Tom Rachman - The Imperfectionists

"See, you're getting defensive."

"I'm not."

"Do we continue this, Kath? It's turning kind of unpleasant."

"No, no. I'm interested."

"I'm just someone who-"

"Who wanted a more submissive woman."

"Maybe less aggressive. Is that bad?"

"You should have gone for Ruby from the start."

"I know you're kidding, but that's probably what attracted me to her."

"You're attracted to women who sob when you buy them a drink?"

He doesn't respond.

She says, "Sorry. It's funny, though-you hated that I made you submissive. And I hated that you were so passive, that I was always the one initiating it. You know? But God, you make it sound like I was forcing myself on you, slobbering all over."

"There was a little slobbering," he jokes.

She laughs.

"There," she says, exhaling. "That wasn't so hard. Any other thoughts about me?"

"Not really," he says, hesitating. "Well, one tiny thing-not sexual. Just that I always thought you were kind of an instrumentalist with people. Can I say that in English? I mean, you were always looking to gain something. I remember watching you meet people-I could see the cogs turning in your mind. Doing calculations."

"You make me sound horrendous. I'm the person who you-" She balks at saying loved. "Who you claim to have liked so much."

"I don't mean this as criticism."

"No, no, it sounds like a huge compliment," she says sarcastically. "But is it possible that your view is colored by how I left?"

"I don't care about that now. I'm happy you went. If you'd stayed, I wouldn't have met my wife, I wouldn't have had Massi. I did love you. But the thing about you back then was that you were completely conditional."

"As opposed to what? To stupid? I hope I was conditional. Everything intelligent is conditional."

"That's a strange thought."

"So, to summarize: I'm emasculating, calculating, and unloving. What a nice portrait. If I was any of that stuff, it was inexperience. I was in my twenties. But," she continues, "I have to wonder if you're not being slightly naive here. I mean, are you saying you want nothing from people? You have no motives? Everybody has motives. Name the person, the circumstances, I'll name the motive. Even saints have motives-to feel like saints, probably."

"That's pretty cynical."

"It's realistic."

"Which is what cynics always say. But honestly, Kath, do you calculate everything? Even in your private life?"

"Maybe not. Not like I used to. I was a bit bad that way with you, I admit. But still, the point of any relationship is obtaining something from another person."

"I can't see it that way."

"So why do you kiss someone?" she asks. "To give pleasure or to take it?"

At dinner that evening, Nigel irritates her. The paper, he complains, has already published a look-ahead to the World Economic Forum in Davos, though it's weeks away, while there hasn't been a word on the World Social Forum in Nairobi. The mainstream media care only about rich white guys, he says. She notes that the paper has no reporters in Africa and so couldn't cover the World Social Forum. He opens his mouth to contest the point, then closes it.

"You are allowed to disagree," she says.

"I know."

"That's all you're going to say? How about: 'The fact that you don't bother to hire anyone in Africa only proves what I'm saying'? Or, 'A setup story doesn't need to be written with a Kenya dateline'? Both of which would be pretty good arguments. You could even roll out your thing about the paper's European-to-African ratio. What is it? 'One dead white man equals twenty dead Africans'? None of that tonight? Just because you're feeling guilty doesn't mean you have to be a pushover, Nigel."

"Feeling guilty?"

"I'm guessing it's over your girlfriend."

"What are you talking about?"

"The English girl. Right?"

He goes into the bathroom. After a few minutes of silence, the faucet runs. Once it stops, he remains there, in hiding. She takes this as confirmation. When he emerges, a conversation will ensue. He must be sitting on the edge of the bathtub, hunting for a way out of this mess. What will result from the coming confrontation? What if he's seriously entangled with this English girl? Kathleen is annoyed with herself-she's still raw from Dario's critique and has misplayed this exchange.

Nigel emerges and makes coffee. She watches his rigid movements around the kitchen. He acts as if he's not within his own home but trespassing in hers. He's lazy, Kathleen thinks. He dreads employment more than he dreads humiliation. He'll cling to this marriage.

"I know," he says. "I know."

"You know what?"

He won't look at her.

Before marrying, they set a policy on adultery that sought to be as grown-up as they considered themselves to be. Statistically, at least one of them was bound to cheat. So, they decided, when it happens the guilty party is categorically forbidden to let on.

"This is exactly what was not supposed to happen," Kathleen says. "I actually feel more hurt by this than I expected. Idiotic."

"It's not. You're not idiotic."

Dario's description of her sexuality crosses her mind. She won't degrade herself by demanding details from Nigel. "I want to ask you details," she says.

"Don't."

"I won't. But I keep wanting to."

"Don't. It's stupid. Of me, I mean. Not you."

"We agreed this wasn't supposed to happen, but never worked out what to do if it did. Unless, of course," she says, "you intend to make this important. Ending-marriage important."

"Don't be insane." He opens and closes the fridge for no apparent reason. "I don't know. I'm sorry. I'm an asshole. It was such a total nothing. If you'd let me tell you the details, would you feel better? To see how dumb it was?"

"I'd feel worse."

"So what do we do?"

She shrugs.

He tries to lighten the atmosphere. "Now you have a fling and we'll be even."

She isn't amused. "Me, have sex with someone else?"

"I'm kidding."

"Why kid about it? Maybe it's a good idea."

"I didn't mean it."

"Look, I don't want to have an affair. For God's sake. I'm just more hurt than I expected."

"Than you expected? You expected this?"

"I knew this was happening. You're easy to read," she says. "And who knows-maybe I'll take you up on your idea of a free affair, maybe I won't. You can wonder sometimes."

"Are you kidding?"

"No."

"What can I say-if you want to be that way, fine. I can't stop you, but I really regret it."

"You regret it?" she says, raising her voice. "I fucking regret it. I didn't precipitate this. I fucking regret it."

In the coming days, she is rude to the interns-always a litmus test of her mood-and seeks confrontations with reporters, then batters them. She phones the publisher, Oliver Ott, and leaves another message on his answering machine, demanding an increase in the budget, implying that her resignation is not unthinkable. She sends an email to the Ott Group board in Atlanta with a similar warning.

The way she left matters with Nigel disgusts her. A free affair-what kind of people are we?

Later that week, she turns up at Dario's office in Berlusconi's party headquarters on Via dell'Umilta. He meets her downstairs. He is more lordly than he used to be, has more confidence; his colleagues clearly respect him. He ushers her into his crimson-carpeted office, a muted flat-screen TV on the wall playing an all-news network, a Napoleonic cavalry battle frescoed on the ceiling. "Maybe you're right about Berlusconi if he hands out office space like this," she says, leaning out the open shutters over a courtyard four floors below.

"Can I order you a coffee?"

She sits. "Don't have time, I'm afraid."

"This is just a quick hello, then?"