ALSO BY JESSE KELLERMAN
The Executor
The Genius
Trouble
Sunstroke
JESSE KELLERMAN
POTBOILER
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS NEW YORK
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Copyright © 2012 by Jesse Kellerman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kellerman, Jesse.
Potboiler / Jesse Kellerman.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-399-15903-9
1. Writers—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3561.E38648P68 2012 2012001823
813’.54—dc23
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
To Gavri
Praise for William de Vallée and the DICK STAPP novels
“There’s no one like William de Vallée. Every time I finish one of his books, I feel like washing the blood off my hands. And after Fatal Deadliness, I had to take a twenty-minute shower. Dick Stapp sends Mike Hammer to the slammer, and Jack Reacher looking for a preacher. No mystery here; this is a thriller reader’s thriller by a thrilling thriller writer.”
—Stephen King
“Of all the books I have read this year, this is one of them.”
—Lee Child (on Mortal Grave)
“If noir is your thing, you won’t find a blacker black than the blackness in William de Vallée’s postmodern darkness. Every word sent me reeling! Dick Stapp is harder than a body left in the sun, and twice as much fun.”
—Robert Crais (on Risk of Peril )
“No one does stomach-turning violence better.”
—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
“Writing that grabs you by the throat and wrings you like a chicken on the eve of Yom Kippur.”
—Woonsocket Potato Pancake
“Stand back, Maxwell Smart, there’s a new agent in town. . . . [Stapp] is a tough guy’s tough guy’s tough guy, the kind of hero who makes women swoon and men wish they had another testicle.”
—New Haven Calumniator
“Mr. de Vallée’s stock-in-trade are plots twistier than those little wire twisty ties that come with bakery bread but that always go missing, forcing you to spin the plastic bag and tuck its neck underneath in order to maintain freshness.”
—The New York Times Book Review
Contents
Cover
Also by Jesse Kellerman
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Praise for William de Vallée
ONE ART
1.
2.
3.
4.
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TWO COMMERCE
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THREE A NOVEL OF SUSPENSE
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FOUR (Welcome to West Zlabia!)
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FIVE (Welcome to East Zlabia!)
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SIX (Welcome [Back] to West Zlabia!)
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SEVEN DEUS EX MACHINA
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121.
Acknowledgments
ONE ART
1.
After one hundred twenty-one days, the search was called off. The Coast Guard had stopped looking after three weeks, but the presumptive widow had paid for a private company to drag the entire Pacific Ocean, or as much of it as they could. With all hope lost, funeral arrangements were now under way. It was front-page news.
There was no obituary as such. A related article outlined the missing man’s life and described his many accomplishments, professional and personal. A third surveyed various people connected to him through the business of writing: his agent, editor, critics, and peers. All agreed that William de Vallée had been a master of his craft, a titan whose loss was the world’s. One interviewee submitted that the full extent of the tragedy would be felt only in due time, once the initial shock had worn off.
Disgusted, Pfefferkorn tossed the paper aside and resumed eating his breakfast cereal. Nobody had called to ask for his opinion, and it was this that upset him so dreadfully. He had known Bill longer than anyone, including Bill’s own wife. She was not quoted in any of the articles, either, having declined to comment. Poor Carlotta, he thought. He considered calling her. But it was impossible. He had failed to call even once since news of the disappearance had broken. Though the odds of finding Bill alive had never been good, Pfefferkorn had been reluctant to offer comfort preemptively, as though by doing so he would be confirming the worst. Now that the worst had come to pass, his silence, however well intentioned, seemed horribly callous. He had made a mistake and he felt embarrassed. It wasn’t the first time. Nor would it be the last.
2.
By the next morning, other stories claimed the front page. Pfefferkorn bypassed news of a celebrity divorce, an arrested athlete, and the discovery of a major gas field off the West Zlabian coast, finding what he wanted on page four. The memorial service for William de Vallée, noted author of more than thirty internationally best-selling thrillers, would be held in Los Angeles, at a cemetery catering primarily to celebrities. It was to be a closed ceremony, by invitation only. Pfefferkorn once again felt disgusted. It was typical of the press to feign respect for a person’s privacy while simultaneously destroying it. He left the kitchen and went to dress for work.
Pfefferkorn taught creative writing at a small college on the Eastern Seaboard. Years ago he had published a single novel. Called Shade of the Colossus, it concerned a young man’s bitter struggle to liberate himself from a domineering father who belittles his son’s attempts to find meaning in art. Pfefferkorn had modeled the father after his own father, an uneducated vacuum salesman now deceased. The book received mild acclaim but sold poorly, and Pfefferkorn had published nothing since.
Every so often he would call up his agent to describe something new he had written. The agent would always say the same thing: “It sounds simply fascinating. Get it on over to me, would you?” Dutifully Pfefferkorn would mail in the material and wait for a response. Eventually he would tire of waiting and pick up the phone.
“Well,” the agent would say, “it is fascinating. I’ll give you that. But to be perfectly honest, I don’t think I can sell it. I’m willing to try, of course.”
“You know what,” Pfefferkorn would say. “Never mind.”
“It’s not a good time for short stories.”
“I know.”
“How’s that novel coming?”
“Not bad.”
“Let me know when you’ve got something to show me, will you?”
“I will.”
What Pfefferkorn did not tell his agent was that the very pages the agent deemed unsellable were not in fact short stories but abortive attempts at a second novel. By his count, Pfefferkorn had started seventy-seven different novels, abandoning each after hearing his first five pages dismissed. Recently, on a lark, he had placed all seventy-seven five-page segments in a single stack and attempted to stitch them together into a coherent whole, an effort that cost him an entire summer but that ultimately yielded nothing. Upon realizing his failure, he kicked out a window in his bedroom. The police were summoned and Pfefferkorn let off with a warning.
3.
The invitation to the funeral arrived later that week. Pfefferkorn set down the rest of his mail to hold the heavy black envelope in both hands. It was made of beautiful paper, expensive paper, and he hesitated to break it open. He turned it over. The back flap was engraved in silver ink with the de Vallée family crest. Pfefferkorn snorted. Where had Bill dug up such nonsense? Pfefferkorn decided it must have been Carlotta’s idea. She did have a flair for the dramatic.
He opened the invitation and out leapt a six-inch pop-up cutout of Bill, showing him at his happiest: in his sailing getup, wearing a captain’s hat, about to take to the water, a broad smile splitting his broad, grizzled face. He resembled the older Hemingway. Pfefferkorn had not been to visit the de Vallées in a long time—it pained him to think just how long—but he remembered their yacht, of the kind most often found on the cover of a big, soft, glossy magazine. He assumed it had since been replaced by a more luxe model, one he lacked the wherewithal to envision.
The memorial was to take place in three weeks’ time. No guests would be permitted. The invitee was requested to reply at his earliest convenience.
Three weeks seemed a long time to wait for a funeral. Then Pfefferkorn remembered that there was no body and therefore no urgency of decay. He wondered if Carlotta planned to bury an empty casket. It was a morbid thought, and he shook it off.
Though there was never any question as to whether he would attend, he nevertheless made a brief accounting. Between transportation, accommodations, and a new suit (nothing he owned would do), this trip could end up costing him well over a thousand dollars—no trouble for most of Bill’s friends, Hollywood types who anyway had to travel no farther than down the freeway. But Pfefferkorn earned a meager salary, and he resented the expectation that he should sink his entire paycheck into paying his respects. He knew he was being selfish but he could not help himself. Just as he was incapable of picturing the de Vallées’ latest boat, a rich woman like Carlotta could never grasp how severely a quick nip across the country could damage a person’s savings. He filled out his response card and licked the back flap of the tiny return envelope, thinking of Orwell’s remark that, as a writer, he could not hope to understand what it was like to be illiterate. He wondered if this might make an interesting premise for a novel.
4.
That evening Pfefferkorn received a phone call from his daughter. She had seen the news on television and wanted to offer her condolences.
“Are you going out there? It looks like it’s going to be a big deal.”
Pfefferkorn replied that he had no idea how big a deal it would be.
“Oh, Daddy. You know what I mean.”
In the background Pfefferkorn heard a man’s voice.
“Is someone there?”
“That’s just Paul.”
“Who’s Paul?”
“Daddy. Please. You’ve met him at least a hundred times.”
“Have I?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I must be getting old.”
“Stop it.”
“I can never seem to learn any of your boyfriends’ names before there’s a new one.”
“Daddy. Stop.”
“What? What am I doing?”
“Is it really so hard to remember his name?”
“When something’s important, I remember it.”
“It is important. We’re getting married.”
Pfefferkorn swayed, gripped a chair, made noises.
“The nice thing to say would be ‘congratulations.’”
“Sweetheart,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Or you could try ‘I love you.’”
“It’s just that I’m a little taken aback to learn that my only child is marrying someone I’ve never met—”
“You’ve met him many times.”
“—and whose name I can hardly remember.”
“Daddy, please. I hate it when you do this.”
“Do what.”
“Play at being doddering. It’s not funny and this is important.”
Pfefferkorn cleared his throat. “All right, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
“Now can you please be happy for me?”
“Of course I am, sweetheart. Mazel tov.”
“That’s better.” She sniffed. “I’d like us to all have dinner together. I want you to get to know Paul better.”
“All right. Tomorrow night?”
“That’s no good, Paul’s working late.”
“What . . .” Pfefferkorn hesitated. “What does Paul do, again?”
“He’s an accountant. Does Friday work?”
Pfefferkorn never did anything in the evenings except read. “It works fine.”
“I’ll make us a reservation. I’ll call you.”
“All right. Eh—sweetheart? Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you on Friday.”
Pfefferkorn hung up the phone and looked at the picture of his daughter he kept on his desk. The physical resemblance between her and his ex-wife was striking. People had often pointed it out to him, much to his irritation. That his daughter could be anything but entirely his seemed to him a vile affront. He had been the one to raise her after his ex-wife had deserted them and then died. Now he admitted to himself that he had been overly jealous, and foolish to boot. His daughter was neither his nor his ex-wife’s but her own, and she had chosen to give herself to an accountant.
5.
Paul cut short his speech on the value of annuities to excuse himself to the restroom.
“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said.
“Me too,” Pfefferkorn said.
The restaurant was no place Pfefferkorn had eaten, nor would he ever again. To begin with, the prices were obscene, more so considering the size of the portions. In vain he had searched the menu for something that didn’t contain one or more obscure ingredients. Then he had embarrassed his daughter by questioning the waiter as to the identity of a certain fish. Paul had leapt in to explain that it had become fashionable recently due to its sustainability. Pfefferkorn had ordered the hanger steak. It came in the shape of a Möbius strip.
“The wonderful thing about the desserts here,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said, “is that they’re not sweet.”
“Isn’t dessert supposed to be sweet?”
“Uch. Daddy. You know what I mean.”
“I really don’t.”
“I mean not too sweet.”
“Oh.”
Pfefferkorn’s daughter put down the dessert menu. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not upset?”
“About Bill, you mean? No, I’m all right.”
She took his hand. “I’m so sorry.”
Pfefferkorn shrugged. “It’s different when you’re my age.”
“You’re not that old.”
“All I’m saying is, at a certain point you realize that most of your life is behind you.”
“Do we have to talk about this?”
“Not if you don’t want to.”
“It’s depressing,” she said. “We’re supposed to be celebrating my engagement.”
Why had she chosen to bring up the subject of death, then? “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Pfefferkorn’s daughter sat back and crossed her arms.
“Sweetheart. Don’t cry, please.”
“I’m not,” she said, wiping her eyes.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” she said. She took his hand again. “So, you like Paul.”
“I love him,” Pfefferkorn lied.
She smiled.
“I don’t know what you’ve discussed between the two of you,” he said, “but I’d like to contribute in some way to the wedding.”
“Oh, Daddy. That’s very nice of you, but it’s not necessary. We’re all taken care of.”
“Please. You’re my daughter. I can’t pitch in?”
“Paul’s family has already offered to help out.”
“Well, I’m offering to help out, too.”
Pfefferkorn’s daughter looked pained. “But—it’s all taken care of, really.”
Pfefferkorn understood that he was being turned down out of pity. They both knew he had no money to spend on a wedding. He had no notion of what he’d meant by “pitch in.” What could he do? Park cars? He felt humiliated, both by her rejection and by his own impotence. He stared at his knotted fingers as silence settled across the table.
His daughter was correct: the desserts were not remotely sweet. The donuts Pfefferkorn ordered had the taste and texture of compressed sand. At conclusion of the meal, he tried to pay, but Paul had already given the waiter a credit card on his way back from the men’s room.
6.
The airport newsstands and bookstores all featured prominent displays of William de Vallée novels. Every ten yards or so Pfefferkorn passed another towering cardboard bin, its top crowned by an enlargement of Bill’s jacket photo, which had the famous author posing in a trench coat against a background of dark, bare trees. Pfefferkorn, an hour early for his flight, stopped to stare. William de Vallée indeed, he thought.
“Excuse me,” a man said.
Pfefferkorn stepped aside to allow him to take a book.
For thirty years, Bill had, unprompted and without fail, sent Pfefferkorn inscribed copies of his novels. Back in the early days, Pfefferkorn had been happy for his friend, gratified that Bill should single him out to celebrate his good fortune. Over time, however, as that fortune continued to grow, and Pfefferkorn’s stagnancy became more and more apparent, the gift began to feel like a cruel joke. Pfefferkorn had stopped reading the books long ago—thrillers were not his cup of tea—but in recent years he’d begun throwing the packages straight into the trash. By and by he had gotten rid of the old books as well. Today, first editions of the earliest novels, printed in small batches before William de Vallée became a household name, fetched substantial sums. Pfefferkorn refused to profiteer, donating the books to his local library or slipping them into strangers’ bags on the bus.
Standing before the gaudy display, Pfefferkorn decided he owed it to Bill to catch up a bit. He bought the hardcover, walked to his departure gate, and sat down to read.
7.
The thirty-third installment in a series, the novel featured special agent Richard “Dick” Stapp, a brilliant, physically invincible figure formerly in the employ of a shadowy but never-named government arm whose apparent sole purpose was to furnish story lines for thrillers. Pfefferkorn recognized the formula easily enough. Stapp, supposedly in retirement, finds himself drawn into an elaborate conspiracy involving one or more of the following: an assassination, a terrorist strike, a missing child, or the theft of highly sensitive documents that, if made public, could lead to full-blown nuclear engagement. His involvement in the case often begins against his will. I’ve had it with this rotten business he is fond of avowing. Who in real life, Pfefferkorn wondered, avowed anything? For that matter, who declared, exclaimed, interjected, chirped, chimed in, put in, cut in, piped up, or squawked? People said things, and that was all. Who sighed heavily? Or groaned lustily? Who fought to hold back the tears, which came without fail? Several times Pfefferkorn had to close the book, he was getting so exasperated. Once sucked (or dragged, or pulled, or thrust) back into the maelstrom (net, vortex, spiderweb) of deception (treachery, lies, intrigue), Stapp learns that the mystery he was initially trying to solve is in fact just the tip of the iceberg. A far greater conspiracy simmers beneath, one that raises the specter of ugly events from Stapp’s past and that has implications for his personal life. With dismaying frequency he is accused of a crime he did not commit. Stapp’s son, a drug addict with whom he has no contact due to Stapp’s having been a crummy father, too busy saving the free world to play ball or attend school plays and so forth, tends to fall into jeopardy. Long conversations consisting mainly of leading questions supply a complicated backstory. Trains and flights run on schedule, to exactly the right destinations, allowing Stapp to cover enormous distances in improbably short amounts of time. Despite the fact that his ordeal affords him little food and no sleep, he remains unimpaired when called upon to make passionate love to a beautiful woman. Captured, he must rely on his ingenuity to escape. A friend is revealed to be an enemy and vice versa. An event or detail that earlier appeared irrelevant comes to play a critical role. Finally, the hero is forced to make a seemingly impossible choice, often having to do with the beautiful woman. Make it he does, though at great cost. For although Stapp is physically invincible, he bears deep emotional scars. Either the woman betrays him or he leaves her, afraid to endanger her. You’re like a moth he might murmur. Drawn to what will destroy you. Then swiftly follow the delivery of vigilante justice and the tying of loose ends in complete defiance of logic or normal rules of criminal procedure. By story’s end Stapp is on the run again, his name blackened, his heroism never to be acknowledged, his demons in hot pursuit.
It was a terrible book, even by its own standards: crass and inelegant and sodden with cliché. The plot was overwrought and reliant on coincidence. The characters were flimsy. The language was enough to make Pfefferkorn’s throat pucker in distaste. Yet millions of people had rushed to buy it, and millions more would follow suit, especially now that Bill’s death was the latest scoop. Were they truly blind to the book’s faults, or did they willingly ignore those faults in exchange for a few hours of mindless diversion? Pfefferkorn tried to decide which was worse: having no taste or having taste and setting it aside. Either way, this was not the purpose of literature. He finished reading during his second leg, from Minneapolis to Los Angeles. Rather than leave the book on the airplane for someone else to find, he discarded it while walking to the rental car shuttle bus.
8.
Pfefferkorn checked into his motel with several hours to spare. He decided to take a walk. He put on his tennis shoes and a pair of shorts and ventured out into the glare.
The motel was located along a seedy stretch of Hollywood Boulevard. Pfefferkorn passed cut-rate electronics dealers, sex shops, emporia of movie-related trinkets. A young man handed him a flyer redeemable for two tickets to the taping of a game show Pfefferkorn had never heard of. An unshaven transvestite with foul body odor brushed against him. A woman in hot pants smiled toothlessly as she hawked aromatherapy kits. The streets swarmed with tourists under the impression that movies still got made here. Pfefferkorn knew better. None of the four movies made from Bill’s books had been shot in California. Canada, North Carolina, and New Mexico all provided filmmakers with tax breaks that made Los Angeles, however storied its streets, financially unworkable. That didn’t stop people from coming to have their picture taken in front of the Chinese Theatre.
A few blocks on, he ran a gauntlet of people brandishing clipboards in support of various causes. Pfefferkorn was asked to lend his voice to the fight against fur, the death penalty, and atrocities allegedly committed by the West Zlabian government. He dodged them all, pausing as he came to a woman kneeling on the sidewalk to light a candle inside a hurricane glass. Bunches of flowers were strewn all around the concrete square wherein William de Vallée’s Hollywood Walk of Fame star was set. The woman noticed him staring and offered a smile of shared misery.
“Care to sign?” she asked. She pointed to a card table, atop which sat a red leather–bound book and several pens.
Pfefferkorn bent to the book and leafed through it. There were dozens of inscriptions, many of them quite heartfelt, all made out to Bill or William or Mr. de Vallée.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get over it,” the kneeling woman said.
She began to cry.
Pfefferkorn said nothing. He flipped to the back of the book and found a blank page. He thought for a moment. Dear Bill he wrote. You were a lousy hack.
9.
Pfefferkorn pulled the pins from his shirt. It had been years since he had purchased new clothes, and he had been shocked by how expensive everything was. Once dressed, however, he decided the money had been well spent. The suit was dark gray rather than black, a more practical choice if he wanted to get further use out of it. He wore a silver tie. He grimaced to see that he had forgotten to shine his shoes. But it was too late for that. He had less than an hour and he didn’t know his way around town.
