The Princess Bride

was off by itself—but I was anxious to get to the Curator—Stephen King had written him a letter about my arrival.

The Curator would let me into the place I most needed to get—the Sanctuary, it was called, and it was where Morgenstern's letters and notes were kept. It was not open to the public, scholars only, but that's what I was on this day of days.

I asked a few questions, was directed here, there, then finally we found the Curator—younger than you might think, obviously bright, and behind his eyes there was a genuine sweetness.

He was seated at his desk on the third-floor corner. Book-lined office, no surprise, and as we entered he glanced up, smiled.

'Probably you want the little boys' room,' he began. 'It's just one door down. Most of my visitors are interested in that.'

I smiled, said who I was and that I had come all the way from America to study in the Sanctuary for a while.

'But that's not possible,' the Curator replied. 'It is open only for work of scholarship.'

'William Goldman,' I said again. 'Stephen King wrote a letter about my coming.'

'Mister King is a famous descendent of my country, of that there can be no question, but there is no letter.'

(You must know this about me—I can be very paranoid at moments like this. This next is true—when I was a judge at the Cannes Film Festival I was invited to a formal dinner party. It was a big deal for me, my marriage was collapsing, I was going to be alone in the world for the first time since forever, and I got to the party where everyone spoke all kinds of languages, few of them English. There were three round tables set up, fortunately with place cards and when we were told it was time to sit down, I left my place alone in the corner and went whizzing around the first table.

No place card with my name on it.

I zoom to the second table, make my circuit.

No me.

Now as I began the third and last table, my paranoia set in, because I knew there would be no place card with my name on it. I can still see myself breaking into a light sweat as I realized my name would not be there.

Can you imagine anyone so nuts?

Guess what—there was no place card with my name on it at the third table either. Turned out to be a hostess screwup. That is a true story.)

OK, I started to go to pieces. Had I imagined that King would write the letter? No, I had not imagined it, he told me he wanted a really authentic Buttercup's Baby. It was why I had come all this way.

But then I thought, why didn't he just give me the damn note and let me present it personally? (I am now into madness thinking that if I did have the damn note from King and if I had handed it over, the Curator would have handed it back and said that he was not an expert on Stephen King's handwriting, so no, I could not be allowed into the Sanctuary, thank you very much.)

I felt so helpless standing there in front of my beloved I actually started to turn and leave.

Which was when he said it: 'Grandpa, it's a mistake, call him up'

I hate cell phones but I'd gotten an international job for the trip, we had called Jason and Peggy on it last night when we got to the hotel.

So I dialed King in Maine, got through, explained the situation. He was great. 'Jesus, Bill, I am so sorry, I should have given you the damn note—Florin has the worst mail service in Europe, it'll probably get there next week.' (It actually arrived the week after that.) 'Is Vonya working today? Let me speak to him.'

I think the curator heard his name because he nodded, reached out for the phone. I handed it over and he got up from his desk, walked to the hallway, paced a little where I could hear him saying, 'Of course, Mister King' and 'I'll do anything to help, Mister King, you may rest assured.'

Willy glanced up at me during this, circled his thumb and finger (discreetly, I might add) and in a moment Vonya was back.

He indicated for us to follow him, muttering, 'What can I tell you? The mails, you know.'

I told him I was just happy it was straightened out.

'It's so embarrassing to me, Mister Goldman. Stephen King told me who you were.'

I should have been braced for what was coming, the 'were' should have gotten me ready.

Then the killer sentence: 'You know, I've read several of your books, I used to be something of a fan, you were a wonderful writer...once.'

It shouldn't have hit me so hard. But I know why it did. Because I was afraid it was true. I had done some decent stuff. But that was in the long ago, another country. It's one of the reasons I was so looking forward to immersing myself in Buttercup's Baby. The Princess Bride had made me want to be a novelist. I was hoping that this Morgenstern would help me become a novelist again.

Then Willy was shouting: 'He's still wonderful.'

'Shh, it's OK,' I told him. 'It really is.' He looked at me and I tried to hide but I know he saw what was behind my eyes.

The evil Vonya led us a few more steps, swung open a door, gestured inside, left us,

Then we were alone in the Sanctuary.

Willy was still steaming. 'I hate that guy.'

You think I didn't want to hug him for that? But I restrained myself, just muttered, 'Time for a little work,' started studying the room.

Not particularly big. Thousands of letters, all categorized, family photo albums, each picture with writing beneath, explaining the meaning behind the shots.

The notebooks were what I had hoped for. Morgenstern was known for his meticulous nature but while I was getting my bearings, I studied the photo albums, trying to get a sense of what his life was like while he was in his writing prime.

Then I heard Willy say the most remarkable thing: 'Did you know Count Rugen killed Inigo?'

I turned to him. 'What are you talking about?'

He pointed to the notebook he had pulled down from a shelf and started reading. ''This morning I woke with the thought that Rugen should indeed kill Inigo. I realize that I lose the 'Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya' and I would miss that, but if Inigo did die here, then Westley would have to conquer both Humperdinck and Rugen, all this while so recently murdered, and remember please that Westley is your main hero.''

By this time we were seated at a table, looking at The Princess Bride diary.

Who knew such a thing existed?

What a miracle—I sat there, in Morgenstern's Sanctuary, with my grandson, while memories of my father flooded back, reading to me with his limited English, changing my life forever.

Willy turned the page, started reading again. ''I have decided Inigo must not die. I was up half the night and finally I tried to write the scene where he kills Rugen, saying that line over and over until finally he cries 'I want my father back you son of a bitch'—

—and when I wrote those words I realized what I wanted most on earth that I cannot have is my own father back—

—so Inigo will triumph and live and Westley will have to be content in just besting Humperdinck.''

Willy looked up from the diary. 'Wow—he almost screwed up his own book.'

I nodded, thinking back, wondering if I had ever had those kinds of thoughts. I remember I hated killing Butch and Sundance, but I had to, because in real life they had gone the way I wrote it, and I couldn't change history, just for a happy ending.

But now here he was, Morgenstern, the man who had so much to do with my life, doing the first thing I ever disapproved of—he was contemplating changing history—and that bothered me.