Potboiler

by Jesse Kellerman

  “Carlotta mentioned something about that to me.”

  “She did, did she.”

  “She said you were working on a literary novel.”

  “‘Working’ is a bit of an exaggeration.” Bill tapped his forehead. “Still all up here.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Oh, you know. Trust. Friendship. Love. Art. The difficulty of meaningful and lasting connection. I don’t have much in the way of plot, yet.”

  “It’ll come to you.”

  “Maybe,” Bill said. He smiled. “Maybe not. That’s part of the adventure.”

  For the first time, Pfefferkorn noticed that Bill had gotten rid of his beard. He had not seen him clean-shaven since college.

  “You look good, too,” Pfefferkorn said.

  “Thanks, Yankel.”

  The surf surged underfoot.

  “So how come you’re not in hiding, like me.”

  “I was, for a long time. They found me. They always do.”

  “And?”

  “I guess they felt bad about the way things ended, because they invited me to come back on board. They even threw me a bone and said I could write whatever I wanted. Clean slate.”

  “Good deal.”

  “There’s a catch.”

  “I would assume so.”

  “They want me to prove my loyalty,” Bill said.

  Pfefferkorn snorted. “Figures,” he said. “How.”

  The gulls banked sharply and dove, screaming, toward unseen prey.

  “You have to leave town,” Bill said.

  Pfefferkorn smiled at him strangely. “What?”

  “Listen carefully. You have to go. Today.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “And you have to stop calling her.”

  Pfefferkorn slowed and turned and faced him.

  “That’s how they found you,” Bill said. He came in close, taking Pfefferkorn’s sleeve in his hand, speaking quickly and quietly. “They mapped all the places you’ve called from and triangulated.”

  Pfefferkorn regarded him as one regards a madman.

  “No calls,” Bill said. “No books. You get on a bus and you go somewhere. Don’t make friends. You stay out of sight as long as you can and then you get on another bus and repeat the whole process over again.” He pulled tighter on Pfefferkorn’s bunched sleeve. “Are you hearing me? Not tomorrow. Today. Do you understand? Say something so I know you understand.”

  “They asked you to do it,” Pfefferkorn said.

  “I checked the bus schedule. You can be gone by sunset. How much cash do you have?”

  “They really did. They asked you.”

  “Answer me. Cash. How much.”

  Pfefferkorn shook his head admiringly. “Unbelievable.”

  “Stop talking and listen.”

  “The chutzpah . . . Unreal.”

  “You need to listen. You need to concentrate.”

  “Let me see,” Pfefferkorn said. “They said something about a ‘loose end.’”

  “You’re not listening.”

  “‘We’ve got a loose end we need you to tie up.’ Is that right?”

  “Christ, Art, who cares? That’s hardly the point.”

  “So? What did you tell them?”

  “What do you think I told them? I told them I’d do it and then I came straight here to warn you. Now can we be practical for a minute here?”

  Pfefferkorn pulled away from him. He put his hands on his hips and looked out at the ocean.

  “I don’t want to leave,” he said. “I like it here.”

  “That’s not an option.”

  “Anyway, I hate the bus.”

  “For God’s sake. Be reasonable.”

  “Let’s not talk about it right now,” Pfefferkorn said. “Please?”

  “This isn’t the time to—”

  “I know,” Pfefferkorn said, “but I don’t want to talk about it. All right?”

  Bill stared at him.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Pfefferkorn said.

  Bill said nothing.

  “Let’s talk about the old days.” Pfefferkorn smiled. “We had some fun, huh?”

  Bill said nothing.

  “Play along, would you,” Pfefferkorn said.

  Bill continued to stare at him.

  “Remember that time I was driving your car and got pulled over?” Pfefferkorn asked.

  Bill’s face softened, just perceptibly.

  “You remember,” Pfefferkorn said.

  “We can’t talk about this now.”

  “I want you to tell me if you remember.”

  The wind relented, allowing a stillness to rush in. The cries of the gulls were no longer audible.

  “If I play along will you listen to me?” Bill asked.

  “Just answer the question,” Pfefferkorn said.

  There was a long silence.

  “I remember,” Bill said.

  “Good,” Pfefferkorn said. “That’s very good. And? Then? You remember what happened next?”

  “How could I forget? My glove box smelled like a urinal for six months.”

  “And the thing we did, with the oars in the trees? What were we thinking?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I don’t think we were thinking.”

  “You were always thinking,” Bill said. “You probably meant something symbolic by it.”

  “I was stoned,” Pfefferkorn said.

  Bill smiled his most generous smile, the one Pfefferkorn loved and depended on, and despite the distress it concealed, it still made Pfefferkorn feel like the most important person on earth. He never wanted it to end, and to prolong its life he asked another question. “What else do you remember?”

  “Art—”

  “Tell me.”

