Potboiler

With less than forty-eight hours left until his deadline, Pfefferkorn stood up from the desk and cricked his neck. A few days earlier, he had struck upon the idea of using the last chapter of Shade of the Colossus as a model for the ending of Vassily Nabochka. It was either the best idea or the worst idea he’d ever had, and since he had nothing to lose—at that point he’d come to a complete standstill—and since Zhulk liked the novel well enough, he had made up his mind to give it his all. Nonstop toil had pushed the total to more than seventy lines. So far he had the beleaguered and road-weary prince coming to his dying father’s bed, magical root vegetable antidote in hand. Then followed an internal monologue worthy of Hamlet, as the prince debated whether to give the antidote or to let the old man slip away peacefully. In the end the prince dropped the antidote into a chamber pot. These events were meant to correspond to the novel’s young artist pulling the plug on his father. To be on the safe side, he’d also thrown in some flattering references to Communism. With the remaining two dozen lines, he planned to have the prince ascend to “a most bitter throne.” He had thought of the phrase the day before and, liking the sound of it, had jotted it down in the margin. In Zlabian it was slightly less mellifluous: zhumyuiy gorkhiy dhrun. He thought it worked all right. He couldn’t tell. He was under pressure and he felt himself losing perspective.

A door opened and closed. It was Zhulk’s wife, come with dinner. As usual, her carriage was leaden and her face a mask of gloom. As usual, she left the cell door ajar and set the tray down on an empty corner of the desk.

As usual, he thanked her.

As usual, she curtsied.

“You really don’t need to do that,” he said, as usual.

As usual, she started out.

“I know it’s none of my business,” he said, “but you don’t seem very happy.”

For nineteen days she had ignored him, so for her to pause and stare at him was more than a bit unsettling.

“I’m just saying,” he said.

She said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

There was a silence. She looked at the pages on the desk, then at him for permission. He didn’t think he had any real choice in the matter. He stood back. “Please.”

She picked up the pages. Her lips moved slightly as she read. Her brow furrowed. She finished and put the pages facedown on the desk.

“It’s terrible,” she said.

Pfefferkorn was too shocked by the sound of her voice to reply.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would Prince Vassily withhold the antidote?”

“Well,” he said, “well, but, well.” He paused. She was watching him in her moonfaced way, waiting for an answer. “Well, look. Look. Think about it. The king has disinherited him. He’s bound to have some resentment over that.” He paused again. “A lot of resentment.”

“So he lets his father die?”

“It’s the whole kingdom. It’s a big deal.”

She shook her head. “Makes no sense.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a tad literal?”

“How so?”

“I mean, it’s not necessarily the case that he’s letting him die.”

She picked up the pages again. “‘Lifeblood hotly overbrimmed his bristly wizened nostrils like a glist’ning ruddy fountain,’” she read, “‘Rendering his kingly spirit unto heavens slightly cloudy with a chance of showers.’”

She looked at him.

“You’re missing the point,” he said.

“Am I?”

“Completely.”

“Okay, what’s the point?”

“The important thing is not whether the king lives or dies. I mean of course that’s important, in a, a, a plot sense, but, first of all, I could change that in about five seconds, and anyway, the crucial part, thematically, is showing that the prince is conflicted.”

“About what?”

“Lots of things,” Pfefferkorn said. “He’s got mixed emotions.”

Zhulk’s wife was shaking her head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Prince Vassily is not that kind of character.”

“What kind, nuanced?”

“The prince’s moral purity, and therefore a large part of his appeal, rests on his ability to set aside his feelings and do what’s right. Why else would he start out on the quest, if he didn’t intend to give his father the antidote? It makes no sense at all.”

“But isn’t it more interesting if at the last moment he has doubts?”

“It’s inconsistent with the rest of the poem.”

“I asked if it was interesting,” he said.

“I know,” she said, “and I told you: it’s inconsistent. It doesn’t matter whether it’s interesting. That’s not the right criterion. You’re working in someone else’s style. You have to accept the constraints handed to you.” She nosed at the page. “You’ve also got all sorts of fancy words in there that don’t belong.”

“Well, look,” Pfefferkorn said, snatching the pages from her, “you said you didn’t understand it, so maybe you ought to keep your opinions to yourself, thank you very much.”

She said nothing. He remembered that she was still the prime minister’s wife.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that I’m sensitive about people reading work in progress.”