprets Traci’s silence as permission to reveal. "She’s a hawk. The waterfront management employs a falconer. I find that a really interesting way to deal with the problem? Don’t you?”