  “I remember everything.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then tell me,” Pfefferkorn said. “Tell me everything.”

  They walked on for some time. The surf crashed and roared. The church bell tolled, ten peals. They went on. The sand was firm and cold. It shined like a ballroom floor. The church bell tolled eleven. They worked their way back through the years, excavating the past and rebuilding the destroyed landscape of their memories. They walked on and on and then the beach ended where a bluff pushed out into the ocean. Waves boiled through the rocks and smashed against the base of the bluff, flinging curved lines of froth like lariats. They stopped walking and leaned against the water-beaten rock.

  “Berlin,” Pfefferkorn said. “One night you went out around two in the morning.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Come off it,” Pfefferkorn said.

  “All right, I remember.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “What do you think I was doing? I was meeting a girl.”

  “What girl.”

  “I met her on the night train from Paris.”

  “I don’t remember any girl.”

  “You were asleep. I ran into her coming out of the bathroom. We got to talking and she told me she’d meet me the next night at a park near her aunt’s house.”

  “You didn’t tell me where you were going,” Pfefferkorn said. “You just snuck off.”

  “Come on, Art. What was I supposed to say.”

  “You thought I would tell Carlotta.”

  “It did cross my mind.”

  “I can’t believe you thought I would rat you out,” Pfefferkorn said.

  “I didn’t say that. I said it crossed my mind.”

  “I may be jealous but I’m not a bastard.”

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p; “I knew how you felt about her.”

  “So?”

  “I assumed you would want to protect her.”

  “Yeah, and how did you think I felt about you,” Pfefferkorn said.

  There was a silence.

  “You loved me,” Bill said.

  “You’re goddamned right I did,” Pfefferkorn said.

  There was a silence.

  “I’m sorry,” Bill said. “I should’ve said something.”

  “Yes, you should have.”

  “I’m sorry. I truly am.”

  “It’s all right,” Pfefferkorn said. “Did you ever end up telling Carlotta?”

  Bill nodded.

  “Was she mad?”

  “A little. But, look. We never had that kind of relationship, she and I.”

  Pfefferkorn did not ask what kind of relationship he meant.

  “Out of curiosity, what did you think I was doing in Berlin?” Bill asked.

  “I don’t know,” Pfefferkorn said. “Something top-secret.”

  Bill laughed. “Hate to disappoint.”

  They stayed there a while longer. The tide began to rise.

  “There’s a baby,” Pfefferkorn said. “I heard it on the phone.”

  Bill nodded once.

  “Boy or girl?” Pfefferkorn asked.

  “A boy,” Bill said. “Charles.”

  “Charles,” Pfefferkorn repeated.

  “They call him Charlie.”

  “I like it,” Pfefferkorn said.

  Bill hesitated, then took a wallet-sized photo from his breast pocket.

  Pfefferkorn looked at his grandson. He didn’t see much of himself. After all, his daughter looked like his ex-wife, not like him. The baby had black hair poking out from under a white ski cap. His eyes were blue, but that meant nothing. Pfefferkorn’s daughter had had blue eyes, too, before they darkened to an inviting chocolate brown. Things changed.

  “He’s perfect,” Pfefferkorn said.

  Bill nodded.

  “Does he have a middle name?”

  Bill hesitated again. “Arthur.”

  There was a silence.

  “Can I keep this?” Pfefferkorn asked.

  “I brought it for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bill nodded.

  “So you’ve seen her, then,” Pfefferkorn said.

  “I hear things,” Bill said.

  “And? How is she?”

  “From what I can tell, she’s getting along. She misses you, of course. But she’s living her life.”

  “That’s what I want. Although, I have to say, I don’t feel too terrific about leaving her in his hands.”

  “Can you think of anyone you would feel happy leaving her with?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  Pfefferkorn nodded. He held up the photo. “Thanks again for this,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Pfefferkorn tucked the photo in his pocket. “You’re a good writer,” he said. “Always have been.”

  “You don’t have to lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying. You have talent.”

  “Nice of you to say that.”

  “Take a compliment.”

  “All right.”

  Silence.

  “This deal they offered you,” Pfefferkorn said. “There’s something I don’t get about it. You’re supposed to be dead.”

  Bill nodded.

  “Now all of a sudden you’ve got a new book out?”

  “They’re going to put it out under my real name.”

  Pfefferkorn laughed. “At long last.”

  “If it sells more than a dozen copies I’ll be surprised.”

  “That’s not why you’re writing it.”

  “No.”

  “Still, from their end, why bother?” Pfefferkorn said. “What do they get out of it?”

  “I suppose it’s their way of rewarding me for thirty years of service.”

  “Come on. Even I know they don’t think like that.”

  “I don’t have any other explanation.”

  Pfefferkorn mused. “Better than a gold watch, I guess.”

  “A lot better than being thrown off a boat.”

  “That depends,” Pfefferkorn said. “Who’s your publisher?”

