The Imperfectionists: A Novel

by Tom Rachman

  She held down the buzzer, ringing the empty house, knowing it to be futile yet pressing till her fingertip went bloodless white. She let go; the house fell silent.

  Without Ott around, Betty and Leo diverged more and more on how to run the paper. They hid their discord at the office, but barely. So it was with trepidation that they greeted news of a visitor from headquarters in Atlanta: Ott's son, Boyd, who was to pass the summer of 1962 in Rome before starting his junior year at Yale.

  Leo, eager to curry favor, lined up a series of glitzy events to impress the young man and dispatched cleaners to dust off the old mansion on the Aventine Hill.

  As a teenager, Boyd had flown to Rome each summer to spend a few weeks with his father. The pinnacle of those visits came when he and his father spoke alone. Even Ott's most cursory remarks entered Boyd as purest fact, as certain as the planets. When each vacation drew to an end, Boyd yearned to stay, to quit school in Atlanta, to live in Rome with his father. But Ott never invited him. On the flight home, the teenager mocked himself mercilessly, recalling his errant remarks, stinging at the memory, deeming himself an idiot, a disgrace.

  Now, two years after his father's death, Boyd had returned to the city, a young man. To everyone's surprise, he spurned Ott's old mansion in favor of a hotel. And he showed no interest in carousing with Leo and the staff. Boyd disdained alcohol, disliked food, and betrayed no sense of humor. His goal in Rome, he said, was to learn the business of newspapering. But he seemed more interested in learning the business of Ott.

  "What did my father think about this?" he asked. "And what did he say about that? What was his plan for the paper?"

  "The kid strikes me as sort of angry," Betty remarked. "Do you get that at all?"

  "Well, I happen to like him," Leo responded, almost scolding.

  "That wasn't what I was saying."

  Not until Boyd returned to Atlanta did Betty and Leo separate. She liked to say, "I got the record player, he got the paper."

  Betty moved back to New York and found a desk job, editing features at a women's magazine that specialized in recipes utilizing cans of condensed mushroom soup. She rented a one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn that overlooked a primary-school playground and, every weekday morning, awoke to children's squeals. She pulled her dressing gown from the nail on the door and sat at the window, watching them: boys wrestling, examining bleeding kneecaps, resuming battle; new girls casting about for friends, digging their hands into pinafore pockets.

  Betty never did return to Rome.

  "THE SEX LIVES OF

  ISLAMIC EXTREMISTS"

  * * *

  CAIRO STRINGER--WINSTON CHEUNG

  HE LIES UNDER THE CEILING FAN, WONDERING HOW TO START.

  Every day in Cairo, news events take place. But where? At what time? He connects his laptop and reads the local press online but remains bewildered. These news conferences--how does one get in? And where does one obtain official statements? He wanders around his neighborhood, Zamalek, vaguely hoping a bomb might explode--not too close, of course, but within safe note-taking distance. He'd make front page of the paper, get his first byline.

  No bombs go off that day, however. Nor in the following days. He checks his email constantly, anticipating a flaming missive from Menzies demanding to know what in hell he's doing. Instead, Winston finds an email from another person trying out for the Cairo stringer position, Rich Snyder, who announces his imminent arrival, ending with the line "Can't wait to see you!"

  That's friendly, Winston thinks. But are we supposed to meet up? He composes a cordial response: "I hope you have a safe flight. Regards, Winston."

  This prompts an immediate answer: "Hope you can pick me up! See you there!"

  He includes his flight number and arrival time.

  Is Winston expected to fetch the man from the airport? Aren't they rivals? Perhaps it's professional courtesy. Nobody from the paper mentioned this. Then again, he hasn't a clue how journalism works. Since he has nothing else to do, he takes a taxi to Cairo International.

  "You came all the way out here--that is so awesome," Snyder says. He grips the younger man's shoulder and lets a bag slide from his own. Snyder is nearing fifty and wears an army surplus jacket and a white T-shirt, souvenir dog tags clinking around his neck. A corona of thick curly hair encircles his head and pinprick eyes dart about under a thick brow. It's hard for Winston to ignore: Snyder resembles a baboon.

  "Wicked to be back in the Mideast," Snyder says. "I am so exhausted, you have no idea. Just got back from the AIDS conf."

  "The AIDS what?"

  "The AIDS conference in Bucharest. It's so dumb--I hate getting awards. And journalism is not a competition. It's not about that, you know. But whatever."

  "You won an award?"

  "No big deal. Just for the series I did for the paper on Gypsy AIDS babies. You saw that, right?"

  "Uhm, I think maybe. Possibly."

  "Bro, where have you been? It got suggested for a Pulitzer."

  "You've been nominated for a Pulitzer Prize?"

  "Suggested," Snyder specifies. "Suggested for one. What pisses me off is that the international community refuses to act. It's like nobody cares about Gypsy AIDS babies.