The desk clerk gave him directions. They were wrong, and Pfefferkorn got stuck in traffic. He arrived at the cemetery chapel as the ceremony was ending, slipping in to stand at the back. The room was packed, the air close with flowers and perfume. He picked Carlotta out with ease. She sat in the front row, her gigantic black hat bobbing and wagging as she wept. No clergy were present. On the dais was a lustrous black casket with brilliant silver fixtures. A life-size version of the pop-up of Bill in his captain’s hat stood off to the left. Rock and roll played over the stereo, a song that Pfefferkorn recognized as an old favorite of Bill’s. In college, Bill would play the same record over and over until Pfefferkorn couldn’t stand it any longer and threatened to break the hi-fi. Bill had always been a creature of habit. He’d kept an immaculate desk, bare save a typewriter, a jar of pens, and a neatly stacked manuscript. By contrast, Pfefferkorn’s desks tended to look like a child had been opening presents nearby. A similar distinction held in other parts of their lives. Pfefferkorn wrote irregularly, when the mood took him. Bill wrote the same number of words every day, rain or shine, in sickness and in health. Pfefferkorn had careered through a series of messy love affairs before ending up alone. Bill had been married to the same woman for three decades. Pfefferkorn had no nest egg, no vision for his retirement, no idea of what he ought to do except continue to live. Bill always had a plan.
But what, Pfefferkorn wondered, did those plans amount to in the end? Here, in lustrous black, lay the refutation.
The song concluded. The mourners rose. People were referring to an ivory-colored piece of paper. Picking up a spare, Pfefferkorn saw a map of the cemetery, with arrows indicating walking directions from the chapel to the grave site. On the back was the program for the just-concluded ceremony. Pfefferkorn read that he had been scheduled to speak third.
10.
Last in, first out, he stood at the base of the chapel steps, waiting for Carlotta so he could apologize for his tardiness. Two by two, the mourners poured out. Sunglasses were unfolded or brought down from foreheads. Handkerchiefs were returned to pockets. Frighteningly thin women clung to much older men. Pfefferkorn, who did not own a television and who rarely went to the movies, knew he ought to recognize some of these people. As a group they were exceedingly well dressed, and he felt his new suit put to shame. A woman encrusted in jewels approached him to ask where the bathroom was, reacting with perplexity when he said he did not know. As she tottered away, Pfefferkorn realized she had taken him for a cemetery employee.
“Thank God you’ve come.”
Carlotta de Vallée broke free of the man escorting her and gripped Pfefferkorn fiercely, her woolen jacket bunching itchily against his sweaty neck.
“Arthur,” she said. She held him back for inspection. “Dear Arthur.”
She was just as he remembered, exceptionally striking, if not quite conventionally beautiful, with a high, unlined forehead and a Roman nose. The latter had limited her acting career to a few pilots and the odd commercial. She hadn’t worked since her thirties. Then again, she hadn’t needed to. She was married to one of the world’s most popular novelists. Four-inch heels and the hat added to her already imposing stature: she stood five-foot-ten in bare feet, taller than Pfefferkorn but in proportion to her late husband. Pfefferkorn tried not to ogle the hat. It was an impressive thing, adorned with buttons, bows, and lace, its shape that of an inverted frustum, narrow around the head and widening as it went up, like Nefertiti’s headdress.
She frowned. “I’d hoped you would say a few words.”
“I had no idea,” Pfefferkorn said.
“You didn’t get my message? I left it this morning.”
“I was on the plane.”
“Yes but I thought you’d get it when you got off the plane.”
“That’s my answering machine you spoke to.”
“Arthur, my God. You mean to say you don’t have a cell phone?”
“No.”
Carlotta appeared genuinely awed. “Well. It’s all for the best. The ceremony went on much too long as it was.”
Her escort shifted noisily to signal that he was waiting to be introduced, a gesture Pfefferkorn found imperious given the context.
“Arthur, this is Lucian Savory, Bill’s agent. Arthur Pfefferkorn, our oldest and dearest friend.”
“Obliged,” Savory said. He was extremely old, with an extremely large head. It looked freakish atop his withered body. Thinning black hair was plastered back across his scalp.
“Arthur is a writer as well.”
“That so.”
Pfefferkorn waved noncommittally.
“Mrs. de Vallée,” a young man with a walkie-talkie said. “We’ll be ready shortly.”
“Yes, of course.” Carlotta offered Pfefferkorn her arm and they walked to the grave.
11.
Pfefferkorn stood at Carlotta’s side throughout the interment. He was aware of people staring at him, wondering who he was. To block them out, he cast his mind into the past. He and Bill had been in the same class from the seventh grade on, but it was while working on the high school newspaper that they had become friends, each discovering in the other a counterweight. Soon enough they were inseparable, the big, easygoing Polack and the lean, volatile Jew. Pfefferkorn nicknamed Bill “the Cossack.” Bill called Pfefferkorn by his Hebrew name, Yankel. Pfefferkorn recommended books for Bill to read. Bill endorsed Pfefferkorn’s grandiose dreams. Pfefferkorn edited Bill’s essays. Bill gave Pfefferkorn a lift home whenever they stayed late to finish the layout. Senior year, Pfefferkorn was appointed editor-in-chief. Bill became business manager.
Bill’s parents could have afforded to send him to a private college, but he and Pfefferkorn made a pact to go to the state university together. They ran in the same circles, the artistic ones that Pfefferkorn gravitated toward. Those were tumultuous times, and the campus literary magazine was an epicenter of the counterculture. Pfefferkorn rose to become editor-in-chief. Bill served as his ad manager.
At a be-in Pfefferkorn met a tall girl with a Roman nose. She was majoring in dance. She had read some of his stories and was impressed with his vocabulary. He lied and said that he was interested in dance. He fell in love with her instantly but had the good sense to keep his feelings to himself, a choice that revealed itself as farsighted when he introduced her to Bill and she proceeded to fall in love with him instead.
After graduation, the three of them got a basement apartment together. To make ends meet, Pfefferkorn worked at the post office. At night he and Bill played gin rummy or Scrabble while Carlotta cooked up crêpes or a stir-fry. They would listen to records and perhaps smoke a little dope. Then Pfefferkorn would sit at his desk, typing as loudly as he could to drown out the noise of Bill and Carlotta’s lovemaking.
He remembered the first time Bill revealed any literary aspirations of his own. Prior to then, Pfefferkorn had thought he understood the roles each of them played in their friendship, and it was with some unease that he sat down to read the story Bill had written “for the heck of it.” Pfefferkorn was worried it would be either superb and cause for envy or rubbish and cause for an argument. In fact, it fell somewhere in between, and Pfefferkorn felt relief at being able to express honest enthusiasm for the story’s strengths while yet retaining his position of dominance. He even offered to mark up the text, a suggestion Bill pounced on. Pfefferkorn interpreted his enthusiasm as an admission that Bill still held Pfefferkorn to be the superior writer and would gladly accept any pearls of wisdom Pfefferkorn cared to drop.
How naïve they had been. Pfefferkorn nearly laughed out loud. The sound of dirt being shoveled atop the grave helped him maintain his composure.
It took Carlotta more than an hour to shake the hands and kiss the cheeks of everyone who had come to pay respects. At her request, Pfefferkorn lingered nearby.
“Hell of a guy,” Lucian Savory said.
Pfefferkorn agreed.
“Hell of a writer. I knew from the first line of that first book that this fellow was something special. ‘Savory,’ said I, ‘Savory, behold something rare here. Behold talent.’” Savory nodded in confirmation of his own judgment. Then he glanced sidelong at Pfefferkorn. “You probably can’t guess how old I am.”
“Well—”
“Ninety-eight,” Savory said.
“Wow,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Ninety-nine in November.”
“You don’t look it.”
“Of course I fucking don’t. That’s not the point. The point, dingleballs, is I’ve been around the block. Updike, Mailer, Fitzgerald, Eliot, Pound, Joyce, Twain, Joseph Smith, Zola, Fenimore Cooper. I knew em all. I fucked all three of them Brontës. And let me tell you, I never met a writer like Bill. And I never will again, even if I live to be a hundred.”
“I think that’s likely,” Pfefferkorn said.
“What is.”
“That you’ll live to be a hundred.”
Savory stared at him. “You’re a smart-ass.”
“I just meant—”
“I know what you meant,” Savory said. “Fucking smart-ass.”
“I’m sorry,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Pfft. Any rate, I’m telling you: Bill’s name belongs up there with the greats. We could chisel it into Mount Rushmore. Maybe I’ll do just that.”
“Mark Twain?” Pfefferkorn asked.
“Nicest guy you’ll ever meet,” Savory said. “Not like that Nathaniel Hawthorne, he was a cunt. You’re a writer?”
“Of sorts,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Publish anything?”
“A little.”
“How little.”
“One novel,” Pfefferkorn said. “In the eighties.”
“Name?”
“Shade of the Colossus,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Shitty title,” Savory said.
Pfefferkorn bowed his head.
“Not a selling title,” Savory said.
“Well, it didn’t sell.”
“There you go.” Savory rolled his tongue around in his mouth. “You should have called it Blood Night.”
“What?”
“Or Blood Eyes. Now those are selling titles. See? I haven’t even read it and I came up with two better titles in thirty seconds.”
“They don’t really relate to the book.”
Savory looked at him. “You don’t understand this business, do you.”
12.
“Never mind him,” Carlotta said. “Lucian likes to make himself feel more important than he is. Bill keeps him on out of habit, or maybe compassion. God knows he doesn’t need an agent anymore.” She paused. “Listen to me. That’s what people do, isn’t it, use the present tense.”
Pfefferkorn squeezed her hand.
“Thank you for coming, Arthur.”
“Of course.”
“You’ve no idea how meaningful it is. These people . . .” She gestured to the vanished crowd. “They’re nice in a way but they’re not our friends. Or, they are in one sense, but you have to understand: this is Los Angeles.”
Pfefferkorn nodded.
“I know what they’re saying about me,” she said. “They think I’m not sad enough.”
“Oh, please.”
“What they don’t understand is that I’ve been mourning him for months. You can’t sustain a fever pitch that long. It’s unnatural. I’ve known more than a few widows like that, going around all day beating their breasts. There’s something terribly stagy about it. And wouldn’t you know, they always seem to recover as soon as the inheritance check clears.”
Pfefferkorn smiled.
“Let them think what they want,” she said. “This, here—it’s just a formality. It’s for everyone else. The real horror is all mine, and it only starts when I’m alone.”
Arm in arm, they crossed the burial grounds, parting eddying clouds of midges. The abundant lawns gave off a humidity that drove Pfefferkorn to loosen his tie.
“I expected them to hassle me about burying an empty casket,” she said. “But they were darling. They’re exceptionally good at dealing with people in a time of grief.”
“I bet.”
“It’s not out of charity,” Carlotta said. “It’s shameful what they charge. The flowers alone, you can’t imagine. And don’t get me started on the search company. But I didn’t bat an eye. I said find him, whatever it costs. Although in hindsight I have to wonder if they dragged things out on purpose, to soak me.”
“I hope they’d have more scruples than that.”
“You never know,” Carlotta said. “Money is money.”
They stood under the umbrella while the valets ran to fetch their cars.
“That’s yours,” Carlotta said.
Pfefferkorn looked at his tiny, bright blue rental car. “Point A to point B,” he said.
Carlotta’s car arrived, an oyster-colored Bentley with the gleam of the showroom floor. The perspiring valet got out to hold the door for her.
“It was good to see you,” Pfefferkorn said. “Circumstances notwithstanding.”
“Yes,” she said. She leaned in to kiss him goodbye but pulled back. “Arthur. Do you really have to go so soon? You can’t stay a little? I hate to see you off this way. Come by the house and have a drink first.” She clasped her hands to her face. “My God. You’ve never been.”
“Sure I have. I came for his fiftieth, remember?”
“Yes but that was forever ago. We’ve moved since then.”
Behind the invitation he sensed an accusation. He knew very well how long it had been. But whose fault was that? Then he remembered where he was and why he was there and he felt ashamed for clinging to grudges. Still, he hesitated, afraid to stir up more of his own ill will. He consulted his watch—unnecessarily, as he had already checked out of his motel, his flight didn’t leave for seven hours, and he had no pressing obligations other than to return the rental car. He told Carlotta he’d follow her, adding that she’d better not drive too fast.
13.
The de Vallées’ new home forced Pfefferkorn to revise his template for what a Beverly Hills mansion ought to be—a template established by their previous home. Set north of the boulevard, behind impenetrable hedges, through two sets of forbidding iron gates, at the end of a tortuous driveway snaking through jungly grounds, the house appeared as if from nowhere, following a final, sharp turn. Pfefferkorn marveled at the forethought and skill required to conceal a structure of such immensity until the very last moment. The house was in the Spanish Colonial style, a style whose humble materials and lack of pretense had, until that moment, led Pfefferkorn to think of it as intrinsically more heimish than, say, a supermodern cage of steel and glass, or the looming, pillared façades of neoclassicism. Now he reconsidered. The de Vallée house was born of earth and clay, but it soared, swelled, and bulged. Turrets and balconies abounded. It looked like the place to make a valiant last stand against an invading army. Reinforcing the feeling of besiegement were a host of security cameras, their lenses winking through the foliage. Pfefferkorn wondered if Bill had had a run-in with an obsessed fan. Or perhaps this was simply an example of thickening wealth demanding correspondingly thicker insulation.
Carlotta put the Bentley in the care of the butler and told Pfefferkorn to leave his keys.
“Jameson will handle it for you. Won’t you, Jameson?”
“Madame.”
“Careful you don’t scratch it,” she said. “It’s a rental.”
Pfefferkorn followed her through a mammoth carved wooden door, crossing the foyer and coming to an interior courtyard fragrant with citrus. A mosaicked fountain burbled. Cut flowers stood erect in vases. A chess set awaited players. Chairs awaited buttocks. Portraits smiled, landscapes sprawled, statuary thrust. Every object, living or inanimate, functional or decorative, appeared to Pfefferkorn peerless, including the compact white dog that sprung from its languor to greet them.
“Say hello, Botkin,” Carlotta said.
Pfefferkorn stooped to scratch the dog’s head. Its velvety coat and pleasant scent spoke of frequent grooming. Around its neck it wore a first-place ribbon. It rolled onto its back and Pfefferkorn rubbed its belly. It yipped happily.
Sensing that this was expected of him, Pfefferkorn asked for a tour. Room by room they went, the dog trotting along at Carlotta’s heels. In the basement they visited the indoor swimming pool where Bill did his daily hundred laps. In the theater Carlotta handed Pfefferkorn a remote control as heavy as a dictionary and showed him how to raise and lower the curtain. There was a ballroom where Carlotta danced four nights a week with a professional partner and a music room filled with all manner of instruments, though Pfefferkorn knew for a fact that neither de Vallée could carry a tune. Atop the harpsichord sat a photograph of Botkin, perched on a rostrum, accepting his ribbon.
The tour concluded on the third floor, in what Carlotta called the conservatory. A silver tea service had been laid out and crustless sandwiches prepared.
“You must be starving,” Carlotta said.
“I could eat,” Pfefferkorn said.
They sat.
“What is this?” he said. “Is this chicken salad?”
“Foie.”
“Well,” Pfefferkorn said, swallowing, “whatever it is, it’s delicious.” He picked up a second sandwich. “I couldn’t eat like this every day. I’d weigh four hundred pounds.”
“You learn moderation,” Carlotta said.
Pfefferkorn smiled. So far he had seen very little of Bill’s home life that could be described as moderate. “How the hell do you keep it clean? You must have a cast of thousands.”
“Honestly, it’s not that bad. Aside from Esperanza, there’s just the butler, and I’m thinking of letting him go, now that Bill’s gone.”
“Come on. One person for this whole place?”
“She’s very efficient. Bear in mind that I rarely step foot into most of the rooms. You haven’t even seen the guest wing.”
“Forget it. My knees hurt.” He reached for a third sandwich. “I feel like a swine.”
“Please.”
“They’re small,” he said. “And I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“You don’t have to make excuses,” she said, nibbling the corner of a scone. “These are good, aren’t they.” She fed the rest to the dog. “Don’t let me take any more.”
She stood, stretched, and walked to the window. Her backlit form was lithe, and with sudden, agonizing clarity, Pfefferkorn remembered how much he had loved her. The seams of youth, those lines where disparate traits meet and fuse, had been gently effaced by time, and now he looked at her and saw womanhood in its most complete form. He saw what he had sought in his early lovers, in his ex-wife. All had come up short. How could they not? He was comparing them to her. He watched her for a moment, then set down his food and went to join her.
The window overlooked a stone terrace, which in turn overlooked the grounds, which were in keeping with the rest of the house: at once intricate and overwhelming. Other wings jutted obliquely, massive clay walls and burnt-orange roofs.
“All this,” she said.
“It’s a beautiful home,” he said.
“It’s grotesque.”
“Maybe a tad.”
She smiled.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to speak,” he said.
“It’s all right.”
“I feel bad.”
“Don’t. I’m just glad you’re here. It’s been so long, Arthur. I feel as though I have to get to know you all over again. Tell me about your life.”
“It’s the same. I’m the same.”
“How’s your daughter?”
“Engaged.”
“Arthur. That’s wonderful. Who’s the lucky fellow?”
“His name is Paul,” Pfefferkorn said. “He’s an accountant.”
“And? What’s he like?”
“What do you think he’s like? He’s like an accountant.”
“Well, I think it’s wonderful.”
“It will be come April fifteenth.”
“You are happy for her, aren’t you?”
“Sure I am,” he said. “I hope it works out.”
Carlotta looked alarmed. “Do you have reason to suspect it won’t?”
“Not really.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“There isn’t any.” He paused. “I think I always pictured her with—I know how it’ll sound, but—someone more like me.”
“And he’s the opposite of you.”
“More or less.” He tapped his lips. “It feels like a rejection of everything I stand for.”
“And what do you stand for.”
“Poverty, I suppose. Failure.”
“Tch.”
“I’m jealous,” he said.
“Think of it this way. She thinks you’re so fantastic a man that she could never hope to find someone as fantastic unless she chose someone utterly unlike you.”
“That’s an interesting interpretation.”
“I try,” Carlotta said. “When’s the wedding?”
“They don’t know.”
“That’s the way it’s done these days, isn’t it. Get engaged and wait until having children becomes medically impossible. It was different in our day. People couldn’t wait to get married.”
“They couldn’t wait to screw.”
“Please. You make it sound like we grew up in the fifteenth century.”
“Didn’t we?”
“Oh, Arthur, you really are such a grump.” She pointed below to a narrow path, barely visible, that led into an area of unchecked greenery. “That’s the way to Bill’s office.”
He nodded.
“Would you like to see it?” she asked.
“If you’d like to show it to me.”
“I would,” she said. “And I think he would have wanted you to see it, too.”
14.
They moved through the underbrush, ducking ferns and low-hanging vines, the dog bounding ahead in pursuit of a dragonfly. The light turned murky. Pfefferkorn felt as though he was heading into the heart of darkness. Rounding a mossy outcropping, they came to a glade flecked with dandelions and Queen Anne’s lace. Botkin sat by the door to a boxy wooden building, his tail swishing.
