by Tom Rachman
"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?
When she goes back to her apartment, Rory and his friends are debating which spy agency is the best--MI6, the CIA, or the Mossad. She proceeds past them, her overcoat pocket heavy with the stolen toy. She lays the coat across a kitchen chair and finishes preparing the meal.
The men drink heartily and gorge themselves on everything she brings out, forking in more even as their mouths steam with hot helpings. She herself doesn't eat, instead clattering about the kitchen with dirty pots, opening cupboard doors just for somewhere to stare. Must she mention what she found?
"Rory," she calls out, "I'm so dumb--I left something over at your place."
In the dark of his apartment, she digs her nails under the stickers on the Rubik's Cube. She peels off the squares one by one. The Rubik's Cube is smooth now, plain black. She reaches for the farthest point in his closet and drops the toy. It lands with a clatter on the CDs and the rings that he stole.
Back home, she finds the men boozily debating Guantanamo Bay, flopping forward to make their points and flopping back to listen. She asks if they have everything they need, then excuses herself to the kitchen. She washes her hands, rips off a paper towel, dries herself. She ought to go in there and confront him.
"Hardy!" he calls merrily. "Hardy, where are you?"
"Coming."
She catches sight of herself in the silver kettle and studies the reflection, not recoiling this time. She tucks her carrot hair behind her ear and grabs a fresh bottle of Valpolicella.
On the arm of his chair she sits, watching him struggle with the cork.
"Pop," he says finally, pouring the first dash into his own glass.
"Pop," she says and presses a kiss into his shoulder. No reason to mention anything at all.
1957. CORSO VITTORIO, ROME
The paper increased to twelve pages a day, adding a culture section, Puzzle-Wuzzle, and the obituaries. Circulation broke f
ifteen thousand, with most of the copies sold in Europe, plus a sprinkling in the Maghreb and the Far East. Despite all predictions, Ott was still there, running the show.
His life, beyond the paper, was lived alone on the Aventine Hill in a sixteenth-century mansion that he had bought from an impoverished Italian noble family. The place was four stories of stone, painted orange and brown, with long yellow shutters, giving the impression of habitable marzipan. A spiked fence surrounded the property, and maids and cooks and odd-job men made their way in and out through the squeaky front gate.
Inside, the ceilings were covered with frescoes of a highly sentimental nature--cheeky cherubim and plump lovers frolicking by waterfalls. Ott disliked these and was tempted to have them painted over.
However, he rarely looked upward, focusing instead on the walls, which he covered with paintings. His proclaimed interest was financial--Europe was full of bargains after the war, he said. But it was Betty who adored art. During her years in Rome, she had become passionate about paintings, haunting Renaissance churches to study dimly lit masterpieces, or using her press pass to sneak into newly opened art exhibits. So Ott made her his counselor: whatever she admired, he bought.
They frequented a private gallery near Quattro Fontane run by a flamboyant Armenian emigre named Petros, whose chief preoccupation was the provenance of works rather than their artistic merit. He listed illustrious past owners and recounted barely credible tales of how the pieces had ended up in his hands: train wrecks in Chungking, cutlass duels in the Crimea, pouches of counterfeit rubies. He rarely deigned to identify the artists, so Betty conveyed this detail to Ott: "That's Leger, I think. Not sure about this one. But that's Modigliani, for certain. And this is a Turner."
Betty even decided where in Ott's mansion each work should hang. She nudged the frame a little to the right, a little to the left. "Straight now?"
He stood a distance back, studying the shipwreck by Turner, all swirling doom and sinking sailors. "Tell me what's good about this one," he said.
She took a step back and, hand on hip, strove to explain. Her confused answer--he half smiled as he listened--grew all the more fervid as clarity failed her.
"If you don't get it," she concluded, "well, then, you just don't get it."
"Who says I don't?" he responded, winking. "Maybe I just like watching you tell me."
Downstairs for lunch, Betty placed a vast mozzarella di bufala upon a plate and fetched the carving knife and fork. Poised above the cheese, she paused, not looking up.
"What," she asked, "are you doing out here?"
"The paper," he replied.
"I know, but ..." She inserted the fork: a milky pool expanded across the plate.
He took the cutlery from her hands, speared a piece, and fed it to her off the knife.
"GLOBAL WARMING GOOD
FOR ICE CREAMS"
* * *
CORRECTIONS EDITOR--HERMAN COHEN
HERMAN STANDS BEFORE THE COPYDESK, TORCH-EYES PASSING
over the three editors on duty. They halt in mid-keystroke. "And I haven't even accused anyone yet," he says darkly, opening that morning's paper as if it contained a murder weapon. What it does contain is worse: a mistake. He touches the error with contempt, pokes at the despicable word, as if to shove it off the page and into a different publication altogether. "GWOT," he says. He slaps the page, shakes it at them. "GWOT!"
