The Imperfectionists Read Online Free Page A

Kathleen's pisses on my piece and you guys buy that? Anyhow, why is Kathleen re-reporting my work? I told you, my son works at the ministry."

    "Well, that's kind of weird, too. Kathleen mentioned your son's name to her friend."

    "She identified him as the source? Are you out of your mind?"

    "No, no--hang on. She never said he was your source."

    "It's not going to be hard to figure out. Jesus Christ!"

    "Let me finish, Lloyd. Let me finish here. No one called Jerome Burko works there."

    "You morons. He goes by his mother's maiden name."
    "Oh."

    Lloyd must warn his son, give him time to come up with an excuse. He calls Jerome's cellphone, but he isn't picking up. Maybe he's at work early for a change. Jesus, what a disaster. Lloyd rings the ministry switchboard.

    The operator says, "I'm looking at a list of all the people in this building. That name is not on it."

    Lloyd hurries down to Boulevard du Montparnasse, raises his arm for a taxi, then drops it. He hesitates at the curb, squeezing his wallet, which is thinner than ever. Then again, if he's going to go bankrupt this is how he should do it. He waves down a cab.

    At the ministry building, the security guards won't let him inside. He repeats his son's name, insists that it's a family emergency. This gets him nowhere. He shows his press accreditation, but it expired on December 31, 2005. He waits outside, phoning Jerome's mobile. Functionaries stroll out for cigarette breaks. He searches among them for his son, asking if anyone here works in the North African and Middle Eastern directorate.

    "I remember that guy," a woman says. "He was an intern here."

    "I know, but what section is he in now?"

    "He's not in any section. We never hired him. I think he wrote the exams, but he couldn't pass the languages part." She narrows her eyes and smiles. "I always thought he was lying about having an American father."

    "How do you mean?"

    "Just that his English was so hopeless."

    She dredges up an old address for Jerome and gives it to Lloyd. He takes the Metro to the Chateau Rouge stop and finds the building, a decaying chunk of plaster whose main gate is broken. He scans the list of residents at each inner courtyard, hunting for Jerome's last name. He can't find it. Then he spots an unexpected last name, his own.
    The buzzer reads, "Jerome Burko."

    Lloyd presses it, but there is no response. Residents come and go. He sits at the edge of the courtyard and gazes up at the shuttered windows.

    After an hour, Jerome appears through the main gate but does not immediately see his father. He opens his mailbox and, flipping through junk, weaves down the passage.

    Lloyd says his son's name, and Jerome starts. "What are you doing?"

    "Sorry," Lloyd says, standing sorely. "Sorry to appear like this." He has never spoken to his son in this manner, with deference. "I just turned up--is that okay?"

    "About your article?"

    "No, no. Nothing to do with that."
    "What,
    then?"

    "Can we go upstairs? I'm cold. I've been out here a while." He laughs. "I'm old, you know! I might not look it, but--"

    "You're not old."

    "I am old. I am." He reaches out his hand, smiles. Jerome moves no closer. "I've been thinking about my family lately."
    "Which
    family?"

    "Can I come inside, Jerome? If you don't mind. My hands are ice-cold." He rubs them together, blows on them. "I had an idea. I hope you don't take offense at this. I was thinking maybe--only if you wanted--maybe I could help you with your English. If we practice regularly, you'll pick it up, I guarantee."

    Jerome flushes. "What do you mean? My English is fine. I learned it from you."

    "You didn't have that many opportunities to hear it."

    "I don't need lessons. Anyway, when would I do them? The ministry would never give me time off."

    To make a point, Lloyd switches to English, speaking intentionally fast: "I'm tempted to tell you what I know, son. I don't want to make you feel lousy, though. But what are you doing in this dump? My