“Voilà,” Carlotta said.
Pfefferkorn regarded the building. “Looks like a barn,” he said.
“It was.”
“There you go.”
“The previous owner was something of a gentleman farmer. He bred champion goats.”
Pfefferkorn snorted.
“Don’t laugh,” she said. “The good ones go for upwards of fifty thousand dollars.”
“For a goat?”
“You don’t live around here if you’re poor. You know the part on a ballpoint pen cap that sticks out? So you can clip it onto something? He invented that.”
“My future son-in-law will be impressed.”
“Bill loved it out here,” Carlotta said. “He called it his refuge. From what, I wanted to know. He never did say.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean it literally,” Pfefferkorn said. “You know how he could be.”
“Oh I know. Believe me.” She smiled mischievously. “Sometimes when I’m out here I swear I can smell them. The goats.”
Pfefferkorn tried and failed to smell the goats.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s see where the magic happens.”
What struck Pfefferkorn most of all about Bill’s office was its modesty. Only a tenth of the barn had been sectioned off and finished, and that left comparatively spare. Indeed, it was strange to think that such phenomenal wealth as Pfefferkorn had just seen could be produced in a room so plain. Atop a rickety desk were an electric typewriter, a jar of pens, and a neatly stacked manuscript. The familiarity of the arrangement caused Pfefferkorn to shiver.
There had been few embellishments in thirty-some-odd years. There was an easy chair that looked as if it had been slept in a lot. There was a low bookcase filled with Bill’s own prodigious oeuvre. On the wall above the desk hung a framed photo of Carlotta, a formal portrait made perhaps fifteen years prior. Below it was a photo Pfefferkorn identified as the source for both the pop-up invitation and the enlargement displayed at the funeral. The uncropped original had been taken at the marina. Bill stood on a dock piled with rope, smiling jauntily from beneath his captain’s hat as sunset inflamed a sliver of ocean.
The dog, seeking his missing master’s feet, settled morosely beneath the desk.
“I almost went out with him,” Carlotta said.
Pfefferkorn looked at her.
“That day, I mean. I changed my mind at the last minute.”
“Thank God.”
“You think? Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I have any notion of us waltzing off together into some spongy afterlife . . . Still. There’s guilt.” She indicated the manuscript. “That’s the new one.”
It was hefty, five hundred pages or more. Pfefferkorn wiped the title page free of dust.
SHADOWGAME
a novel of suspense
William de Vallée
Whatever Pfefferkorn’s opinion of Bill as a writer, the idea of the novel going unfinished gave him a pang.
“What’s going to happen to it?” he asked.
“Honestly, I haven’t given it much thought. It hasn’t seemed important, given everything else.” She rubbed her cheek. “Sooner or later I suppose I’ll have to burn it.”
He looked at her with surprise.
“I know,” she said. “Très eighteen seventies. It sounds pointless in the computer age. Believe it or not, he still did all his first drafts on the Olivetti. That’s the only copy.”
He continued to stare at her.
“What,” she said.
“You’re going to destroy it?”
“Did you have a better idea?”
“I’m sure his publisher would love to have it.”
“Oh, I’m sure they would, too, but Bill never would have approved. He hated anyone reading his unfinished material. That includes me, by the way. Way back in the beginning I used to give him feedback but it wasn’t good for our marriage.”
There was a silence.
“You’re wondering if I’m tempted to read it now,” Carlotta said.
“Are you?”
“Not in the slightest. It would be like listening to him. I don’t think I could take it.”
He nodded.
“I wish we’d been able to convince you to visit sooner,” she said. “Your approval meant the world to him.”
Pfefferkorn stared guiltily at the floor.
“It’s true.” She walked to the bookcase. “Look.”
Among everything Bill had ever published there was but a single book by another author. It was Pfefferkorn’s novel.
Pfefferkorn was moved.
“In many ways,” she said, “you made him a writer.”
“Let’s not get carried away.”
“It’s true. You brought him out of the closet, so to speak.”
“I’m sure he would have found his way out sooner or later.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself. He worshipped you.”
“Carlotta, please. This is unnecessary.”
“You really have no idea, do you?”
Pfefferkorn said nothing.
“I have a very distinct memory,” she said. “This was about five or six years ago, I think. A book of his had recently come out and was sitting atop the best-seller list. Bill was out on tour. You know he still liked to tour, after all this time. He didn’t have to, but he liked to greet his public. . . . Anyway, one night, he called me from his hotel in New York. It must have been around midnight, three in the morning over there. I could tell right away he was drunk as a skunk. ‘Carlotta,’ he said, ‘do you love me?’ ‘Of course I do, Bill. I’ve always loved you.’ ‘That’s good to hear. I love you, too.’ ‘Thank you, dear. Why don’t you go to bed?’ ‘I can’t sleep.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘I’m thinking about Arthur.’ ‘What about him.’ ‘I have a copy of his book with me.’ ‘His book? Does he have a new book out?’ ‘Not a new book, his first book. I have it with me. I was rereading it. It’s a marvelous book.’ ‘I know, it’s very good.’ ‘Not very good. Marvelous.’ ‘All right, marvelous.’ ‘Do you want to know something, Carlotta?’ ‘Yes, dear, tell me.’ ‘I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone.’ ‘Tell me, dear.’ ‘It’s very hard for me to tell you this.’ ‘It’s all right, Bill. I love you no matter what.’ ‘Okay, then, here goes. Are you ready?’ ‘I’m ready.’ ‘Here goes. Here it is. Do you know how much money I have?’ ‘I have a fair idea.’ ‘More money than God. That’s how much money I have. And I swear to you, I swear on my life: I’d give it all, I’d give every single cent, to be able to write like him for one day.’”
There was a silence.
“I wish you hadn’t told me that,” he said.
“Please don’t be angry. I only want you to know how important you were to him.”
“I’m not angry.”
Light moved across the wall. It was later than he’d realized.
“I should be going,” he said.
They walked back to the house. Carlotta ordered the rental car brought around. Pfefferkorn thanked her, kissed her on the cheek, and bent to get behind the wheel.
“Arthur.”
Pfefferkorn paused, folded in half. The dog was watching them from the threshold.
“You can’t, I don’t know, extend your ticket?” She smiled. “The red-eye is always so beastly. You’ll be much more productive if you stay the night and work on the plane tomorrow. And how often are you in California? We’ve barely gotten to talking.”
“I have to teach,” he said.
“Call in sick.”
“Carlotta—”
“What’ll they do, put you in detention?”
“It’s not that,” he said. “I have my students to consider.”
She looked at him.
“Let me make a couple of calls,” he said.
15.
That evening they dined at an Italian restaurant whose waitstaff knew Carlotta by name. The food was excellent, and Pfefferkorn, normally not a heavy drinker, consumed the other half of a bottle of Chianti.
“Tell me something,” he said. “Why did you change your name?”
“You mean when I got married?”
“I mean when Bill changed it.”
“I wasn’t about to have him be one thing and me another. And which would you rather be: de Vallée or Kowalczyk?”
“Fair enough.”
“Bill agonized over that, you know. It was his agent who made him do it.”
“Savory.”
“He said Kowalczyk was too hard to pronounce.”
“Too ethnic.”
“Mm. I don’t think Bill fully grasped the implications of consenting to be called something else. Remember, he never expected that book to become a series, and he certainly never expected that series to become a hit. When he agreed I think he still had the idea he could still go back to being Bill Kowalczyk afterward, but of course it was too late.”
“What I remember about the stories he used to show me,” Pfefferkorn said, “is that they weren’t any of this cat-and-mouse stuff. They were almost avant-garde.”
She nodded.
“I was surprised when the first book came out,” he said.
“As was I. Frankly, I didn’t care for it. Don’t look at me like that. I like them fine now. But at the time I’d never read a thriller in my life. I still don’t, except for Bill’s.”
“What do you read, then?”
“Oh, you know. Those paperbacks with the beefcake in the kilt, and the women are pale and faint three times an hour, and loins drip and members throb and all that.”
Pfefferkorn laughed.
“Anything that ends with them galloping across the misty moors is fine by me.”
“Now I know what to get you for your birthday.”
“A beefcake or a paperback?”
“I can’t afford a beefcake.”
“I hear they’re quite reasonable by the hour, actually.”
“I’ll look into it,” he said.
“Please do.” She took a sip of wine, ran her tongue over her teeth. “Bill was always very adamant that what he did shouldn’t be considered art.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“It’s true. He used to tell people he made chairs. He’d say, ‘Every day I get up, I go out to my shop, I sit at my workbench, and I glue and carve and sand. And when I’m done, I’ll give you a nice, solid, dependable chair, just right for sitting on. You’ll feel very comfortable, sitting on my chair. And by the time you’re through sitting on it, I’ll be ready with another one, just like the first, and that’ll be just right, too.’ I think it was important for him to differentiate.”
“Between.”
“Art and craft. What you did and what he did.”
“I don’t want to talk about that anymore.”
“I’m not saying he wasn’t capable of producing art. Just that he was conscious of his choices. He needed there to be a difference.” She took another sip of wine. “I don’t know if I should tell you this. I suppose it’s all past now, but . . .” She shrugged. “He was dabbling in a side project. A literary novel.”
“No kidding,” he said. “What about?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure he ever got anything on paper. He only mentioned it once or twice. I think he was afraid of how people would react.”
He understood she meant him. “Really, Carlotta. Enough.”
“Why do you think he still sent you first editions?” she said. “Your opinion meant the world to him.”
He said nothing.
“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. And I don’t want to give you the impression that Bill was unhappy. At least I don’t think so. He loved building chairs. He might not have set out to become this . . . godhead, but it was a role he came to enjoy. His fans are positively rabid. Conspiracy theorists, paranoiacs who read the novels and get wrapped up in this silly world of double-crossing and dirty secrets. Bill played into it, of course, taking those jacket photos with the coat. I used to tell him it was a bad idea, encouraging these people, but he said it was part of the image.”
“Did you ever have folks bother you?”
“We’ve had occasion to hire a private investigator.”
“Sounds like a nightmare.”
She shrugged. “It’s all relative. Remember where we live. Around here nobody gives a damn about a writer. I’ll tell you another story. Don’t worry, this one’s not going to embarrass you. One time we went into a bookstore. I think I wanted a cookbook and we happened to be passing one of the chains, so we went in and got the book and stood in line for the register. Now, behind the counter is this big”—she spread her hands—“I mean absolutely huge display of his new book. There’s a photo of him on top, and it’s got his name on it. You’d think the clerk would put two and two together. Smile, at least. But—no reaction. We step up to pay for the book and she doesn’t bat an eye. Bill hands her a credit card with his name on it, and again—nothing. She swipes the card and puts the book in a bag and tells us to have a nice day.” Carlotta sat back. “It was five feet away.”
“I wish I could say I was surprised,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Well, look, better that than being mobbed every time you go outside. I don’t know how these movie stars deal with it.”
“They like it.”
“Yes, they must, mustn’t they? They’re exhibitionists.”
The waiter approached. “I dolci, signora.”
“Cappuccino, please.”
“And for the signore?”
“Regular coffee, thanks.”
“Arthur. Aren’t we working-class.”
In the car, Carlotta loaned Pfefferkorn her cell phone.
“Daddy? What time is it?”
Pfefferkorn had forgotten about the time difference. “Sorry, sweetheart.”
“You sound funny. Is everything okay?”
“It’s just fine.”
“Are you drunk?”
“I wanted to let you know that I moved my flight. I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon.”
“Daddy? What’s going on?”
“Everything’s fine. I’m catching up with Carlotta.”
“All right. Have a good time.”
He closed the phone.
“She must be beautiful,” Carlotta said.
He nodded.
“The last time I saw her was—God, it must have been her bat mitzvah.” Carlotta looked over her shoulder to change lanes. “Every so often I wish we’d had children. Not that often. It was my decision. Bill wanted them. But I was afraid they would turn me into my mother. Which is funny because”—she changed lanes again—“I turned into her anyway.”
Back at the house, they made love twice. Then Carlotta showed Pfefferkorn to his own room, where he could rise for his morning flight without disturbing her.
16.
Pfefferkorn couldn’t sleep. He switched on the bedside light and reached for the remote control on the nightstand, turning to the news channel. A coiffed woman told him that the prime minister of West Zlabia had released a statement condemning capitalist exploitation and announcing the sale of exclusive rights to the gas field to the Chinese. The East Zlabians were up in arms. He watched for a few more minutes, then turned the television off and leaned back against the headboard, feeling completely awake. His insomnia had nothing to do with guilt, of which he felt none, or none that he was consciously aware of. He supposed he might have suppressed his guilt and that insomnia was the form it took in escaping. To his mind, however, a better explanation was that he was in the grip of newfound possibility. It was irrational, he knew. Nothing had changed. He was still Pfefferkorn, adjunct professor of creative writing. At the same time, making love to Carlotta—something he had fantasized about his entire adult life—had brought him into a state of mind dormant since his early twenties. It takes a woman to make a man feel this way, he thought. Then he corrected himself. It didn’t take just any woman. It took Carlotta.
Seized by a romantic impulse, he pulled back the comforter, put on his dressing gown, and padded downstairs to the terrace, along the way swiping a handful of pebbles from a potted bamboo. His plan was to throw them, one by one, at Carlotta’s window, waking her and perhaps arousing a third bout of lovemaking. Once outside in the cold, he felt ridiculous. Even if he successfully determined which of the many darkened windows was hers, he would probably end up breaking the glass.
He scattered the pebbles and sat down on the flagstone, gazing out at the silvery lawns. The night was splendid, the air sweet as nectar. The soothing gurgle of fountains came from points distant. Even a stray chew toy seemed artfully placed, a charming visual blip there to remind the viewer that this was a home, not a museum. Carlotta had called the house grotesque, and while that was partially true, there was also a kind of seemliness to it, a sense that if mansions had to exist, they ought to be just like this. It was probably for the best that Bill had been the one to get rich, as Pfefferkorn’s own relationship with money was characterized by that mixture of desire and contempt that comes from never having enough.
Growing up, he hadn’t felt jealous of Bill. For one thing, the gap between them hadn’t been so glaring. Bill’s parents never faced ruin, as Pfefferkorn’s often did, but neither were they the Rockefellers. Moreover, having Bill for a best friend enabled Pfefferkorn to thumb his nose at middle-class morality while still getting to ride around in a Camaro. He didn’t need money to feel on an equal footing with Bill, because he had his own form of power. Of the two of them, he was the intellectual. He was the Writer.
This paradigm held for so long that he continued to hide behind it long after it had proven false. It didn’t matter how many rejection notices he got or how many best-seller lists Bill made. There was one Writer, and it was him. It had to be thus, because otherwise he had no way to exist in their friendship. He quarantined those parts of his brain that whispered No, he’s the writer, you’re a failure, and as a result he had no concept of how much resentment he had stored up until one night, six years back, when Bill called to say he was coming into town and wanted to get dinner. Pfefferkorn hemmed and hawed. He claimed to have a mountain of papers to grade.
“You have to eat,” Bill said. “Come on, Yankel. We’ll get steaks. On me.”
Looking back, Pfefferkorn was hard-pressed to explain his reaction. Had he been struggling to figure out how he would pay his credit card bill? Had he just gotten off the phone with his agent? Whatever the reason, all the venom came spilling forth.
“I don’t want dinner,” he said.
“What?” Bill said. “Why not?”
“I don’t want dinner,” he said again. In a way, it was worse that he wasn’t yelling. “I don’t want anything, I don’t need anything, just enough already.”
“Yankel—”
“No,” Pfefferkorn said. “No. No. Enough.” He was up and moving now, pacing around his kitchen, squeezing the phone so tightly that he could feel the plastic housing starting to come apart. “Christ, you’re arrogant. You know that? Did you ever bother to ask yourself if I liked that name? No, you just assumed. Well, here’s news: I don’t like it. I can’t stand it. It drives me up the goddamned wall. You drive me up the goddamned wall. Just—leave it alone. Leave me alone.”
There was a silence. Hurt seeped over the line.
“All right,” Bill said. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
There was another silence, longer and more ominous.
“Fine,” Bill said. “But listen, Art. Ask yourself this: you’re sure you can’t think of anything I have that you want? Anything at all?”
“Go straight to hell,” Pfefferkorn said and hung up.
Nine months passed before Bill called to apologize. Pfefferkorn made his own grudging apology as well. But the repercussions had been serious and long-lasting. Pfefferkorn had not been to California since. For his part, Bill still sent first editions, and he still inscribed them touchingly, but otherwise communication between them had all but atrophied. Pfefferkorn had concluded that it was sad but better this way. Few friendships were meant to last a lifetime. People changed. Bonds disintegrated. Part of life. So he had told himself.
Now, however, he saw the entire mess as a nauseating victory of pride over love. He began to shiver. He pulled the dressing gown around himself. It was Bill’s, far too big for him. Carlotta had loaned it to him. He wrapped himself tighter still and rocked in the moonlight, weeping without sound.
Some time later he stood up, intending to go back to bed. But again he changed his mind. He headed for the office path.
17.
Pfefferkorn stood in darkness, listening to the wind gust through the unused portion of the barn and stubbing his feet against the cold tile. He flicked on the light and sat at the desk, opening drawers. The first was empty. The second contained a box of pens of the same brand as those in the jar. The final drawer contained three reams of paper still in their wrappers.
The wind gusted again.
Pfefferkorn reached for the neatly piled manuscript. He leaned back in the chair. It let out a loud, rusty bark. He read.
If he had expected anything different from Bill’s previous work, he was to be disappointed: in both substance and style, the manuscript differed so little from what he’d read on the plane that Pfefferkorn entertained himself with the idea that Carlotta had been mistaken, and that the pages in his hand were not a book-in-progress but the same one on display in airport terminals throughout the world. Three chapters in, he glanced over at the bookcase containing both his and Bill’s life’s work. The disparity amazed him. Even more amazing was that Bill still thought so highly of him. Surely one would expect that decades of uninterrupted commercial success would go to a person’s head. Surely Bill had the right to believe that he, not Pfefferkorn, was the superior writer. And who was to say he wasn’t? Pfefferkorn decided that he had been too harsh. Consistency, productivity, broad appeal—these, too, were writerly virtues, as was the ability to repeatedly vary a theme. By the end of its opening sentence, a William de Vallée novel made its reader feel at home. As a student, Pfefferkorn had railed against mass-market entertainment, decrying it as a weapon of the ruling powers aimed at maintenance of the status quo. He gravitated toward writers who employed alienating styles or unconventional themes, believing that these possessed the power to awaken the reading public to fundamental problems concerning the modern condition. He had striven to write in that mode as well. But these were a young man’s concerns. Pfefferkorn had long ago stopped believing that his stories (or any story, for that matter) would have a measurable effect on the world. Literature did not decrease injustice or increase fairness or cure any of the ills that had plagued mankind from time immemorial. It was sufficient, rather, to make one person, however bourgeois, feel slightly less unhappy for a short period of time. In Bill’s case, the cumulative effect of millions of people made slightly less unhappy for a short period of time had to be reckoned a significant accomplishment. There, at a bare desk in a frigid office in the middle of the night, Pfefferkorn softened his heart toward his dead friend, and to bad but successful writers everywhere.
