The Imperfectionists (16 page)

"The kid strikes me as sort of angry," Betty remarked. "Do you get that at all?"

"Well, I happen to like him," Leo responded, almost scolding
.

"That wasn't what I was saying."

Not until Boyd returned to Atlanta did Betty and Leo separate. She liked to say, "I
got the record player, he got the paper."

Betty moved back to New York and found a desk job, editing features at a
women's magazine that specialized in recipes utilizing cans of condensed mushroom
soup. She rented a one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn that overlooked a primary-school
playground and, every weekday morning, awoke to children's squeals. She pulled her
dressing gown from the nail on the door and sat at the window, watching them: boys
wrestling, examining bleeding kneecaps, resuming battle; new girls casting about for
friends, digging their hands into pinafore pockets
.

Betty never did return to Rome
.

"THE SEX LIVES OF

ISLAMIC EXTREMISTS"

* * *

CAIRO STRINGER--WINSTON CHEUNG

HE LIES UNDER THE CEILING FAN, WONDERING HOW TO START.

Every day in Cairo, news events take place. But where? At what time? He connects his laptop and reads the local press online but remains bewildered. These news conferences--how does one get in? And where does one obtain official statements? He wanders around his neighborhood, Zamalek, vaguely hoping a bomb might explode--not too close, of course, but within safe note-taking distance. He'd make front page of the paper, get his first byline.

No bombs go off that day, however. Nor in the following days. He checks his email constantly, anticipating a flaming missive from Menzies demanding to know what in hell he's doing. Instead, Winston finds an email from another person trying out for the Cairo stringer position, Rich Snyder, who announces his imminent arrival, ending with the line "Can't wait to see you!"

That's friendly, Winston thinks. But are we supposed to meet up? He composes a cordial response: "I hope you have a safe flight. Regards, Winston."

This prompts an immediate answer: "Hope you can pick me up! See you there!"

He includes his flight number and arrival time.

Is Winston expected to fetch the man from the airport? Aren't they rivals? Perhaps it's professional courtesy. Nobody from the paper mentioned this. Then again, he hasn't a clue how journalism works. Since he has nothing else to do, he takes a taxi to Cairo International.

"You came all the way out here--that is so awesome," Snyder says. He grips the younger man's shoulder and lets a bag slide from his own. Snyder is nearing fifty and wears an army surplus jacket and a white T-shirt, souvenir dog tags clinking around his neck. A corona of thick curly hair encircles his head and pinprick eyes dart about under a thick brow. It's hard for Winston to ignore: Snyder resembles a baboon.

"Wicked to be back in the Mideast," Snyder says. "I am so exhausted, you have no idea. Just got back from the AIDS conf."

"The AIDS what?"

"The AIDS conference in Bucharest. It's so dumb--I hate getting awards. And journalism is not a competition. It's not about that, you know. But whatever."

"You won an award?"

"No big deal. Just for the series I did for the paper on Gypsy AIDS babies. You saw that, right?"

"Uhm, I think maybe. Possibly."

"Bro, where have you been? It got suggested for a Pulitzer."

"You've been nominated for a Pulitzer Prize?"

"Suggested," Snyder specifies. "Suggested for one. What pisses me off is that the international community refuses to act. It's like nobody cares about Gypsy AIDS babies.

In terms of the Pulitzer." He points to his carry-on bag. "You mind lugging that to the car? I've got serious vertebrae issues. Cheers." He snaps open his cellphone to check the screen. "I'm totally paranoid--keep thinking I'm gonna call someone by mistake while I'm talking about them. This thing is off, right?" He snaps it shut. "I love Kathleen," he continues. "Don't you love her? She is so great. When she was at her old job, Kath was always trying to hire me as, like, Washington's main national-desk writer. But I was deep in Afghanistan at the time, so I was, like, 'Appreciate that, but your timing sucks.' She's still kicking herself. Missed ops. Whatever. You dig her?"

"Kathleen? I don't know her that well--I only met her once, actually, at a conference in Rome."

