Potboiler

The restaurant was quiet, unoccupied except for one drunk colonel and Yelena. She did a double take as Pfefferkorn approached the buffet, his plate out for the last remaining pierogi. Aware of her staring at his moustache, he frowned decisively, took his sorry dinner, and dragged himself to the corner booth. He sat down in a daze and began breaking the pierogi into tiny pieces to make it last longer. In a world where nobody could be trusted, he had done the right thing. He had followed his orders. Believe no one. Deny everything. In a world where nobody could be trusted, certain events followed logically. He had rejected the overtures of a powerful man, who would now feel vulnerable for having made those overtures, and furious at having had them rejected. In a world where nobody could be trusted, payback would be forthcoming. Pfefferkorn knew he ought to be afraid. He ought to be in his room right now, throwing all his things in a bag and formulating plan B. In a world where nobody could be trusted, a van was being started up somewhere across town. In a world where nobody could be trusted, that van would pull out of an underground parking garage and head for the Metropole. Its occupants would be heavies in leather jackets. They would file out of the van and into the hotel lobby. They would enter the restaurant and grab Pfefferkorn in full view of everyone and drag him out to the van and toss him in back and hog-tie him and imprison him in a dank basement and strap him down and visit upon him unspeakable bodily desecrations. In a world where nobody could be trusted, the only reasonable choice was to run. In a world where nobody could be trusted, the clock was ticking, the sand was falling, the die had been irretrievably cast.

Who in the world wanted to live in a world where nobody could be trusted?

In place of fear he felt a profound sense of loss. A stranger had come to him, desperate for hope, and he had looked away, because those were his orders. A world where nobody could be trusted was a miserable world. He felt the loneliness of the spy, and he felt anger. He had done what needed doing and he hated himself for it. The squalidness of the room, previously obscured by Fyothor’s vitality, seethed forth. The walls crawled with vermin. The carpet festered with more. The table was sticky and gouged. It was not the same table it had been for the last week. Before it had been their table. Now it was his, and it disgusted him. He pushed the pierogi away. He hated his handlers. He hated everything about this mission. If he had any sense at all that he was getting closer to Carlotta, he might have consoled himself. But nothing was happening. It was like he was the lead role in some insipid student-written play. He felt his humanity leaching out into the stuffy night air. He swirled his teacup and stared dejectedly into the vortex. His mouth hurt from frowning all day. He had been doing his best to obey Paul’s instructions. He had been focused, he had not let emotions cloud his judgment, he had kept his eyes on the prize. Now he gave himself over to wallowing. He let melancholy and frustration wash over him. He missed Carlotta. He missed his daughter. He didn’t care what his country needed. He just wanted to go home.

Across the restaurant, the colonel’s head hit the table with a thunk, interrupting Pfefferkorn’s gloomy reverie. Loud snoring commenced. The kitchen doors swung wide and Yelena emerged holding a doggie bag, its neck rolled tightly and stapled shut.

“Hungry,” she said in English, holding the bag out.

Apparently Fyothor’s lecture on providing for the needy had taken root. Pfefferkorn was touched. Though he had no appetite, for politeness’s sake, he thanked her and moved to accept.

She moved the bag out of reach. “Hungry,” she said again.

The colonel snorted and shifted. Yelena glanced at him, then at Pfefferkorn, her eyes imploring.

Hungry.

A gear clicked.

Pfefferkorn remembered.

“I am satisfied, thank you,” he said. He spoke automatically, his voice rising. “But perhaps I will take this for later.”

“Later,” Yelena said. She left the doggie bag on his table and went about tidying up.

He tucked the bag under his arm and made his way carefully across the lobby. The desk clerk saw him and called out, “No messages, monsieur.”

But Pfefferkorn already knew this. He skipped the elevator, taking the stairs two at a time.

81.