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.
“Patiently I worked, and the will of the Party dictated that I should rise to my present position, allowing me to fulfill this resolution of so many years. Sir, I must tell you that I have come to rescue you. Do not thank me. Sir, you will admit the essential baseness of the American capitalist system, a system so ignoble that it would fritter away its greatest living artistic treasure in exchange for partial access under favorable terms to our natural gas field. Be not surprised that your government has betrayed you. The capitalist system is incapable of recognizing true value.
“Sir, the Zlabian people are different.
“Sir, the Zlabian people are by nature symbolic. They are aesthetic. They are poetic. Hence reunification is not strictly a matter of correct economic and military policy. It cannot be achieved merely by collectivizing root vegetable production. It cannot be won with guns and bombs alone. True reunification requires that we overcome the conflict which has long rent us asunder. Sir, there are no accidents. Sir, you have been rescued so that you may realize your fullest potential and in doing so enable the Zlabian people to realize ours. Sir, it is with a most vital, historical task that I, the individual, now charge you. Sir, you must beat the rhythm to which our great army will march to victory. You must apply the healing balm that will then seal the wounds of ages. You must sing the songs that will reconcile divided families. It is you, sir, that will bring our glorious people together. Others have tried before and failed. But sir, others were not the author of a great novel. It is you, sir, who will fulfill our national destiny. It is you. Sir, you must take up your pen. You must finish Vassily Nabochka.”
93.
“I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” Pfefferkorn said.
“Sir, this is incorrect.”
“Trust me. I’m a lousy poet.”
“Sir, your novel contains any number of passages of such surpassing beauty as to cause aches in the joints and chest.”
“Take an aspirin,” Pfefferkorn said.
Zhulk smiled. “What wit,” he said. “Surely you will exceed all expectations.”
“Where’s Carlotta? What have you done with her?”
“Sir, the question is not convenient.”
“Is she here? Where am I?”
“Sir, this is a place of maximum quietude, encouraging to literary pursuits.”
“I won’t do it. I refuse.”
“Sir, your reaction is understandable. The task of completing the great poem would daunt even the most capable writer.”
“It has nothing to do with the poem. I don’t care about the poem.”
“Denial is understandable.”
“It’s not even that good. Do you know that? It’s long and boring. All that tundra?”
“Sir, this attitude is not convenient.”
“Convenient for whom?”
“Sir—”
“All right. All right. Answer me this: it’s your national goddamned poem, right? Then how can a non-Zlabian finish it?”
“Sir, this observation is understandable. I, the individual, was given pause by the same concern. However, the problem has been removed. A thorough investigation has been done into the matter by the Ministry of Genealogy, and conclusive proof adduced showing the presence of one C. Pfefferkorn, chair maker, in the royal census of 1331. Additionally, your physiognomy is suggestive of native origins.”
Pfefferkorn stared. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”
“Sir, this is incorrect.”
“I’m Jewish.”
“Sir, this is immaterial.”
“My whole family is. Ashkenazi Jews from Germany.”
“Sir, this is incorrect.”
“And Poland. I think. But—but—look, I know for a fact that there is no Zlabian in me.”
“Sir, this is incorrect.”
“I’m not going to argue with you about this.”
“It is the will of the Party that the work be completed in advance of the festival to commemorate the poem’s fifteen-hundredth anniversary.”
“Hang on a second,” Pfefferkorn said. “That’s next month.”
Zhulk bowed. “I, the individual, leave you to great thoughts.”
He walked away.
“Wait a minute,” Pfefferkorn yelled.
A door opened, closed.
Pfefferkorn lunged for the bars. The chain around his ankle bit, jerking his leg out from under him. He fell, hitting his head on the floor.
Silence.
He lay there for a while, contemplating this latest turn of events. Then he got up. He grasped the chain and leaned back with all his might. The desk did not budge. He walked out the length of the chain and paced out his maximum circumference. It encompassed the toilet and the mattress. Other than that, he was going nowhere.
94.
Zhulk returned not long after. He was not alone. The surroundings would seem to preclude maid service, but sure enough, the woman following him was dressed in a black polyester dress, a limp white headband, and a white apron gone gray with numerous launderings. The dress had seen better days. Its seams were puckered. The maid herself was a stout, sallow creature, with swollen calves and a broad, flat backside. Her eyes were droopy. The backs of her hands were flaky from washing dishes. She was carrying a tray of food. She seemed unhappy to be there. Pfefferkorn could more or less see the rain cloud over her head. She unlocked the cell door, crossed to the desk, put the tray down, and started to walk out.
Zhulk clucked his tongue at her. She paused and turned to face Pfefferkorn.
Pfefferkorn had never imagined how much venom could be packed into a single curtsy.
She stepped out of the cell. Zhulk spoke harshly to her and she trudged out of sight. A moment later, a door opened and closed.
Zhulk gestured to the food. “Sir, please.”
Pfefferkorn peered at the tray. Its contents confirmed that he was back in West Zlabia. There was a charred puck of root vegetable hash, a cup of brown tea, and a small pat of goat’s-milk butter whose barnyardy aroma caused him to retch.
“I’ll pass,” he said.
“Sir, this is unacceptable. Food represents labor, and labor represents the will of the Party, and what the Party wills cannot be denied.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Sir, this is incorrect. Article eleven of the principles of the glorious revolution dictates that nothing exists except for that which is necessary. Sir, I, the individual, have already eaten my lunch. Hence the need for this food cannot reasonably be ascribed to me, the individual. Therefore you, sir, must have need of this food. If you did not, then the food would exist without its being necessary, and clearly this cannot be true, for the principle just stated. Therefore, either this food is an illusion or you must need it. But this food is not an illusion. Sir, it is plainly there. Therefore you must need it. QED.”