Tom Rachman - The Imperfectionists

The crowd murmurs as he climbs onto the stage. He tugs the microphone baffle down tight, shades his eyes from the spotlight. "All right," he says.

"Who is this guy?" a drunk bellows.

Rory identifies himself.

Derisory hellos spray back at him.

Hardy squeezes Annika's leg again. "I can't bear this."

"What are you worried about?"

Rory begins his routine. "The Internet is amazing, isn't it." He clears his throat. "Did you realize the U.S. military invented it? It's true. I read that. They wanted to be sure that if there was a nuclear war everyone would still be able to get pornography." He pauses for laughter.

No one laughs.

"And," he persists, "come to think of it, if the world was at the brink of destruction, with Armageddon and all that, perhaps a bit of a wank would be in order."

A few dubious snorts.

Hardy closes her eyes and lets go of Annika's leg.

"Since this is a Vatican crowd," he continues gamely, "I thought I'd talk about religion. I'm a Catholic myself. In the Bible there's that section on God killing everyone in Sodom and Gomorrah. But I don't get it. I mean, we know why everyone in Sodom got punished. But what did the Gomorrans ever do to anybody?"

Once more, the room is silent.

"This," Menzies whispers, "is what's known in comedy circles as 'dying.'"

"That's not helpful," Annika responds.

"I feel like I'm going to be sick," Hardy says. "I have to get out of here. Is it going to be obvious? I don't want to hurt his feelings."

"Maybe it'll get better."

Rory changes topics. "Let me tell you about my girlfriend. This girl-have you heard of the biological clock? Hers is at about half-past midnight. She is so desperate, you have no idea."

"Maybe," Annika suggests hurriedly, "you should take this opportunity to go to the toilets."

Hardy hustles away.

As she passes the bathroom mirror, she raises her hand to block the reflection and enters a stall, sits, her chin on her hands. The echo of Rory's voice drifts in. She plugs her ears. After ten minutes, Annika taps on her stall. "It's safe to come back now."

"I drank too much-that's the story if he noticed."

"Gotcha."

"You seem kind of weird," Hardy says.

"Did you not hear his act?"

"No. Why?"

"It was totally inappropriate. All sorts of private stuff about you. I'm extremely pissed off right now."

"I don't want to know."

"I'm tempted to punch him."

"What should I do?" Hardy asks.

"I can't tell you." Her expression, however, does.

Rory is at the bar, seeking the bartender.

"So?" Hardy says, trying to sound enthused. "How'd you think it went? Did you enjoy it?"

"Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant." He clearly didn't notice her absence.

"Let's snag that table in the corner," she says.

"We're not going back with the others?"

"They're in the middle of a talk. Let's give them a few minutes."

A U2 cover band plays its first set. During the intermission, Annika and Menzies, their coats on, stop at Hardy and Rory's table. "We're off now, I'm afraid."

Hardy stands and gives Annika a hug.

"You all right?" Annika asks.

Hardy doesn't respond.

For the rest of the week, she finds ways out of their afternoon coffee break.

"Kathleen has me slaving away on a massive takeout," she tells Annika by phone.

"What's the subject?"

"It's supposed to be called 'Europeans Are Lazy.'"

"I don't believe you."

"I'm serious. What kind of deranged person lies about differential rates of labor productivity?"

"You, probably. I want coffee. You must come. I command you."

"I can't. I'm sorry." Hardy adds, "I know you don't like him, by the way."

"What does that have to do with anything? And I don't dislike him. I just… He's sucking all the funny out of you."

"I'm still funny. I'm just not funny ha-ha. More funny weird."

"Nothing new there."

"I don't want to get into my situation with Rory. It's fine. I'm happy about it."

"You don't seem any more happy than you were before."

"Well, you're wrong."

"Why are you getting angry?" Annika says.

"I'm not."

"I just think you have to have standards."

"Thanks."

"I don't mean it like that."

"What am I supposed to do?" Hardy says. "Be furious? Outrage hasn't gotten me anywhere, ever."

"Are you in love with this guy?"

"Look, I stopped waiting for that particular sentiment sometime around 1998. At this stage, I'm satisfied if he can reach the top shelf without using my ladle."

"But this guy?"

"You have to understand, Annika, that I have pretty much resigned myself to spinsterhood since, I don't know, since approximately my entire life. But just because I act chirpy about it doesn't mean that I'm chirpy about it. You have Menzies. Me? I dread weekends. How depressing is that? I wish I didn't have vacation time-I have no idea what to do with it. It's like a four-week reminder of what a loser I am. I don't have anyone to go anywhere with. Look at me-I'm practically forty and I still resemble Pippi Longstocking."

"Quit it."

"Are you saying I should dump him? Wait for true love? And if that doesn't happen? I can't count on my friends. You guys all have other things to do-husbands, families. Anyway, it's not as if your man is about to set the world ablaze."

"Menzies is Menzies. At least he's smart."

"Brains don't keep me warm at night."

"This guy is taking advantage of you."

"No one takes advantage of me. Not without my say-so."

After this, their tradition of afternoon coffee breaks ends.

But Hardy barely notices-she's too occupied. Rory is set to move in.

When the day arrives, his Italian hippie friends turn up to help move boxes. She has promised to cook a hearty meal in exchange for their labors, and the loading and unloading is a jolly affair, sploshed with cheap red wine. Fortunately, Rory owns nothing of value and his few possessions survive the increasingly inebriated moving team.

"Is that it?" she asks.

"I think so." He pats her on the top of her head.

"What was that for?" She pulls him down by the shoulders to her height and kisses him, pressing as hard as she can, then draws back, her hands against his face. She lets go. "I'm going over to your place to give it a final clean."

"No need for that," he says.

"I know, but it's polite."

The evening air is crisp, and dusky Trastevere is unusually tranquil. She breathes out contentedly and unlocks his old apartment. It's a terrible mess. She shakes her head indulgently.

She wipes down the stubble-clogged sink, gathers a discarded razor and a strand of dental floss. Old pizza boxes are folded up everywhere. She sweeps and airs out the walk-in closet, which tinkles with metal hangers.

She notices something: dumped in the corner is her old Rubik's Cube, the one that the burglars stole.

She is still for nearly a minute.

Beneath the toy are a few of her CDs that were never recovered, and rings that went missing, too; Rory must have helped himself before she arrived at the police station. On the panels of the Rubik's Cube are letters in her father's handwriting. It was a present on her fourteenth birthday and he wrote a wish in marker on the squares, then scrambled the puzzle so that she had to solve it in order to read the message. But the cube is scrambled again now, spelling nonsense: RYH and HEE and AYR. Mechanically, she twists it back into its correct position, reviving the message, which is composed horizontally across four sides:

To this day, her father in Boston is the only person who Hardy knows esteems her. With the rest, she must be clever, must cook sublimely. Her father's affection alone is unconditional. Yet it has been years since she has returned home; she can't be in his company anymore. Each time they meet, his expression states so fixedly: how is it possible that you are still alone?