18.
Dawn broke and he still had seventy pages left. He had to hand it to Bill: the man could spin a yarn. The latest installment of Dick Stapp’s adventures began with the murder of a politician’s wife but eventually led to far-off regions, as Stapp pursued a suitcase containing nuclear launch codes. Did they really call it a football? Pfefferkorn did not know. He put down the manuscript and stood, twisting to loosen his back. He knelt by the bookcase and took out his own novel, studying the cover, its blue darker than that of the faded spine. There was his name in yellow letters. There, in white, was a pencil drawing of a tree. The tree had been his idea. At the time it made sense to him but now he saw that it was boring and pretentious. Live and learn, he thought. He opened to the back flap. There was his author photo, taken by his wife on her old camera. In it he was young and thin, staring intensely, chin clutched between thumb and side of forefinger, a pose intended to give him gravitas. Now he decided that he looked like his head had become detached and he was trying to keep it in place.
He turned to the title page and the inscription.
Bill
I’ll catch you one day
love
Art
Had he really written that? Bill must have been embarrassed by the pettiness of it, although Pfefferkorn could not remember him saying anything other than thank you. And such folly. He would never catch Bill, at least not in terms of numbers. That much should have been apparent, even back then.
Shaking his head, Pfefferkorn opened the book to a random page. What he saw astonished him. The text had been heavily annotated, every sentence asterisked, underlined, boxed, or bracketed, some all four. A dense, Talmudic commentary filled the margins. Diction was analyzed, allusions explicated, scenes dissected for structure. Pfefferkorn riffled the rest of the book and was aghast to discover that it had all been given an identical treatment. The novel’s final paragraph ended in the middle of a page, and below the closing words Bill had written:
YES
Pfefferkorn turned to the table of contents—it was clean, which brought him immeasurable relief—then to the acknowledgments. He read that he had thanked his agent, his editor, his wife, and various friends who had provided technical advice. He had not thanked Bill.
Stricken, he went back to the title page, intending to rip out the inscription in penance. But he could not bring himself to do it. He replaced the book on the shelf.
He sat for some time in a meditative silence. He thought of his failed novels. He thought of his failed marriage. He thought of Bill, good Bill, kind Bill, bashful Bill, Bill who had ever shown him only generosity, who had admired and studied him, who had loved him and whom he had loved in return. He thought of Bill leaving his mansion to sit in a tiny, ugly room. Bill, typing his two thousand five hundred words, day in and day out. Bill, wishing he had one great book in him. Bill, with his own jealousies, his own regrets. Outside, the birds began to sing. Pfefferkorn looked at the manuscript, seventy pages unread, the rest piled messily and dangling at the edge of the desk, and he thought that Bill never would have been so careless. He thought of Carlotta, the way she had opened herself to him, in punishment and in reward. He thought of his daughter, whose wedding he could not pay for. He thought of his students at the college, none of whom would ever succeed. They had no talent, and talent could not be learned. He thought of life and he thought of death. He thought: I deserve more.
19.
Pfefferkorn waited for the rental car shuttle bus to take him to the departure terminal. In order to fit the manuscript into his carry-on he had had to discard several items of clothing, two pairs of socks and two pairs of underwear and one shirt hastily stuffed into the waste bin of a hallway bathroom that, to his eye, had not been recently used, the bar of soap in the sinkside soap dish still wrapped in ribbon and wax paper.
He stood at the kiosk, waiting for his boarding pass to print.
He stood at the security checkpoint, waiting to be waved through the metal detector.
He sat at the gate in a hard plastic chair, waiting for his group to be called.
Once the plane was in the air and his seatmate asleep, he unzipped his bag, took out the manuscript, and thumbed off the unread portion.
The novel’s final scenes were full of action. Pfefferkorn read quickly, his tension growing in inverse proportion to the number of pages left. By the time he reached the second-to-last page, he was on the verge of panic. While the nuclear launch codes had been recovered, the villain responsible for their theft was still at large and in possession of a vial containing a virulent strain of influenza in sufficient quantity to wipe out Washington, D.C., and its environs. With a terrible foreboding, Pfefferkorn turned to the last page.
coming at them like a bullet.
“Dick!” Gisele screamed. “Dick! I can’t—”
A deafening roar cut her off as the bomb detonated. Rocks rained down from the roof of the cave. Dust filled Stapp’s lungs.
“Dick . . . I can’t breathe. . . .”
The weakness of her voice chilled Stapp to the marrow.
“Hang on!” he yelled hoarsely. “I’m almost there.”
Like a bat out of hell Stapp plunged into the icy water
That was all.
Pfefferkorn looked inside his carry-on. Had he missed a page? An entire chapter? But no. Of course the book would end that way. Bill hadn’t finished it yet. Disheartened, he put the incomplete completion away and zipped up his bag. He put his head back, closed his eyes, and slept.
20.
Pfefferkorn left his still-packed carry-on beneath the kitchen table and made himself busy. He sorted the mail, he checked the refrigerator, he called his daughter.
“Did you have fun?” she asked.
“For a funeral, it wasn’t bad.”
“How’s Carlotta?”
“Good. She says hello.”
“I hope you’ll keep in touch with her.” Then: “Maybe you could visit her again.”
“That, I don’t know about.”
“Why not? I think it would be healthy for you.”
“That’s how people get sick, on airplanes.”
“That’s not what I mean, Daddy.”
“Then what do you mean.”
“You know,” she said.
“I really don’t.”
“Call her.”
“And say what.”
“Tell her you had a good time. Tell her you want to see her again.”
He sighed. “Sweetheart—”
“Please, Daddy. I’m not stupid.”
“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s good for you.”
“What is.”
“Having someone.”
He had heard this before, notably when she was in her teens and reading a lot of Victorian novels. “I have to go,” he said.
“Why do you have to be so stubborn?”
“I have to get to the market before it closes.”
“Daddy—”
“I’ll call you soon.”
Walking down the drizzly avenue, he had to admire how quickly she had deduced the truth. How did they do it, women? It was nothing short of prophecy. He wondered if that might make an interesting premise for a novel.
He slung a plastic basket in the crook of his elbow and wandered through the aisles, distractedly gathering the bachelor’s staples: milk, cereal, instant noodles. On his way to the register he passed the floral department and was inspired. A token—a warm hand extended—that was all that was necessary, wasn’t it? If Carlotta wanted to speak to him, she could pick up the phone just as easily as he could. He hoped she wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure he could keep calm. After all, it was only a matter of time before she discovered he had taken the manuscript, and when she did, he would have no ready explanation. Indeed, he couldn’t understand it himself. Why would he, of all people, steal an unfinished novel? He had more than enough of those. But of course he had not known it was unfinished. He had taken it thinking it would wrap up nicely. He told himself that he’d merely wanted to finish reading it. But if so, why take the entire thing? Why not just the last seventy pages? What had he been thinking? He blamed fatigue, stress, grief, postcoital delirium. He argued to himself that he had not stolen but borrowed, and he decided that he would return the manuscript as soon as he had the chance. But if that had been his intention all along, why not leave a note? Why cover up his deed, as he had done, placing the old title page atop a pile of blank paper, so that anyone walking into the room would see nothing amiss? These were not the deeds of an innocent man.
He walked home. He put away the groceries. He avoided looking at the carry-on, which seemed to radiate with the aura of the stolen manuscript. Hoping to ease his nerves, he moved the bag to the back of the coat closet.
The website provided the option of including a card with his bouquet, but none of the choices seemed suitable. Neat descriptors—bereavement, thanks, love, apology—did not capture the complexity of the circumstances. In the end, he settled for “Just Because.”
21.
“They’re lovely, Arthur. Thank you. I’ve put them on my nightstand.”
“My pleasure,” he said.
“I’m so glad you stayed.”
“Me too.”
“But—you don’t have any regrets, do you? You shouldn’t,” she said, as if he had answered in the affirmative. “If there’s any lesson to be learned from all this, it’s that life is precious. We could both walk out of our houses tomorrow morning and get hit by a bus.”
“That would be some rotten luck.”
“Wouldn’t it, though. My point is we’re too old to get hung up. Be happy now, that’s what Bill always said. Well, that’s what I want.”
“By all means.”
“That applies to you, too, Arthur.”
“I am happy,” he said.
“Happier, then.”
“Everything in moderation,” he said.
“Funny man. When can I see you again?”
“Come anytime,” he said, instantly regretting the invitation. His apartment was unfit for a woman of any class, let alone Carlotta. “There’s a nice hotel a few blocks away,” he said.
“Really, Arthur. A hotel? Anyway, I hate planes, they’re so dehydrating. No, I insist: you must come here as soon as you possibly can, and I won’t let you argue with me.”
“Well—”
“I know it’s a long trip.”
“I have a job,” he said.
“Oh, who cares.”
It frustrated him, her refusal to acknowledge that forgoing work was not an option for most people. “It’s not that simple,” he said.
“And why not.”
“Do you know what a round-trip ticket costs?”
She whooped with laughter. “That’s your excuse? You silly man, I’ll pay for your ticket.”
The echo of his argument with Bill was unmistakable, and Pfefferkorn fought to suppress his anger and shame. “Absolutely not,” he said.
“Arthur,” she said, “please. There’s no need to be prideful.”
There was a long silence.
“I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I?”
“No.”
“I’ve insulted you.”
“It’s all right.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, Carlotta.”
“You understand what I meant to say.”
“I understand.”
“Only for us to be happy. Both of us. That’s all I want.”
There was a silence.
“Call when you can,” she said.
“I will.”
“And, please—try not to be angry.”
“I’m not.”
“All right,” she said. “Good night, Arthur.”
“Good night.”
“Thanks again for the flowers.”
“You’re welcome.”
“They really are lovely.”
“I’m glad,” he said. But he was thinking that he should have chosen a more expensive bouquet.
22.
Pfefferkorn had a system, refined by many years of experience, for classifying his creative writing students. Type one was a nervous, fragile girl whose fiction was in essence a public diary. Commonly explored themes included sexual awakening, eating disorders, emotionally abusive relationships, and suicide. Next there was the ideologue, for whom a story functioned as a soapbox. This student had recently returned from a semester abroad in the Third World, digging wells or monitoring fraudulent elections, and was now determined to give voice to the voiceless. A third type was the genre devotee, comprising several subtypes: the science-fiction hobbit, the noirist, and so forth. Last, there was the literary aspirant, dry, sarcastic, and well-read, prone to quote, with a veneer of calm condescension occasionally (and then spectacularly) shattered by an explosion of nastiness. Pfefferkorn himself had once been of this type.
Although the last three types were predominantly male, a high absolute number of type-ones led to a preponderance of women in Pfefferkorn’s classes.
There was a fifth type, naturally, so rarely seen as to not merit its own category, and whose nature moreover rendered the act of categorization irrelevant: the true writer. In all his years Pfefferkorn had encountered three of them. One had gone on to publish two novels before becoming a lawyer. The second had grown rich writing for television. The third taught creative writing at a small college in the Middle West. She and Pfefferkorn corresponded once or twice a year. The first two he had lost touch with.
It was common for professional educators to say that they lived for the rare birds, a sentiment Pfefferkorn found unforgivably self-important. It was only to the vast, mediocre herd that the actual work of teaching applied, and then only to dubious effect. Talented students had no need of the classroom. Teachers liked talented students because talented students made teachers look good while requiring no effort on the part of the teacher.
One week after his return from California, Pfefferkorn sat in a room with ten untalented students, conducting a workshop. He did not participate in the conversation other than to nod and to offer smiles of encouragement to the fragile young woman whose story was up for dissection. She wore an oversized sweater with a button that said FREE WEST ZLABIA, and as the criticism grew progressively more rancorous, she retreated into her clothes like a turtle protecting itself, first retracting her arms into her sleeves, then pulling the hem of the sweater down over her hugged knees. Another day, Pfefferkorn might have come to her defense, but presently he was absorbed in worry. He had put his conversation with Carlotta on a permanent loop in his brain and was analyzing it for some hint that she knew what he had done. He couldn’t find any, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t gone into the office in the last week. She hadn’t called. Was her silence furious? Ambivalent? Embarrassed? He didn’t know, and he worried. He worried further that he had been too quick to take offense at her offer of a plane ticket. He did miss her. On the other hand, if he was too old to get hung up, he was also too old to become a kept man. That he should have to negotiate with himself for these tattered scraps of dignity was itself humiliating.
He let a week pass. The phone didn’t ring. He went to class. He came home. He listened to his daughter talk about her ongoing quest for a wedding venue. Another week went by. He avoided looking at the coat closet. He read the paper. William de Vallée had ceased to be newsworthy. The economy was down. Fuel prices were up. Tempers in the Zlabian valley continued to flare, with shots being fired across the border. Pfefferkorn didn’t pay attention to any of it. He had more important things on his mind than the squabbles of people in faraway places. He reread the file where he kept his ideas for future novels. Every single one stank. It had been a full month and Carlotta still had not called. Maybe she had burned the pile of paper on the desk without looking at it. Maybe she’d forgotten about it. Maybe she had left it out for him on purpose. Maybe it had been a test and he had failed. Or maybe she meant it as a gift and his fear was baseless. He took the carry-on out of the coat closet and piled the manuscript neatly on his desk. He stared at the thick block of paper for hours on end. He had known what he intended to do all along, hadn’t he? He still felt conflicted, of course. He had to work on himself, argue with himself, convince himself. He sat on the edge of his bed, unfolding and examining Carlotta’s words—be happy now—taking them first as a pardon, then as permission, and finally as a command. The time for excuses had ended. The time had come to act.
23.
One of Pfefferkorn’s more shameful secrets was that he had once tried to write a popular novel of his own. Fed up with being perpetually broke, he took a few days to sketch the plot—it was a murder mystery set at a small college on the Eastern Seaboard—before sitting down to bang out a quick and dirty ten chapters. His daughter, then thirteen, noticed the pile growing on his desk and beamed with pride. Indeed, it was the only time since publishing his novel that he had gotten any further than the first five pages, and while he detested every word he’d written, he had to admit feeling some satisfaction in seeing any book of his achieve a third dimension.
The problem was the ending. In his zeal to entertain he constructed six distinct, wildly complicated plotlines, giving but the slightest consideration to how they might ultimately intertwine. He soon found himself stymied, spinning in place like a man whose six dogs have all run off in different directions. Frustrated, he reversed tack, stripping away all but one of the plotlines, leaving him with a mere forty pages. Attempts to expand these pages proved ham-fisted and futile. He tried introducing a romantic interest, only to discover, to his dismay, and over his loud mental protests, that his protagonist was a latent homosexual. To increase the suspense he murdered another administrator. He murdered a student. He murdered a hapless janitor. Bodies kept piling up and still he had fewer than twenty-five thousand words. It didn’t take much, he discovered, to kill someone in print, and there was only so much page space one could reasonably fill with gory descriptions.
In a fit of pique he caused the campus quadrangle to be detonated.
After much floundering he threw the manuscript in the trash. His daughter came home from school and, seeing the empty spot on the desk, the dustless rectangle where once their hopes for a better future had lain, ran to her room and locked the door, deaf to his entreaties.
As he sat at his computer, plagiarizing Bill’s manuscript, Pfefferkorn thought often of those days. He regretted having given up so easily. He might have done his daughter proud after all. But there was no sense fretting. She was getting married and he had work to do.
The theft of Shadowgame had begun with Pfefferkorn placing the manuscript in his carry-on, but it was not complete until eleven weeks later, when he finished retyping the text. He would have finished far sooner had he not chosen to fix some of the more infelicitous phrasing. For instance, it was characteristic of special agent Richard “Dick” Stapp to perform difficult physical feats in one fluid motion. Pfefferkorn didn’t care for the expression one bit. It was better to say fluidly, or smoothly—or, better yet, to apply no modifier but rather to plainly state the action in question and allow the reader to envision it. In redacting the manuscript, Pfefferkorn tallied twenty-four instances of movements taking place in one fluid motion, striking all but three from the final text. Two he left in because he felt he owed it to Bill to not eliminate wholesale what was obviously a pet phrase. The third in one fluid motion came when Stapp simultaneously answered his cell phone and floored an attacker, a spectacular move that began with Stapp’s hand darting to his belt clip and removing the phone before proceeding in a sharp, shallow arc up toward his face to answer the call, the resultant jutting elbow striking his assailant in the solar plexus, leaving him—the assailant—“sinking to his knees, gasping for breath” (a phrase that itself cropped up again and again, along with “snapped his neck,” “dove for cover,” and “chambered a round”) while he—Stapp—calmly said I’m gonna have to call you back. In this case, Pfefferkorn decided the phrase meant something: it conveyed that two fundamentally disjointed movements were being carried out with such precision and ease that they appeared harmonious. He doubted that any but the most careful reader would intuit the thought behind the words, but games like this kept him entertained throughout the revision process. They also helped him convince himself that his efforts were not wholly without artistic merit.
He scrubbed out all the shouts, exclamations, declarations, and avowals, leaving in their stead a simple “said.” He mopped up inappropriate tears and scraped down the ugliest dialogue. Names, dates, and locations had to be changed. Last, there was the matter of the non-ending. It was to this, the most daunting task, that Pfefferkorn turned his attention for a full month.
An unstated rule of William de Vallée novels held that justice must be done—to a point. The sadistic minions, the brainless goons, always met an untimely end, but the mastermind often escaped to plot another day. This lack of resolution was important for two reasons. First, it implied that there were more adventures to be had. There was, too, a certain pleasurable chill in the suggestion that evil still lurked. In this day and age it was implausible to suggest that good would ever fully prevail. The contemporary reader required a touch of moral and narrative ambiguity. But only a touch. In constructing his new ending, then, Pfefferkorn strove mightily to achieve this delicate balance.
He killed off Dick Stapp.
Or at least he appeared to. It was unclear: a cliffhanger. And Stapp was not Stapp, for Pfefferkorn had rechristened him Harry Shagreen.
What remained after Pfefferkorn had finished his tinkering was an extraordinarily odd hybrid of his and Bill’s writing styles. Some might quibble with the ending, but Pfefferkorn thought there was more than enough justification for buying the manuscript in its present form. He printed it out. He printed out the new cover page. The new title was Blood Eyes. He put the book in the mail to his agent and waited for a response.
TWO COMMERCE
24.
Pfefferkorn was rich. His novel Blood Eyes had been on the best-seller list for one hundred twenty-one days. His publisher had chosen the book as the lead title for the fall list and consequently had poured ample funds into promoting it, taking out ads in newspapers and magazines of national repute as well as on the Internet. Now Pfefferkorn’s embossed foil name was visible at airports, supermarkets, and discount warehouse stores, on library shelves and in the hands of reading groups. Boarding a busy bus or a subway car in a major American city without seeing at least one person engrossed in a copy would present a challenge. The novel had been reconstituted as an audiobook, an abridged audiobook, an electronic book, an “enhanced” electronic book, an “amplified” electronic book, a “3-D” electronic book, a graphic novel, a pop-up book, a “3-D” pop-up graphic novel, as manga, in Braille, and in a large-print edition. It had been translated into thirty-three foreign languages, including Slovakian, Zlabian, and Thai.
