“How’d you change her mind?” Pfefferkorn asked.
The man chuckled. “First, I instructed her that it is not proper to work without a smile. Then I reminded her that the cake ration for tourists is set at two per day, and because you were not at breakfast, you are entitled. Next, I provided examples of our benevolent Party leaders going without in order to feed the hungry. Finally, I informed her that I would in any case donate my ration to you, so that you might enjoy the full warmth of West Zlabian hospitality.” The man smiled. He set his briefcase on the table, opened it, and withdrew two shot glasses, cleaning them with the corner of his coat. He uncapped a flask and poured. “To your health.”
70.
Fyothor was his name, and if his clout with the cake lady and the freeness of his speech were not enough to mark him as a ranking Party member, the cell phone was. It rang continually throughout their conversation, which lasted long after the restaurant had officially closed. Pfefferkorn tried to pace himself but Fyothor kept pulling flasks from his briefcase.
“To your health. But tell me, friend, your room is acceptable to you? The Metropole is the finest our humble nation has to offer. Not up to American standards, perhaps, but comfortable enough, I hope.”
“I’m not American,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Akha, I beg forgiveness. So you said. Excuse me.” Fyothor answered his phone, spoke briefly, hung up. “My apologies. To your health.”
“You knew I wasn’t at breakfast,” Pfefferkorn said. “How.”
Fyothor smiled. “I am a man whose business it is to know such things. And besides, I was there, you were not. It is elementary logic, yes?”
“What is it you do, exactly,” Pfefferkorn said.
“You should ask instead what I do not do.”
“All right, what don’t you do.”
“Nothing!” Fyothor’s laughter rattled the silverware. “To your health, eh? This is the highest-quality thruynichka. You must be careful, friend. Most people make their own at home, it is like drinking bleach. My uncle is famous for his blend. Most of his neighbors are blind. To your health. Akha. Excuse me.”
As Fyothor took the call, Pfefferkorn downed the rest of his cake. It tasted vile but he needed to soak up some of the alcohol—to retake the reins of his mind. A man like Fyothor could have any of a hundred different motives. He might be angling for a bribe. He might be a standard-issue Party minder. He might be secret police. He might simply be a friendly fellow, although in Pfefferkorn’s estimation this was depressingly unlikely. Of greatest interest was the possibility that Fyothor was the point man Pfefferkorn was waiting for. If so, they both had to tread lightly. By law, membership in the May Twenty-sixers was illegal, making the exchange just as dangerous for them as it was for him. Should he be caught, the United States would disavow all knowledge of his existence and activities. He mentally rehearsed the identification codes.
Fyothor closed the phone. “Ten thousand apologies. This device . . . We have a word, myutridashkha. I believe in English you say ‘both a blessing and a curse.’ You understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“To your health. You know, this is a word with an interesting history. It comes from a name, Myutridiya.”
“The royal doctor,” Pfefferkorn said.
Fyothor’s mouth opened. “But yes! Friend, tell me: you know Vassily Nabochka?”
“Who doesn’t.”
“But this is wonderful! To meet a new person is rare. To meet a new person who is also a lover of poetry, this is like finding a diamond in the street. Friend, I am so joyful. To your health. But tell me: how is it that you have come to know our national poem?”
Pfefferkorn said that he was an avid reader.
Fyothor beamed. “To your health. You must know, then, the many idioms we take from the poem. We say, ‘Sluggardly, like the dog Khlabva.’”
“‘Happy, like the midget Juriy,’” Pfefferkorn said.
“‘Redder than the fields of Rzhupsliyikh,’” Fyothor said.
“‘Drunker than the farmer Olvarnkhov,’” Pfefferkorn said, raising his shot glass.
Fyothor threw back his shaggy head and roared with laughter. “Friend, you are a true Zlabian.”
“To your health,” Pfefferkorn said.
Fyothor uncapped a fourth flask. When he next spoke his voice was tremulous. “But you see, friend, here is the essence of our tragical national fate. Our wondrous heritage, it is also the cause of abominable bloodshed. If only the great Zthanizlabh of Thzazhkst had understood the dire consequences of leaving it in a state of incompleteness—but alas, we are doomed, doomed. . . .” His phone rang. He looked at it and slid it back in his pocket. “Akha. Let us speak of happier things. Tell me, friend, you come for business, yes?”
It was a credit to the thoroughness of Pfefferkorn’s training that, despite being sloppier than he had been since the Nixon administration, he was able to describe in pitch-perfect detail the purpose of his visit to West Zlabia, starting with his twenty-two years of experience in the fertilizer industry and ending with his visit to the auxiliary advisor to the acting chief of the standards division of the Ministry of Volatile Mineral Colloids.
Fyothor shook his head. “But friend, no! I know this man. He is a worthless fool, a lazy ignoramus whose only talent is for opening his palm. No, I insist, you must allow—” His phone rang. Again he returned it to his pocket unanswered. “My wife. Excuse me. But tell me: with whom do you meet tomorrow?”
Pfefferkorn named the functionaries he had appointments to see.
“Imbeciles, all of them. To speak with them is to spit in the ocean. You must allow me—akha.” Fyothor checked the caller. “Excuse me. My wife, again. Tha. Tha. Akha, ontheshki uithkh Dzhikhlishkuiyk, zhvikha thuy bhonyukhaya.” He snapped the phone shut and smiled sheepishly. “I regret that my presence is required at home. Thank you for a most enjoyable evening, my friend. To your health.”
71.
Whoever had searched Pfefferkorn’s room had made no effort to hide their work, throwing things around with such vigor that he assumed their real purpose was not to find contraband but to remind him of his vulnerability. If so, they were wasting their time. He already felt useless. He lurched about, picking up shirts, reinserting dresser drawers, smoothing the duvet. The contents of the topmost layer of his wheelie bag were dispersed, but the secret compartments had served their purpose: everything inside was untouched. With amusement he noticed that amid the chaos, the picture of Zhulk above the headboard had been straightened.
He felt in his pocket for the business card Fyothor had given him. It was printed in Cyrillic on thin paper. There was a name, a phone number, and two words.