Potboiler

“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.