The success of the book was not strictly commercial. Critical acclaim had been lavish. Among the phrases oft repeated were “far better written than your average thriller” and “turns the genre on its ear.” Several reviewers had singled out the ending for its deft touch.
Pfefferkorn had granted scores of interviews and had been the subject of countless blogs. He had attended a convention of thriller aficionados who anointed him “Rookie of the Year.” He had shaken so many hands and inscribed so many copies that his wrist had begun to ache. His publisher had established for him a website and encouraged him to engage in the new social media. He responded personally to every letter and e-mail. The volume of correspondence was smaller than he would have expected, given his sales figures. Most people didn’t have the time to write, it seemed. Those who did tended to fall at the far ends of the bell curve, either blindly adoring or else filled with rabid, foam-flecked hatred. The former greatly outnumbered the latter. For this, Pfefferkorn was glad.
He was given to understand by his agent that there was no longer any money for book tours. Amortizing the cost of a flight, a hotel, a media escort, and meals against the number of books the average author could expect to sell at any given event invariably resulted in a net loss—making it all the more remarkable that the publisher had decided to send him to eleven cities. He was met everywhere by large, enthusiastic crowds. It took him a while to get the hang of public speaking. At first he stammered. Then he spoke too fast. He told himself that an audience was basically a roomful of students. With this in mind he was able to relax, and by the end of the tour, he felt slightly disappointed that it was over.
Despite the speed and force of the changes being wrought in his life, he tried to keep a level head. His luxuries were few. He found a new apartment, bigger than his old one but far less than what he could have afforded. At his daughter’s behest he acquired a cell phone, and he would occasionally take a taxi rather than the bus—although never to work. That he did not quit his job was a fact he made a point of mentioning in interviews. Teaching, he said, had always been his first love. He said this not out of guile. It was a lie he had come to embrace, as it helped him convince himself that his values remained unchanged. He was still Pfefferkorn, adjunct professor of creative writing. Waiting on the corner for the number forty-four, he would note his position on the best-seller list, then deliberately deflate his sense of satisfaction by turning to the front page. One glance at the headlines was all it took. Everything was right with the world, which was to say: everything was appalling. A babysitter had murdered her charges by supergluing them to the blades of a ceiling fan and running it on high. A senator had been indicted for hiring a prostitute, then refusing to pay with anything other than bulk-sized bags of nougats. The president of East Zlabia had survived an assassination attempt for which the West Zlabians were denying responsibility. Members of the international community were calling on both sides to exercise restraint. It was business as usual. Violence, poverty, and corruption still reigned. So he had made a little money. So what?
Pfefferkorn met the parents of his future son-in-law. They all gathered for dinner at a restaurant Pfefferkorn’s daughter had picked out. This time his steak came in the shape of an Escher fork, which made it difficult to eat, as it kept disappearing each time he tried to cut into it.
An agreement was reached: Pfefferkorn was to assume half the cost of the wedding. As father of the bride, he was bound by tradition to pay more, but Paul’s parents refused to budge. Pfefferkorn, understanding that they did not want to look cheap or mercenary, did not press. Any arrangement was fine with him so long as he was not excluded. Throughout dinner he watched the clock, and at a predetermined moment he excused himself to the restroom. On the way back he gave the waiter his credit card, paying for the entire meal and leaving a generous tip.
25.
One worry remained, of course: Carlotta, with whom he had not spoken in close to a year. Pfefferkorn assumed that she had read his novel. For him to have suddenly produced a blockbuster thriller was an awfully convenient coincidence, and if he were her, he would be unable to resist a quick peek. When she did, the similarities to Shadowgame would be unmissable. True, she had claimed never to read Bill’s books before completion. But what husband didn’t talk about his work with his wife, if only casually? At minimum Bill must have described the basic premise to her. Pfefferkorn therefore had to conclude that she did know, and that her lack of response was deliberate. Every day that her call did not come reconfirmed that she was waiting for the right time to turn the tables on him—waiting until his fame reached its apex, so that his downfall would be all the more painful. He had never taken her for a cruel woman, and to imagine her scheming against him like this distressed him in the extreme.
He had but one way to protect himself. Bill’s original typewritten manuscript, wrapped in a plastic bag and stashed under Pfefferkorn’s new kitchen sink, was the only extant copy. Without it, there could be no proof of his misdeed, so he fed it, five pages at a time, into his new fireplace.
Seeing the paper blacken and shrink made him feel a trifle safer. Even so, he did not relish the idea of Carlotta knowing his secret. He feared her scorn far more than any public exposure. He wondered if he had blown his last shot at happiness. Several times he picked up the phone to call her, only to lose his nerve and hang up. Be a man, he told himself. Then he wondered what that meant.
26.
Soon after Blood Eyes began to make waves, calls started to come from Hollywood. Acting on the advice of his film agent, Pfefferkorn held out for more money, although he twice allowed himself to be flown to California to take meetings with loud men in turtlenecks. He enjoyed expensive lunches at no cost. He thought it comical and sad that the richer one was, the less often one had to pay for things.
“They want to meet you,” his film agent said. “This one looks like it might be legit.”
She had said as much the first two times, but Pfefferkorn packed his carry-on and flew to Los Angeles.
“A. S. Peppers,” the producer said, using the nom de plume Pfefferkorn had chosen after his surname was deemed too difficult to pronounce, “you’re a star.”
The assistant producers sitting along the wall nodded obsequiously.
“Thanks,” Pfefferkorn said.
The producer’s secretary poked her head in to announce that the head of the studio urgently needed to speak to the producer.
“Dang it all,” the producer said, standing up. “Well, you’re in good hands.”
Pfefferkorn sat while the assistant producers ignored him and gossiped for forty minutes.
“Sorry bout that,” the producer said, returning. “We’ll be in touch.”
Pfefferkorn’s cell phone rang as he was walking across the studio lot.
“How’d it go?” his film agent asked.
“Great.”
His hotel was located on a posh stretch of Wilshire Boulevard. He took a walk, passing a small group of people picketing a department store. Crossing the street to avoid them, he was then confronted by a woman who bade him to stop the atrocities in West Zlabia. He moved on.
Alone in his suite, he did the same thing he had done on his previous two trips to Los Angeles: he dialed Carlotta’s number on his cell phone, stopping short of pressing CALL. Be a man, he thought. He picked up his room phone and instructed the hotel valet to bring around his rental car.
27.
Pfefferkorn announced himself to the intercom. A moment later the gates parted. He inadvertently stomped the gas, spinning out on the gravel. He palmed his chest and told himself to keep it together. He checked himself in the rearview mirror, wiped the sweat from his brow, and drove slowly up the driveway.
Carlotta stood by the front door, the dog peering out from between her ankles. She wore black leggings and a man’s shirt and was without makeup or jewelry. Like him, she appeared to be perspiring. Like him, she seemed skittish and circumspect.
The butler held the car door for him.
“Jameson,” Carlotta said, “you’ll park Mr. Pfefferkorn’s car, please.”
“Madame.”
The rental car dipped down the path and out of sight.
They stood, looking at each other. Pfefferkorn came forward, holding out his gifts: a bouquet of flowers and a romance novel. Carlotta put up a hand.
“Don’t touch me,” she said.
Pfefferkorn stiffened. His stomach dropped. He wished he hadn’t given the butler his keys, so that he could leap back in the car and speed back to his hotel.
“I’ll be going, then,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t mean that,” Carlotta said. “I’m filthy right now.”
The dog yipped happily, rushed forward, and began humping Pfefferkorn’s leg.
“Botkin,” Carlotta said. “Botkin. Just give him a good kick, he’ll get the message.”
Pfefferkorn knelt and gently pried the dog away. It rolled over, and he rubbed its stomach. “I should have called.” He gave the dog a pat and stood up. “I’m sorry.”
They smiled at each other.
“Arthur,” Carlotta said. “Dear Arthur. Welcome back.”
28.
“Jesús, I’d like you to meet my dear friend, Arthur Pfefferkorn. Arthur, this is my tango partner, Jesús María de Lunchbox.”
The man’s silk shirt was unbuttoned to the navel, flashing open as he bowed to Pfefferkorn and revealing a tan, muscular torso.
“Nice to meet you,” Pfefferkorn said.
The man bowed again.
“Let’s call it a day,” Carlotta said. “Monday, then? The usual time?”
“Señora,” Jesús María said. He moved gracefully across the ballroom to collect his bag before bowing a third time and slipping away. Carlotta stood toweling off her neck and chugging from a bottle of vitamin-fortified water. She noticed Pfefferkorn frowning at the empty doorway. “What.”
“Are you,” Pfefferkorn said. “Eh.”
She giggled. “Oh, Arthur.”
“It’s not my business,” he said.
“Arthur, please. You really are too silly. He’s queer as a three-dollar bill.”
Pfefferkorn was relieved.
“Anyway,” she said, “I’m not sure what right you have to complain. It’s not like you’ve been around.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s as much my fault as yours.” She sighed. “We’re like a couple of children, aren’t we.”
He smiled.
“Let me get cleaned up,” she said. “Then you can tell me all about it.”
29.
They ate at the same Italian restaurant, ordered the same delicious wine, stuffed themselves with pasta. He thought he had never seen her so beautiful, her strong features mellowed by the liquid flicker of candlelight.
“You must be very busy these days,” Carlotta said.
“Off and on.”
“You were in town,” she said. “I saw the poster at the bookstore.”
His nerves had been deflating over the course of dinner, but under her unwavering stare, terror ballooned anew, larger than before, and he braced himself for the pinprick that would burst him in an instant.
“You didn’t call,” she said.
He said nothing.
“Why?”
“I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Why in the world would that upset me?”
“We didn’t exactly leave things on a major chord.”
“All the more reason to call,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Silly man,” she said. “I forgive you.”
The waiter arrived with dessert menus. When he had gone, Pfefferkorn girded himself to ask the question hanging around his neck like an anvil.
“Did you read it?”
She did not look up from the menu. “Of course.”
There was a silence.
“And?” he said.
Now she looked up. She cleared her throat. “Well, like I said, I’m no thriller expert. Bill is my only point of comparison. But I thought it was very good.”
He waited. “That’s it?”
“Don’t be such a writer. I said it was very good.”
He wasn’t looking for praise, though. He was looking for exoneration. He studied her closely as she debated out loud whether to order dessert. He sought a clue. Some preoccupation around the eyes. Some tightness in the lips. Some backward-canted posture of concealed revulsion. He waited and waited, yet all she seemed to care about was whether the strawberry zabaglione was worth the calories. At first he wouldn’t allow himself to accept what was happening. But it kept on happening, and by “it” he meant “nothing.” Nothing was happening, because she had no idea what he had done. It was the stuff of bad novels, but it was true. It struck him then that the stuff of bad novels was far more likely to occur in real life than the stuff of good novels, because good novels enlarged on reality while bad novels leaned on it. In a good novel, Carlotta’s motivations were far more complicated than they appeared. In a good novel, she was withholding her accusations so she could spring them on him later to achieve an unexpected end. In the bad novel of life, she simply didn’t know. His troubles ended here. That she did not seem to care for Blood Eyes was beside the point. It mostly wasn’t his book. He wanted to jump up and sing. He was safe. He was free.
“Signora?”
Carlotta relinquished the menu and ordered a cappuccino.
“And the signore?”
“Same,” Pfefferkorn said.
The waiter departed.
“If you knew I was in town, why didn’t you come to the reading?” Pfefferkorn asked.
“I didn’t want to upset you.”
“That’s the same excuse I used,” he said.
“Well, I thought you were angry at me.”
“I wasn’t.”
“It was a reasonable assumption based on our last conversation.”
“Why is it,” he said, “that when I misjudge you I’m wrong, but when you make the same misjudgment of me it’s reasonable?”
“Because,” she said.
“Right,” he said.
30.
He extended his ticket and they spent a blissful ten days eating, laughing, and making love. There was a refreshing abruptness to their romance, a welcome dispensing of preliminaries, as they enjoyed each other for their own sakes. Bill’s name seldom came up, and when it did it was spoken with a kind of abstract fondness, as though he were a memorable character in a novel they had both enjoyed. The triangle had collapsed into a line, one that ran directly from Pfefferkorn’s heart to hers.
She drove him to the airport herself.
“Let’s not wait another year, please,” she said.
“I don’t plan on it.”
“I can come there.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said.
It wasn’t necessary, because he could now afford to fly across the country every few weeks. He soon became a regular in coach—this a concession to a lifetime of frugality—growing friendly with the stewardesses who worked the route, enough so that they would slip him freebies or sneak him into business class if the flight was empty. Exiting the airport, he would find the Bentley idling curbside, Jameson at the wheel, a cold bottle of seltzer waiting in back.
Los Angeles was growing on him. Like every city, it was a lot more enjoyable when you had money. Carlotta took him to quality restaurants. They browsed boutiques. They lounged at the beach club where the de Vallées were members. These were activities he could not have tolerated before, because he would have been too embarrassed to let Carlotta pay. In most instances, she still did pay—she had a way of effortlessly dispensing with the bill when he wasn’t looking—but it bothered him less, for he knew that, were she to forget her credit cards, he had the ability to step in and save the day. Pfefferkorn had heard it said that money was freedom, and this was true in the usual sense: having money enabled him to go places previously closed to him and acquire items previously out of reach. However, there was another, less obvious sense in which money was freedom. Money bred self-acceptance, liberating him from a sense of inadequacy. At times he felt ashamed that he had come to evaluate himself in such crude, stark terms. But the feeling swiftly passed, and he was once again able to enjoy himself.
31.
“You’re not offended, are you, Arthur?”
“Not in the slightest.”
It was a Saturday morning, three weeks before Pfefferkorn’s daughter’s wedding, which Carlotta had just said she would not be attending. The remains of breakfast in bed were on the nightstand. The smell of strong coffee lingered. Pfefferkorn shifted, rustling the sheets and slopping the disordered newspaper to the floor. He moved to retrieve it but she tugged him back.
“Leave it,” she said.
He relaxed again and she relaxed against him.
“It was thoughtful of you to invite me,” Carlotta said.
“Her suggestion.”
“Now you really are making me feel guilty.”
“I’m sure she won’t even notice. She’s trapped in a bubble of self-absorption.”
“Well, she is the bride.”
“I didn’t say I blame her,” he said, “only that she won’t care.”
“I can go,” she said unconvincingly.
“Not if you don’t want to.”
There was a silence.
“I do and I don’t,” she said.
He said nothing.
“It would be hard for me, I think, to see her all grown up.”
“I understand.”
She shook her head. “It’s not that it makes me feel old. I mean, yes, it makes me feel old. But that’s not what I’m afraid of.”
There was a silence.
“You make choices,” she said. “You can’t know how you’ll feel about them twenty years down the line.”
He nodded.
“It was my decision,” she said. “It always was. Bill tried to change my mind but I had it made up.”
She fell silent. He felt a wet tickle on his bare shoulder.
“Hey, now,” he said.
She apologized. He brushed the hair from her forehead and kissed her cheeks.
“You don’t suppose it’s not too late?” she said.
“Anything’s possible.”
She laughed and wiped her eyes. “Hooray for modern medical science.”
“You’d really want to start with that, now?”
“Probably not,” she said.
“It’s very tiring,” he said.
“So they say.”
“Trust me.”
“That’s another thing Bill always talked about. What a good father you were.”
“How would he know?”
“We admired how you managed it on your own.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“Take some credit, Arthur.”
He said nothing.
“You must wonder, sometimes,” she said. “If things had turned out differently.”
He did not answer her. He had spent thirty years fleeing that question, and only now, when it no longer mattered, had he come to some kind of peace.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s all right.”
They lay together without speaking. He had never been anywhere as silent as the de Vallée mansion. There was no settling of wooden joints, no sigh of air-conditioning. According to Carlotta, that had been the goal. Peace and quiet, privacy and solitude. The whole house had been insulated to the utmost degree, and Carlotta and Bill’s master suite especially. Pfefferkorn told himself that he had a right to stop thinking of it as “Carlotta and Bill’s.” He had a right to think of it as Carlotta’s alone, or possibly Carlotta’s and his. Then he told himself not to be bothered by technicalities.
She sat up. “Let’s do something fun today.”
“Seconded.”
She peeled back the duvet and headed to the bathroom. He heard the hiss of hot water. He bent over the side of the bed and picked up the paper. The headlines were uniformly depressing: terrorism, unemployment, global warming, performance-enhancing drugs, Zlabian unrest. He left the paper on the bed and went to join Carlotta in the shower.
32.
Every cost associated with the wedding ended up being triple what Pfefferkorn had been quoted. He didn’t care. He was set on giving his daughter everything she wanted. At her second fitting, she had spied, from across the store, a different gown, a thrilling one, the right one. Pfefferkorn did not blink. He wrote a check. The mother of the groom had insisted the caterer use premium organic ingredients. Pfefferkorn did not protest. He wrote a check. The bandleader had expressed the view that five pieces were insufficiently festive. Nine would be better, he said, and Pfefferkorn, taking out his checkbook, agreed. What began as a simple afternoon affair soon swelled into an entire hosted weekend, with meals and entertainment provided throughout. Pfefferkorn wrote one check after another, and when the appointed day arrived, and he saw his daughter’s joy, he knew he had chosen correctly.
The party was over. Pfefferkorn, his tuxedo wrinkled and damp, sat alone in the reception hall, listening to the clatter of chairs being stacked. One by one, the guests had come up to him to pump his hand and offer congratulations before stumbling off toward the complimentary valet. Pfefferkorn’s literary agent had been among the last to leave, and it was his parting words that Pfefferkorn was mulling over.
“Great party,” the agent had said. “Give me a call when your ears stop ringing.”
Pfefferkorn knew what was coming. In the wake of Blood Eyes’s success, he had allowed himself to be coaxed into signing a lucrative three-book deal. The deadline for the first draft of the next Harry Shagreen novel was fast approaching and nobody had seen a sample chapter. The publisher was getting nervous. Pfefferkorn sympathized. They were right to be nervous: he had yet to write a word. At the time of the signing, he had turned in a plot summary, but it was sketchy and improvised, and in the ensuing months it had proven worthless. He had not begun to panic, although he could see panic around the corner. He did not have a plan. He never did. Bill would have had a plan. He was not Bill.
“Don’t be sad.”
His daughter and her new husband were walking toward him, hand in hand. She was barefoot, slender, her radiant face framed by tendrils of hair that had come loose at her temples. The sheer beauty of her caused Pfefferkorn’s chest to tighten.
“I know,” she said. “Kind of an anticlimax.”
“I’m just depressed thinking about the bill,” Pfefferkorn said.
She stuck her tongue out at him.
Pfefferkorn addressed his new son-in-law. “I take it your folks are all settled.”
Paul’s parents were spending the night in the hotel before driving home in the morning. Pfefferkorn had quietly paid for them to be upgraded to a suite.
“They’re super,” Paul said. His tie was gone and his jacket pockets bulged with the bride’s shoes. “You’re the man, Dad.”
There was a silence.