  Bill smiled.

  “Let’s say you did do it,” Pfefferkorn said.

  “Do what.”

  “Uphold your end of the bargain.”

  “Knock it off.”

  “Theoretically. Let’s say you did. How would they know?”

  “They’d know.”

  Pfefferkorn looked at him.

  “They’re watching,” Bill said.

  “Right now?”

  Bill nodded.

  “Where are they?”

  Bill gestured all around. Everywhere.

  “So they’ll also know if you don’t do it,” Pfefferkorn said. “And they’ll know if I run.”

  “You have to try.”

  “What for? They’ll know. They’ll just come after me again, and sooner or later, no matter how careful I am, they’ll catch me. And in the meantime what happens to you?”

  Bill said nothing.

  “That’s what I thought,” Pfefferkorn said.

  There was a long silence.

  “Take it,” Pfefferkorn said.

  “What.”

  “The deal. Take it.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’d take it, if I were you.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.”

  “If you don’t take it, we’re both finished.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “They’ll find me. You said it yourself. They always do.”

  “Not if you listen to me.”

  “No calls.”

  “Yes.”

  “And no books.”

  “Yes.”

  Pfefferkorn shook his head. “Impossible.”

  “It’s very simple. Don’t buy a phone card. Don’t buy books.”

  “And I’m telling you, it’s not simple at all. As long as she’s there, it’s impossible.”

  Bill said nothing.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Pfefferkorn said. “If not you, it’ll be someone else.”

  Bill said nothing.

  “It’ll be a stranger. I don’t want that.”

  Bill said nothing.

  “It may as well be on my terms,” Pfefferkorn said. “It may as well achieve something.”

  “Please shut up.”

  “What’s more important, that you be the one who does it, or just that I’m out of the picture?”

  “I’m not having this conversation.”

  “It’s an important distinction,” Pfefferkorn said.

  Bill said nothing.

  “Well, let’s hope it’s the latter.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I will. Soon. Remember what you said before? In the shed?”

  Bill did not answer.

  “You said, ‘It’s a rare writer who knows when to shut up.’ That’s me.”

  “For crissake,” Bill said, “it’s not a metaphor for life.”

  Pfefferkorn took out the letters he carried on him at all times. The pages had taken on the warmth and curve of his thigh. “This one’s for you,” he said, peeling them apart. “You don’t have to read it now.”

  “Art—”

  “In fact, I’d prefer if you didn’t. This one’s for my daughter. Promise me she’ll get it.”

  Bill did not move to ta
ke either letter.

  “Promise me,” Pfefferkorn said.

  “I’m not promising you anything.”

  “You owe me a favor.”

  “I don’t owe you a thing,” Bill said.

  “The hell you don’t.”

  The church bell began to toll. It tolled once.

  Pfefferkorn flapped the letters. “Promise me she’ll get it.”

  The bell tolled a second and a third time.

  “You can’t sit here with me forever,” Pfefferkorn said.

  The bell tolled four and five. Pfefferkorn leaned over and tucked the letters in Bill’s breast pocket. He dusted himself off and looked back at the town. The bell tolled six, seven, eight. Pfefferkorn looked at the ocean. The bell tolled nine. He stepped toward the water. He felt Bill’s eyes on him. Ten. He stretched his arms. Eleven. He stretched his legs. The bell tolled twelve and he put one foot in.

  “Yankel,” Bill said.

  Pfefferkorn advanced against the tide. The bell had stopped ringing but its vibrations could still be felt.

  “Get back here.”

  The water came up to his knees.

  “Art.”

  The sky was a high blank header. The horizon was a straight line of type. Pfefferkorn smiled back at his friend and called out above the waves.

  “It had better be a damned good book,” he said.

  Pfefferkorn embraced the sea.

  121.

  He swam.

  From far behind him came shouts and splashes. Eventually the water gave up its resistance and the splashes fell away and the shouts receded and he was alone, swimming. No one could catch him. He swam out past the bend in the shoreline. His lungs burned. His legs stiffened. He swam on past the fishing boats. He swam on until he saw nothing and nobody and then he stopped. He turned onto his back and floated, unmoored, in the limitless sea, letting the current take him.

  He expected to sink. He did not sink. He drifted. Water sloshed over his chest and into his ears. Salt water ran into his eyes like he was crying in reverse, sucking up the sorrow of the world. He was thirsty. Hours passed. The sun peaked, then dropped like a slow-moving bomb. The sky became a cathedral. Night fell. He turned beneath turning constellations. The sun rose and bore down like retribution. The flesh of his face grew tender. It blistered and still he drifted on, and by the next night, his thirst had waned. His stomach closed. He felt shrunken, like a jarred specimen, at once heavy and light. He surpassed pain. Time passed. The sun rose and fell and rose and fell. His clothes rotted away. He floated naked as a child.