Read Online The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman - Free Book Online
Authors: Tom Rachman
Tags: 2010
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explained his business plans to Betty and Leo, and was even more opaque on personal matters. He had a wife, Jeanne, and a young son, Boyd, but had never explained why they remained in Atlanta. Leo sought to tease out details but failed--Ott had the ability to insert full stops in conversations, when and where he wished them .
"EUROPEANS ARE LAZY,
STUDY SAYS"
* * *
BUSINESS REPORTER--HARDY BENJAMIN
HARDY SPENDS HER MORNING ON THE PHONE TO LONDON, PARIS,
and Frankfurt, wheedling quotes from grumpy financial analysts. "Is an interest-rate hike imminent?" she asks. "Is Brussels extending the shoe tariffs? What about the trade imbalance?"
She is unfailingly courteous even when her sources are not.
"Hardy, I'm busy. What do you need?"
"I could call back later."
"I'm busy now; I'm busier later."
"Sorry to be so annoying. Just wondering if you got my voice mail."
"Yes, I know--you're doing another China story."
"I'll be quick, I swear."
"You know my line on China: 'We should all start learning Mandarin. Blah-blah-blah.' Can I go now?"
By midafternoon she has written a thousand words, which is greater than the number of calories she has consumed since yesterday. Hardy is on a diet that started, roughly, at age twelve. She's thirty-six now and still dreaming of butter cookies.
She takes a break at the espresso bar downstairs, where she meets up with her friend Annika, who is unemployed and therefore usually free for coffee. Hardy empties a packet of artificial sweetener over her cappuccino. "Nothing epitomizes the futility of human striving quite like aspartame," she says and sips. "Ah, but this is good."
Meanwhile, Annika floods her caffe macchiato with an endless stream of brown sugar.
They are an unusual duo at the bar: one is pinkish, geeky, short (Hardy); the other is bosomy, stylish, tall (Annika). The pinkish one waves for the barman, but he doesn't notice; the bosomy one nods and he bolts forward.
"You're annoyingly good at hailing boys," Hardy says. "Though it's demeaning how they slobber over you."
"It doesn't demean me."
"It
demeans
me . I want counter staff to treat me like an object," she says. "Did I tell you, by the way, that I had another nightmare about my hair?"
Annika smiles. "You're sick, Hardy."
"In my dream, I was looking in the mirror and I saw this apparition blinking back at me, surrounded by orange frizz. Horrifying." She glimpses herself in the mirror behind the bar and turns from the sight. "Grotesque."
"For the record," Annika says, "I adore your hair." She pulls one of Hardy's curls.
"Look how it boings back. And I love auburn."
"Auburn?" she says, eyebrows raised. "My hair is auburn like carrot soup is auburn." Her cellphone rings, and she drains the last sip of cappuccino. "It's gonna be Kathleen with questions on my story." Hardy assumes her professional voice and answers. But after listening a moment her tone changes to alarm. She responds in Italian, copies down an address, and hangs up. "It was the police," she tells Annika. "My apartment was burglarized. Apparently, they caught a couple of punkabbestia druggies coming out with all my stuff."
Back home, she finds the drawers flung open and food dumped on the floor. In place of her mini stereo and tiny flat-screen TV are wires. Thankfully, her laptop was at the office. Her apartment is on the ground floor and the kitchen window, which gives onto an alley, has been smashed. That's where they entered, the police say. Apparently, the two suspects stuffed all they could into plastic bags, then fled. But the bags--already jammed with stolen goods from another apartment in Trastevere--tore under the weight and disgorged loot all over the roadway outside. The culprits tried to stuff the swag back in, but the commotion attracted the authorities.
On a long table at the police station are strewn her CDs, mini stereo, little flat-screen TV, DVDs, perfume, and jewelry, mixed with the possessions of the other,
"EUROPEANS ARE LAZY,
STUDY SAYS"
* * *
BUSINESS REPORTER--HARDY BENJAMIN
HARDY SPENDS HER MORNING ON THE PHONE TO LONDON, PARIS,
and Frankfurt, wheedling quotes from grumpy financial analysts. "Is an interest-rate hike imminent?" she asks. "Is Brussels extending the shoe tariffs? What about the trade imbalance?"
She is unfailingly courteous even when her sources are not.
"Hardy, I'm busy. What do you need?"
"I could call back later."
"I'm busy now; I'm busier later."
"Sorry to be so annoying. Just wondering if you got my voice mail."
"Yes, I know--you're doing another China story."
"I'll be quick, I swear."
"You know my line on China: 'We should all start learning Mandarin. Blah-blah-blah.' Can I go now?"
By midafternoon she has written a thousand words, which is greater than the number of calories she has consumed since yesterday. Hardy is on a diet that started, roughly, at age twelve. She's thirty-six now and still dreaming of butter cookies.
She takes a break at the espresso bar downstairs, where she meets up with her friend Annika, who is unemployed and therefore usually free for coffee. Hardy empties a packet of artificial sweetener over her cappuccino. "Nothing epitomizes the futility of human striving quite like aspartame," she says and sips. "Ah, but this is good."
Meanwhile, Annika floods her caffe macchiato with an endless stream of brown sugar.
They are an unusual duo at the bar: one is pinkish, geeky, short (Hardy); the other is bosomy, stylish, tall (Annika). The pinkish one waves for the barman, but he doesn't notice; the bosomy one nods and he bolts forward.
"You're annoyingly good at hailing boys," Hardy says. "Though it's demeaning how they slobber over you."
"It doesn't demean me."
"It
demeans
me . I want counter staff to treat me like an object," she says. "Did I tell you, by the way, that I had another nightmare about my hair?"
Annika smiles. "You're sick, Hardy."
"In my dream, I was looking in the mirror and I saw this apparition blinking back at me, surrounded by orange frizz. Horrifying." She glimpses herself in the mirror behind the bar and turns from the sight. "Grotesque."
"For the record," Annika says, "I adore your hair." She pulls one of Hardy's curls.
"Look how it boings back. And I love auburn."
"Auburn?" she says, eyebrows raised. "My hair is auburn like carrot soup is auburn." Her cellphone rings, and she drains the last sip of cappuccino. "It's gonna be Kathleen with questions on my story." Hardy assumes her professional voice and answers. But after listening a moment her tone changes to alarm. She responds in Italian, copies down an address, and hangs up. "It was the police," she tells Annika. "My apartment was burglarized. Apparently, they caught a couple of punkabbestia druggies coming out with all my stuff."
Back home, she finds the drawers flung open and food dumped on the floor. In place of her mini stereo and tiny flat-screen TV are wires. Thankfully, her laptop was at the office. Her apartment is on the ground floor and the kitchen window, which gives onto an alley, has been smashed. That's where they entered, the police say. Apparently, the two suspects stuffed all they could into plastic bags, then fled. But the bags--already jammed with stolen goods from another apartment in Trastevere--tore under the weight and disgorged loot all over the roadway outside. The culprits tried to stuff the swag back in, but the commotion attracted the authorities.
On a long table at the police station are strewn her CDs, mini stereo, little flat-screen TV, DVDs, perfume, and jewelry, mixed with the possessions of the other,
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