“Well,” Paul said, “the chamber of consummation awaits.”
Embarrassed, Pfefferkorn looked away.
“Go on,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said. “I’ll meet you up there.”
“But I want to carry you across the threshold.”
“Then wait for me outside.”
“A man can only wait so long.”
“I’ll be there soon.”
Paul smiled and strode off.
“Sorry about that,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said. “He’s hammered.”
She pulled out a chair and sat, and together they watched as the hotel workers began to disassemble the dance floor.
“I hope it’s okay he called you Dad.”
“As long as I can call him Junior.”
She smiled and took his hand. “Thank you for everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I know it turned out to be more than you expected.”
“It was a bargain,” he said.
A section of parquet was carted away.
Pfefferkorn felt he should say more—offer a piece of advice, perhaps. But what could he say that would not ring hollow? She knew better than anyone what a disaster his own marriage had been. For many fathers, it would have been easy, and sufficient, to say I love you. To Pfefferkorn this was unthinkably trite. If one could not express something in an original way, one ought not to express it at all, and so he never did. There were other, older reasons for his silence. Forced to be both mother and father, he had done neither job well, and during his daughter’s adolescence, when she started throwing his mistakes back at him, he had responded by lacquering his heart, one thin layer at a time, until it was impenetrable. He saw himself without any other option. If she had ever understood how frightened he was of losing her affection, he would have forfeited his already tenuous authority. Even now, he found himself skirting emotion by resorting to practicalities.
“Always come to me if you need help.”
“We’ll be fine, Daddy.”
“I’m not saying you won’t. Life costs a lot more than it did when I was your age. You’re young but that doesn’t mean you should suffer.”
“Daddy—”
“Say you will, please. For me.”
“Okay,” she said. “I will.”
“Thank you.”
More parquet was lifted.
“I want you to know how proud I am of you,” she said.
Pfefferkorn said nothing.
“I’ve always believed in you. I knew you had it in you. I’ve always known it would happen for you, and now that it has, I’m just . . . so happy.”
Pfefferkorn felt mildly sick.
The final piece of the dance floor was removed.
“It comes apart so fast,” his daughter said.
There was a silence. Lights began to blink off.
“I think that’s a sign,” she said.
He let go of her hand.
“Have a good night, Daddy.”
“You too . . . Sweetheart?”
“Yes?”
He paused. He understood that she was leaving him, and that this was his last chance to tell her anything.
“Careful he doesn’t drop you,” he said.
33.
Pfefferkorn met his agent for lunch.
“Great party.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ve been to my fair share of Jewish weddings, but that was one of the best, if not the. Love that hora.”
“It’s a fun time.”
The agent’s salad arrived, layered in a tall vase. He worked his fork down inside and stabbed a quantity of lettuce. “So, then,” he said. “Back to the grind.”
Pfefferkorn nodded, buttering his roll.
“How’s that coming, if you don’t mind my asking.”
“It’s coming,” Pfefferkorn said.
“I understand completely,” the agent said. “I’m not trying to rush you.”
Pfefferkorn chewed.
“This is an organic process. You’re a writer, not a vending machine. You don’t push a button and bang, out it comes. Although you might be interested to know how excited everyone is. I talk to other editors, I go to Frankfurt, all I hear is, what’s Harry Shagreen’s next move. It’s up to me, of course, to shield you from all that, so you can work.”
“Thanks.”
The agent held up a hand. “You never need to thank me for doing my job.” He tilted the vase to get to the bottom of his salad. “So you’ve been making progress, though.”
Pfefferkorn regretted not having ordered an appetizer. He had finished his roll, and now he had nothing to put in his mouth. He took a long sip of water and wiped his lips on his napkin. It was starchy. “I’ve had a few thoughts,” he said.
“That’s good enough for me,” the agent said. “I’m not going to ask you anything else.”
“It’s all right,” Pfefferkorn said. “We can talk about it.”
The agent put down his salad fork. “Only if you want to.”
Pfefferkorn had spent the previous few days preparing for this moment, but now he felt unequal to the task. He took another sip of water. “It seems to me,” he said, “that the crux of the issue is the relationship between book one and book two. Last time we had both a nuclear threat and a biological one. So the question is, how do you top that?”
“Exactly. How.”
“There’s the pat answer, of course. Come up with something even more threatening.”
“I like it already.”
“But, see, then you run into a new problem.”
“Which is.”
“You’re getting dangerously close to self-parody.”
“Right,” the agent said. “How so.”
“I mean, it’s possible to make the situation even more apocalyptic, but if we do that, we run the risk of becoming cartoonish.”
“Huh,” the agent said. “Okay. So—”
“So I look at this as an opportunity for Harry Shagreen to face down a new kind of enemy. One that nobody has ever faced before.”
“. . . okay.”
“One he’s totally unprepared for.”
“Okay. Okay. I like it. Keep going.”
“One that brings him to the brink of total collapse.”
“That’s good. That’s very good.”
“Harry Shagreen,” Pfefferkorn said, “is going to face down the most terrifying adversary imaginable.”
“Yeah?” the agent said. He was bent across the table. “And?”
“And it’s going to change him forever.”
“Fabulous. Brilliant. I love it.”
“I’m so glad,” Pfefferkorn said.
“So,” the agent said, “who is it.”
“Who’s what.”
“Who’s he going to fight.”
“It’s not a who so much as a what,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Okay, what.”
“Crushing self-doubt,” Pfefferkorn said.
There was a silence.
“The barramundi,” the waiter said. “And the filet, medium.”
“Thank you,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Enjoy.”
The silence resumed. Pfefferkorn, aware of having ruined his agent’s day or possibly even his year, engaged in cutting up his steak, which was in the shape of a Klein bottle.
“Huh,” the agent said.
Pfefferkorn ate without appetite.
“Hnh,” the agent said. “Hah.”
There was a silence.
“I know it’s unorthodox,” Pfefferkorn said.
“. . . yes.”
“But I see it as having breakthrough potential.”
“. . . could be,” the agent said.
“I think so,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Yeah, no no no no no, it definitely could be. Eh.”
There was a silence.
Pfefferkorn cut meat.
“All right, so,” the agent said. “Look. I think it’s really creative, I think it’s original. So, you know, that’s all, that’s fantastic. You know, and I think that’s great. Ahhm. At the same time, I think you’ll agree that the creative process is, ah, a questioning process, so I think it’s worth our while here to ask ourselves a couple of questions.”
“All right,” Pfefferkorn said.
“All right. So. Uh. So, I’m a reader. I bought your first book, I loved it. I’m in the bookstore, hey, look, he’s got a new one. I take out my credit card, I go home, bam, I’m in bed, I’m curled up, I’m turning pages . . . and I’m saying to myself, ‘You know . . . this . . . is kind of uncharted territory.’” The agent paused. “You understand what I’m saying?”
“Nobody said it was going to be simple,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Right, but—”
“I think it’s a necessary step for me. Artistically.”
“Okay, but, be that as it may, you have to remember, people have certain expectations.”
“If I’m not happy with it, it’s not going to be a good book.”
“One hundred percent. I’m not debating that. I’m just saying, from the perspective of your readership, is this what I think I’m going to get when I pick up an A. S. Peppers? And the answer, okay, the answer, if we’re being honest here, is, not so much.”
“And that makes it bad.”
“Who said bad? Did I use that word? You used that word. Nobody’s saying bad. I said different.”
“That’s the point of art,” Pfefferkorn said.
The agent pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s please not get wrapped up in theory.”
“There’s an audience for this kind of book,” Pfefferkorn said.
“I’m not saying there isn’t.”
“I’d read it.”
“Not everyone’s as smart as you.”
“Why do we insist on underestimating the intelligence of the American public?”
“I’m not saying those people aren’t out there, okay? The question is: the audience for that kind of book, is it your audience. You’re not starting from scratch. People know the name A. S. Peppers, they know what he writes, and they have those things in mind when they plunk down their twenty-four ninety-five. A novel is a contract. It’s a promise, to the reader, from the writer. You’re asking people to trust you. And, but—but look. I can see how strongly you feel about this. I’m not saying it can’t be done. I’m saying it’s all in the execution.”
Pfefferkorn said nothing.
“If anyone can make it work,” the agent said, “it’s you.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“That’s my job,” the agent said. He still hadn’t so much as glanced at his entrée. “So. When can I expect to see some pages.”
34.
It could have gone worse. He hadn’t been rebuffed outright. And he agreed with his agent that constructing a thriller around a man battling his own sense of inadequacy was strictly a question of execution. The more daring the proposition, however, the more finesse required to carry it off, and Pfefferkorn knew his own limitations. Perhaps there existed someone capable of writing such a book. He was not him.
He sat at his desk, answering fan e-mail. A woman asked if he would take a look at her novel. Pfefferkorn thanked her for her interest, explaining that it was his policy never to read unpublished material. An elderly lady chastised him for his use of profanity. For kicks he drafted a long, profanity-laced reply, then scrapped it, responding that he was sorry he had offended her. A community center in Skokie invited him to deliver the keynote at its annual authors’ luncheon. He referred them to his speakers bureau. He handled the remainder of the queries in short order, leaving him no choice but to click on a file labeled “novel 2,” bringing up the half-page of text he had managed to produce in eleven months of work.
For Harry Shagreen, life was never simple.
It wasn’t great literature, but it served its purpose. It was what followed that made him cringe.
Shagreen was a marked man.
“For God’s sake,” Pfefferkorn said.
He deleted the sentence. Then he deleted the sentence that followed, and the next, until he was left with his opening line and the germ of a conversation.
“Make it a double,” Shagreen said.
“You’ve had enough,” the bartender said.
Pfefferkorn had had enough as well. He deleted the dialogue. He did a word count. So far, his new blockbuster novel was seven words long.
35.
“I hate to say I told you so,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said.
They were at her apartment, sitting on the sofa while Paul finished making dinner. Pfefferkorn had mentioned that he was flying to California in a few days’ time. His daughter smirked whenever Carlotta’s name was mentioned, as if she’d known all along they’d end up together.
“Then don’t say it,” Pfefferkorn said.
“I won’t.”
“Except that by not saying it, you’re still saying it.”
“Oh, Daddy. Lighten up. I think it’s sweet. What’s on the agenda?”
“There’s a party for the Philharmonic.”
“Sounds glamorous.”
“Boring,” he said.
“So jaded, so fast.”
“It doesn’t take long,” Pfefferkorn said.
From the kitchen Paul yelled that dinner would be ready in five minutes.
“He’s such a magician,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said.
Pfefferkorn bit his tongue. He had been the victim of his son-in-law’s cooking on a few too many occasions. Invariably, something went awry—a pot boiled over, a pudding failed to set—and substandard equipment, rather than the chef’s lack of skill, was blamed.
Paul popped his head in. “We can start with the salad, if you’re hungry.” He was wearing an apron that said Culinary Ninja.
“Yum,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said.
They filed into the eat-in kitchen. The apartment was the same postage-stamp one-bedroom Paul had lived in as a bachelor, and with the arrival of a second person, it had begun to feel a bit like a refugee camp. Pfefferkorn had made sure to use the restroom before sitting down, knowing that once he got into his chair, he would be unable to leave without Paul sliding the entire table out, which necessitated scooting over the watercooler, which in turn involved removal of the freestanding butcher block.
“We have too much stuff,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said as Pfefferkorn sucked in his gut.
The salad was complicated, with exotic seeds and rinds. Pfefferkorn had to be told which bits to swallow, which to chew but spit out, and which were strictly aromatic.
“This is amazing,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said. “Where’d you get the recipe?”
“The Internet,” Paul said.
Pfefferkorn used his fork to pry a husk from between his front teeth. “Delicious,” he said.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“It has such a nice smokiness to it,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said. “What is that?”
“Something’s burning,” Pfefferkorn said.
Paul lunged for the oven door. An acrid black cloud billowed out. Pfefferkorn’s daughter ran to the sink and began filling a bowl with water. Pfefferkorn, coughing, strove gamely to extricate himself from behind the table.
“Wait,” Paul yelled.
Pfefferkorn’s daughter doused the interior of the oven. Hissing and sizzling ensued. Grease spattered everywhere. Pfefferkorn’s daughter shrieked and dropped the bowl, which shattered. Paul dove headfirst into the steaming oven, hoping to salvage the chicken, but it was soaked and charred beyond repair. He beheld it and moaned. Pfefferkorn’s daughter said consoling things as she bent and gathered shards of the bowl in her bare hands.
“Can somebody please help me here?” Pfefferkorn asked. “I’m stuck.”
By consensus, the oven was the culprit. Pfefferkorn and his daughter returned to the sofa to let the kitchen air out.
“We’re at the end of our rope with this city,” she said. “It’s like living in a zoo.”
“Where else would you go?”
She named a suburb.
“It’s not that far,” she said. “You can be at our house in thirty minutes.”
“You make it sound as if you’ve got the place all picked out,” he said.
“I do,” she said.
She led him to the closet Paul used as a home office and showed Pfefferkorn the listing on the computer. “Isn’t it so pretty?”
“The pictures are nice,” he said.
“You should see it in real life.”
“You’ve been there?”
“Our broker took me last Sunday.”
“You have a broker?”
“She’s the number-one person in the area,” she said.
“That’s nice,” Pfefferkorn said.
“I was wondering,” she said, “if you wanted to come out and see it yourself.”
“Honey? Dad?”
“We’re back here. I’m showing him the house.”
Paul appeared, plastic bags of takeout hooked on his fingers. “Nifty, right?”
Pfefferkorn looked at the images on the computer screen. “You said it.”
36.
Following the party for the Philharmonic, Carlotta retired early, complaining of a headache and a sour stomach. As a precaution, they elected to spend the night apart. By now Pfefferkorn knew his way around well enough to find his own linens, and after tucking her in with tea and aspirin, he headed downstairs.
He paced the library restlessly, prying down volumes and putting them back. He wasn’t in the mood to be sedentary. He was in the mood for activity. Specifically, he was in the mood for sex. He had hidden his disappointment from Carlotta, but his body had expectations. He scolded himself, remembering Oscar Wilde’s remark about a luxury once sampled becoming a necessity. He wondered if that might make an interesting premise for a novel.
Aiming to burn off some energy, he went down to the pool room. He had gotten in the habit of swimming a few laps every day. He was no Bill, that was for sure, but at his age even moderate exercise accrued enormous benefits. He had trimmed down noticeably and could now swim for thirty minutes without needing to stop and catch his breath. He usually went in the afternoons, during Carlotta’s tango session. She had tried to get him to join her, but he didn’t like dancing any more than Bill had, and moreover, he didn’t care for that Jesús María de Lunchbox character, what with his silk shirts and buttery pectorals.
He swam lazily for a while. He got out, dried himself with a fresh towel from the pyramid the maid kept stocked atop the smoothie bar, and redonned his dressing gown. It was designer, a gift from Carlotta so he wouldn’t have to keep borrowing Bill’s too-big one.
Upstairs, he examined the paintings, the sculpture, the furniture. He made a sandwich, took two bites, and discarded it. A nameless agitation had taken hold of him. He went outside to the terrace and crossed the lawn to the office path.
37.
He had not been in the barn since the night of his theft. By the look of it, neither had anyone else. The place had become a shrine by default, everything just as he had left it except now wearing a loose gray pelt. He erupted in sneezes and rubbed his watery eyes. There was the easy chair, the desk chair, the desk. The bookcase, the books, his book. The photographs. The jar of pens. What appeared to be a manuscript but was in fact a pile of blank paper with a title page.
A running fantasy had him discovering a cache of Bill’s unpublished novels. He would have settled for much less than a full text. An outline would have helped. But of course no such thing existed, and if it did, he doubted his ability to realize anything from it. He had never suffered from a shortage of ideas, only a shortage of follow-through.
He fetched out the copy of his first novel, the one Bill had so lovingly pored over. He reread his snide inscription. Now that he was no longer poor, the idea of reducing a friendship as profound as theirs to a race felt beyond childish.
Someone tapped on the door.
There was nothing inherently wrong with him being here, but the memory of his sin draped over the present, and he felt a spasm of guilty panic. The maid and butler had gone for the day. That left Carlotta. Why wasn’t she in bed? He waited for her to leave. There was another tap. He opened the door. The dog trotted past and plopped down beneath the desk.
Still clutching the copy of his novel, Pfefferkorn sat in the office chair, rubbing Botkin’s back with his foot. He listened to the wind gusting through the unused portion of the barn. He inhaled deeply in search of goats. He closed his eyes. He opened his eyes and the photos above the desk had changed. No longer was it Bill in his sailor’s getup, smiling jauntily. It was Pfefferkorn. He had Bill’s beard and moustache. Carlotta’s portrait had changed as well. Now the photo showed Pfefferkorn’s ex-wife. Pfefferkorn stared in horror. He tried to get up but he was pinned to the chair. He opened his mouth to scream and he woke up. Outside, morning was breaking. The dog was gone. The door to the office was ajar. His novel was on the floor, fallen from his limp hand. Pfefferkorn picked it up, tucked it inside his dressing gown, and hurried back toward the main house before Carlotta awoke and found him missing.
38.
He left four days later, taking with him the annotated copy of Shade of the Colossus. He did not mention to Carlotta that he was borrowing it, and had he been pressed for an explanation, he could not have supplied one. Perhaps something about the barn compelled him to steal books.
His flight landed in time for him to catch a late dinner. He directed the taxi to his neighborhood sushi bar. He ordered without consulting the menu, laid the novel flat on the table, and started to read. A twenty-five-year-old work of failure seemed like an odd place to look for inspiration, but who knew? Obviously Bill had seen value in it.
Much of the book was flawed. Pfefferkorn could accept that now. He spared a thought for his first editor, a motherly woman who had since passed away. She had tried to get him to inject more humor. He had resisted, and eventually he had worn her down. He remembered her telling him, in a heated moment, that he was the most stubborn person she’d ever met. The word she used was “mulish.” He smiled. I’ve changed, Madelaine, he thought. I’ve grown old.
For all its youthful excesses, though, Pfefferkorn thought it a worthy piece of art. There were passages of authentic beauty. He had chosen to mask the story’s autobiographical roots by making the protagonist a painter rather than a writer. The final third described the protagonist’s return home following his first successful exhibition. His father, the old tyrant, has fallen into a coma, and it is the son who makes the decision to withdraw life support. It remains ambiguous whether this is an act of mercy or one of vengeance. What is evident is that the power to carry it out has been made possible by his art. The closing paragraphs suggest that his next step is to attain the moral strength to focus that power.
Pfefferkorn poked at his red-bean ice cream, wondering if there was some way to convert the book into a blockbuster. He could make the father a gangster, and the son the policeman assigned to take him down. Father versus son, blood ties leading to spilled blood. It sounded promising. Certainly he needed to get something on paper, and fast. His agent had been leaving him voicemails in a tone of barely contained hysteria. Pfefferkorn had not called him back. Nor had he acknowledged the half-dozen e-mails from his editor. His current editor was young, scarcely older than Pfefferkorn’s daughter, and while he tended to be deferential, it was clear that his patience was all but gone. He had hitched himself to Pfefferkorn’s star and now he stood in danger of being brought crashing to earth. Again, Pfefferkorn sympathized. Lots of people depended on him. His daughter did. Paul did. He depended on him, if he hoped to continue flying across the country every few weeks. The future looked bleak. His ice cream had turned to a gloppy mauve puddle. Pfefferkorn asked for the check. The tip he left was smaller than usual.