  In terms of the Pulitzer." He points to his carry-on bag. "You mind lugging that to the car? I've got serious vertebrae issues. Cheers." He snaps open his cellphone to check the screen. "I'm totally paranoid--keep thinking I'm gonna call someone by mistake while I'm talking about them. This thing is off, right?" He snaps it shut. "I love Kathleen," he continues. "Don't you love her? She is so great. When she was at her old job, Kath was always trying to hire me as, like, Washington's main national-desk writer. But I was deep in Afghanistan at the time, so I was, like, 'Appreciate that, but your timing sucks.' She's still kicking herself. Missed ops. Whatever. You dig her?"

  "Kathleen? I don't know her that well--I only met her once, actually, at a conference in Rome."

  Snyder continues snapping his mobile open and shut. "Entre nous," he confides,

  "she's a bitch. Those aren't my words. That's what people say, entre nous. I myself hate the word 'bitch.' But I'm a feminist." He checks his phone. "Keep that entre nous, 'kay?"

  "That you're a feminist?"

  "No, no--tell people that. I'm saying, entre nous, Kathleen is out of her league, according to some people. Some say 'affirmative action,' though personally I find that term offensive." He walks out to the airport parking lot. "Feel that heat, bro! Which ride is us?"

  "I thought we could share a taxi."

  Blinking in the sun, Snyder turns to Winston. "How old are you, anyway?

  Seventeen?"

  Winston gets this a lot--puberty left little trace on him; he still can't grow stubble.

  He attempts to age himself by wearing a suit, but in this muggy climate the most salient effect is sweat; he walks around wiping his face and fogged glasses, generally looking like a panicky congressional page. "I'm twenty-four."

  "Little baby," Snyder says. "When I was your age, where was I? In Cambodia reporting on the Killing Fields? Or with the rebels in Zaire? I forget. Whatever. Get the cab door? My back is a mess. Appreciate that." Snyder stretches across the backseat of the taxi. "Dude," he declares, "let's commit some journalism."

  Winston compresses himself into the smidgen of backseat not occupied by his rival. The cabbie swivels around, restlessly awaiting instruction, but Snyder continues chattering.

  Tentatively,

  Winston

  interjects,

  "Sorry, which hotel are you in?"

  "No worries, bro--we can drop you at your place first."

  Winston recites his address to the driver.

  "Ah," Snyder remarks, an eyebrow raised. "You speak Arabic."

  "Not perfectly." He only started studying the language a few weeks earlier, having learned about this stringer position via an email exchange with Menzies. Previously, Winston had been studying primatology at grad school in Minnesota. But, sufferi
ng grave doubts about a future within the confines of academia, he made a radical shift, quitting the program to remake himself into a foreign correspondent.

  "I'm sure you're awesome at Arabic," Snyder insists. "I remember when I was in the Philippines during People Power back in the 1980s, and everyone's all, like, 'Oh, man, Tagalog is so hard.' And I'm, like, 'Bull.' And within days I'm, like, picking up chicks in Tagalog and stuff. That was after two days. Languages are totally overrated."

  "So your Arabic must be excellent."

  "Actually, I never speak foreign languages anymore," he explains. "I used to get so keyed into cultures that it was unhealthy. So I only talk in English now. Helps me maintain my objectivity." He squeezes Winston's shoulder. "I'm dying to work out, bro.

  Where's your gym? You got a gym out here, right? I'm into extreme sports myself: ultramarathons, kitesurfing, tennis. I still got buddies on the tennis circuit. Back in the day, they kept bugging me to turn pro and I was, like, 'I got nothing to prove.'" He gazes out the window, flexing a pectoral muscle. "Where did you come from anyhow?"

  "Near

  Minneapolis."

  "Dude," Snyder interrupts, "I mean, where were you working before this?"

  "Ah, right, right. Uhm, I freelanced mainly. A bunch of local Minnesota publications." This is a lie: his last piece of writing was a college essay on teaching monkeys sign language (a bad idea, it turns out).

  But, thankfully, Snyder isn't interested in fact-checking. "How many places have I reported from now?" he says. "Can't remember. Like, sixty-three? I'm including countries that don't exist anymore. Is that allowed? Whatever. It's just a number, right? How many you up to?"

  "Not that many."

  "Like,

  fifty?"

  "Ten, maybe." Winston hasn't even visited ten countries.

  "Ten versus sixty-three. I doubt they'll take that into consideration when filling this job." He smirks.

  "This is a full job, then? Menzies said in his email that it was just a stringer position."

  "Is that what they told you?" He snorts. "Sonsabitches."

  They arrive at Winston's apartment in Zamalek. Snyder gets out, too, rolls his neck, and jogs on the spot. "Stops blood clots," he explains. "Could you get my bag?

  Hey, thanks."

  "But are you staying nearby?"

  "Was just gonna grab a quick shower chez toi, if that's cool .'"

  "What about your hotel?"

  "Look, bro, it's just water--if you don't want me to use your precious shower, say so. I did just get off a massive flight. But whatever."

  The cabdriver thrusts out his hand.

  "Only got Romanian currency, dude," Snyder tells him.

  So

  Winston

  pays.

