The Imperfectionists (14 page)

"What can I suggest? Just change your cellphone number."

"I can't. I gave her my work cell, which is what every journalist has. If I change that, I'm suddenly out of contact. My whole job is being in contact."

"I've barely spoken ten words to Ruby since I moved back to Rome. I could try to broach it with her, but it'd be deeply weird," she says. "I'm asking myself now whether you did this sort of thing when we were together."

"Of course not. We didn't lie to each other back then."

"I lied to you--I never told you I'd applied for the job in Washington. You didn't know I was going to leave."

"True,

true."

"Sorry," she says.

"Forget it. Far too much time gone by."

They sit eating olives.

She gets a funny look. "Listen," she says, "would you be willing to do something unusual?"

"I don't know. What?"

"Well," she says, "would you be willing to tell the
entire
truth about me, about what you thought of me? From the old days--what you thought of me then. I'll do the same for you."

"What

for?"

"To hear all the bits that you can't say to a person when you're still with them.

Aren't you curious?"

"I'd be afraid to hear."

"I'd like to. I'm curious," she says. "I'd like to understand myself better. Even improve myself, heaven forbid. And I trust you. Your opinion. You're smart."

"You and intelligence!"

"What about me and intelligence?"

"You're very preoccupied with it, with ranking brains. Yours, in terms of everyone else's."

"That's not true."

"We can't do an honesty exchange if you get defensive."

"If I promise not to, will you?"

"It's silly, don't you think? Dissecting ourselves like that? Are we good in bed, are we bad--that sort of underbelly stuff. Sleazy, no?"

"This is why you got out of journalism while I never did: I can't tell the difference between interesting and sleazy. Oh, come on! It'll be fun. Be heartless. Say anything."

He shifts in his seat, then nods. "All right. If you want."

She smacks her thighs with delight. "I've always wanted an opportunity like this.

Let me get another drink as I steel myself for your ruthless critique." As she awaits a second glass of Sauvignon, she telephones Menzies to say that she'll be out of contact for fifteen minutes. She switches off her BlackBerry.

"A quarter of an hour?" Dario says. "That's all the time we need to rip each other apart?"

"This isn't ripping apart. Just honest commentary. That's what I want. And be heartless: I have a hideous ass or I'm a bad lay or whatever. Really."

"You want something sexual, then?"

"Why,

is
there something sexual?"

"Not

necessarily."

"There

is."

"Let me think of something." He pauses. "It's not a big deal, really. Just I guess you were kind of aggressive."

"How?

Sexually?"

"Yes. I was slightly intimidated by you."

"For six years you were intimidated by me?"

"Pathetic, I know. It's hard to explain. It was sort of like, sort of like being screwed rather than doing the--"

"Rather than doing the screwing," she says uncomfortably. "Go on."

"Although, at the same time, you never seemed to have much of a sex drive.

Making love with you felt like something else. Like, I don't know, an act of a different sort."

"It didn't seem to revolt you so much back then."

"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?"

"Just a quickie," she says. "Funny, isn't it--our offices are so close, but we never bumped into each other around here."

"I knew you were back at Corso Vittorio, so I steered clear."

"You shouldn't have."

"I know--it was stupid."

"Anyway." She stands.

"That

was
quick." He rises, rounds the desk.

She touches a hand to his neck. She moves to kiss him.

"That's actually not a good idea." He pats her hand but does not remove it from his neck.

"One kiss? To remind myself what it's like?" She's kidding--she releases him.

"Sorry. I couldn't resist you."

"Nice to be irresistible."

"No,

then?"

"Not a good idea."

"If we closed the shutters?" She raps suggestively on his leather-topped desk.

He laughs. "You're crazy."

"What time do you finish here?"

"We have a dinner strategy session after work."

"What time does that finish?" She cuts the distance between them and rests her hands on his shoulders. He places his palms on hers. While they kiss, she looks at him.

His eyes are closed. They step apart, their hands sliding down until they find each other's hips.

"That

was."

"Strange."

"Very

strange."

"You.

Again."

"Yes. You, again."

She buttons her coat. "I'll return after the paper closes tonight. A little after ten, say?"

"It'll be in the middle of this dinner thing."

"So come back here for some reason. I'll be downstairs."

She arrives as planned, and he escapes from his dinner. He leads her up to his office.

"I have one demand," she says.

He is uncertain whether to sit behind his desk or remain standing.

"I don't want to be like I was before," she continues. "I sounded awful the way you described me."

"I'm not like I used to be, either," he says, sitting. "Which is maybe why this doesn't make sense."

"We'll just talk, then. But can we at least talk on the same side of the desk? Or are you afraid you're going to launch yourself at me?" She comes around, leans down, and kisses him. She sits on his lap.

She studies him, his vulnerable face. Look at him: he wants to have sex with her.

Reading this, she is suddenly quenched. She flips a forelock from her brow and exhales.