39.
“Well? What do you think?”
“I think it’s very nice.”
“Oh, Daddy. That’s the best you can do?”
They were standing in the dining room of the gigantic house Pfefferkorn’s daughter wanted to buy. The real estate agent had stepped outside to take a call.
“What did she mean by that,” Pfefferkorn asked, “‘Great bones’?”
“It means it has a lot of potential,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said.
“What’s wrong with it the way it is?”
“Nothing’s wrong with it, but it’s somebody else’s taste. That’s the way it always is. There’s always going to be some work.”
Pfefferkorn, a lifelong renter, wondered where his daughter had learned these things. “If you say so.”
“I’m thinking we could knock out this wall. You know, like an open kitchen. Don’t you think it would be fantastic for parties? Of course, we’ll need to change the countertops.”
“Of course.”
“So you like it.”
“I like that it makes you happy,” he said.
“It does. It really does. Can’t you see us raising a family here?”
It was the first time she had ever spoken of children. He had always made a point of saying nothing. The choice was hers. Hearing her raise the subject on her own filled him with an indescribable mix of emotions.
“I think it’s a lovely house,” he said.
“Me too,” his daughter said.
“And,” he said, his head tingling with the excitement of a man about to push in all his chips, “I want to give it to you.”
His daughter’s eyes widened. “Daddy. That’s not why I—”
“I know,” he said.
“But we can’t—I mean, Paul won’t allow it.”
“That’s your job,” he said. “You work on him.”
“Daddy. You really mean it?”
He nodded.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, oh, oh.”
“Sweetheart. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m just so happy.” She put her arms around him. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Of course,” he said again, less confidently this time. “Eh. Sweetheart?”
“Yes, Daddy?”
“I forgot to ask about the price.”
She named a number.
“Mm,” he said.
“Trust me, it’s a steal, even at asking.”
“Mm-hm.”
She released him. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to.”
She embraced him again. “I love you so, so much.”
Pfefferkorn tried to remember what he was due to be paid for the delivery and acceptance of his next novel. He tried to calculate whether it would be enough to pay for the entire house or whether they would need to take out a mortgage. He didn’t know the first thing about real estate finance. Whatever the case was, he couldn’t afford anything unless he turned in a book. The present word count stood at ninety-nine, including the title and dedication pages. He wondered if making an outlandish offer was his subconscious’s way of motivating him to get to work. Or perhaps he could not bear to see his daughter disappointed. With the wedding, he had set a high standard, one he now felt compelled to meet and exceed. He pulled away so she wouldn’t feel his heart starting to pound.
“Daddy? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look a little green,” she said. “Do you want to sit down?”
He shook his head. He managed to produce a smile. “Question for you,” he said.
“Yes, Daddy?”
“When I’m old and pissing my pants, where’s my room going to be?”
“Stop.”
“Oh, I get it. You’re going to put me in a home.”
“Daddy. Stop.”
“Never mind, then.”
40.
Pfefferkorn’s success had at once heightened and undercut his stature as a professor. On the one hand, demand for his creative writing classes had grown, with long waiting lists established. With so large a pool available to him, he had the ability to control the composition of the class. However, he tended—stupidly, he thought—to admit a disproportionate number of literary types. These were the very students who tended to be snobbish about his work, comporting themselves with disdain, as though he could not possibly teach them about real literature when he had made a fortune writing trash. Even his good reviews provided grounds for scorn, signaling the death of critical integrity. The fact that his first novel had been literary fiction did not impress anyone. Nobody had heard of it. Pfefferkorn often wondered if he ought to go back to shepherding fragile young women.
The story under discussion that morning centered on an old man nearing the end of his life. He was tending his garden, oblivious to how its flourishing mocked his own senescence. The old man then watched a film in which the growth of flowers was shown, sped up, so that they went from seedling to full bloom to wilting to dead, all in a matter of seconds. This sequence was described in minute detail. The story ended with a cryptic fragment of dialogue.
The author was a twenty-year-old boy named Benjamin who came to class dressed in a homburg. His grasp of the aging process was limited to lurid descriptions of the male body in decay, although Pfefferkorn did acknowledge that the young man wrote with impressive confidence about urogenital problems and arthritis. Still, in Pfefferkorn’s opinion, the story lacked emotional insight. Indeed, it made no attempt whatsoever to penetrate the old man’s psyche at all. It was as if the author had laid the character on a slab and left him there. When Pfefferkorn attempted to raise this critique he met a blistering counterattack, not only from Benjamin but from a host of like-minded supporters. They argued that Pfefferkorn’s understanding of character was antiquated. They abhorred writers who overexplained. Pfefferkorn defended himself by citing avant-garde and postmodern writers whom he enjoyed, stating that even these seemingly stone-faced works had at their center a moist, beating core of humanity. “That is total bullshit,” Benjamin said. “We’re all robots,” a hard young woman named Gretchen said. Pfefferkorn asked her to explain what she meant by that. “I mean we’re all robots,” she said. Heads nodded. Pfefferkorn was confused. “You can’t all be robots,” he said, not knowing what argument he was making or why he was making it. These students did not speak the same language as he did. He was tired, too, having slept badly for several months running. His doctor had prescribed him a sedative, but so far it had proved ineffective, lulling him to the cusp of sleep but not beyond, so that he spent his waking hours in a fog. He saw himself through his students’ eyes and he saw weakness. “I am not a robot,” he repeated firmly. “How do you know?” Gretchen said. “Because I’m not,” Pfefferkorn said. “Yes,” she said, “but how do you know?” “I’m human,” Pfefferkorn said. “If you cut me, I bleed.” “If you cut me,” she said, “I bleed motor oil.” This was agreed upon by several of the students to be very funny. Pfefferkorn, feeling the beginnings of a migraine, was glad when the hour was up.
That evening he sat at his desk with two large piles in front of him. One was a long-neglected stack of mail. The other was made up of hundreds of stories his students had written over the years. He had always kept copies on the off chance that one of them became famous and the story turned out to be valuable. That was not his present purpose in browsing. Rather, he was trying to find something he could use. A recent Herculean effort had pushed the word count to one hundred ninety-eight, but he still hadn’t gotten past the second page. Perhaps somewhere in this yellowing tower of mediocrity was the key to kickstarting his creativity. He told himself he wouldn’t steal anything word for word. That wasn’t his style. All he needed was to get the juices flowing.
Four hours and two hundred pages later, he put his head in his hands. He was headed for the rocks.
He turned his attention to the mail. Most of it was junk. There were bills, many of them overdue. His agent had sent royalty statements, along with a few medium-sized checks—nothing to sneeze at, but nothing that would cover a large suburban house, either. A padded envelope contained paperbacks of the Zlabian edition of Blood Eyes, all but one of which he planned to get rid of. Already his new office was overrun with author’s copies. He crumpled a circular and spied an envelope addressed to him in a large, shaky hand. It was postmarked several weeks prior. There was a return address but no name. He opened it. Inside were several folded pages and a note written on heavy-stock cardboard.
Pfefferkorn shuddered as he remembered Bill’s agent with the huge, veiny head. There was no phone number on the note. Nor had Savory indicated when to come. Was Pfefferkorn supposed to show up at the return address at a time of his choosing? How would Savory know he was coming? It was an altogether bizarre—and officious—way to schedule a meeting. Schmuck, Pfefferkorn thought. He had no intention of honoring the request until he unfolded the enclosed pages. Then he understood immediately.
41.
Lucian Savory’s office was downtown, not far from Pfefferkorn’s agent’s office. The next day Pfefferkorn stepped from the bus and was pummeled by a blast of wind, funneled through a chasm of high-rises. He hurried into the lobby, locating Savory’s name on the directory and taking the elevator to the penthouse.
No other tenants shared the floor, leading Pfefferkorn to expect a suite of offices, fronted by a secretary or three. He was surprised to be met at the door by Savory himself.
“About fucking time,” Savory said. “Come in.”
Pfefferkorn stepped into an enormous room, perfectly beige and almost as bare. Two beige chairs stood on opposite sides of a beige desk. A bank of beige file cabinets ran the length of one beige wall. The color scheme gave him the sensation of being smothered in putty.
“I would’ve called first,” Pfefferkorn said, “but you didn’t leave a number.”
“I don’t have a number,” Savory said. He looked exactly as he had at the funeral. Pfefferkorn assumed that someone at such an advanced age would show greater daily wear and tear. But Savory was like a living fossil. He shuffled behind the desk and sat down. “I take it you finally decided to wise up.”
“You didn’t give me much choice.”
Savory smiled.
Pfefferkorn sat down. He took out the pages and flattened them on the desk. The first page read
SHADOWGAME
a novel of suspense
William de Vallée
“Some of your edits were decent,” Savory said. “I’ll grant you that much.”
“Thanks,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Nice title.”
“It was your idea.”
“Still, you had the good sense to use it.”
Pfefferkorn said nothing.
“Did you think I wouldn’t know?” Savory said.
“I thought I had the only copy.”
“What the hell gave you that impression?”
“Carlotta told me he never showed his unfinished work.”
“Not to her, maybe. And then you went ahead and used my title? It’s like you were screaming for my attention.”
Pfefferkorn shrugged. “Maybe I was.”
“Oh,” Savory said, “I see. It was a cry for help. You wanted to get caught.”
“Sure,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Some sort of deep-rooted Freudian thing. ‘Spank me.’”
“Could be.”
“That’s one theory,” Savory said. “I have my own, though. Want to hear it? Here goes. You didn’t bother to take any of that into account because you’re a lazy, greedy son of a bitch with poor executive function.”
There was a silence.
“That’s possible,” Pfefferkorn said.
Savory slapped the desk. “Well, we’ll never know.”
Pfefferkorn looked at him. “What do you want from me.”
Savory cackled. “Perfect.”
“What is.”
“I was taking bets with myself whether it would be that or ‘Why are you doing this to me.’”
“I don’t see why we have to drag it out. Just tell me how much you want and I’ll tell you if I can afford it. Otherwise we have nothing to talk about.”
“Au contraire,” Savory said.
42.
“A spy?”
“Not quite,” Savory said, “but for simplicity’s sake, we can call it that.”
“But that’s ludicrous,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Says you.”
“I’ve known Bill since I was eleven.”
“And therefore.”
“He wasn’t a spy.”
“Since you seem intent on picking nits, fine: he wasn’t a spy. He was a courier.”
“He was a writer,” Pfefferkorn said. “He wrote thrillers.”
“The man never published a single thing of his own invention,” Savory said. “We gave it all to him. William de Vallée was a perfect fraud, and by that I mean in creating his cover, we all did a perfect job, including Bill. He was a major asset, the result of thousands of man-hours and millions of dollars. You can’t imagine how disappointed we were to lose him.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Every Dick Stapp novel has contained encrypted directives for operatives embedded in hostile territories where standard means of transmission have proven too difficult.”
“I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Code,” Savory said.
“Code?”
“Code.”
“Bill wrote in code.”
“I told you, he didn’t write anything. The Boys did.”
“What boys.”
“The Boys. Capital B.”
“Who’re they.”
“That’s not important.”
“They’re not important but they get a capital B?”
“All information will be given on a need-to-know basis.”
“And I don’t need to know.”
“Bingo.”
There was a silence. Pfefferkorn looked up at the ceiling.
“What,” Savory said.
“Where are the cameras.”
“There aren’t any.”
Pfefferkorn stood. “When does the TV crew jump out?”
“Sit down.”
Pfefferkorn walked around the room. “Ha ha,” he said to the walls. “Very funny.”
“We have a lot to discuss, Artie. Sit down. Or don’t, I don’t care. But time’s a-wasting.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Savory shrugged.
“I don’t believe any of it,” Pfefferkorn said. “How can that make sense? Delivering secret messages out in the open. It’s preposterous.”
“That makes it all the more difficult to detect. Try sending an e-mail to North Korea and see how far you get. But a top-notch thriller penetrates like nobody’s business. He wasn’t the only one, mind you. Most blockbuster American novelists are on our payroll. Anything with embossed foil letters, that’s us.”
“But . . .” Frustrated, Pfefferkorn aimed to score a hit. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to use the movies?”
Savory sighed in a way that suggested Pfefferkorn was terribly slow.
“Jesus,” Pfefferkorn said. “Them too?”
“If you think things are bad now, just imagine what might’ve happened if we’d allowed you to sign a film deal. We’ve been playing catch-up as it is.”
“I’m not following you at all.”
“What do you know about Zlabia?” Savory said.
43.
Pfefferkorn told him what he knew.
“That’s not much,” Savory said.
“Sue me.”
“Let me ask you this: when did your first novel come out?”
“Nineteen eighty-three.”
“Not that first novel. Your other first novel.”
“About a year ago.”
“Can you think of anything in recent Zlabian history that happened around then?”
Pfefferkorn thought. “They tried to kill whatsisface.”
Savory cackled. “Gold star for you. For the record, whatsisface’s name is East Zlabian Lord High President Kliment Thithyich, and he’s a very rich, violent, and unstable man, the sort of fellow who doesn’t take kindly to being shot in the ass.”
“What does my book have to do with any of this?”
“Let’s start by reminding ourselves of one key fact. It wasn’t your book. Was it.”
Pfefferkorn said nothing.
“‘In one fluid motion,’” Savory said.
“What?”
“‘In one fluid motion.’ That was the flag. The manuscript you stole wasn’t even finished, and then you had to go ahead and have your way with it.”
“It needed trimming,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Not the kind you gave it. Do you know how many ‘in one fluid motions’ you deleted?”
“It’s cliché,” Pfefferkorn said. “It’s meaningless.”
“Seriously, take a guess. How many.”
Pfefferkorn said nothing.
“Twenty-one,” Savory said. “Three of them you left in. That’s seven-eighths of the code, destroyed. You turned it into cryptographic Swiss cheese. God knows how the operatives made anything out of it. But obviously they did, because next thing we know, the president of East Zlabia is in intensive care. At first we assumed it was the West Zlabians. Everyone did. They’ve been at each other’s throats for four hundred years. But then we get a coded transmission from one of our Zlabian sleeper cells that the operation had been a failure. Well, that set off a scramble. What operation? We hadn’t called any operation. It wasn’t long till we figured out what the message referred to. What stumped us was how the order had been set in motion. In the first place, the manuscript you stole had nothing to do with shooting Thithyich, at least not until you mangled it. It was supposed to be a plain old recon directive. In West Zlabia, no less. More to the point, it never should have been released, because after Bill died we ordered all his files destroyed.” Savory touched his lips philosophically. “Although given what you did to it, one could argue that the book was, in fact, destroyed. Neither here nor there. Somehow it missed the shredder and got into your hands, leaving us with a pantsload of angry East Zlabians. Thing about Thithyich is, despite being a merciless tyrant, he’s quite the populist. Born dirt poor, ‘one of us,’ all that jazz. To you and me he’s a run-of-the-mill post-Soviet autocrat. To your average East Zlabian peasant grinding it out at subsistence level in a thatch-roofed hut filled with six, maybe eight, kwashiorkoric children who have, collectively, no more than ten, maybe twelve, teeth, he’s Jack Fucking Kennedy. Try to see it from their side. They’re upset.”
“I shot the president of East Zlabia,” Pfefferkorn said.
“The power of literature,” Savory said. “Whatever. The important thing now is to stop the bleeding.” He stood up. “That’s where you come in.”
Pfefferkorn was alarmed. “Where.”
Savory shuffled to the file cabinet and began opening drawers. “We need someone to fill the position vacated by Bill. Seeing as how you’ve already gone ahead and preempted us . . . where the hell did I . . . and over and above that, established superb brand recognit—ah.” He found what he was looking for: a thick manuscript bound with rubber bands. He brought it over and dropped it heavily on the desk in front of Pfefferkorn.
“Tag,” Savory said. “You’re it.”
44.
The title page read Blood Night.
“I think you’ll find that it expands upon the themes begun in Blood Eyes,” Savory said. “Additionally, there’s a lot of good character development, some real poetry to the descriptions of weather. Killer sex scenes. The Boys are proud of it, and rightfully so.”
“This is outrageous,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Quit being such a prima donna.”
“It’s blackmail.”
“The word is ‘collaboration.’”
“Not if I don’t have a choice, it isn’t.”
“Oh, you always have a choice,” Savory said. “But why in the world would you say no? I guess you could, but then you really are done with publishing. Let me let you in on a little secret, Artie: you haven’t got any talent. I read your first book. It was a piece of dreck. Here’s another secret: I’ve read your interviews. I’ve been to your new apartment building. I’ve seen enough to know that you like being a published author. Of course you do. Your new life is a hell of a lot nicer than your old life. You’d be a fool to give it up. And for what? It’s not like I’m asking you to do anything you haven’t done already. I’m giving you the chance to keep your reputation, serve your country, and build up a decent retirement fund in the process. It’s the best deal imaginable. You should be spit-shining my asshole.”
Pfefferkorn said nothing.
“You can always say no. You can walk out of here right now. I’d hate for you to do that, though. Never mind the headache it makes for me. Never mind that. It’s more that I’d hate to see you suffer. You do understand, don’t you? I’ll expose you. I’d have to. It’s the only fair thing to do. What a field day the press would have with that, huh? Just imagine. You’ll be trash, and so will your agent, your publisher, and your family. Everyone within fifty miles of you will reek.”
“If you expose me,” Pfefferkorn said, “I’ll expose you.”
Savory smiled. “Go for it. I’m sure everyone will believe you.”
There was a long silence.
“Does Carlotta know?” Pfefferkorn asked.
“She’s clueless.”
“I don’t want her to find out.”
“She won’t unless you tell her.”
There was a silence.
“What really happened to Bill?” Pfefferkorn asked.
“Hand to God,” Savory said, “it was a boating accident.”
There was a silence.
“The flag is ‘Hurry, we don’t have much time.’ Got that? So do me a favor. Don’t touch that phrase. Come to think of it, don’t monkey around with it at all. It’s fine the way it is. Resist the urge to mark your territory and everything will be fine.” Savory stood up and put out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”
45.
“I love it,” Pfefferkorn’s agent said.
“Thanks.”
“I’m not gonna lie: you had me sweating there, all that stuff about—but, look, the important thing is to realize what we have, and what we have is a gem. A rock-solid grade-A twenty-four-carat gem.”
“Thanks.”
“The thing that sets you apart,” the agent said, “is character development. The daughter—sorry, you know I’m terrible with names.”
“Francesca.”
“Francesca. She is just a fabulous character. That bit where she steals the ruby from her grandmother’s necklace and replaces it with the piece of glass taken from her broken locket that her dead mother got from the man she loved before Shagreen who—it’s fantastic, not just the idea itself but the way you handled it, the subtlety—this guy the mother once loved, and then we’re given to understand maybe Shagreen might’ve had something to do with his death . . . I mean, come on.”
“Thank you.”
“Layers upon layers.”
“Thank you.”
“Great title.”
“Thanks.”
