Potboiler

He left four days later, taking with him the annotated copy of Shade of the Colossus. He did not mention to Carlotta that he was borrowing it, and had he been pressed for an explanation, he could not have supplied one. Perhaps something about the barn compelled him to steal books.

His flight landed in time for him to catch a late dinner. He directed the taxi to his neighborhood sushi bar. He ordered without consulting the menu, laid the novel flat on the table, and started to read. A twenty-five-year-old work of failure seemed like an odd place to look for inspiration, but who knew? Obviously Bill had seen value in it.

Much of the book was flawed. Pfefferkorn could accept that now. He spared a thought for his first editor, a motherly woman who had since passed away. She had tried to get him to inject more humor. He had resisted, and eventually he had worn her down. He remembered her telling him, in a heated moment, that he was the most stubborn person she’d ever met. The word she used was “mulish.” He smiled. I’ve changed, Madelaine, he thought. I’ve grown old.

For all its youthful excesses, though, Pfefferkorn thought it a worthy piece of art. There were passages of authentic beauty. He had chosen to mask the story’s autobiographical roots by making the protagonist a painter rather than a writer. The final third described the protagonist’s return home following his first successful exhibition. His father, the old tyrant, has fallen into a coma, and it is the son who makes the decision to withdraw life support. It remains ambiguous whether this is an act of mercy or one of vengeance. What is evident is that the power to carry it out has been made possible by his art. The closing paragraphs suggest that his next step is to attain the moral strength to focus that power.

Pfefferkorn poked at his red-bean ice cream, wondering if there was some way to convert the book into a blockbuster. He could make the father a gangster, and the son the policeman assigned to take him down. Father versus son, blood ties leading to spilled blood. It sounded promising. Certainly he needed to get something on paper, and fast. His agent had been leaving him voicemails in a tone of barely contained hysteria. Pfefferkorn had not called him back. Nor had he acknowledged the half-dozen e-mails from his editor. His current editor was young, scarcely older than Pfefferkorn’s daughter, and while he tended to be deferential, it was clear that his patience was all but gone. He had hitched himself to Pfefferkorn’s star and now he stood in danger of being brought crashing to earth. Again, Pfefferkorn sympathized. Lots of people depended on him. His daughter did. Paul did. He depended on him, if he hoped to continue flying across the country every few weeks. The future looked bleak. His ice cream had turned to a gloppy mauve puddle. Pfefferkorn asked for the check. The tip he left was smaller than usual.

39.

“Well? What do you think?”

“I think it’s very nice.”

“Oh, Daddy. That’s the best you can do?”

They were standing in the dining room of the gigantic house Pfefferkorn’s daughter wanted to buy. The real estate agent had stepped outside to take a call.

“What did she mean by that,” Pfefferkorn asked, “‘Great bones’?”

“It means it has a lot of potential,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said.

“What’s wrong with it the way it is?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it, but it’s somebody else’s taste. That’s the way it always is. There’s always going to be some work.”

Pfefferkorn, a lifelong renter, wondered where his daughter had learned these things. “If you say so.”

“I’m thinking we could knock out this wall. You know, like an open kitchen. Don’t you think it would be fantastic for parties? Of course, we’ll need to change the countertops.”

“Of course.”

“So you like it.”

“I like that it makes you happy,” he said.

“It does. It really does. Can’t you see us raising a family here?”

It was the first time she had ever spoken of children. He had always made a point of saying nothing. The choice was hers. Hearing her raise the subject on her own filled him with an indescribable mix of emotions.

“I think it’s a lovely house,” he said.

“Me too,” his daughter said.

“And,” he said, his head tingling with the excitement of a man about to push in all his chips, “I want to give it to you.”

His daughter’s eyes widened. “Daddy. That’s not why I—”

“I know,” he said.

“But we can’t—I mean, Paul won’t allow it.”

“That’s your job,” he said. “You work on him.”

“Daddy. You really mean it?”

He nodded.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, oh, oh.”

“Sweetheart. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I’m just so happy.” She put her arms around him. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Of course,” he said again, less confidently this time. “Eh. Sweetheart?”

“Yes, Daddy?”

“I forgot to ask about the price.”

She named a number.

“Mm,” he said.

“Trust me, it’s a steal, even at asking.”

“Mm-hm.”

She released him. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to.”

She embraced him again. “I love you so, so much.”