Potboiler

Fyothor uncapped a fourth flask. When he next spoke his voice was tremulous. “But you see, friend, here is the essence of our tragical national fate. Our wondrous heritage, it is also the cause of abominable bloodshed. If only the great Zthanizlabh of Thzazhkst had understood the dire consequences of leaving it in a state of incompleteness—but alas, we are doomed, doomed. . . .” His phone rang. He looked at it and slid it back in his pocket. “Akha. Let us speak of happier things. Tell me, friend, you come for business, yes?”

It was a credit to the thoroughness of Pfefferkorn’s training that, despite being sloppier than he had been since the Nixon administration, he was able to describe in pitch-perfect detail the purpose of his visit to West Zlabia, starting with his twenty-two years of experience in the fertilizer industry and ending with his visit to the auxiliary advisor to the acting chief of the standards division of the Ministry of Volatile Mineral Colloids.

Fyothor shook his head. “But friend, no! I know this man. He is a worthless fool, a lazy ignoramus whose only talent is for opening his palm. No, I insist, you must allow—” His phone rang. Again he returned it to his pocket unanswered. “My wife. Excuse me. But tell me: with whom do you meet tomorrow?”

Pfefferkorn named the functionaries he had appointments to see.

“Imbeciles, all of them. To speak with them is to spit in the ocean. You must allow me—akha.” Fyothor checked the caller. “Excuse me. My wife, again. Tha. Tha. Akha, ontheshki uithkh Dzhikhlishkuiyk, zhvikha thuy bhonyukhaya.” He snapped the phone shut and smiled sheepishly. “I regret that my presence is required at home. Thank you for a most enjoyable evening, my friend. To your health.”

71.

Whoever had searched Pfefferkorn’s room had made no effort to hide their work, throwing things around with such vigor that he assumed their real purpose was not to find contraband but to remind him of his vulnerability. If so, they were wasting their time. He already felt useless. He lurched about, picking up shirts, reinserting dresser drawers, smoothing the duvet. The contents of the topmost layer of his wheelie bag were dispersed, but the secret compartments had served their purpose: everything inside was untouched. With amusement he noticed that amid the chaos, the picture of Zhulk above the headboard had been straightened.

He felt in his pocket for the business card Fyothor had given him. It was printed in Cyrillic on thin paper. There was a name, a phone number, and two words. . “Private tour guide.” Sure, Pfefferkorn thought. He tucked the card toward the back of the room copy of Vassily Nabochka. He uncapped the bottle of water on his nightstand and took a long, silty pull. He felt restless. He wanted to go knocking on doors. How long before he found her? A couple of days, at most. But his hands were tied. He had a script to follow, one both maddeningly constrictive and maddeningly vague. Contact could come at any time—tonight, tomorrow, the next day. He unbuttoned his shirt and reached for the fan.

It was still dead.

He lifted the phone and dialed.

“Monsieur?”

“Yes, this is Arthur Pfe—Kowalczyk in room forty-four.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“I asked for a new fan.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“The one I have is still broken.”

“I am sorry, monsieur.”

“It’s very hot in here. Would you please send up another?”

“Yes, please, monsieur. Good night.”

“Eh, hang on there, speedy.”

“Monsieur?”

“Have there been any calls for me?”

“No, please.”

“I’m expecting one, so put it through, no matter how late it is.”

“Yes, please. Does monsieur require wake-up?”

“God, no.”

“Good night, please, monsieur.”

He hung up and went into the bathroom to splash water on his naked chest. Across the bedroom, the clanking pipes started up again, loud enough to rattle Zhulk’s picture in its frame. He had no idea how he was going to sleep, unless the fan covered up the sound.

He shut off the tap and walked to the open window, stroking his moustache and letting the poisonous night air dry him as he gazed out at the squatting skyline. Somewhere out there was Carlotta. He spoke her name and the wind carried it away.

A memory came to him, unbidden. It must have been soon after Bill and Carlotta got married. Pfefferkorn had just started teaching, and he and Bill were strolling around campus.

“Promise me something, Yankel.”

Pfefferkorn waved assent.

“You haven’t heard what I’m asking yet.” Bill waited for Pfefferkorn to pay attention, then said, “If anything ever happens to me, you’ll look after Carlotta.”

Pfefferkorn laughed.

“I’m not kidding,” Bill said. “Promise me.”

Pfefferkorn smiled at him quizzically. “What could happen to you?”

“Anything.”

“Like what.”

“Anything. I could get in an accident. I could have a heart attack.”

“At twenty-eight.”

“I won’t be twenty-eight forever. Two-way deal: I’d do the same for you.”

“What makes you think I’ll ever get married?”

“Promise me.”

“Sure, fine.”

“Say it.”