Potboiler

It wasn’t like Bill to be so vehement. Pfefferkorn raised his right hand. “I, Yankel Pfefferkorn, do solemnly swear that in the event you kick the bucket, I’ll look after your wife. Happy?”

“Very.”

Did he have any idea then what he had been agreeing to? If he had, would he have still agreed? He decided he would have. It wasn’t for Bill that he was here now.

Where was his fan?

“Yes, hello, this is Arthur Pfffkowalczyk in room forty-four. I’m still waiting for my fan.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Is it coming anytime soon?”

“Immediately, monsieur.”

The clanking continued unabated. Zhulk’s picture had rotated almost thirty degrees clockwise. Pfefferkorn took it down, concerned it would fall on him in the middle of the night.

One consequence of poor infrastructure was an electrical grid that functioned sporadically, and a corresponding lack of light pollution. Having lived in big cities his entire life, he was unused to such brilliant skies, and he watched, dizzily transfixed, as the clouds scudded offstage, and he was treated to a spectacular display of shooting stars.

72.

“Rise, citizens of Zlabia.”

The voice was deafening, right there in the room with him, and Pfefferkorn scrambled out of bed, getting tangled up in the sheets and pitching face-first into the wall. A supernova flared inside his skull. Down he went, cracking his head a second time on the corner of the nightstand.

“Rise to productivity in the name of national greatness.”

Through streamers of color and blobs of pain he saw the woman in the majorette hat. She was upside down, grainy, shouting at him in Zlabian.

“Tuesday, August ninth, will be an auspicious day for the advancement of our collective principles. You are encouraged to enjoy the weather, which will continue to be exceedingly pleasant, with an extremely comfortable high of twenty-two degrees.”

He couldn’t remember leaving the television on. He pulled himself to his feet and tried to switch it off, to no avail: the woman’s face remained. The mute button was similarly ineffective.

“Through the generosity and wisdom of our beloved and benevolent Party leaders, the price of root vegetables remains well within reach of all citizens. . . .”

She began to list other available goods, her voice booming from the screen but also through the walls, floor, and ceiling. He raised the window sash. Loudspeakers crowned all the buildings. Down below, the street traffic had come to a complete standstill, everyone from old women shouldering wicker baskets of root vegetables to young boys driving posses of goats standing at attention. Pfefferkorn looked at the clock. It was five a.m.

“Remember to bring your allotment card to your neighborhood disbursal station.”

On-screen, the woman opened a pocket-sized book. The people in the street did likewise.

“Today’s reading will be the fourth stanza of the fifteenth canto.”

She proceeded to read aloud a passage from Vassily Nabochka

. The people followed along in an undertone, their collective murmur like a gathering storm. The reading ended and everyone put their personal copies away.

“Rejoice in the lofty heritage that is yours, citizens of Zlabia.”

Everyone sang the national anthem.

There was a brief round of applause. Activity resumed. The woman in the majorette hat was replaced by a static image of the West Zlabian flag, backed by accordion music. Pfefferkorn hesitated before reaching to switch it off, half expecting a hand to reach through the screen and slap him on the wrist. His ears were ringing, his head pounding from hangover and impact. He was also sleep-deprived. He distinctly remembered giving up on getting his fan at about one a.m. Between the heat and the pipes, he couldn’t have gotten more than a few precious hours. It was a bad way to start the day. He needed his wits about him. He needed to keep his head in the game. He used the bedsheet to sponge the sweat from his body, got dressed, and went downstairs to find some coffee.

73.

He stopped at the front desk. A new clerk was on duty.

“Good morning, monsieur.”

“Yes, hi, my name is Arthur. Kowalczyk. In room forty-four.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“I asked last night for a fan.”

“There is fan in room, monsieur.”

“It’s broken.”

“Monsieur, I am regretful.”