by Tom Rachman
"Aren't you part of the board?"
"Yes, but I wasn't at this meeting."
"Well, why didn't you go?"
Someone else mutters, "Who appointed this guy publisher?"
"The report says," Oliver continues, "that ... that it's a question of the business environment. It's not solely the paper--it's the whole of the media. I think. I mean. All I know is what's written in the report."
"Bullshit."
Oliver turns to Kathleen and Abbey.
"Wait a second," Herman Cohen says. "Before we all fly off the handle here, is there something that can be worked out? I'd like to know how final this decision is."
The head technician ignores this and clomps in his Rollerblades closer to Oliver. "You're an asshole, man."
The situation teeters on the edge of violence.
Oliver steps back. "I ... I don't know what to say."
The technician storms out, taking a dozen furious employees with him.
"My kids are at private school," Clint Oakley says. "How am I supposed to pay the fees now? What are they supposed to do?"
"Is the Ott Group offering buyouts?" Hardy Benjamin asks.
"I don't know," Oliver says.
"Not to be blunt," Arthur Gopal interjects, "but what's the purpose of this meeting if you're not able to tell us anything?"
"Would it be possible to talk to someone who can give us a bit more information?" Craig Menzies asks. "Kathleen? Abbey?"
Abbey steps forward. "Mr. Ott is the only person authorized to speak on behalf of the Ott Group." She steps back.
More enraged employees walk out.
"How long have you known this was coming?" someone asks.
"I just found out," Oliver answers.
Several staffers roar with incredulity.
"Total waste of time," someone says.
More people leave.
"Maybe if the Ott Group had tried investing in the paper at some point instead of running this place into the ground, we wouldn't be in this mess."
Oliver leans toward Kathleen. "What do I do?" he whispers. "I think this is getting out of hand. Should we end the meeting?"
"That's your call."
He turns back to the crowd, though it's not much of a crowd any longer. Only a few people stand before him. In various corners of the newsroom, employees commiserate, make unauthorized long-distance calls, put on their coats to leave.
"I'm incredibly sorry," Oliver says. "I keep repeating that, but I don't know what else to say. I'm going to try to get answers to all your questions."
"Could you bring in someone who actually knows something?"
"Yes," he says, nodding at the floor. "Yes. I'll try to get a proper person to come and talk to you."
Even Kathleen and Abbey have gone. It is him alone now, before the last few bewildered staffers. "Uhm, bye," he says.
He is lost for a moment, then stumbles toward Kathleen's office. But midway there he pauses. He turns his head, sweeps the hair from over his ears.
A noise is coming from down there.
Oliver hurries into her office. Abbey and Kathleen are kneeling on the floor.
Between the two women is Schopenhauer, looking not at Oliver but at the wall, in the direction that someone has twisted his neck.
The dog wheezes, his jaw hangs limply, he emits a curious sound. He cannot seem to draw a breath: his lungs expand partly, he winces, his chest falls. He is still lashed to the leg of the desk and Kathleen yanks at the leash. "Damn it!" She pulls the knot apart finally, but to no useful end: Schopenhauer has stopped moving. "Damn it," she repeats. She slaps the leg of the desk. "Damn."
"What happened?" Oliver asks. "I don't understand what happened."
"Someone came in, I think," Kathleen says, "while we all were out there."
But Oliver didn't mean that--he meant, What just happened? He meant, Why is Schopenhauer so quiet?
"This is sick," Abbey says. "Completely sick. And it was someone who works here. Did you notice who left the meeting early?"
"Almost everyone left early," Kathleen replies.
Abbey says, "I'm really sorry, Oliver."
"Extremely sorry," Kathleen says.
"Is he badly hurt?" Oliver asks.
Neither woman responds.
"We have to call the police," Abbey says.
"Don't, please," Oliver says.
"We have to find who did this."
"I'm going to take him now. Let's not," he says, "let's not blame people. I don't want to know who did it. They were all angry with me."
"That doesn't make it okay. This is disgusting."
"It's not anybody's fault," he says.
"Yes, it is," Kathleen insists.
Oliver slides his arms under Schopenhauer's limp body and, with a grunt, lifts the animal. "He always weighs more than I think."
He carries the dog across the newsroom, tugs open the elevator cage with his baby finger and enters, straining for the ground-floor button. But he cannot reach it and must put Schopenhauer down. "Good boy," he says, lowering his friend to the floor. "Good boy." He presses the button and stares up at the ceiling. The elevator rattles for a moment, then descends.