Snyder continues snapping his mobile open and shut. "Entre nous," he confides,

"she's a bitch. Those aren't my words. That's what people say, entre nous. I myself hate the word 'bitch.' But I'm a feminist." He checks his phone. "Keep that entre nous, 'kay?"

"That you're a feminist?"

"No, no--tell people that. I'm saying, entre nous, Kathleen is out of her league, according to some people. Some say 'affirmative action,' though personally I find that term offensive." He walks out to the airport parking lot. "Feel that heat, bro! Which ride is us?"

"I thought we could share a taxi."

Blinking in the sun, Snyder turns to Winston. "How old are you, anyway?

Seventeen?"

Winston gets this a lot--puberty left little trace on him; he still can't grow stubble.

He attempts to age himself by wearing a suit, but in this muggy climate the most salient effect is sweat; he walks around wiping his face and fogged glasses, generally looking like a panicky congressional page. "I'm twenty-four."

"Little baby," Snyder says. "When I was your age, where was I? In Cambodia reporting on the Killing Fields? Or with the rebels in Zaire? I forget. Whatever. Get the cab door? My back is a mess. Appreciate that." Snyder stretches across the backseat of the taxi. "Dude," he declares, "let's commit some journalism."

Winston compresses himself into the smidgen of backseat not occupied by his rival. The cabbie swivels around, restlessly awaiting instruction, but Snyder continues chattering.

Tentatively,

Winston

interjects,

"Sorry, which hotel are you in?"

"No worries, bro--we can drop you at your place first."

Winston recites his address to the driver.

"Ah," Snyder remarks, an eyebrow raised. "You speak Arabic."

"Not perfectly." He only started studying the language a few weeks earlier, having learned about this stringer position via an email exchange with Menzies. Previously, Winston had been studying primatology at grad school in Minnesota. But, suffering grave doubts about a future within the confines of academia, he made a radical shift, quitting the program to remake himself into a foreign correspondent.

"I'm sure you're awesome at Arabic," Snyder insists. "I remember when I was in the Philippines during People Power back in the 1980s, and everyone's all, like, 'Oh, man, Tagalog is so hard.' And I'm, like, 'Bull.' And within days I'm, like, picking up chicks in Tagalog and stuff. That was after two days. Languages are totally overrated."

"So your Arabic must be excellent."

"Actually, I never speak foreign languages anymore," he explains. "I used to get so keyed into cultures that it was unhealthy. So I only talk in English now. Helps me maintain my objectivity." He squeezes Winston's shoulder. "I'm dying to work out, bro.

Where's your gym? You got a gym out here, right? I'm into extreme sports myself: ultramarathons, kitesurfing, tennis. I still got buddies on the tennis circuit. Back in the day, they kept bugging me to turn pro and I was, like, 'I got nothing to prove.'" He gazes out the window, flexing a pectoral muscle. "Where did you come from anyhow?"

"Near

Minneapolis."

"Dude," Snyder interrupts, "I mean, where were you
working
before this?"

"Ah, right, right. Uhm, I freelanced mainly. A bunch of local Minnesota publications." This is a lie: his last piece of writing was a college essay on teaching monkeys sign language (a bad idea, it turns out).

But, thankfully, Snyder isn't interested in fact-checking. "How many places have I reported from now?" he says. "Can't remember. Like, sixty-three? I'm including countries that don't exist anymore. Is that allowed? Whatever. It's just a number, right? How many you up to?"

"Not that many."

"Like,

fifty?"

"Ten, maybe." Winston hasn't even visited ten countries.

"Ten versus sixty-three. I doubt they'll take that into consideration when filling this job." He smirks.

"This is a full job, then? Menzies said in his email that it was just a stringer position."

"Is that what they told you?" He snorts. "Sonsabitches."

They arrive at Winston's apartment in Zamalek. Snyder gets out, too, rolls his neck, and jogs on the spot. "Stops blood clots," he explains. "Could you get my bag?

Hey, thanks."

"But are you staying nearby?"

"Was just gonna grab a quick shower
chez toi
, if that's cool
.'"

