Potboiler (25 page)

97.

Late at night, unable to sleep, Pfefferkorn wrote unsendable letters.

He wrote to Bill. He described his earliest memories of their friendship. He remembered their eighth-grade teacher, Ms. Flatt, who everyone had a crush on. He remembered taking the wheel of Bill’s Camaro, only to get pulled over for speeding. He had counted off the officer’s steps in the sideview mirror while Bill fumbled with the glove box, trying to hide an open can of beer. After the cop had ticketed them and sped off they heard dripping. The glove box was leaking into the footwell. He couldn’t believe what they’d gotten away with. Could Bill? Times were simpler then, weren’t they? Weren’t they. He asked if Bill had ever read any of the books he had recommended. He admitted that he hadn’t finished some of them himself. He reminisced about breaking into the university boathouse and stealing a flatbed cart of equipment. The next day they had stood in the quad among the crowd, watching the crew team try to get their oars down out of the trees. He painted pictures of all-nighters at the literary magazine, the two of them hunched over a drafting board, working the monthly puzzle of text, image, and advertisement. He wrote fondly of their basement apartment. He still savored the cheap, greasy meals they had shared. He wrote that Bill was a true gentleman. He confessed that he had been jealous of Bill, but that his jealousy had its origin in admiration. He wrote that once, in the thick of a fight, his ex-wife had told him he was half the man Bill was. He had been so furious that he hadn’t returned Bill’s calls for months. He apologized for punishing Bill for someone else’s sins. He wrote that he still thought of Bill’s first story. It had been better than he had been willing to cop to at the time. He wrote that, clandestine government activities aside, Bill surely would have made it as a writer. He wrote that their friendship was precious to him, no matter what else had been going on behind the scenes, and he regretted that he hadn’t come out to California while Bill was still alive. He hoped it was all right that he had slept with Carlotta. He wrote that he believed Bill would have given them his blessing, because that was the kind of person Bill was. He wrote that he wished he himself could be more generous. He wrote that he was working on it.

He wrote to Carlotta. He wrote that he had loved her from that first moment. He wrote that he had been afraid of her. It was this fear that had caused him to stand idly by as she fell into the arms of another man. He described a habit he had: at the end of a long writing session, when he would go back to read aloud what he’d put down that day, he would pretend that she was sitting in front of him. He would read to her, watching her facial expressions in his mind, listening to her laughter or gasps. That was how he knew something was right, if the Carlotta in his mind liked it. He had done this every day of his writing life, even when he was married. He had done it while writing his novel. Originally, he confessed, he had patterned the novel’s love interest after her, but he had worried that she would know and that that would be the end of seeing her, and he wanted her in his life one way or the other, any way he could have her. So he changed the book. It had been a mistake, he wrote, because everything he knew about romantic love came from her, so in writing away from her, he was writing falsely. It was a costly decision, in that it had informed everything since. He had not written a word of truth until now. He was happy she had married Bill, for Bill had provided her a life he never could have. And he was happy she had reentered his life at a moment when they could give to each other unselfishly. He wrote that he enjoyed making love to her. They had lived long enough to know what that act did and did not mean. He wrote that he didn’t care if she was a spy. It was sexy, actually. Nor did he regret coming to rescue her. He was sorry only that he had botched it so badly.

