Read Online The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tom Rachman
Tags: 2010
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officially in the formal sense. I thought about not picking up my things at all. But I needed these." He touches the pile of boxers, grinning.
"Okay, but my insurance has nothing to do with you living in a commercial space."
"They might start sniffing around, don't you think?"
"Sorry--what did you say you teach, Rory?"
"Improv," he says. "And juggling."
"Not at the same time, I hope."
"Sorry?"
"Doesn't matter. Where are you from in Ireland? County Cork, by any chance?
Everyone I meet from Ireland seems to be from County Cork. I think it must be empty by now."
"No, no--lots of people there," he responds guilelessly. "Is that what you're hearing? That it's emptied out?"
"I'm joking. Anyway, back to business. My insurance company isn't going to be interested in you, so I will have to file a report. The burglars smashed my window, and in Rome that's going to cost me a fortune."
"A window? Is that all? Jesus, I can sort that out."
"You're going to replace my window?"
"Sure."
"How?"
"Put in some glass."
"You yourself will?"
"Absolutely."
"Okay,
but
when?"
"Right now, if you like."
"I can't--I have to get back to work. Plus, don't you need materials?"
"Like
what?"
"Glass, for example."
"Ah," he says, nodding. "You have a point."
"I don't want to be difficult here, but it took the police practically two weeks to track you down. I can't spend my life corralling you into fixing my window."
"You don't trust me?"
"It's not that I dis trust you. I just don't know you."
"Here, take my business card." He hands her one, then removes his watch. "You can keep this, too, as a deposit till I fix your window."
"Your digital watch?"
"If you don't want that, take your pick--anything you like from the table." His junk is laid out there: CDs, dog-eared spy thrillers, the Catholic catechism, the boxer shorts.
A smile crosses her face. She glances at him. She sweeps the boxers into her duffel bag. "Now that's a deposit."
"You can't take those!" he exclaims. "What am I gonna wear?"
"What have you been wearing this past week?"
At the espresso bar, she tells Annika about the Irishman. "And I stole his boxers."
"Why would you take some old guy's underwear?"
"He's a kid, actually. From Ireland. Has blond dreadlocks."
"Dreadlocks on a white guy? That is sad."
"I know, but he's tall, which makes it slightly less horrific. Doesn't it? I'm a total idiot, though--I ran out without leaving him my contact details."
"Look, you've got the guy's underwear--he'll turn up."
But he doesn't. She phones the number on his business card and leaves a message.
He doesn't call back. She leaves another. Again, no response. Finally, she visits his address, which looks like a boarded-up garage. He answers the door, blinking at the daylight. "Well, hello there!" He stoops to her low altitude and kisses her cheek. She pulls away in surprise. He says, "I clean forgot. You know that--I clean bloody forgot about your window. Aren't I terrible! I am sorry. I'll sort that out for you right now."
"Actually, I'm going to have to file that insurance claim."
He toys with a dreadlock. "I should get rid of these stupid things. Don't you think?"
"I don't know."
"Bit of a tradition about them. One of my odysseys."
"Odysseys?"
"Like,
trademarks."
"You
mean
'oddities'?"
"Daft, though, aren't they. Come on--you chop them for me. All right?" He beckons her in.
"What are you talking about?"
"I give you scissors. You cut them off."
His place was clearly not intended as a living space. It is windowless and illuminated solely by a halogen lamp in the corner. A yellowing mattress is pushed against the wall, with a battered backpack beside it, a heap of clothing, juggling balls and clubs, a toolbox, and his spy thrillers and catechism. A basin and a toilet are affixed to the wall, without a divider for privacy. The room smells of old pizza. He rummages in the toolbox and emerges with a pair of industrial
"Okay, but my insurance has nothing to do with you living in a commercial space."
"They might start sniffing around, don't you think?"
"Sorry--what did you say you teach, Rory?"
"Improv," he says. "And juggling."
"Not at the same time, I hope."
"Sorry?"
"Doesn't matter. Where are you from in Ireland? County Cork, by any chance?
Everyone I meet from Ireland seems to be from County Cork. I think it must be empty by now."
"No, no--lots of people there," he responds guilelessly. "Is that what you're hearing? That it's emptied out?"
"I'm joking. Anyway, back to business. My insurance company isn't going to be interested in you, so I will have to file a report. The burglars smashed my window, and in Rome that's going to cost me a fortune."
"A window? Is that all? Jesus, I can sort that out."
"You're going to replace my window?"
"Sure."
"How?"
"Put in some glass."
"You yourself will?"
"Absolutely."
"Okay,
but
when?"
"Right now, if you like."
"I can't--I have to get back to work. Plus, don't you need materials?"
"Like
what?"
"Glass, for example."
"Ah," he says, nodding. "You have a point."
"I don't want to be difficult here, but it took the police practically two weeks to track you down. I can't spend my life corralling you into fixing my window."
"You don't trust me?"
"It's not that I dis trust you. I just don't know you."
"Here, take my business card." He hands her one, then removes his watch. "You can keep this, too, as a deposit till I fix your window."
"Your digital watch?"
"If you don't want that, take your pick--anything you like from the table." His junk is laid out there: CDs, dog-eared spy thrillers, the Catholic catechism, the boxer shorts.
A smile crosses her face. She glances at him. She sweeps the boxers into her duffel bag. "Now that's a deposit."
"You can't take those!" he exclaims. "What am I gonna wear?"
"What have you been wearing this past week?"
At the espresso bar, she tells Annika about the Irishman. "And I stole his boxers."
"Why would you take some old guy's underwear?"
"He's a kid, actually. From Ireland. Has blond dreadlocks."
"Dreadlocks on a white guy? That is sad."
"I know, but he's tall, which makes it slightly less horrific. Doesn't it? I'm a total idiot, though--I ran out without leaving him my contact details."
"Look, you've got the guy's underwear--he'll turn up."
But he doesn't. She phones the number on his business card and leaves a message.
He doesn't call back. She leaves another. Again, no response. Finally, she visits his address, which looks like a boarded-up garage. He answers the door, blinking at the daylight. "Well, hello there!" He stoops to her low altitude and kisses her cheek. She pulls away in surprise. He says, "I clean forgot. You know that--I clean bloody forgot about your window. Aren't I terrible! I am sorry. I'll sort that out for you right now."
"Actually, I'm going to have to file that insurance claim."
He toys with a dreadlock. "I should get rid of these stupid things. Don't you think?"
"I don't know."
"Bit of a tradition about them. One of my odysseys."
"Odysseys?"
"Like,
trademarks."
"You
mean
'oddities'?"
"Daft, though, aren't they. Come on--you chop them for me. All right?" He beckons her in.
"What are you talking about?"
"I give you scissors. You cut them off."
His place was clearly not intended as a living space. It is windowless and illuminated solely by a halogen lamp in the corner. A yellowing mattress is pushed against the wall, with a battered backpack beside it, a heap of clothing, juggling balls and clubs, a toolbox, and his spy thrillers and catechism. A basin and a toilet are affixed to the wall, without a divider for privacy. The room smells of old pizza. He rummages in the toolbox and emerges with a pair of industrial
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