"What about your hotel?"

"Look, bro, it's just water--if you don't want me to use your precious shower, say so. I did just get off a massive flight. But whatever."

The cabdriver thrusts out his hand.

"Only got Romanian currency, dude," Snyder tells him.

So

Winston

pays.

An hour later, Snyder emerges from the bathroom, one of Winston's towels wrapped around his midriff. He climbs into a pair of camouflage cargo pants and lets the towel fall to the carpet, briefly baring his bushy loins. Winston turns away but is not quick enough, condemning himself to the sight of Snyder tucking his penis down the left trouser leg. "Commando style," he says, buttoning his pants. "Always go commando style."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"So," Snyder goes on, "how long you been in this place?"

"A couple of weeks. This woman called Zeina, who went to my college, works here as a wire-service reporter. I found her through the alumni list. She's renting me the place short-term."

"And you got Internet access?"

"Yes,

why?"

"Need to check something." He settles in at Winston's laptop. As he reads, he exclaims constantly: "Can you believe that!" or "That is wild!"

"How long do you think you'll be here?"

"Do you not want me here or something?" Snyder says, spinning around.

"Just that I might need the Internet later."

"Awesome." Snyder turns back to the laptop.

By early evening, he is still at the computer, rising only to gorge himself on Winston's food and spread his possessions across the floor. Various items of Snyder's--a hairbrush, Kevlar messenger bag, sports socks, deodorant spray--appear on the carpet around him in a widening radius. The baboon is marking his territory.

"Sorry," Winston says finally, "but I really need to get going. I have to log you off."

"What's the big rush, man?"

"I need to eat."

"I'm totally finished here. Gimme a sec. Let's go to Paprika together. I love that place." A half hour goes by. "I'm done now. Totally done." Another half hour passes.

"Just join me when you're finished," Winston says, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"Relax,

bro!"

At 11 P.M., Snyder logs off. Finally, they step outside. "Where's my key?"

"How do you mean?"

"If you're still at the restaurant when I get back, I'll be locked out," Snyder says.

"All my stuff is inside."

"You're not coming to dinner?"

"Did you think I was? Ohmigod! I hope you weren't waiting for me. No way. That is hilarious. But I'll totally be back before you. The keys?" He plucks them from Winston's hand. "Awesome, man--you're totally awesome." He jogs down the street, waving for a cab.

"Hang on," Winston cries. "Wait."

"Dude," Snyder calls back. "I'll be gone, like, ten minutes. I'll be back before you've even ordered." He jumps into a cab and is gone.

By this hour, all the local restaurants have closed. There is a twenty-four-hour deli, Maison Thomas, but it's shut for renovation. Winston resorts to a grubby convenience store. He buys potato chips, a candy bar, a can of Mecca-Cola, and consumes the lot outside the apartment complex, studying his watch and feeling horribly reduced by the whole Rich Snyder experience.

At 3 A.M., Snyder ambles back. "Ohmigod, what are you doing outside?"

"You have the keys," Winston replies.

"Where's

yours?"

"You have them."

"Well, that was dumb." Snyder unlocks the door. "I'm taking the bed because of my back." He flops diagonally across the mattress. "You're cool with the armchair, right?"

"Not

especially."

But Snyder is already snoring. Winston would dearly love to throw this guy out.

However, he desperately needs instruction from someone who understands journalism.

Winston studies Snyder with distaste, splayed out there across the bed. Perhaps this is how journalists are supposed to act. Winston settles down in the armchair.

At nine, Snyder shakes him awake. "What've you got for breakfast, guy?" He pulls open the fridge door. "Somebody needs to go shopping. Dude, we got, like, thirty minutes."

"Till

what?"

"We'll start with man-on-the-street. I know it's bull, but that's the job."

"Sorry, I don't understand."

"Translations--I'm letting you interpret for me. I told you, I never compromise my objectivity by speaking foreign languages."

"But I have my own articles I'm working on."

"Like?"

"I was thinking of writing something on the U.S. peace initiative--Abbas and Olmert might start holding regular meetings, I heard."

