The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman Read Free Book Online Page A

computer. As it rumbles to life, he glances around, at the senior editors' offices along the walls, the horseshoe copydesk in the center of the newsroom, the spattered white carpeting that smells of stale coffee and dried microwave soup, its acrylic edges curling up but held down in places with silver gaffer's tape. Several cubicles are empty nowadays, the former occupants long retired but never replaced, their old Post-its fluttering whenever windows open. Under the abandoned desks, technicians have stashed broken dot-matrix printers and dead cathode-ray-tube monitors, while the corner of the room is a graveyard of crippled rolling chairs that flip backward when sat on. Nobody throws anything away here; nobody knows whose job that is.

    Arthur returns to routine, preparing This Day in History, Brain Teasers, Puzzle-Wuzzle, the Daily Ha-Ha, World Weather. He listens to the demands of Clint and obeys.
    Apart from this, he talks to no one but Menzies. And he no longer leaves early; he leaves on time.

    Eventually, Kathleen stops by his desk. "We haven't even had a coffee yet. I'm sorry--nonstop meetings. My life has become one long meeting. Believe it or not, I used to be a journalist."

    They chat in this vein until Kathleen deems that enough time has been devoted to her bereaved subordinate. She'll leave and, ideally, they won't speak again for months.
    "One last thing," she adds. "Could you possibly call Gerda Erzberger's niece? She's rung me about a thousand times. It's nothing important--she's just venting about you not finishing the interview. But if you could get her off my back I'd really appreciate it."

    "Actually," he says, "I'd like to go back up there and finish that piece."

    "I don't know if the budget can afford a Geneva trip twice for one obit. Can't you finish it here?"

    "If you give me a day off, I'll pay my own travel costs."

    "Is that a ploy to get a day away from Clint? You've only been back a week. Can't say I blame you, though."

    Arthur flies to Geneva this time and finds that Erzberger has been moved to a hospice in the city. She has no hair; her skin is jaundiced. She removes her oxygen mask.
    "I run out of breath, so take notes fast."

    He places his tape recorder on her bedside table.

    She turns it off. "Frankly, I don't know if I'm talking to you at all. You wasted my time."

    He collects his tape recorder, his overcoat, and he stands.

    "Where are you going now?" she asks.

    "You agreed to this meeting. If you don't want to cooperate, I don't care. I'm not interested."

    "Hang on. Wait," she says. "What happened exactly? My niece said you went away for 'personal reasons.' What does that mean?" She takes a breath from the oxygen mask.

    "I don't intend to discuss that."

    "You must give me some sort of answer. I don't know if I want to bare myself to you anymore. Maybe you'll just go to the toilet and not return again."

    "I'm not discussing this issue."
    "Sit
    down."
    He
    does.

    "If you won't tell me anything interesting about yourself," she says, "at least tell me something about your father. The famous R. P. Gopal. He was an interesting man, no?"
    "He
    was."
    "So?"

    "What can I say? He's always remembered as very charismatic."

    "I know that. But tell me something you yourself remember."

    "I remember that my mother used to dress him--not choose his clothes, I mean literally dress him. I only realized in my teens that this wasn't normal or common. What else can I say? He was handsome, as you know. When I was younger, the girls I went out with were irritatingly impressed by family photos. He was always much cooler than I am.
    What else? His war writings, of course, from India. I remember him composing poetry: he used to do it while sitting in my old crib. He said it was comfortable in there. I don't remember much more. Except that he enjoyed his drink. Until it took him, of course."

    "So all you do is obituaries? What did your father think of that?"

    "I don't think he minded. He got me my