Potboiler

One thing that had not changed from the first tour was the roster of media escorts who met him along the way. These were amiable, attractive women between the ages of thirty-five and sixty who loved to read. At each airport one would be waiting outside the baggage claim, holding a copy of his book. She would smile and say how nice it was to see him again. She would spend the morning shuttling him around to local bookstores to sign stock. Over lunch she would make a fuss over photos of Pfefferkorn’s daughter in her wedding gown. More stock signings were followed by a two-hour break at the hotel so Pfefferkorn could shower and shave. In the evening the media escort would pick him up and drive him to his reading. The next morning she would show up before dawn to get him to his next flight. These women made an otherwise dreary routine more humane, and Pfefferkorn was grateful for them all.

It helped matters that they could be genuinely optimistic: every event was packed. Publishers bemoaned the fact that fewer and fewer people read fiction, while those who did got older and older. Within a few years, they predicted, there would be no market left. Seeing his various and sundry fans, Pfefferkorn decided things couldn’t possibly be as bad as all that.

He took questions.

“What inspired this book?”

Pfefferkorn said it had just come to him one day.

“Do you do a lot of research?”

As little as he could get away with, he answered.

“What’s next for Harry Shagreen?”

Pfefferkorn said he didn’t want to spoil the surprise.

Every night he returned to his suite drained. He ordered room service, changed into a bathrobe, and girded himself for the most harrowing part of his day: reading the newspaper.

Boston, Providence, Miami, Washington, D.C., Charlotte, Chicago, Milwaukee, Minneapolis, St. Louis, Kansas City, and Albuquerque passed without incident. He began to wonder if he had made a mistake. Maybe it wasn’t Zlabia he was in charge of. He flew to Denver. His daughter called to say they were getting their dining room set delivered. She thanked him and mentioned that the pillows she had custom-ordered for the den ended up costing more than expected. He invited her to put the difference on his credit card. She thanked him again and told him to keep out of trouble. “That’s me,” he said, running his finger down the column headed International News in Brief. “Mr. Trouble.” He flew to Phoenix. The owner of the mystery and thriller specialty store was a delightfully wry woman who took him to a Polynesian restaurant. He remained morose throughout the meal, glancing over her shoulder whenever she took a sip of her mai tai. Above the bar was a television tuned to a cable news channel. He was waiting for a graphic that said BREAKING NEWS. He flew to Houston. The manager of the independent bookstore presented him with a logo mug and what he called “the sickest but best book of the year.” It was a how-to called Kid-A-Gami: 99 Fun Shapes to Fold Your Infant Into. Pfefferkorn put it in his carry-on for on his flight to Seattle but did not take it out. Instead he scoured three different papers. He had stopped looking exclusively for articles about Zlabia. Every piece of bad news made for a potential indictment. A dam burst in India, leaving sixty thousand people homeless. His doing? The Middle East convulsed and sparked. Him? The rebel forces closing in on a South American capital, the millions of anonymous Africans dying by the hour—any of it could be him. It then occurred to him that he was delegating an unjustified degree of authority (and responsibility) to himself. He wasn’t “in charge of” squat. He was no Dick Stapp. He was no Harry Shagreen. He was a flunky, a pawn—making his complicity even more debasing. He flew to Portland. His media escort took him for the best donuts in town. In nineteen days of travel he had yet to hear about a catastrophe he did not feel culpable for. But he would never know. Whatever the event was, it might have already taken place. It might also take place in a month, a year, two years, ten. He flew to San Francisco. The bookstore owner was a kindly older man with a fondness for opera. It was raining, warm summer rain, and the inside of the store smelled like shoe leather. A slovenly fellow with a beard like a mop asked him to address the presence of Marxist themes in his writing. He returned to his hotel. He dined alone. He went upstairs, put on a bathrobe, and stretched out on the bed. He scanned the laminated channel guide. There were multiple news stations. He turned on the television and watched baseball until he fell asleep.

51.