Snyder smiles. "Don't write about diplomacy. Write about human beings. The tapestry of human experience is my press office."

"Is that a joke?"

"How do you mean?"

"Or something on Iran and nuclear weapons, maybe."

"Writing about Tehran from Cairo? Ouch. Listen, dude, let me tell you a story.

Back when I was reporting from Bosnia, I heard that shit was going down in Srebrenica. I didn't say a word to anyone, got in my Lada, drove there. Along the way, I bump into some aid groupie. She's, like, 'Where you going, Snyder?' I'm, like, 'Vacation.'"

"I don't get it."

"If I'd said one word to her, Srebrenica would have been swarming with even more aid groupies and reporters and shit. And where would I have been? I was, like, a day ahead of everyone on the massacre. Ever since,
The New York Times
has been aching to hire me. Till this big-shot editor there says I don't fit their culture or something. I was, like, I wouldn't work for you guys anyway."

"It must have been pretty upsetting."

"Not getting the
Times
job?"

"Covering

a

massacre."

"Oh,

totally."

"But," Winston says uncertainly, "I vaguely remember some
other
reporter breaking the Srebrenica massacre."

Snyder opens and shuts his cellphone to ensure that it's off. "I never trash talk.

But, entre nous, that guy is an unethical, scheming louse. Whatever--you have to live your life. My motto is 'End hate.'"

Winston isn't sure how all this pertains to his story idea on Iran's nuclear activities, but deems it wise to shift topics. "Still," he says, "I do need to get an article in the paper. I mean, I am applying for this position."

"Applying?

You

are

getting
this job. I have total faith in you."

"I appreciate that. But I haven't done a single story yet, and I've been here two weeks."

"Don't be so stressed. You gotta have fun with it. And, listen, I am totally ready to throw you a contributor's tag. What do I care about bylines--I mean, how many do I have by now? Ten thousand?" He scans Winston's face for signs of awe. "Come on--I'll toss you the contributor's tag, 'kay?"

"My name and yours on the story?"

"If that rocks your world, bro."

Hurriedly, Winston showers and slips into a suit and tie. He finds Snyder at the door, in his faux-military garb, laptop under his arm.

"Is that my computer?" Winston asks.

"It's the one that was on the table," Snyder replies. "Let's roll, bro!"

"Why are you bringing my laptop?"

"You'll see." He walks outside, leading Winston down the Twenty-sixth of July Street, and points at an approaching businessman. "Get that dude over there."

"What do you mean, Get him?"

"Get quotes. Man-on-the-street. I'm grabbing a coffee."

"What am I supposed to ask him?"

But Snyder is already inside Simonds cafe.

Gingerly, Winston shifts into the path of the businessman. The man quickens his pace and sweeps past. Winston scouts other victims. But, as each nears, Winston loses his nerve. He slinks into the cafe. Snyder sits there on a high stool with Winston's laptop open, interviewing locals in English and consuming a platter of miniature buns. He types with two sticky forefingers.

"So?" he asks, swallowing. "The businessman give good quote?"

"You mind if I grab a coffee?"

"No time." He snaps the laptop shut. "I'm going to Khan el-Khalili, and I strongly advise you to follow."

"I've hardly eaten since yesterday--couldn't I get a quick bite before we leave?"

"Have this." He flicks over the final morsel of baby croissant, bearing soggy teeth prints.

As they climb into a taxi, a tall thin man steps from the cafe, observing them. He enters a black sedan, which pulls out behind them. Winston watches through the taxi's rear window: the black sedan is following them. They arrive at the street market, but the sedan is nowhere to be seen.

Snyder points at the bustling crowd. "Get that chick."

"What

chick?"

"The one in that coat thing."

"The

burka,

you

mean?"

"Get her, big guy. We need man-on-the-street quotes."

"But a woman in a burka? Couldn't I do man-on-the-street with a man on the street?"

"That is so racist." Snyder wanders away to investigate a spice stall.

