Potboiler

“The reason for this is self-evident,” Zhulk said. “The Party wished to give the appearance that I, the individual, was dead. This has enabled me, the individual, to engage in covert activities free from capitalist scrutiny. The comrade who volunteered his life for this purpose has been accorded appropriate honor in death.”

As for the May Twenty-sixers, the movement was not a splinter group at all but a top-secret elite unit of the Party whose ostensible illegality was an ingenious ruse designed to exploit the inferior intellect of capitalist aggressors. “You object: ‘Kliment Thithyich has informed me that he is the leader of this movement.’ Sir, this is incorrect. The ruse he claims as his own is in fact a counter-ruse. The Party has allowed him to believe this, so that the Party may obtain information about his nefarious capitalist designs. Sir, do not be fooled. Many of his most trusted agents in truth work to advance the cause of the Party, including the man you know as Lucian Savory. Sir, everything has gone according to the plan. Soon national destiny shall be achieved in accordance with the principle stated in preamble to the manifesto of the movement of the glorious revolution of the Twenty-sixth of May, which I, the individual, humbly penned at a desk provided by the Party, namely, the reunification of greater Zlabia under true collectivist rule by any means necessary. Sir, it is for this purpose that your government has sent you. QED.”

“I don’t have it,” Pfefferkorn said, or cut in, or interjected, or managed to say.

“Sir?”

“I don’t have it. The Workbench. I don’t know where it is. It was in my suitcase but I lost it when I was kidnapped.”

“Sir, you have been misinformed.”

“I don’t have it. You may as well kill me and get it over with.”

“Sir, you are mistaken. There is no Workbench.”

“At least let Carlotta go. She’s of no further use to you.”

“Sir, you are not listening.” Zhulk began to pace agitatedly in front of the bars. “Your government has misled you. This is not surprising, for the capitalist system is inherently depraved. It is rapacious and bellicose, an abhorrent monster of gluttonous imperialism gorged on materialism and overconsumption. The terms of the deal, sir, do not include carpentry. The terms of the deal, sir, concern you.”

“Me?”

“Sir, yes.” Zhulk plunged his hand inside his coat and withdrew a small hardcover book. He held it up for Pfefferkorn to see, like a hopeful suitor bearing flowers.

The book was covered in a protective plastic wrapper. The jacket was blue with yellow lettering and a drawing of a tree. Pfefferkorn’s own copy, back on the mantel in his apartment, was in far worse shape, and he needed a moment to fully recognize the thing in Zhulk’s hands as a mint-condition first edition of his first and only novel, Shade of the Colossus.

The prime minister smiled shyly. He bowed.

“I, the individual,” he said, “am such a very big fan.”

92.

“As a child I dreamed of becoming a writer. My father did not approve. ‘These are not the ambitions of a man,’ he told me. He liked to beat me with a rake, or sometimes a trellis. When he was in a bad mood, he would pick up my infant sister and use her to beat me. He called this ‘saving time.’ Often I prayed for his death. Yet when it came I was heartbroken. Who can understand love?”

He sounded far away. Pfefferkorn noticed that he had dropped the “I, the individual.”

“Alas, I did not become a writer. I became a scientist. I subjugated myself for the sake of serving the Party. Literature was not needed, nuclear power was needed. Still, my greatest pleasure was reading. While a student in Moscow I happened to come upon your book. Sir, I was captivated. I was captured. I was ensnared and entranced. This story of a young man whose father ridicules his attempts to find meaning in art—this story was my story. Hungrily I awaited the sequel. I wrote letters. I was informed that no such book existed. Sir, I was bereft. Long after my return home, I grieved. I grieved more than I was to grieve the loss of my first wife, who I regret to say was unloyal to the Party and required removal. Sir, I made further inquiries. Concomitant with my increasing authority within the Party I ordered an overseas investigation. Sir, I was disappointed to learn of your struggles. Here we find the clearest condemnation of the capitalist system. A writer of your extraordinary gifts should be honored and extolled. Instead he languishes in obscurity. Sir, tell me: is this just? The answer must be no.

“Sir, I then resolved to correct this injustice.