2.
By the next morning, other stories claimed the front page. Pfefferkorn bypassed news of a celebrity divorce, an arrested athlete, and the discovery of a major gas field off the West Zlabian coast, finding what he wanted on page four. The memorial service for William de Vallée, noted author of more than thirty internationally best-selling thrillers, would be held in Los Angeles, at a cemetery catering primarily to celebrities. It was to be a closed ceremony, by invitation only. Pfefferkorn once again felt disgusted. It was typical of the press to feign respect for a person’s privacy while simultaneously destroying it. He left the kitchen and went to dress for work.
Pfefferkorn taught creative writing at a small college on the Eastern Seaboard. Years ago he had published a single novel. Called Shade of the Colossus, it concerned a young man’s bitter struggle to liberate himself from a domineering father who belittles his son’s attempts to find meaning in art. Pfefferkorn had modeled the father after his own father, an uneducated vacuum salesman now deceased. The book received mild acclaim but sold poorly, and Pfefferkorn had published nothing since.
Every so often he would call up his agent to describe something new he had written. The agent would always say the same thing: “It sounds simply fascinating. Get it on over to me, would you?” Dutifully Pfefferkorn would mail in the material and wait for a response. Eventually he would tire of waiting and pick up the phone.
“Well,” the agent would say, “it is fascinating. I’ll give you that. But to be perfectly honest, I don’t think I can sell it. I’m willing to try, of course.”
“You know what,” Pfefferkorn would say. “Never mind.”
“It’s not a good time for short stories.”
“I know.”
“How’s that novel coming?”
“Not bad.”
“Let me know when you’ve got something to show me, will you?”
“I will.”
What Pfefferkorn did not tell his agent was that the very pages the agent deemed unsellable were not in fact short stories but abortive attempts at a second novel. By his count, Pfefferkorn had started seventy-seven different novels, abandoning each after hearing his first five pages dismissed. Recently, on a lark, he had placed all seventy-seven five-page segments in a single stack and attempted to stitch them together into a coherent whole, an effort that cost him an entire summer but that ultimately yielded nothing. Upon realizing his failure, he kicked out a window in his bedroom. The police were summoned and Pfefferkorn let off with a warning.
3.
The invitation to the funeral arrived later that week. Pfefferkorn set down the rest of his mail to hold the heavy black envelope in both hands. It was made of beautiful paper, expensive paper, and he hesitated to break it open. He turned it over. The back flap was engraved in silver ink with the de Vallée family crest. Pfefferkorn snorted. Where had Bill dug up such nonsense? Pfefferkorn decided it must have been Carlotta’s idea. She did have a flair for the dramatic.
He opened the invitation and out leapt a six-inch pop-up cutout of Bill, showing him at his happiest: in his sailing getup, wearing a captain’s hat, about to take to the water, a broad smile splitting his broad, grizzled face. He resembled the older Hemingway. Pfefferkorn had not been to visit the de Vallées in a long time—it pained him to think just how long—but he remembered their yacht, of the kind most often found on the cover of a big, soft, glossy magazine. He assumed it had since been replaced by a more luxe model, one he lacked the wherewithal to envision.
The memorial was to take place in three weeks’ time. No guests would be permitted. The invitee was requested to reply at his earliest convenience.
Three weeks seemed a long time to wait for a funeral. Then Pfefferkorn remembered that there was no body and therefore no urgency of decay. He wondered if Carlotta planned to bury an empty casket. It was a morbid thought, and he shook it off.
Though there was never any question as to whether he would attend, he nevertheless made a brief accounting. Between transportation, accommodations, and a new suit (nothing he owned would do), this trip could end up costing him well over a thousand dollars—no trouble for most of Bill’s friends, Hollywood types who anyway had to travel no farther than down the freeway. But Pfefferkorn earned a meager salary, and he resented the expectation that he should sink his entire paycheck into paying his respects. He knew he was being selfish but he could not help himself. Just as he was incapable of picturing the de Vallées’ latest boat, a rich woman like Carlotta could never grasp how severely a quick nip across the country could damage a person’s savings. He filled out his response card and licked the back flap of the tiny return envelope, thinking of Orwell’s remark that, as a writer, he could not hope to understand what it was like to be illiterate. He wondered if this might make an interesting premise for a novel.
4.
That evening Pfefferkorn received a phone call from his daughter. She had seen the news on television and wanted to offer her condolences.
“Are you going out there? It looks like it’s going to be a big deal.”
Pfefferkorn replied that he had no idea how big a deal it would be.
“Oh, Daddy. You know what I mean.”
In the background Pfefferkorn heard a man’s voice.
“Is someone there?”
“That’s just Paul.”
“Who’s Paul?”
“Daddy. Please. You’ve met him at least a hundred times.”
“Have I?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I must be getting old.”
“Stop it.”
“I can never seem to learn any of your boyfriends’ names before there’s a new one.”
“Daddy. Stop.”
“What? What am I doing?”
“Is it really so hard to remember his name?”
“When something’s important, I remember it.”
“It is important. We’re getting married.”
Pfefferkorn swayed, gripped a chair, made noises.
“The nice thing to say would be ‘congratulations.’”
“Sweetheart,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Or you could try ‘I love you.’”
“It’s just that I’m a little taken aback to learn that my only child is marrying someone I’ve never met—”
“You’ve met him many times.”
“—and whose name I can hardly remember.”
“Daddy, please. I hate it when you do this.”
“Do what.”
“Play at being doddering. It’s not funny and this is important.”
Pfefferkorn cleared his throat. “All right, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
“Now can you please be happy for me?”
“Of course I am, sweetheart. Mazel tov.”
“That’s better.” She sniffed. “I’d like us to all have dinner together. I want you to get to know Paul better.”