"G
what?"
"GWOT!" he repeats. "GWOT is not in the Bible. And yet it is here!" He jabs the article, driving a sausage finger through page three.
They deny responsibility. But Herman has infinitely less time for pardon than for blame. "If none of you nitwits know what GWOT means," he says, "then why is GWOT
in the paper?"
An arctic silence settles upon the copydesk.
"Have
you
read the Bible?" he demands. "Any of you?" He glances at the sorry trio of copy editors before him: Dave Belling, a simpleton far too cheerful to compose a decent headline; Ed Rance, who wears a white ponytail--what more need one say?; and Ruby Zaga, who is sure that the entire staff is plotting against her, and is correct. What is the value in remonstrating with such a feckless triumvirate?
"Sooner or later ..." Herman says, and allows the partial threat to hang there. He turns from them, prodding the air. "Credibility!" he declares. "Credibility!"
He elbows into his office, and the momentum of his belly topples a stack of books--he must tread with caution in here, for this is an overstuffed room and he an overstuffed man. Reference works clutter the room--classics like Webster's New World College Dictionary, Bartlett's
Familiar Quotations, National Geographic Atlas, The World Almanac and Book of Facts, along with idiosyncratic tomes like The Food Snob's Dictionary, The Oxford Dictionary of Popes, Technical Manual and Dictionary of Classical Ballet, The Visual Dictionary of the Horse, The Complete Book of Soups and Stews, Cassell's Latin Dictionary, Albanian-English/English-Albanian Standard Dictionary, and A Concise Dictionary of Old Icelandic.
He notices a gap on the shelf and searches the book skyscrapers rising from the floor for the missing volume. He locates it (A Dictionary of Birds, Part IV: Sheathbill--Zygodactyli), slides it back into place, hikes up his belt, lines himself up with his desk chair, and inserts his bottom--one more bulky reference work returned to its rightful home. He drags the keyboard to his bunchy gut and, condescending to the screen, types a new entry for the Bible: * GWOT: No one knows what this means, above all those who use the term. Nominally, it stands for Global War on Terror. But since conflict against an abstraction is, to be polite, tough to execute, the term should be understood as marketing gibberish. Our reporters adore this sort of humbug; it is the copy editor's job to exclude it.
See also:OBL; Acronyms; andNitwits.
He hits save. It is entry No. 18,238. "The Bible"--his name for the paper's style guide--was once printed and bound, with a copy planted on every desk across the newsroom. Now it exists solely within the paper's computer network, not least because the text has grown to approximately the size of metropolitan Liechtenstein. The purpose of his Bible is to set down laws: to impart whether a "ceasefire" is, properly speaking, a
"cease-fire" or indeed a "cease fire;" to adjudge when editors must use "that" and when
"which;" to resolve quarrels over prepositions, false possessives, dangling modifiers--on the copydesk, fisticuffs have broken out over less.
Kathleen raps on his door. "Such were the joys," she says wearily.
"Which joys are these?"
"The joys of trying to put out a non-embarrassing daily with roughly five percent of the resources I need."
"Ah, yes," he replies. "The joys of the paper."
"And you? Whose self-esteem are you dismantling today?"
He massages his fingers and dips them into his trouser pocket, which is swollen as if with pebbles. He retrieves a mound of sucking sweets that have melted together.
"You'll be thrilled to hear," he informs her, popping the candies into his mouth, "that I have a new copy of Why? ready." By this, he means the monthly internal newsletter in which he decants his favorite blunders from the paper. It is fair to say the staffers do not greet each edition of Why? with elation.
Kathleen
sighs.
"Duty does call, I'm afraid," he says. "Now, what can I do for you, my dear?"
She often stops by for advice. Her deputy may be Craig Menzies, but Herman is her true counselor. He has worked at the paper for more than thirty years, has held most editorial jobs here (though never reporter), and served as the acting editor-in-chief during interregnums in 1994, 2000, and 2004. Staffers still shiver to recall his stewardship. Yet for all his bluster Herman is not disliked. His news judgment is envied, his memory is an unfailing resource, and his kindness emerges for all those who hang around long enough.
"What are your thoughts about my culture shake-up?" she asks.
"You managed
to dislodge Clint Oakley finally."
"Very proud of myself over that," she says. "And you were right: Arthur Gopal isn't a write-off. Things remain ugly on the stringer front, though. Still no one in Cairo.
And Paris remains unmanned."
"How can Accounts Payable refuse to replace Lloyd?"
"It's
insane."
"Outrageous."
"You here tomorrow?"
"Day off, my dear. Wait, wait--before you wander away, I wanted to warn you that I have a delightful new correction upcoming."
She groans; he grins.
Corrections
