Potboiler

“You may speak freely. There are no listening devices here, I can assure you.” Fyothor paused expectantly. “Very well. This is something I understand, to be afraid to speak. We Zlabians understand it too well. But you must believe me, friend: the burden does not get lighter with time. It gets heavier. I know, because I am fifty-five years old and my own burdens are so heavy that often I feel I cannot go on. I think, sometimes, that I would like to sit down forever, to let the dust and the cobwebs cover me over. I might become a little mountain. I would like this very much. Mountains feel nothing, yes? Because I know that change will not come for me. I know this. Perhaps, though, if I become a mountain, others will climb upon me and stand upon my shoulders, and from there they will look into the future.”

There was a silence.

“No listening devices,” Pfefferkorn said.

“None.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I am sure.”

There was a silence.

“A tour guide,” Pfefferkorn said.

“In my spare time.”

“And in the rest of your time.”

Fyothor bowed. “I am but a humble servant of the Party.”

“Serving in what capacity.”

“Executive director for electronic monitoring,” Fyothor said. He bowed again. “Ministry of Surveillance.”

There was a silence.

“I see why you’re so popular,” Pfefferkorn said.

“I have thousands of friends,” Fyothor said. “Not one of them likes me.”

He looked out at the water.

“I know how it feels to live with your tongue pressing at the back of your teeth. I believe, friend, that my form of service to the state was not an accident but the work of a God with a sense of humor. Yes? The man with secrets, he lives by destroying others through their secrets. This is a constant punishment for me.” He looked at Pfefferkorn. “Please speak.”

“And say what.”

But Fyothor did not answer. He turned away again.

“It would be easy for me to turn you in,” he said. “I could have done it at any time.”

Pfefferkorn said nothing.

“Do you believe I would do such a thing?”

There was a silence.

“I don’t know,” Pfefferkorn said.

Fyothor bowed his head. “You cannot know how sorry I am to hear that.”

There was a silence.

“What do want from me?” Pfefferkorn asked.

“Give me hope,” Fyothor said.

There was a silence.

“How,” Pfefferkorn said.

“Tell me it would be better for me elsewhere.”

Pfefferkorn said nothing.

“Tell me about America,” Fyothor said.

There was a long silence.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Pfefferkorn said.

Fyothor’s shoulders sagged. He went ashen. It was as if his soul had been siphoned off.

“Of course not,” he said. “My apologies.”

Silence.

The cell phone squawked. Pfefferkorn flinched but Fyothor did not move. The phone rang six times and stopped. Then it started up again. Wearily Fyothor reached into his pocket.

“Tha. Okay. Okay. Tha.” He closed the phone. “I regret that my wife requires my presence at home.” His voice had taken on a new quality, a listless formality. “My apologies.”

He bowed and turned and walked back into the forest.

A moment later Pfefferkorn followed, trailing at a slight distance.

They remained silent throughout the long, bumpy ride back to town, and when they got stuck in traffic, three blocks from the hotel, Fyothor instructed the driver to take Pfefferkorn the rest of the way and started to slide out of the seat.

“What about you,” Pfefferkorn said.

Fyothor shrugged. “I can walk.”

“Oh,” Pfefferkorn said. “Well, then, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, I am sorry, I have appointments I must keep.”

It was such an obvious lie that Pfefferkorn saw no point in arguing.

“All right,” he said. “Another time, then.”

“Yes, another time.”

“Thank you,” Pfefferkorn said. “Thank you very much.”

Fyothor did not reply. He lowered himself to the sidewalk and walked off without a backward glance, weaving through the crowds and soon becoming lost to sight.

80.