2007. CORSO VITTORIO, ROME
The final days of the paper were fraught. Some employees stopped turning up. Others looted computer equipment in lieu of future wages. A few drank openly, missed deadlines, even scuffled in the newsroom. Then the last day arrived, ended, and they were all, abruptly, free.
Some had jobs lined up, but many did not. A few planned to take time off. Others aimed to get out of journalism altogether. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise, they said, though it was hard to say how.
In Paris, Lloyd Burko was blissfully unaware of the commotion. He hadn't read the paper, or any other news, for months. He and his son, Jerome, lived together, scrimping and getting by, just. Each man believed he was looking after the other. Lloyd cooked with gusto, if badly, for Jerome and his skinny friends, a pleasant bunch of bohemians. They always invited the old man to join in their activities. Lloyd smiled thankfully at their offers but retreated graciously to his room.
To everyone's surprise, it was Arthur Gopal who got the most prestigious job, moving to New York as a reporter for a major newspaper. This was quite a change: doorstepping gunshot victims, getting yelled at by cops, feeding color to rewrite hacks who said things like "Yeah, we know the shooting took place in a soup factory, but what kind of soup?" A year earlier, Arthur had a wife and daughter. It was strange to think of that now, so he did not.
Hardy Benjamin found work in London, reporting on technology for a business newswire. Her Irish boyfriend, Rory, didn't have a job, so she paid the rent for their flat on Tower Hill. She bristled at those who suggested that he was living off her--in this regard alone, she refused to see matters in terms of business.
Kathleen Solson was rehired at her old newspaper in Washington, but to a lower-ranking position. Ultimately, the interlude in Rome hadn't served her career. She and her husband, Nigel, returned to their former apartment near Dupont Circle. She had a few days left before her new job started, so she caught up on the news online, took her books out of boxes, hung the oversize black-and-white photographs. Mostly, though, she wished this liberty were over.
Herman Cohen retired to write a history of the paper. He and his wife, Miriam, bought a house outside Philadelphia, and he told her, This is the last time I move. In the end, he never did start his book--it was so pleasant simply to be near the grandkids. When the little ones visited, he was in heaven, and no matter how much they abused the English language he never corrected their grammar.
Winston Cheung, after a period of sleeping in his parents' basement, found work at an exotic-animal refuge in Minnesota. He adored the job overall but disliked lining the monkey cages with newspaper--even the sight of headlines made him panicky these days. However, this was not to bother him for long: the local paper folded, and he switched to sawdust. Soon, even the monkeys forgot the comf
orts of newspaper.
Ruby Zaga could finally return home to Queens. And it was the last thing she wanted. Rome gave her solace. She had saved money and, in theory, could stay for years without working. The notion petrified her, then excited her. Her family--the beloved nieces, nephews, her brother--could come stay. She'd give them the grand tour. She had spent half her life in Rome. Half her life at the paper. She exhaled: she was free.
Craig Menzies left journalism to work at a lobbying firm in Brussels. He could afford to rent an entire house now and set up a science workshop in the garage. He even toyed with the idea of compiling a proper patent application. Often, he thought of contacting Annika in Rome, where she still lived. He had something to say to her, a point yet to make.
Abbey Pinnola was offered a position at Ott headquarters in Atlanta, but she refused it. She wouldn't uproot her kids, or put an ocean between them and her ex-husband in London, no matter how much she disliked the man. Her next job, she decided, would be in an industry that would never betray her. So she settled on international finance and found a post at the Milan offices of Lehman Brothers.
As for Oliver Ott, he did take a job at headquarters, where he was expected to do nothing, and he did so. He stared out his window over steamy Atlanta, wishing each day to be over. His siblings encouraged him to buy another dog at least.
He attended all the board meetings, voting however everyone demanded, even acceding to the sale of the mansion in Rome and all the paintings inside. At auction, the Modigliani went to an art dealer in New York, the Leger to a private collector in Toronto, the Chagall to a foundation in Tel Aviv, the Pissarro to a gallery in London, and the Turner to a shipping company in Hong Kong, which mounted it behind the receptionist's desk.
As Oliver's siblings debated in the boardroom, he contemplated the portrait of their grandfather. Nobody in that room had met the late patriarch. They knew only the legends: that Ott had fought in World War I and been shot, which took him out of the fighting and probably saved his life. That he'd turned a bankrupt sugar refinery into an empire. Much more was unknown. Why, for example, had Ott gone to Europe and never come back? There had been a woman at the paper, Betty, and some said Ott had had an affair with her. Was that true? She had died in 1979, and the paper's other founding partner, Leo, had passed away in 1990. Who was left to say?