He wrote to his daughter. He wrote about the unreal spectacle of her arrival into the world. The change that took place within him felt physical. He felt it: felt his heart ripen. Like anything ripe it was swollen and delicate and prone to split. In one instant the world went from a place of no consequence to an endless series of life-and-death decisions. Everything mattered. Her face was slightly smushed and he worried. The nurses gave her supplementary oxygen and he worried. He put her in the car seat and worried. The worry burned underneath him and distilled him to his essence. Joy was real joy and fear was real fear and anger was real anger and happiness was the real thing. He revisited the coffee-colored sofa, the one that had springs exploding out of it before they finally got rid of it, and he told her that once upon a time it hadn’t been a wreck but a nice new piece of furniture that he liked to sit on with her in his arms, the sun coming up blue, her warm little head squirreled against his bare chest, her lips pursing and sucking in her sleep. Those hours had seemed endless then, but now he cherished them as the last moments he had had her all to himself. He wrote about the first time he accidentally pricked her foot while pinning on her diaper. She had barely bled and she hadn’t made a peep but it destroyed him to see what he could do to her if he wasn’t careful. He wrote that he was sorry. He wrote that it was silly of him to have insisted on cloth diapers. He wrote about how he had studied her as a child, collecting her every gesture and feature. He wished he had taken the time to write more of them down. He remembered her first day of school. She had thrown up from anxiety. He’d made her go anyway. At the time he had wondered if he was making a mistake but in retrospect it seemed like the right thing to do. He wrote that he was glad he hadn’t gotten everything wrong. He wrote of the triumph he felt at her triumphs, the agony of her disappointments. He remembered soccer practice and dance practice. He remembered father-daughter dances. He apologized that he had never danced at these dances, and that they’d always ended up standing on the side of the gym. He remembered the first time a boy broke her heart. He wrote that it was the first time in his life that he had honestly wanted to hit someone. He apologized that he had sometimes been angry at her for no reason other than that she made him acutely aware of his own shortcomings. He remembered the look on her face during those few months, long ago, when he was making progress on his lame attempt at a mystery novel. He had seen that she was happy, and he knew that her happiness came from thinking that
he
was happy. That kind of generosity made her special. She could be as smart and as beautiful as anybody in the world—she was that smart, she was that beautiful—but nothing made him prouder than her decency. He couldn’t take too much credit for that. She had always been that way, even as a baby. Some people were born pure, and somehow, in defiance of all the odds, she was one of them. He wrote that he was glad she had found someone who could take care of her. She deserved the best. She always had. Her wedding was the best investment he had ever made. He apologized that he had not articulated his feelings more clearly and more often. He had never had the right words. He still wasn’t sure he did, but it was better to try than to remain silent. In all his years, he wrote, he had produced nothing of value save her. She was his life’s work. He considered himself a successful man. He wrote that he loved her, and he signed it
your father
.

98.

With less than forty-eight hours left until his deadline, Pfefferkorn stood up from the desk and cricked his neck. A few days earlier, he had struck upon the idea of using the last chapter of
Shade of the Colossus
as a model for the ending of
Vassily Nabochka
. It was either the best idea or the worst idea he’d ever had, and since he had nothing to lose—at that point he’d come to a complete standstill—and since Zhulk liked the novel well enough, he had made up his mind to give it his all. Nonstop toil had pushed the total to more than seventy lines. So far he had the beleaguered and road-weary prince coming to his dying father’s bed, magical root vegetable antidote in hand. Then followed an internal monologue worthy of Hamlet, as the prince debated whether to give the antidote or to let the old man slip away peacefully. In the end the prince dropped the antidote into a chamber pot. These events were meant to correspond to the novel’s young artist pulling the plug on his father. To be on the safe side, he’d also thrown in some flattering references to Communism. With the remaining two dozen lines, he planned to have the prince ascend to “a most bitter throne.” He had thought of the phrase the day before and, liking the sound of it, had jotted it down in the margin. In Zlabian it was slightly less mellifluous:
zhumyuiy gorkhiy dhrun.
He thought it worked all right. He couldn’t tell. He was under pressure and he felt himself losing perspective.

A door opened and closed. It was Zhulk’s wife, come with dinner. As usual, her carriage was leaden and her face a mask of gloom. As usual, she left the cell door ajar and set the tray down on an empty corner of the desk.

As usual, he thanked her.

As usual, she curtsied.

“You really don’t need to do that,” he said, as usual.

As usual, she started out.

“I know it’s none of my business,” he said, “but you don’t seem very happy.”

For nineteen days she had ignored him, so for her to pause and stare at him was more than a bit unsettling.

“I’m just saying,” he said.

She said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

There was a silence. She looked at the pages on the desk, then at him for permission. He didn’t think he had any real choice in the matter. He stood back. “Please.”

She picked up the pages. Her lips moved slightly as she read. Her brow furrowed. She finished and put the pages facedown on the desk.

“It’s terrible,” she said.

Pfefferkorn was too shocked by the sound of her voice to reply.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would Prince Vassily withhold the antidote?”

“Well,” he said, “well, but, well.” He paused. She was watching him in her moonfaced way, waiting for an answer. “Well, look. Look. Think about it. The king has disinherited him. He’s bound to have some resentment over that.” He paused again. “A lot of resentment.”

“So he lets his father die?”

“It’s the whole kingdom. It’s a big deal.”

