Potboiler

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.