The Imperfectionists: A Novel

by Tom Rachman

  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, d
ispersing 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."

  "I wish, bro."

  The ministry man smiles thinly. "Find another topic. Something pleasing.

  Something cheerful about my country. Not all this"--he winces--"mixing up of people."

  "What topic should I write about, then?"

  "That

  is

  your job, is it not? I suggest you study The Egyptian Gazette. They publish some excellent articles."

  "About Mrs. Mubarak being a good housewife? Look, if you don't want me to write about Egyptian sex practices, give me something better."

  "What are you looking for?"

  "I want what everybody wants. I want the Mideast money shot: terrorism."

  The ministry man turns sharply to Winston. "Put your notebook away! This is not on the record!"

  "I want Gamaa al-Islamiya," Snyder goes on. "Bang-bang in Upper Egypt. I want to know about security cooperation with the United States. I want interviews with special forces."

  "Step into my car."

  Seemingly, this request does not apply to Winston, who is left by the fruit stand as the black sedan pulls away.

  He remembers too late that Snyder has the house keys. He calls Snyder's mobile, but there is no answer. Around nightfall, Snyder finally picks up. "Hey, man, why didn't you come?"

  "I didn't know I was invited."

  "Can't hear you. I'm at the military airport."

  "When are you getting back? I'm stuck outside again."

  "I'm totally coming back."

  "But

  when?"

  "Weekend at the latest."

  "I need the house keys!"

  "Ohmigod, relax. You worry way too much. Just have fun with it. Listen, I'm getting on a C-130 in, like, two hours. I need you to do some research." He reels off names and organizations.

  "What about my keys?"

  "Call me in five minutes."

  "And you still have my laptop."

  Snyder hangs up.

  Winston calls back every few minutes for three hours, but Snyder's mobile is turned off. Winston must ask Zeina, the wire-service reporter who rents him the apartment, for a spare key. By way of apology, he insists on buying her a drink at a nearby pub.

  She orders for them in fluent Arabic, picks a table, and carries over their pints of Sakara beer. She sits, sweeping aside gelled strands of her black hair, revealing a rakish grin. "So," she asks, "you enjoying Cairo?"

  "Oh, yeah. It's really interesting," he says. "I have a couple of gripes, but they're pretty minor."

  "Like?"

  "Nothing

  serious."

  "Tell me one."

  "Well, the air is kind of hard to breathe, with all this pollution. Sort of like inhaling from an exhaust pipe. The heat makes me faint sometimes. And the food isn't all that edible. Or maybe I've just been unlucky. Also, it's a police state, which I don't love.

  And I get the impression the locals want to shoot me. Only when I talk to them, though.

  Which is my fault--my Arabic is useless. But basically, yeah," he summarizes, "it's really interesting."

  "What about Snyder? What do you make of him?"

  "You know Snyder?"

  "Oh,

  sure."

  "And what do I think of him?" Winston hesitates. "Well, I suppose that, on the surface, I have to admit, he did come off as slightly, uhm, sort of ambitious. But now that I know him better I'm actually starting to think that he's--"

  "Even more ambitious."

  With unintended candor, he responds, "Sort of a jerk, I was going to say." He wipes his glasses. "Sorry. I'm not offending you, am I?"

  "Don't be crazy. He's not a friend of mine," she says. "What are you guys working on, anyway?"

  "I'm not even sure. To be fair, before he arrived I wasn't writing a thing. But I was making progress. Or I thought I was. I was getting to know the city, studying my Arabic.

  I was going to produce something eventually. Then he colonized. He stole my laptop. He has this strange power to trample me and make me feel obligated at the same time. He is encouraging--he's constantly saying I'm a shoo-in for the stringer job, that he has no chance, that I'm the obvious choice, and so forth. Yet the more time I pass with him, the more ridiculous I feel. And I don't understand why a guy with that sort of experience is even trying out for this position."

  "Iraq," she explains. "He's trying to get into Iraq. Snyder has been looking for a way in ever since the war started. Did he tell you what he was doing before he came to Cairo?"

  "Something about an award?"

  "He wrote a blog about Iraq. Or, rather, about trying to get into Iraq. About him getting turned back at the frontier with Iran, with Turkey, with Syria, with Jordan, with Saudi Arabia, with Kuwait. Thank God Iraq has so many borders--it gave him lots of material. I grant him this: he's determined. The guy is more than just a pretty face."

  "You consider him pretty?"

  "Well, he has that whole gritty war-correspondent thing going. Some women find that sexy," she says. "As far as Iraq goes, his problem is that nobody can figure him out.

  The Americans don't trust him, the Iranians think he's CIA, the Iraqis are just spooked by the guy. Nobody understands what he's doing there when no publication is sponsoring him."

  "And why won't anyone sponsor him?"

  "The guy is a handful. He's worked for everybody, then gets into pissing matches, and gets fired," she says. "But forget about Snyder for a moment. Do you have any stories you're doing while he's away?"

  "I have some ideas."

  "But you haven't filed anything, right?"

  "Not

  yet."

  "Good. Look, you don't have a laptop, so come work out of my office," she says.

  "I want to keep an eye on you."

  On Winston's arrival the next morning, Zeina glances up from her computer, fingers still typing. "Gotta take care of this bulletin. Sit. I'll be done in two minutes." She completes it and shakes out her fingers. "Let's go--I'm taking you to your first presser."

  But not so fast: Winston has no accreditation to get into a press conference and is stopped at the door of the Arab League. Zeina does her utmost but cannot pull him in with her. Eventually, she sneaks a Palestinian undersecretary out to him. The undersecretary, who speaks English, patiently explains the goings-on inside. Winston scrambles his pen across the page but has never taken down quotes before and finds speech unexpectedly rapid; within three words, the sentence is off and running while his pen straggles behind. Eventually, the undersecretary excuses himself.

  "What did you get?" Zeina asks.

  Winston studies his notes, which consist of opening phrases--"We believe that ..."

  or "The real problem is ..." or "What you must know is ..."--followed by unintelligible scrawl.

  "A couple of good bits," he replies.

  She sets him up at a spare computer in her office and leaves him to write. He is still at it when she goes home for the night. "Call me if you're going to file anything to the paper," she says. "I want to check it first."

  But by the next morning he still hasn't finished. In the late afternoon, he finally shows her a draft.

  "Well," she says, after a quick read, "it's a start. Definitely a start. I do have a couple of comments."

  "Please,

  go

  ahead."

  "First off, a standard rule for a news article--and I don't mean to mow down your creativity here--is to identify the location and the day at some point. Also, you should cite the names of anyone you talk to. And you might want to avoid using the word 'thing' so much."

  "Otherwise it looks okay?"

  "Well, this is a test story--let's consider it like that."

  "Do you think the paper will want it?"

  "It

  is sligh
tly old by now."

  "It happened yesterday morning."

  "Which is old in news terms. I'm sorry--I tend to be fairly negative, so don't take my comments too much to heart. But I have to say, you spend way too many words getting to the nut of this story. Also, I felt the undersecretary's goatee received too much attention. Frankly, I wouldn't even mention it."

  "I thought it was germane."

  "Not in the lead. Don't get me wrong--I like your attempts to insert color. But I felt you were trying too hard at times. Like this bit: 'As he spoke, the yellow Egyptian sun shone very brightly, as if that golden sphere were blazing with the very hope for peace in the Middle East that burned also within the heart of the Palestinian undersecretary for sports, fishing, and wildlife.'"