Under his breath, Winston repeats his most practiced Arabic phrase: "Excuse me, do you speak English?" His armpits prickle with sweat. He gathers his courage and approaches the cloaked woman. But his voice emerges in such a tiny peep that she doesn't hear. He taps her shoulder and she turns with surprise, addressing him in Arabic.

A few shoppers shift, watching. He repeats, "Excuse me, do you speak English?"

She responds again in Arabic.

"You don't, then?"

More

Arabic.

"This is a problem."

Further

Arabic.

A frowning young man intervenes. "What is matter? Why you bother her?"

"You speak English--great. No, it's nothing. I was just hoping to ask her a couple of questions."

"Why

for?"

"It's okay--I'm a journalist."

"You

touch

her?"

"What? No, no. I didn't touch her."

"You touch her!" the man shouts, stepping forward.

"I didn't, I swear. I just want to ask her a question. For a news story."

"What

question?"

"It's hard to summarize."

"But what is question?"

That itself is a good question. Snyder hasn't told Winston what to ask or indeed what their topic is. He's constantly talking about terrorism--perhaps Winston should inquire about that. "Could you ask her if there's much terrorism in this area? And if so, where, if she knows. And if you could write that down, too--in English ideally, or even with a map, if possible."

The crowd stirs. The frowning young man crinkles his face even further. A few people gesticulate indignantly. The woman herself throws up her arms and turns away.

Winston wipes off his fogged glasses, apologizes to the crowd, and rushes over to Snyder, who is still smelling spices at a nearby stall.

"What'd you get?" he asks.

"She's against it," Winston blurts. "In favor, basically. But sort of against it."

"Okay, but what did she say, exactly?"

"Uhm, yes, I think so."

"What?"

"Uh-huh."

"Take a deep breath, dude. What did you ask her about?"

"About

terrorism."

"Sweet."

"And about the clash of civilizations and that. The
hijab
and so forth."

"Isn't that a burka?"

"Yes, exactly," Winston says. "But she prefers the
hijab
. Only, her husband won't let her wear one. Because of the Taliban."

"The Taliban? There's no Taliban in Egypt."

"Metaphorically. The metaphorical Taliban. At least that's how I took it."

"We need to air this out. Go get her again."

"I think she's gone."

"She's right there by the fruit stand, dude." Snyder shoves Winston forward. "You want the job, right?"

Agonized, he sidles up to her once more. The crowd watches his second pass, a few people smirking, others shaking their heads. "Excuse me?" he says. "Hi, sorry--excuse me?"

She turns sharply and harangues him in Arabic.

"What's she saying, dude?" Snyder asks.

"She mentioned her husband again."

"The Taliban guy? Push for more on that."

Winston--recalling the Just Listen 'n Learn Arabic course he did on the flight over--dredges up the word for "husband." He utters it as if it were a question.

This riles the crowd further.

Snyder whispers, "Ask her if she plays around. Is that common in Islamist circles?"

"I can't ask that," Winston says, meaning this in every sense.

The crowd is growing in size and hostility.

"Maybe she's had a lesbian experience," Snyder remarks.

"But she's wearing a burka."

"Women in burkas can't express their sexual orientation? That is so racist."

"I can't ask her stuff like that."

"Islamist swingers would be an awesome story, bro. Serious awards material."

At this, the tall thin man who followed them from the cafe steps forth from the crowd. "What do you want to obtain here?" he demands in crisp English.

"It's okay," Winston sputters. "We're journalists."

"Who do you work for?" The man addresses Winston but looks at Snyder.

"For the paper," Winston answers. "Are you a journalist, too?"

"I'm with the interior ministry."

At this, Snyder steps forward. "Rich Snyder, foreign correspondent. Good to meet you. You speak awesome English, man. I totally envy you having a second language. We Americans are a disgrace. What's your name again?"

"I'm with the interior ministry," the man repeats, then barks a command to the onlookers, dispersing them at once. He returns his attention to Snyder. "I don't appreciate these topics of yours. You wish to write about sexual perversions in Egypt. There are no sexual perversions in Egypt. Sexual perversions are a Western phenomenon."