“That’s not an option.”
“Anyway, I hate the bus.”
“For God’s sake. Be reasonable.”
“Let’s not talk about it right now,” Pfefferkorn said. “Please?”
“This isn’t the time to—”
“I know,” Pfefferkorn said, “but I don’t want to talk about it. All right?”
Bill stared at him.
“Let’s talk about something else,” Pfefferkorn said.
Bill said nothing.
“Let’s talk about the old days.” Pfefferkorn smiled. “We had some fun, huh?”
Bill said nothing.
“Play along, would you,” Pfefferkorn said.
Bill continued to stare at him.
“Remember that time I was driving your car and got pulled over?” Pfefferkorn asked.
Bill’s face softened, just perceptibly.
“You remember,” Pfefferkorn said.
“We can’t talk about this now.”
“I want you to tell me if you remember.”
The wind relented, allowing a stillness to rush in. The cries of the gulls were no longer audible.
“If I play along will you listen to me?” Bill asked.
“Just answer the question,” Pfefferkorn said.
There was a long silence.
“I remember,” Bill said.
“Good,” Pfefferkorn said. “That’s very good. And? Then? You remember what happened next?”
“How could I forget? My glove box smelled like a urinal for six months.”
“And the thing we did, with the oars in the trees? What were we thinking?”
“I have no idea.”
“I don’t think we were thinking.”
“You were always thinking,” Bill said. “You probably meant something symbolic by it.”
“I was stoned,” Pfefferkorn said.
Bill smiled his most generous smile, the one Pfefferkorn loved and depended on, and despite the distress it concealed, it still made Pfefferkorn feel like the most important person on earth. He never wanted it to end, and to prolong its life he asked another question. “What else do you remember?”
“Art—”
“Tell me.”
“I remember everything.”
“Do you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then tell me,” Pfefferkorn said. “Tell me everything.”
They walked on for some time. The surf crashed and roared. The church bell tolled, ten peals. They went on. The sand was firm and cold. It shined like a ballroom floor. The church bell tolled eleven. They worked their way back through the years, excavating the past and rebuilding the destroyed landscape of their memories. They walked on and on and then the beach ended where a bluff pushed out into the ocean. Waves boiled through the rocks and smashed against the base of the bluff, flinging curved lines of froth like lariats. They stopped walking and leaned against the water-beaten rock.
“Berlin,” Pfefferkorn said. “One night you went out around two in the morning.”
“If you say so.”
“Come off it,” Pfefferkorn said.
“All right, I remember.”
“What were you doing?”
“What do you think I was doing? I was meeting a girl.”
“What girl.”
“I met her on the night train from Paris.”
“I don’t remember any girl.”
“You were asleep. I ran into her coming out of the bathroom. We got to talking and she told me she’d meet me the next night at a park near her aunt’s house.”
“You didn’t tell me where you were going,” Pfefferkorn said. “You just snuck off.”
“Come on, Art. What was I supposed to say.”
“You thought I would tell Carlotta.”
“It did cross my mind.”
“I can’t believe you thought I would rat you out,” Pfefferkorn said.
“I didn’t say that. I said it crossed my mind.”
“I may be jealous but I’m not a bastard.”
“I knew how you felt about her.”
“So?”
“I assumed you would want to protect her.”
“Yeah, and how did you think I felt about you,” Pfefferkorn said.
There was a silence.
“You loved me,” Bill said.
“You’re goddamned right I did,” Pfefferkorn said.
There was a silence.
“I’m sorry,” Bill said. “I should’ve said something.”
“Yes, you should have.”
“I’m sorry. I truly am.”
“It’s all right,” Pfefferkorn said. “Did you ever end up telling Carlotta?”
Bill nodded.
“Was she mad?”
“A little. But, look. We never had that kind of relationship, she and I.”
Pfefferkorn did not ask what kind of relationship he meant.
“Out of curiosity, what did you think I was doing in Berlin?” Bill asked.
“I don’t know,” Pfefferkorn said. “Something top-secret.”
Bill laughed. “Hate to disappoint.”
They stayed there a while longer. The tide began to rise.
“There’s a baby,” Pfefferkorn said. “I heard it on the phone.”
Bill nodded once.
“Boy or girl?” Pfefferkorn asked.
“A boy,” Bill said. “Charles.”
“Charles,” Pfefferkorn repeated.
“They call him Charlie.”
“I like it,” Pfefferkorn said.
Bill hesitated, then took a wallet-sized photo from his breast pocket.
Pfefferkorn looked at his grandson. He didn’t see much of himself. After all, his daughter looked like his ex-wife, not like him. The baby had black hair poking out from under a white ski cap. His eyes were blue, but that meant nothing. Pfefferkorn’s daughter had had blue eyes, too, before they darkened to an inviting chocolate brown. Things changed.
“He’s perfect,” Pfefferkorn said.
Bill nodded.
“Does he have a middle name?”
Bill hesitated again. “Arthur.”
There was a silence.
“Can I keep this?” Pfefferkorn asked.
“I brought it for you.”
“Thanks.”
Bill nodded.
“So you’ve seen her, then,” Pfefferkorn said.
“I hear things,” Bill said.
“And? How is she?”
“From what I can tell, she’s getting along. She misses you, of course. But she’s living her life.”
“That’s what I want. Although, I have to say, I don’t feel too terrific about leaving her in his hands.”
“Can you think of anyone you would feel happy leaving her with?”
“Not really.”
“Well, there you go.”
Pfefferkorn nodded. He held up the photo. “Thanks again for this,” he said.
“You’re welcome.”
Pfefferkorn tucked the photo in his pocket. “You’re a good writer,” he said. “Always have been.”
“You don’t have to lie to me.”
“I’m not lying. You have talent.”
“Nice of you to say that.”
“Take a compliment.”
“All right.”
Silence.
“This deal they offered you,” Pfefferkorn said. “There’s something I don’t get about it. You’re supposed to be dead.”
Bill nodded.
“Now all of a sudden you’ve got a new book out?”
“They’re going to put it out under my real name.”
Pfefferkorn laughed. “At long last.”
“If it sells more than a dozen copies I’ll be surprised.”
“That’s not why you’re writing it.”
“No.”
“Still, from their end, why bother?” Pfefferkorn said. “What do they get out of it?”
“I suppose it’s their way of rewarding me for thirty years of service.”
“Come on. Even I know they don’t think like that.”
“I don’t have any other explanation.”
Pfefferkorn mused. “Better than a gold watch, I guess.”
“A lot better than being thrown off a boat.”
“That depends,” Pfefferkorn said. “Who’s your publisher?”
Bill smiled.
“Let’s say you did do it,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Do what.”
“Uphold your end of the bargain.”
“Knock it off.”
“Theoretically. Let’s say you did. How would they know?”
“They’d know.”