  An hour later, Snyder emerges from the bathroom, one of Winston's towels wrapped around his midriff. He climbs into a pair of camouflage cargo pants and lets the towel fall to the carpet, briefly baring his bushy loins. Winston turns away but is not quick enough, condemning himself to the sight of Snyder tucking his penis down the left trouser leg. "Commando style," he says, buttoning his pants. "Always go commando style."

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  "So," Snyder goes on, "how long you been in this place?"

  "A couple of weeks. This woman called Zeina, who went to my college, works here as a wire-service reporter. I found her through the alumni list. She's renting me the place short-term."

  "And you got Internet access?"

  "Yes,

  why?"

  "Need to check something." He settles in at Winston's laptop. As he reads, he exclaims constantly: "Can you believe that!" or "That is wild!"

  "How long do you think you'll be here?"

  "Do you not want me here or something?" Snyder says, spinning around.

  "Just that I might need the Internet later."

  "Awesome." Snyder turns back to the laptop.

  By early evening, he is still at the computer, rising only to gorge himself on Winston's food and spread his possessions across the floor. Various items of Snyder's--a hairbrush, Kevlar messenger bag, sports socks, deodorant spray--appear on the carpet around him in a widening radius. The baboon is marking his territory.

  "Sorry," Winston says finally, "but I really need to get going. I have to log you off."

  "What's the big rush, man?"

  "I need to eat."

  "I'm totally finished here. Gimme a sec. Let's go to Paprika together. I love that place." A half hour goes by. "I'm done now. Totally done." Another half hour passes.

  "Just join me when you're finished," Winston says, clenching and unclenching his fists.

  "Relax,

  bro!"

  At 11 P.M., Snyder logs off. Finally, they step outside. "Where's my key?"

  "How do you mean?"

  "If you're still at the restaurant when I get back, I'll be locked out," Snyder says.

  "All my stuff is inside."

  "You're not coming to dinner?"

  "Did you think I was? Ohmigod! I hope you weren't waiting for me. No way. That is hilarious. But I'll totally be back before you. The keys?" He plucks them from Winston's hand. "Awesome, man--you're totally awesome." He jogs down the street, waving for a cab.

  "Hang on," Winston cries. "Wait."

  "Dude," Snyder calls back. "I'll be gone, like, ten minutes. I'll be back before you've even ordered." He jumps into a cab and is gone.

  By this hour, all the local restaurants have closed. There is a twenty-four-hour deli, Maison Thomas, but it's shut for renovation. Winston resorts to a grubby convenience store. He buys potato chips, a candy bar, a can of Mecca-Cola, and consumes the lot outside the apartment complex, studying his watch and feeling horribly reduced by the whole Rich Snyder experience.

  At 3 A.M., Snyder ambles back. "Ohmigod, what are you doing outside?"

  "You have the keys," Winston replies.

  "Where's

  yours?"

  "You have them."

  "Well, that was dumb." Snyder unlocks the door. "I'm taking the bed because of my back." He flops diagonally across the mattress. "You're cool with the armchair, right?"

  "Not

  especially."

  But Snyder is already snoring. Winston would dearly love to throw this guy out.

  However, he desperately needs instruction from someone who understands journalism.

  Winston studies Snyder with distaste, splayed out there across the bed. Perhaps this is how journalists are supposed to act. Winston settles down in the armchair.

  At nine, Snyder shakes him awake. "What've you got for breakfast, guy?" He pulls open the fridge door. "Somebody needs to go shopping. Dude, we got, like, thirty minutes."

  "Till

  what?"

  "We'll start with man-on-the-street. I know it's bull, but that's the job."

  "Sorry, I don't understand."

  "Translations--I'm letting you interpret for me. I told you, I never compromise my objectivity by speaking foreign languages."

  "But I have my own articles I'm working on."

  "Like?"

  "I was thinking of writing something on the U.S. peace initiative--Abbas and Olmert might start holding regular meetings, I heard."

  Snyder smiles. "Don't write about diplomacy. Write about human beings. The tapestry of human experience is my press office."

  "Is that a joke?"

  "How do you mean?"

  "Or something on Iran and nuclear weapons, maybe."

  "Writing about Tehran from Cairo? Ouch. Listen, dude, let me tell you a story.

  Back when I was reporting from Bosnia, I heard that shit was going down in Srebrenica. I didn't say a word to anyone, got in my Lada, drove there. Along the way, I bump into some aid groupie. She's, like, 'Where you going, Snyder?' I'm, like, 'Vacation.'"

  "I don't get it."

  "If I'd said one word to her, Srebrenica would have been swarming with even more aid groupies and reporters and shit. And where would I have bee
n? I was, like, a day ahead of everyone on the massacre. Ever since, The New York Times has been aching to hire me. Till this big-shot editor there says I don't fit their culture or something. I was, like, I wouldn't work for you guys anyway."

  "It must have been pretty upsetting."

  "Not getting the Times job?"

  "Covering

  a

  massacre."

  "Oh,

  totally."

  "But," Winston says uncertainly, "I vaguely remember some other reporter breaking the Srebrenica massacre."