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.”
“You’ve only got a couple of days left.”
“I’m aware of that,” he said. He shuffled the pages anxiously. “Do you, eh, have any suggestions for where to go from here?”
“I’m not a writer,” she said. “I just know what I like.”
He tried to hide his disappointment. “Well. I appreciate the constructive criticism.”
She nodded.
He hesitated before asking what she thought her husband would think.
She shrugged. “He’ll love it.”
Pfefferkorn relaxed. “Really?”
“Dragomir’s not a very tough critic. Certainly not as tough as I am. And he’s primed to think anything you do is genius.”
“Well,” Pfefferkorn said, “that’s good.”
“It won’t matter,” she said. “He’s still going to kill you before the festival.”
“. . . really.”
She nodded.
“I . . . wasn’t aware of that.”
“He thinks it’s more dramatic that way. Living writers lack a certain romance.”
“. . . mm.”
“You’ll be making him very happy,” she said. “He’s dreamed of this his entire life.”
Pfefferkorn said nothing.
“What’s that?” she asked.
He followed her gaze to the desk. The letters he had written were stacked up where he had left them.
“May I?” she asked.
His first instinct was to say no.
“Knock yourself out,” he said.
While Zhulk’s wife read the letters, Pfefferkorn for the hundredth time contemplated assaulting her. If it was true that Zhulk was going to kill him soon, this might be one of his last chances to escape. He did the visualization. Grab the chain, wrap it around her neck, pull it tight, put a knee into her back. His heart began to pound. His palms were sweaty. He readied himself. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. All that training, he thought. What a waste.
She finished reading and looked up. Her cheeks were wet and her eyes red-rimmed. She folded the letters neatly and put them back on the desk.
“You’re a good writer when you want to be,” she said.
There was a silence.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome.”
There was a silence.
“Of course I’m unhappy,” she said.
He said nothing.
“I can’t have children,” she said.
There was a silence.
“I’m so sorry,” Pfefferkorn said.
She wiped her eyes on her apron. She began to laugh. It was a dirty, strident sound, full of disappointment and expecting more to come. She clutched the apron in her fist. “Can you believe he makes me wear this.”
Pfefferkorn smiled.
“I’m the wife of the goddamned prime minister.” She shook her head and laughed again and looked at him. She stepped forward. He could smell the same rancid soap she brought him to bathe with. He could smell cheap cosmetics. Her lips were chapped and parted. She leaned in as if to kiss him. His body tensed.
“Come with me,” she said, “if you want to live.”
99.
The chain had prevented him from seeing too far beyond the cell bars. He didn’t know what to expect when he stepped through the door. What he saw underwhelmed him. It was an ordinary concrete hallway, about eight feet long. At the far end was a plain wooden door.