Tom Rachman - The Imperfectionists

"What are you missing?"

"Just something private. Damn it," she says. "It's not worth anything-just sentimental value. A Rubik's Cube, if you must know. It was a present. Anyway…" She sighs. "Are you making a report for the insurance?"

"I hadn't planned to, to be honest." He leans his head out the door and glances down the hall. He returns and, in a whisper, tells her, "I'm not exactly living in my flat legally. It's a commercial space, in the strictest-speaking sense. I can work there, but I'm not supposed to be living there."

"And what's your work?"

"Teaching work."

"What sort?"

"Bit of a nightmare with these coppers, what with me not living there 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 distrust 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 scissors.

"Are you serious?" she says. "Those things are the size of my torso."

"What do you mean by 'torso'?"

"I'm just saying they're big scissors."

"It'll be fine! Don't you worry, Hardy."

He sits on the closed toilet seat. He's now almost the same height as she is standing. She rises on the balls of her feet and snips, handing him the first amputated strand. "This is actually kind of fun," she says, and cuts another. The discarded locks pile up like kindling. His ears, bared now, are bent slightly, like a rabbit's. He raises a mirror. Both are reflected: Rory studying his shorn head; she studying him. He grins at her and she laughs, then catches sight of her own face and recoils, shaking hair from her shoes. "That look okay to you?"

"Looks brilliant. Thanks very much. My head feels so light." He shakes it, like a wet dog. "You know, I'm starting to think getting robbed wasn't so bad after all. I got my stuff back and I got a free haircut out of it."

"Fine for you, maybe. I didn't get all my things back."

The next morning, Hardy awakens thinking of Rory. At noon, she sends him a text message. Thereafter, whenever a mobile beeps she checks hers. But it's never him. She rues having sent that pathetic message ("I still have your underwear!") and hopes that somehow he never received it. After a few hours, she can't bear waiting any longer, so she phones him. He picks up and promises to "pop by" later.

By midnight, he still hasn't showed. She phones again, but no answer.

It's almost 1 A.M. when he appears, grinning, on her doorstep. She makes a point of looking at her watch. "I'll get the stuff now," she says. "It's kind of freezing if you leave the door open like that."

"Should I come in, then?"

"I guess." She fetches the plastic bag containing his underwear. "I hope those weren't your only pairs."

"Course not." He takes them. "I wondered before why a thief would want my underpants. But now I see they're a pretty popular item."

"So, okay, I guess that's all. Or, uhm, did you want a drink or something?"

"Yeah, nice one, yeah. Lovely."

"I have stuff to eat. If you want."

"Super, super." He follows her into the kitchen.

She opens a bottle of Valpolicella and heats up a casserole of lasagna that she had planned to bring to the office. (She cooks abundantly and expertly but eats none of it; she has seen the bricks of butter, shovels of sugar, gallons of double cream that disappeared into the mix, ready to reappear on her hips. So her creations-the Leaning Tower of Potato, the Seattle Swirl Cookies, the Sesame-Crusted Salmon Cakes with Lemon Tarragon Sauce-end up at the paper, spread out for the staff, nibbled by distracted editors, spilled on the carpeting, as she observes from her desk, feeding only on their praise.)

Rory devours the lasagna, downs most of the wine, and chatters, all at once. "Lovely. Super." He tells her about his father, who owns a plumbing company outside Dublin, and his mother, a secretary at a medical-supplies company. He briefly attended university in Ireland but quit short of a degree and traveled to Australia, Thailand, Nepal. Next, he was in New York, working at pubs. He took a class there in improv comedy and performed at an open mike in the East Village. After that, he trekked through Europe, took a ship from Marseille to Naples, passed a few months in the south of Italy, then made his way up to Rome.