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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.”

“All right. Tomorrow night?”

“That’s no good, Paul’s working late.”

“What . . .” Pfefferkorn hesitated. “What does Paul do, again?”

“He’s an accountant. Does Friday work?”

Pfefferkorn never did anything in the evenings except read. “It works fine.”

“I’ll make us a reservation. I’ll call you.”

“All right. Eh—sweetheart? Congratulations.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you on Friday.”

Pfefferkorn hung up the phone and looked at the picture of his daughter he kept on his desk. The physical resemblance between her and his ex-wife was striking. People had often pointed it out to him, much to his irritation. That his daughter could be anything but entirely his seemed to him a vile affront. He had been the one to raise her after his ex-wife had deserted them and then died. Now he admitted to himself that he had been overly jealous, and foolish to boot. His daughter was neither his nor his ex-wife’s but her own, and she had chosen to give herself to an accountant.

5.

Paul cut short his speech on the value of annuities to excuse himself to the restroom.

“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said.

“Me too,” Pfefferkorn said.

The restaurant was no place Pfefferkorn had eaten, nor would he ever again. To begin with, the prices were obscene, more so considering the size of the portions. In vain he had searched the menu for something that didn’t contain one or more obscure ingredients. Then he had embarrassed his daughter by questioning the waiter as to the identity of a certain fish. Paul had leapt in to explain that it had become fashionable recently due to its sustainability. Pfefferkorn had ordered the hanger steak. It came in the shape of a Möbius strip.

“The wonderful thing about the desserts here,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said, “is that they’re not sweet.”

“Isn’t dessert supposed to be sweet?”

“Uch. Daddy. You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

“I mean not too sweet.”

“Oh.”

Pfefferkorn’s daughter put down the dessert menu. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not upset?”

“About Bill, you mean? No, I’m all right.”

She took his hand. “I’m so sorry.”