She shook her head. “Makes no sense.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a tad literal?”

“How so?”

“I mean, it’s not necessarily the case that he’s letting him
die
.”

She picked up the pages again. “‘Lifeblood hotly overbrimmed his bristly wizened nostrils like a glist’ning ruddy fountain,’” she read, “‘Rendering his kingly spirit unto heavens slightly cloudy with a chance of showers.’”

She looked at him.

“You’re missing the point,” he said.

“Am I?”

“Completely.”

“Okay, what’s the point?”

“The important thing is not whether the king lives or dies. I mean of course that’s important, in a, a, a
plot
sense, but, first of all, I could change that in about five seconds, and anyway, the crucial part, thematically, is showing that the
prince
is conflicted.”

“About what?”

“Lots of things,” Pfefferkorn said. “He’s got mixed emotions.”

Zhulk’s wife was shaking her head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Prince Vassily is not that kind of character.”

“What kind, nuanced?”

“The prince’s moral purity, and therefore a large part of his appeal, rests on his ability to set aside his feelings and do what’s right. Why else would he start out on the quest, if he didn’t intend to give his father the antidote? It makes no sense at all.”

“But isn’t it more interesting if at the last moment he has doubts?”

“It’s inconsistent with the rest of the poem.”

“I asked if it was interesting,” he said.

“I know,” she said, “and I told you: it’s inconsistent. It doesn’t matter whether it’s interesting. That’s not the right criterion. You’re working in someone else’s style. You have to accept the constraints handed to you.” She nosed at the page. “You’ve also got all sorts of fancy words in there that don’t belong.”

“Well, look,” Pfefferkorn said, snatching the pages from her, “you said you didn’t understand it, so maybe you ought to keep your opinions to yourself, thank you very much.”

She said nothing. He remembered that she was still the prime minister’s wife.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that I’m sensitive about people reading work in progress.”

“You’ve only got a couple of days left.”

“I’m aware of that,” he said. He shuffled the pages anxiously. “Do you, eh, have any suggestions for where to go from here?”

“I’m not a writer,” she said. “I just know what I like.”

He tried to hide his disappointment. “Well. I appreciate the constructive criticism.”

She nodded.

He hesitated before asking what she thought her husband would think.

She shrugged. “He’ll love it.”

Pfefferkorn relaxed. “Really?”

“Dragomir’s not a very tough critic. Certainly not as tough as I am. And he’s primed to think anything you do is genius.”

“Well,” Pfefferkorn said, “that’s good.”

“It won’t matter,” she said. “He’s still going to kill you before the festival.”

“. . . really.”

She nodded.

“I . . . wasn’t aware of that.”

“He thinks it’s more dramatic that way. Living writers lack a certain romance.”

“. . . mm.”

“You’ll be making him very happy,” she said. “He’s dreamed of this his entire life.”

Pfefferkorn said nothing.

“What’s that?” she asked.

He followed her gaze to the desk. The letters he had written were stacked up where he had left them.

“May I?” she asked.

His first instinct was to say no.

“Knock yourself out,” he said.

While Zhulk’s wife read the letters, Pfefferkorn for the hundredth time contemplated assaulting her. If it was true that Zhulk was going to kill him soon, this might be one of his last chances to escape. He did the visualization. Grab the chain, wrap it around her neck, pull it tight, put a knee into her back. His heart began to pound. His palms were sweaty. He readied himself. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. All that training, he thought. What a waste.

She finished reading and looked up. Her cheeks were wet and her eyes red-rimmed. She folded the letters neatly and put them back on the desk.

“You’re a good writer when you want to be,” she said.

There was a silence.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”

There was a silence.

“Of course I’m unhappy,” she said.

He said nothing.

“I can’t have children,” she said.

There was a silence.

“I’m so sorry,” Pfefferkorn said.

She wiped her eyes on her apron. She began to laugh. It was a dirty, strident sound, full of disappointment and expecting more to come. She clutched the apron in her fist. “Can you believe he makes me wear this.”

Pfefferkorn smiled.

“I’m the wife of the goddamned prime minister.” She shook her head and laughed again and looked at him. She stepped forward. He could smell the same rancid soap she brought him to bathe with. He could smell cheap cosmetics. Her lips were chapped and parted. She leaned in as if to kiss him. His body tensed.

“Come with me,” she said, “if you want to live.”