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 ha
d 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.
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