Potboiler

The next morning, following the forecast and public reading, he went straight to the front desk. The clerk from the first day was back on duty. Pfefferkorn made sure to tip him in advance.

“Monsieur will to partake of breakfast buffet.”

“In a minute. First things first. I need to change rooms, please.”

“Monsieur, there is problem?”

“Several. I’ve asked for a new fan at least ten times. How hard could that possibly be? Apparently very hard. So I’d like a new room.”

“Monsieur—”

“And the couple next door to me is making a tremendous amount of noise. They sound like a pair of oversexed gorillas.”

“Monsieur, I am regretful. This is impossible.”

“What is?”

“Rooms cannot be exchanged.”

“Why not?”

“Monsieur, there is no availability.”

Pfefferkorn looked at the back wall, where they hung the keys. “What are you talking about? I can see for myself there aren’t more than ten guests in the whole place.”

“Monsieur, reassignment of rooms requires six months’ notice.”

“You can’t be serious.”

The clerk bowed.

Pfefferkorn took out a ten-ruzha note. It disappeared up the clerk’s sleeve but the clerk did not otherwise move. Pfefferkorn gave him another ten ruzhy. Still nothing. He gave him ten more and then he threw up his hands and walked across the lobby to the restaurant.

“Friend, good morning. But what is the matter?”

Pfefferkorn explained.

“Akha,” Fyothor said, knitting his brows, “yes.”

“It’s really true that I can’t get another room for six months?”

“That would be soon, friend.”

“Jesus.”

“Have no fear,” Fyothor said. “Today we are going to have some real fun.”

“I can’t wait.”

They made the rounds. Meeting after meeting ended identically: with promises of memos, sweltering embraces, and thruynichka. Between appointments they took in the sights. There were more museums, more memorials. Virtually every street corner featured a sign commemorating some momentous event of the people’s revolution. On the few unclaimed corners, metal plaques had been set into the earth:

THIS SPOT RESERVED FOR FUTURE HISTORICAL EVENTS.

They stood before a seedy-looking building.

HERE THE PEOPLE’S REVOLUTION FOREVER IMPROVED THE LOT OF THE ZLABIAN WOMAN

They entered the strip club and sat down. A waitress pecked Fyothor on the cheek and set down a bottle of thruynichka. Techno music beat relentlessly.

“You enjoy breasts?” Fyothor shouted.

“As much as the next fellow,” Pfefferkorn shouted back.

“I come here every day,” Fyothor shouted.

Pfefferkorn nodded.

“It is different from America, yes?” Fyothor shouted.

“I’m not American,” Pfefferkorn shouted back.

It was different: both the patrons and the strippers were in equal states of undress.

“This is our collective principle of equality,” Fyothor shouted. “Every article of clothing the woman removes, the man must do the same. Fair, yes?” He tucked a five-ruzha note inside the G-string of a writhing woman and started unbuttoning his shirt. “To your health.”

The highlight of any West Zlabian vacation was a visit to Prince Vassily’s grave. Pfefferkorn, expecting grandeur, was surprised by the spot’s humility. Tucked in among a busy thoroughfare was a small brick plaza, at the center of which stood a raggedy tree.

HERE LIES IN ETERNAL SLUMBER

THE GREAT HERO

FATHER AND REDEEMER OF THE GLORIOUS ZLABIAN PEOPLE

PRINCE VASSILY

“HOW LIKE A ROOT VEGETABLE SWELLS MY HEART TO GAZE UPON THY COUNTENANCE

HOW LIKE AN ORPHANED KID GOAT DOES IT BLEAT FOR THY LOSS”

(canto cxx)

Fyothor bowed his head. Pfefferkorn did likewise.

“Next month we celebrate the fifteen-hundredth anniversary of the poem. The festivities will be unforgettable.” Fyothor smiled slyly. “Perhaps you will extend your stay, yes?”

“One day at a time,” Pfefferkorn said.

En route to the Ministry of Double Taxation they passed a throng of people waiting to enter a dilapidated wooden shack.

“The home of our dearly departed leader,” Fyothor said.

Pfefferkorn tried to appear appropriately respectful.

“Come,” Fyothor said, and began bushwhacking to the front of the line.

The interior of the hut was easily twenty degrees hotter than it was outside. The furniture had been cordoned off and easels set up with photographs of Dragomir Zhulk orating, scowling, saluting. People used clunky Soviet-era twin-lens reflex cameras to photograph the desk, still set with Zhulk’s fountain pen, datebook, and a dented tin mug with an inch of tea left at the bottom. A spotlit glass case housed his well-used copy of Vassily Nabochka. Soldiers lined the perimeter of the room, using their Kalashnikovs to jab at the visitors and hasten their circuit around the rope protecting the room’s centerpiece: a burlap-lined coffin, inside which Zhulk’s embalmed body lay in state. Pfefferkorn blinked the sweat out of his eyes and stared. He felt himself going tingly and light-headed. Here was a man he had killed.

A soldier shoved him with the butt of his gun and told him to move along.

Out in the street, Fyothor was adamant. “Enough death for one day,” he said.