The Portable Veblen: Shortlisted for the Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction 2016. Elizabeth McKenzie

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СКАЧАТЬ if a device was like something else already approved. “Between you and me, it’s unique. But you could easily say it’s like the Voltar pneumatic hole punch or Abata’s Cranio-locum.”

      Her eyes sparkled and he felt wonderful. “Could it save the government money?”

      “Oh my god, yes. And obviously, a lot of people’s lives would be much better.”

      She leaned forward, to whisper. “What’s your contract situation?”

      “I’m up for renewal at the end of the year,” whispered Paul, nervously rocking back in his chair.

      “Has the Technology Transfer Office seen this yet?” she asked huskily.

      “Funny you ask. I’m just finishing my report for them right now.”

      “I see. Can I ask you something?”

      “Ask away.”

      “If I get back to you in a couple of days, will you let me take the first look?”

      “Sure, but—”

      “I think it’s a no-brainer.”

      “Ouch.”

      “What?”

      “You said it’s a no-brainer.”

      “I practiced that.”

      They walked to the hospital lobby together, Paul carrying her tote bag to the door. She gave him a European-style kiss on his left cheek, and his catecholamines soared.

      She called in two days, to inform him that Development at Hutmacher was very interested in his device. It seemed that Cloris Hutmacher was a scout for her family’s company, prowling med schools and biotech companies for the latest discoveries that exceeded her company’s resources to discover in their own labs. She could boast of finding a new drug for arthritis at UCLA, and another that blocked harmful proteins within cell walls at UC Santa Barbara, all on her own initiative. Of course, Paul’s device was a high risk Class III and would need to be tested in a clinical trial, but that was no obstacle at all. The VA center in Menlo Park was available as a testing site, and it was possible, in fact probable, that Paul could be the primary investigator in a trial there, making a niche for himself testing other patents relevant to the Department of Defense that were being licensed by Hutmacher. Hutmacher had numerous DOD contracts, she told him, and was dedicated to the men and women of the armed forces. He would be ideal.

      Paul thought he would be too, but when he brought it up with his mentor, Lewis Chaudhry, Chaudhry was flatly lacking in enthusiasm.

      “This project is nowhere near ready for that, Paul. You have yet to do your randomized study, you’ve had no peer reviews, nothing! Are they planning to piggyback it on a 510(k)?”

      Paul admitted they were. “You know what an uphill battle it is to market anything. They’re saying it’s a major breakthrough and they can move it into practical application really fast. Isn’t that worth doing?”

      Chaudhry stepped back with thinly disguised contempt. “So, Paul, how big was the gift basket?”

      And Paul felt sorry for the stodgy old termagant and went directly to the Technology Transfer Office to work out the details. And when he met Cloris later that week, at the office of Hutmacher’s attorneys, Shrapnal and Boone, in Burlingame, and he was presented with a signing bonus in cash and stock options as well as a huge gift basket filled with bottles of champagne, fancy chocolates, aged wheels of French cheese, and even a sterling silver knife in a blue box from Tiffany & Co., Paul could see no reason not to own the moment.

      Then, when Cloris invited him up to her place in Atherton, he wasn’t exactly surprised. He was easing into his new incarnation pretty suavely, he thought. As he followed her white Tesla Roadster up the hill, through the gate, to the house that had been built in the manner of a French château, sandstone covered with ivy, a front door thick and iron strapped, opening like a castle, he felt overwhelmed with fate and consequence. What if she fell in love with him? What if they married? What if the elder Hutmacher took him under his wing and told the world he was a visionary? What if he became president of the company after the old man was gone, and had a private jet? What if he and Cloris became goodwill ambassadors for UNICEF, distributing medical supplies throughout Africa, stopping in dusty towns to confer with Bono and Angelina Jolie? What if everyone from his hometown, Garberville, found out? What if the psycho-bitch mother of his high school girlfriend, Millie Cuthbertson, committed hara-kiri on a bamboo mat, and coyotes paraded her entrails down every street in town?

      Cloris showed off her office with its high view of the peninsula, and he lingered to admire a wall of tightly framed photo ops, including, but not limited to Cloris and her father, Boris Hutmacher, with George H. W. Bush, Cloris and her father with Bill and Hillary, Cloris with George W. Bush, Cloris and her father with President Obama, Cloris with Mick Jagger, Cloris with the Dalai Lama, Cloris with the Pope, and …

      “Where’s Cloris with god?”

      She squeezed his arm.

      Certificates of appreciation studded the walls, from charities and boards, medical, environmental, inner city, whippet societies. It seemed there wasn’t anyone Cloris couldn’t be appreciated by.

      Just then, the monitor on the desk began to ring like a phone, and Cloris said, “It’s Morris calling. Our weekly Skype. Do you mind?”

      “Who’s Morris?”

      “My son.”

      “I didn’t know you had a son.”

      “Yes. Divorced three years ago. He’s eight.”

      “Oh.”

      “Don’t worry, this will only take a minute,” she said.

      “Please, take as long as you want,” Paul said, and he went away to wait.

      He let himself out the French doors onto a sweeping sandstone piazza, appointed with various clusters of wrought iron chairs, ceramic pots embossed with fleur-de-lis, and an inverted copper fountain that funneled into the earth. Across the lawn stood a rose arbor, its few leaves yellowed and spotted with black. From there, one could see up the coastal ranges north and south, the Dumbarton Bridge crossing the bay to Fremont, and the San Mateo Bridge beyond. For some reason, all he could think about at that moment was how he was going to tell his status-conscious friend Hans Borg about this. Maybe he’d be in a position to finagle some contracts for Hans, of course he would! He’d send his parents on the big trip they’d always wanted to take, and he’d hire a full-time caretaker to manage his brother, Justin, with an iron fist.

      But they would never allow that. Deflated by the inescapable specter of his disabled brother, Paul wandered past the pool and pool house, admiring the château from every angle, until he found himself before a marble goddess skirted by camellia and heard Cloris’s voice through the windows. He could see her fine head before the large monitor in conversation with her son, who appeared to be slightly rotund, wearing a horizontally striped sweater that emphasized his girth. He had reddish hair and a galaxy of freckles, and his sniffles were amplified with sorrowful fidelity.

      “I told you I don’t have time for this,” Cloris said.

      The boy sobbed.

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