Overnight, the paper disappeared from newsstands, taking with it the front-page banner, the characteristic fonts, the sports pages and the news, the business section and culture, Puzzle-Wuzzle and the obits.
The paper's most loyal reader, Ornella de Monterecchi, trooped down to headquarters to demand that closure be reconsidered. But she had arrived too late. The doorman was kind enough to unlock the vacated newsroom. He turned on the flickering fluorescent beams and left her to wander.
The place was ghostly: abandoned desks and cables leading nowhere, broken computer printers, crippled rolling chairs. She stepped haltingly across the filthy carpeting and paused at the copydesk, still covered with defaced proofs and old editions. This room once contained all the world. Today, it contained only litter.
The paper--that daily report on the idiocy and the brilliance of the species--had never before missed an appointment. Now it was gone.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To begin, I wish to record those who cannot read this. My marvelous battling grandfather Robert Philips (1912-2007) and my dear bookish grandmother Monica Roberts (1911-1996). With them, Charles Dominic Philips (1940-1955), whose memory I intend to store in this book; Nick's birthday was February 10. My uncle and childhood hero, Bernard Rachman (1931-1987). And my uncle Lionel Rachman (1928-2008), one of the most remarkable men ever to stroll into a used bookshop or a racetrack.
Next, those whom I have the fortune to thank directly. My family: wonderful parents, Clare and Jack, who have been so generous, who always surrounded me with books and ideas and such kindness. My sister Emily, the most brilliant advocate, whose astute suggestions, selfless help, and unstoppable enthusiasm have boosted me countless times. My eldest sister, Carla, a splendid ally, providing me with friendship and access to her sublime mind, full of wit and thoughtfulness. My brother, Gideon, endlessly amusing and generous, as well as my favorite columnist, wine purveyor, and Chelsea attacking midfielder. Also, Joel Salzmann, and my nieces Talia and Laura; Olivia Stewart, and my niece Tasha and my nephews, Joe, Adam, and Nat. My cousin and friend Jack Slier, as well as his father, Lionel Slier, another cousin and friend. Also, my warm thanks to Paula, Hayley, and Alicia. In London, Sandra Rachman and Mike Catsis. In Israel, Aviva Rachman and Omri Dan. And in Vancouver, Alice Philips and Greg Oryall.
Now, my friends. Ian Martin, whose humanity, mind, and uppercut have rescued me more than once. His father, Paul Martin (1938-2007), one of my favorite readers--how I'd have loved to have handed him a copy. Hetty Martin, for cups of tea, kosher duck, and other Welsh specialties. From Toronto days, Suzanne Brandreth and Stephen Yach. From New York, Ian Mader, Mareike Schomerus, and Hien Thu Dao. From Vancouver, Valerie Juniper. From Paris, Paul Geitner, Chuck Jackson, and Maureen Brown. From Ankara, Selcan Hacaoglu. From Rome, Jason Horowitz, Daniele Sobrini, Aidan Lewis, and the delightful Rizzo family: Aldo, Margherita, and Benedetta.
Finally, this book would be incomplete without the inclusion of my favorite short story, Alessandra Rizzo, whose patience, support, and affection kept me afloat while I wrote.
Thanks also to my agent, Susan Golomb, for fishing my manuscript from across the pond and doing such marvels with it. Also, Terra Chalberg and Casey Panell of the Susan Golomb Agency. And my editor, Susan Kamil of the Dial Press and Random House, whose wisdom and deft touch helped make The Imperfectionists that much less imperfect. My thanks also to Noah Eaker, Carol Anderson, and all those who worked on the book at Dial and Random House.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in London and raised in Vancouver, TOM RACHMAN is a graduate of the University of Toronto and the Columbia School of Journalism. He has been a foreign correspondent for the Associated Press stationed in Rome, with assignments that have taken him to Japan, South Korea, Turkey, and Egypt, among other places. From 2006 to 2008, he worked as an editor at the International Herald Tribune in Paris. He lives in Rome.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright (c) 2010 by Tom Rachman.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by The Dial Press, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
DIAL PRESS is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Rachman, Tom.
The imperfectionists : a novel / Tom Rachman.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-1-58836-974-1
1. Reporters and reporting--Fiction. 2. Newspaper publishing--Fiction. 3. Newspaper editors--Fiction. I. Title.
PR9199.4.R323157 2010
813'.6--dc22 2009033148
www.dialpress.com
v3.0