The Imperfectionists

Betty and Leo ran the editorial operations jointly. He liked to say, "I handle the big picture." But it was Betty who wrote-or rewrote-most of the copy; she had an effortless way with prose. As for Ott, he handled the money side and offered advice when solicited, which was often. Betty and Leo speedwalked across the newsroom to his office, each trying to get in the door first. Solemnly, Ott listened, staring at the carpet. Then he looked up, pale blue eyes flitting between Betty and Leo, and issued his ruling.

The three of them got along splendidly. Indeed, the only awkward moments arose when Ott stepped away, at which point Betty and Leo spoke to each other as if newly introduced and watched the door for their publisher to return.

Normally, Ott was ruthless about profit. But the paper was an anomaly: financially, it stank. Back in the United States, his business rivals observed this Italian venture with suspicion. It must be a scheme of sorts, they figured.

If so, the aim was far from clear.

He never explained his business plans to Betty and Leo, and was even more opaque on personal matters. He had a wife, Jea

"EUROPEANS ARE LAZY, STUDY SAYS"

BUSINESS REPORTER-HARDY BENJAMIN

HARDY SPENDS HER MORNING ON THE PHONE TO LONDON, PARIS, and Frankfurt, wheedling quotes from grumpy financial analysts. "Is an interest-rate hike imminent?" she asks. "Is Brussels extending the shoe tariffs? What about the trade imbalance?"

She is unfailingly courteous even when her sources are not.

"Hardy, I'm busy. What do you need?"

"I could call back later."

"I'm busy now; I'm busier later."

"Sorry to be so a

"Yes, I know-you're doing another China story."

"I'll be quick, I swear."

"You know my line on China: 'We should all start learning Mandarin. Blah-blah-blah.' Can I go now?"

By midafternoon she has written a thousand words, which is greater than the number of calories she has consumed since yesterday. Hardy is on a diet that started, roughly, at age twelve. She's thirty-six now and still dreaming of butter cookies.

She takes a break at the espresso bar downstairs, where she meets up with her friend A

Meanwhile, A

They are an unusual duo at the bar: one is pinkish, geeky, short (Hardy); the other is bosomy, stylish, tall (A

"You're a

"It doesn't demean me."

"It demeans me. I want counter staff to treat me like an object," she says. "Did I tell you, by the way, that I had another nightmare about my hair?"

A

"In my dream, I was looking in the mirror and I saw this apparition blinking back at me, surrounded by orange frizz. Horrifying." She glimpses herself in the mirror behind the bar and turns from the sight. "Grotesque."

"For the record," A

"Auburn?" she says, eyebrows raised. "My hair is auburn like carrot soup is auburn." Her cellphone rings, and she drains the last sip of cappuccino. "It's go

Back home, she finds the drawers flung open and food dumped on the floor. In place of her mini stereo and tiny flat-screen TV are wires. Thankfully, her laptop was at the office. Her apartment is on the ground floor and the kitchen window, which gives onto an alley, has been smashed. That's where they entered, the police say. Apparently, the two suspects stuffed all they could into plastic bags, then fled. But the bags-already jammed with stolen goods from another apartment in Trastevere-tore under the weight and disgorged loot all over the roadway outside. The culprits tried to stuff the swag back in, but the commotion attracted the authorities.

On a long table at the police station are strewn her CDs, mini stereo, little flat-screen TV, DVDs, perfume, and jewelry, mixed with the possessions of the other, absent victim: a nylon necktie circa 1961, a handful of spy thrillers in English, a Catholic catechism, and, strangely, a pile of ratty boxer shorts.

She states for the record that her belongings are among those recovered, but is not allowed to retrieve anything-the other victim must be present to avoid disputes over ownership, and the police ca

That night, Hardy phones A

"I wish I could, but I'm still waiting for my fella to get home," A

"I don't want to go overboard. It's fine."

Hardy checks the deadbolt and settles on the couch, blanket laid over her legs, feet snuggled beneath, a carving knife within reach. She gets up and checks the lock again. As she passes the mirror, she raises a hand to block the sight of herself.

She inspects the window in the kitchen-air rushes under the cardboard that patches over the shattered pane. She prods the card. It holds, but is hardly safe. She nestles under the blanket and opens her book. After eighty pages-she's a fast reader-she gets up to investigate what's available in the kitchen for di

Days pass and the police ca

"At the start," she complains to A

Almost two weeks later, the police locate him. By the time she arrives at the station, he's already sorting through their stuff. She turns angrily to a policeman. "I can't believe you didn't wait for me," she says in Italian. "The whole point was for me and him to divide up the stuff together."

The officer melts away and the other victim turns cheerfully toward her. He's not a priest, after all, but a scruffy twentysomething with blond dreadlocks. "Buongiorno!" he says, conveying in one word his utter inability with the language.

"Weren't you supposed to wait for me?" she replies in English.

"Ah, you're American!" he says, speaking with an Irish accent. "I love America!"