“Good. Well, if you’re ready, I’m going to get this over to them today and start pressing for the D-and-A.”
“I’m ready.”
“Excellent. Cause as they say on the Ferris wheel, here we go again.”
46.
Blood Night met with unanimous approval at the publisher, who decided to rush the book to press in time for beach-read season. The accelerated schedule was made possible by the fact that the manuscript required almost no editing. Pfefferkorn’s editor wrote to him that, aside from a handful of typos caught by the copy editor, the text was “as close to word-perfect as I’ve ever seen.” Savory had informed Pfefferkorn of these typos in advance. “If there wasn’t anything to fix,” he told Pfefferkorn, “it would look fishy.” Pfefferkorn thought it looked mighty fishy regardless, but the publishing machine had too many parts, moving at too great a speed, for anyone to dare derail its operation by questioning why a book was better than expected.
Watching Blood Night barrel along toward publication, he felt a strange sense of gratification. It wasn’t the novel he’d always dreamed of writing, but nor was it pure schlock, and he took some small amount of credit for laying the groundwork that had enabled the Boys, as Savory referred to them, to flesh out Harry Shagreen’s personal life. They had given him a hobby, playing full-contact Scrabble. They had assigned a sizable role to his daughter, a character mentioned in passing in the first novel. (Pfefferkorn had reconfigured her out of Stapp’s son.) A former math whiz turned drug-addled cat burglar with a heart of gold with a gaping hole in the shape of her father’s missing love, Francesca Shagreen screamed off the page, and the final scene, with Shagreen dragging her into the emergency room, was a serious tearjerker. Pfefferkorn was perturbed to catch himself choking up as he read it. It wasn’t unusual for a writer to get sentimental about his characters. But the operative word was “his.” He had no more ownership of these characters than Bill had. Like Dick Stapp or Harry Shagreen, Pfefferkorn was a man who couldn’t let emotions cloud his judgment. He had a mission. Duty called.
47.
Except he didn’t know what the mission was, and his duty—to send in the novel, sit back, and let events play themselves out—turned out to be far harder than he had anticipated. Against all odds, he was going to accomplish something he had long thought impossible: he was going to publish a book that changed the world. It might be a large change. It might be a small one. It might be a change he approved of, politically and morally. It might not. He had no idea, and he agonized over the thought that he had sold his soul. He was surprised at himself. He had never been much of an activist. Even during his student days, his crusades had been primarily artistic, rather than political, in nature. Moreover, he had assumed—incorrectly, it seemed—that his soul was already gone, sold on the cheap along with the first manuscript. To combat his anxiety, he ran through all the good things that had come about as a result of his deal with Savory. He no longer had his agent, editor, and publisher breathing down his neck. He had been able to put an offer in on the house his daughter wanted. These had to count for something, didn’t they? Besides, the mission’s aims weren’t necessarily objectionable. He just didn’t know. But his conscience would not be quieted, and as the publication date loomed, he began to feel suffocated by a sense of powerlessness.
He went downtown to see Savory.
“I need to know what the message is.”
“That’s not important.”
“It is to me.”
“You’re going to have to learn to live with ambiguity,” Savory said.
“It’s about the Zlabias, right? Tell me that much.”
“Bill never asked,” Savory said. “It’s better if you don’t, either.”
“I’m not Bill.”
“You’re having qualms,” Savory said. “That’s to be expected. You have to remind yourself that your government has your best interests in mind.”
“But I don’t believe that.”
“You goddamned boomers always have to drag everything before a fucking ethics committee. Do you think we beat the Nazis sitting around worrying about hurting people’s feelings? Go home, Artie. Buy yourself a watch.”
He didn’t buy a watch. Instead, he spent several afternoons at the university library, enlisting the help of a friendly student worker (who became even friendlier after Pfefferkorn handed him a hundred-dollar bill) to make photocopies of the front pages of all major American newspapers for the two weeks following the publication of every Dick Stapp novel. It came to more than a thousand pages in total, and he stayed up all night, jotting down the headlines in a notebook he had divided by subject. The pattern that emerged confirmed his hunch: the novels of William de Vallée anticipated every twist of Zlabian political fate from the late 1970s on. On the half-dozen occasions Pfefferkorn could not find a coup or riot linked in time to the publication of a Dick Stapp novel, he assumed there was cloak-and-dagger going on, the kind of stuff that would never be known outside select circles. He shut the notebook, his heart racing. He was blithely toying with the fate of people whose countries he couldn’t find on a map.
He looked at the clock. It was eight-thirty a.m. He ran downstairs to find a cab.
As he rode along, he prepared his speech. I want out, he would say. Or: I’ve had it with this rotten business. Savory would try to dissuade him, of course, and then would come the threats. He would have to stand tall. Do your worst, he would say. I am not your tool. Mentally, he revised: I am not your plaything.
He got in the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor. Listen here, he would begin. I am not your plaything. No: you listen here. That was better. It made clear who was in charge. He tried again, once with Savory’s name and once without. Using Savory’s name pinned Savory to the wall, giving him no way to pass the buck. On the other hand, it gave Savory an identity, and Pfefferkorn was aiming to reduce the man, to make him as small and squashable as possible. You listen here. It had a staccato rhythm, like a handgun. You listen here, Savory, sounded more like a slice from a sword. He still hadn’t made up his mind when a chime sounded and the elevator opened. He stepped briskly forth to knock. There was no answer. He knocked again, assertively. Still there was no answer. He tried the knob. It turned. “You listen here,” he said, stepping into the doorway. He went no further. The room had been stripped bare.
48.
Pfefferkorn called his agent.
“We need to hold the book.”
His agent laughed.
“I’m serious,” Pfefferkorn said. “It can’t go out the way it is. There are too many mistakes.”
“What are you talking about? It’s perfect. Everybody says so.”
“I—”
“You said so yourself.”
“I need to make changes.”
“Look,” the agent said, “I understand you’ve got butterflies, but—”
“It’s not butterflies,” Pfefferkorn shouted.
“Whoa there.”
“Listen to me. Listen. Listen: I need you to call them up and tell them we’re going to hold it another month so I can make revisions.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“You can. You have to.”
“Are you hearing yourself? You sound nuts.”
“Fine,” Pfefferkorn said. “I’ll call them myself.”
“Wait wait wait. Don’t do that.”
“I will unless you do.”
“What is going on here?”
“Call me back after you’ve spoken to them,” Pfefferkorn said and hung up.
Forty-five minutes later the phone rang.
“Did you talk to them?” Pfefferkorn asked.
“I talked to them.”
“And?”
“They said no.”
Pfefferkorn began to hyperventilate.
“You have a first printing of four hundred thousand,” the agent said. “They’re already shipped. What do you expect them to do, pull them all? Look, I understand how you feel—”
“No,” Pfefferkorn said. “You don’t.”
“I do. I’ve seen this before.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“I have. I’ve seen it dozens of times. This is not unusual. You’re having a normal response to a stressful situation. You’ve got people counting on you, the stakes are high. I get it, okay? I know. It’s a lot to shoulder. That doesn’t change what you’ve done. You’ve written a fantastic book. You’ve done your job. Let them do theirs.”
Pfefferkorn stayed up all that night as well, rereading the book and dog-earing every instance of a character hurrying for lack of time. The pace was supercharged—he could all but hear a ticking clock—and he counted nineteen flags. He copied out the surrounding paragraphs, studying them for patterns. Who am I kidding, he thought. He needed the decryption key or whatever. He needed training. He went online and read about code-breaking. Nothing he tried worked, although he did accidentally discover that the instructions on his washer/dryer formed a substitution code for the opening scene of Waiting for Godot.
Pfefferkorn despaired.
49.
“Poor Arthur.”
No sooner had he gotten on the phone with Carlotta than he realized he’d made a mistake. He had called seeking solace, but how could she give it to him when he couldn’t tell her the truth? Instead, her sympathy came off as grating.
“Bill always got like this right before a book came out. Like something terrible could happen.”
Pfefferkorn said nothing.
“You’re two of a kind,” Carlotta said.
“You think?”
“Sometimes I do, yes.”
“Am I a good lover?” Pfefferkorn asked.
“What kind of a question is that?”
“Am I?”
“Of course you are. You’re wonderful.”
“I’ve had to shake off a lot of rust.”
“If so, I never noticed.”
“Am I as good as Bill?”
“Arthur. Please.”
“I won’t be offended if you say him. It’s only natural. He had more time to learn what you like.”
“I like you.”
“Be honest,” he said. “I can handle it.”
“It’s a ridiculous question and I’m not going to answer it.”
“I’m afraid you just did.”
“I did no such thing. I refused to answer a ridiculous question. That’s all.”
There was a silence.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been under a lot of strain.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m sure it’ll be a smashing success.”
That was precisely what he was afraid of. He wondered how Bill coped. Presumably it got easier with each go-around. Also, the chain of events was elaborate enough to make his contribution appear relatively minor and therefore forgivable. He wasn’t pushing a button or pulling a trigger. He was publishing a book.
“Are you excited for tour?” she asked.
“I’m looking forward to seeing you,” he said.
“I’m bringing a big crowd to the reading.”
He felt a frisson of dread. He preferred to keep her away from anything at all having to do with the book. He didn’t want her tainted. “I thought you had a tango session that night.”
“I canceled it.”
“You shouldn’t,” he said.
“Arthur, don’t be absurd. I can dance whenever I want.”
“But it makes you so happy.”
“I’d much rather see you.”
“Please,” he said. “It’ll make me nervous if you’re there.”
“Oh, stop.”
“I’m serious,” he said. “Don’t come.”
The words came out harsher than he had intended, and he hastened to clarify. “I’m sorry. But it really will trip me up.”
“Well, we don’t want that, do we.”
“Please don’t,” he said. “Not tonight.”
She sighed. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Never mind that. Let’s plan to meet afterward. Pick someplace relaxing. Will you do that for me, please?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
“Travel safely,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Arthur?” She paused. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
He hung up and paced around his apartment. It was eleven p.m. In ten hours the first bookstores would open and Blood Night would be unleashed upon the world. He had stock signings all the next day and his first reading at seven-thirty. He had a grueling three weeks ahead of him. He needed to rest. But there was no way he was getting any sleep, not tonight. He turned on the television. He watched the first twenty seconds of a special report about the Zlabian crisis before switching the television off and getting up to pace once more.
The aspect of Pfefferkorn’s new reality to which he had devoted the least amount of attention was the implications it held for his past. He had been strenuously ignoring that line of thinking, afraid of where it might lead. Whole swaths of his identity had been formed in reaction to Bill. He had defined himself as a writer unwilling to sacrifice art for the sake of material gain: the anti-Bill. But it made no sense trying to be the opposite of something that did not exist, and it devastated him to grasp that he had spent his life wrestling a phantom.
And in the final analysis, how worthwhile had that struggle been? Where had it gotten him? Certainly he hadn’t distinguished himself through his writing. What made him so different from Bill, other than his own, mulish insistence that they were different? What if he, not Bill, had been the one recruited for clandestine activities? Would he be the one married to Carlotta? Would he have a daughter? Would he even be alive right now? The fabric of the universe had been irreparably shredded, and through the holes he saw new worlds, some tantalizing, some terrifying beyond belief.
High atop a shelf in his closet was a box containing old snapshots he had never found the time to organize. Desperate for evidence of an independent self, he hauled it down and dumped it out on the floor. He knelt and grabbed the topmost photo: a black-and-white image of a much younger him hunched over a desk at the university literary magazine. A plaque read
ARTHUR S. PFEFFERKORN, DICTATOR-IN-CHIEF
—a gag presented to him by Bill in honor of his managerial style. Where, Pfefferkorn wondered, had he gotten the idea that he had an artistic birthright? His mother had never finished high school. His father never read anything more sophisticated than the racing form. He himself had not been a studious child, preferring to listen to baseball games on the radio or to sneak cigarettes from his father’s coat pocket. When had the transformation occurred? How had he become who he had become? He used to think he knew, but now everything seemed up for grabs. He picked up another photo and was startled to see himself mouth-kissing his daughter. But it was not his daughter. It was his dead ex-wife. The resemblance that so often annoyed him here verged on pornographic. He hurriedly turned the snapshot over. His ex-wife would be in lots of these photos, if not most. It gave him pause. How much of those years did he want to revisit? He remembered the day she called to tell him she was dying. I want to see her. It was an extraordinary demand to make of a seven-year-old girl who hadn’t seen her mother in three years. To bring her into that room, with its tubes and its smells . . . But he couldn’t rightly say no. A mother was a mother. His daughter had refused to come, though, and Pfefferkorn’s ex-wife had called to scream at him. You’re poisoning her against me. He tried to reason with her but it was no use. A month later, she was gone.
He picked up another photo.
There they were: he and Bill, Piazza Navona, their shadows humpbacked by large canvas rucksacks. The summer after graduation they had wandered across Europe. In those days a rail pass cost eighty-five dollars. Bill paid for those as well as for their airfare, using money he’d gotten from his grandparents as a graduation gift. Pfefferkorn had always intended to reimburse him. He never had. He wondered about the real origins of Bill’s “graduation gift.” Grandparents? Or the Boys? Was Bill working for them as early as then? Pfefferkorn could never know. He felt doubt beginning to hollow out his memories. He remembered a night in a Berlin hostel (it was West Berlin back then), opening his eyes to catch a glimpse of Bill leaving the room at two in the morning. The next day Bill pled insomnia. I went for a walk. Pfefferkorn remembered it and doubted. Berlin, of all places—and like that, his happy memories of the city caved in on themselves. He doubled over as though gutshot. It hurt to breathe. Eventually he rose to his hands and knees and reached for another photo. Their high school prom. He saw the ruffled cuffs and the powder-blue tuxedos and their shining red faces. But he doubted. He doubted all of it. The memory imploded. He reached for another and the same thing happened. And another and again. Piece by piece his history disappeared. The cursing parakeet they kept in the apartment. Bill’s green Camaro. The canoe trip with their young wives. The first time Bill held Pfefferkorn’s daughter. He knew he should stop. He was destroying himself. He could not stop, not until the sun came up. He had gone through the whole box and his life lay in shambles. He had thought himself done with grief, yet here he was, sobbing again. Not for the death of a friend but for the death of a friendship. He wept for the friend he never had.
50.
The book tour for Blood Night was bigger and fancier than that for Blood Eyes. He went to more cities. He flew first class. He stayed in swanky hotels, one of which celebrated his arrival with flowers, fruit, and a quarter-scale replica of the novel rendered in chocolate and icing. He used his cell phone to take a picture.
One thing that had not changed from the first tour was the roster of media escorts who met him along the way. These were amiable, attractive women between the ages of thirty-five and sixty who loved to read. At each airport one would be waiting outside the baggage claim, holding a copy of his book. She would smile and say how nice it was to see him again. She would spend the morning shuttling him around to local bookstores to sign stock. Over lunch she would make a fuss over photos of Pfefferkorn’s daughter in her wedding gown. More stock signings were followed by a two-hour break at the hotel so Pfefferkorn could shower and shave. In the evening the media escort would pick him up and drive him to his reading. The next morning she would show up before dawn to get him to his next flight. These women made an otherwise dreary routine more humane, and Pfefferkorn was grateful for them all.
It helped matters that they could be genuinely optimistic: every event was packed. Publishers bemoaned the fact that fewer and fewer people read fiction, while those who did got older and older. Within a few years, they predicted, there would be no market left. Seeing his various and sundry fans, Pfefferkorn decided things couldn’t possibly be as bad as all that.
He took questions.
“What inspired this book?”
Pfefferkorn said it had just come to him one day.
“Do you do a lot of research?”
As little as he could get away with, he answered.
“What’s next for Harry Shagreen?”
Pfefferkorn said he didn’t want to spoil the surprise.
Every night he returned to his suite drained. He ordered room service, changed into a bathrobe, and girded himself for the most harrowing part of his day: reading the newspaper.
Boston, Providence, Miami, Washington, D.C., Charlotte, Chicago, Milwaukee, Minneapolis, St. Louis, Kansas City, and Albuquerque passed without incident. He began to wonder if he had made a mistake. Maybe it wasn’t Zlabia he was in charge of. He flew to Denver. His daughter called to say they were getting their dining room set delivered. She thanked him and mentioned that the pillows she had custom-ordered for the den ended up costing more than expected. He invited her to put the difference on his credit card. She thanked him again and told him to keep out of trouble. “That’s me,” he said, running his finger down the column headed International News in Brief. “Mr. Trouble.” He flew to Phoenix. The owner of the mystery and thriller specialty store was a delightfully wry woman who took him to a Polynesian restaurant. He remained morose throughout the meal, glancing over her shoulder whenever she took a sip of her mai tai. Above the bar was a television tuned to a cable news channel. He was waiting for a graphic that said BREAKING NEWS. He flew to Houston. The manager of the independent bookstore presented him with a logo mug and what he called “the sickest but best book of the year.” It was a how-to called Kid-A-Gami: 99 Fun Shapes to Fold Your Infant Into. Pfefferkorn put it in his carry-on for on his flight to Seattle but did not take it out. Instead he scoured three different papers. He had stopped looking exclusively for articles about Zlabia. Every piece of bad news made for a potential indictment. A dam burst in India, leaving sixty thousand people homeless. His doing? The Middle East convulsed and sparked. Him? The rebel forces closing in on a South American capital, the millions of anonymous Africans dying by the hour—any of it could be him. It then occurred to him that he was delegating an unjustified degree of authority (and responsibility) to himself. He wasn’t “in charge of” squat. He was no Dick Stapp. He was no Harry Shagreen. He was a flunky, a pawn—making his complicity even more debasing. He flew to Portland. His media escort took him for the best donuts in town. In nineteen days of travel he had yet to hear about a catastrophe he did not feel culpable for. But he would never know. Whatever the event was, it might have already taken place. It might also take place in a month, a year, two years, ten. He flew to San Francisco. The bookstore owner was a kindly older man with a fondness for opera. It was raining, warm summer rain, and the inside of the store smelled like shoe leather. A slovenly fellow with a beard like a mop asked him to address the presence of Marxist themes in his writing. He returned to his hotel. He dined alone. He went upstairs, put on a bathrobe, and stretched out on the bed. He scanned the laminated channel guide. There were multiple news stations. He turned on the television and watched baseball until he fell asleep.
51.
Dragomir Zhulk, the prime minister of West Zlabia, was dead. He had been killed by a sniper’s bullet while walking to work. While most security analysts presumed that his death was retaliation for the attempted assassination of Kliment Thithyich, others believed that the killers belonged to a splinter group within Zhulk’s own party. The splinter group itself had released a statement blaming the Americans. The secretary of state refused to dignify this accusation with a response, reiterating instead his country’s support for East Zlabia (“our longtime and historical ally”) and cautioning that the use of force by either side could be considered cause for intervention. The Russians had released a statement denouncing “these acts of terroristic aggression.” The Swedes had convened a fact-finding committee. The Chinese had taken advantage of the momentary distraction to execute a jailed dissident. A prominent French intellectual had written that the situation “inarguably supplied a manifest example of the shortcomings of reactionary identity politics as applied to the realpolitik of statecraft during a post-structural epoch.” It was front-page news.
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