Potboiler

“Art and craft. What you did and what he did.”

“I don’t want to talk about that anymore.”

“I’m not saying he wasn’t capable of producing art. Just that he was conscious of his choices. He needed there to be a difference.” She took another sip of wine. “I don’t know if I should tell you this. I suppose it’s all past now, but . . .” She shrugged. “He was dabbling in a side project. A literary novel.”

“No kidding,” he said. “What about?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure he ever got anything on paper. He only mentioned it once or twice. I think he was afraid of how people would react.”

He understood she meant him. “Really, Carlotta. Enough.”

“Why do you think he still sent you first editions?” she said. “Your opinion meant the world to him.”

He said nothing.

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. And I don’t want to give you the impression that Bill was unhappy. At least I don’t think so. He loved building chairs. He might not have set out to become this . . . godhead, but it was a role he came to enjoy. His fans are positively rabid. Conspiracy theorists, paranoiacs who read the novels and get wrapped up in this silly world of double-crossing and dirty secrets. Bill played into it, of course, taking those jacket photos with the coat. I used to tell him it was a bad idea, encouraging these people, but he said it was part of the image.”

“Did you ever have folks bother you?”

“We’ve had occasion to hire a private investigator.”

“Sounds like a nightmare.”

She shrugged. “It’s all relative. Remember where we live. Around here nobody gives a damn about a writer. I’ll tell you another story. Don’t worry, this one’s not going to embarrass you. One time we went into a bookstore. I think I wanted a cookbook and we happened to be passing one of the chains, so we went in and got the book and stood in line for the register. Now, behind the counter is this big”—she spread her hands—“I mean absolutely huge display of his new book. There’s a photo of him on top, and it’s got his name on it. You’d think the clerk would put two and two together. Smile, at least. But—no reaction. We step up to pay for the book and she doesn’t bat an eye. Bill hands her a credit card with his name on it, and again—nothing. She swipes the card and puts the book in a bag and tells us to have a nice day.” Carlotta sat back. “It was five feet away.”

“I wish I could say I was surprised,” Pfefferkorn said.

“Well, look, better that than being mobbed every time you go outside. I don’t know how these movie stars deal with it.”

“They like it.”

“Yes, they must, mustn’t they? They’re exhibitionists.”

The waiter approached. “I dolci, signora.”

“Cappuccino, please.”

“And for the signore?”

“Regular coffee, thanks.”

“Arthur. Aren’t we working-class.”

In the car, Carlotta loaned Pfefferkorn her cell phone.

“Daddy? What time is it?”

Pfefferkorn had forgotten about the time difference. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

“You sound funny. Is everything okay?”

“It’s just fine.”

“Are you drunk?”

“I wanted to let you know that I moved my flight. I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon.”

“Daddy? What’s going on?”

“Everything’s fine. I’m catching up with Carlotta.”

“All right. Have a good time.”

He closed the phone.

“She must be beautiful,” Carlotta said.

He nodded.

“The last time I saw her was—God, it must have been her bat mitzvah.” Carlotta looked over her shoulder to change lanes. “Every so often I wish we’d had children. Not that often. It was my decision. Bill wanted them. But I was afraid they would turn me into my mother. Which is funny because”—she changed lanes again—“I turned into her anyway.”

Back at the house, they made love twice. Then Carlotta showed Pfefferkorn to his own room, where he could rise for his morning flight without disturbing her.

16.

Pfefferkorn couldn’t sleep. He switched on the bedside light and reached for the remote control on the nightstand, turning to the news channel. A coiffed woman told him that the prime minister of West Zlabia had released a statement condemning capitalist exploitation and announcing the sale of exclusive rights to the gas field to the Chinese. The East Zlabians were up in arms. He watched for a few more minutes, then turned the television off and leaned back against the headboard, feeling completely awake. His insomnia had nothing to do with guilt, of which he felt none, or none that he was consciously aware of. He supposed he might have suppressed his guilt and that insomnia was the form it took in escaping. To his mind, however, a better explanation was that he was in the grip of newfound possibility. It was irrational, he knew. Nothing had changed. He was still Pfefferkorn, adjunct professor of creative writing. At the same time, making love to Carlotta—something he had fantasized about his entire adult life—had brought him into a state of mind dormant since his early twenties. It takes a woman to make a man feel this way, he thought. Then he corrected himself. It didn’t take just any woman. It took Carlotta.