“Tha,” Fyothor said.
“It’s me,” Pfefferkorn said.
There was a scratchy silence.
“Where are you?” Fyothor said.
“About five or six kilometers outside the city, I think.”
“Has anyone seen you?”
“No.”
“You are alone?”
“Yes.”
Pfefferkorn heard the phone’s mouthpiece muffled. Fyothor spoke to someone. The reply was inaudible. Fyothor came back on. He recited an address.
“It is near the waterfront district.”
“I’ll find it.”
“Come quickly,” Fyothor said and hung up.
Pfefferkorn took a good look at the stars. He might never see them again. In a world where nobody could be trusted, he had just committed a fatal error. He refused to live in that world. He put the phone back in his pocket and walked on.
101.
Fyothor lived on the eleventh floor of a hideous concrete-block tower. The elevator was out of service. The stairwell was slick with urine and sown with condom wrappers. Pfefferkorn’s legs were still sore from climbing out of the reactor and the long hike back to town. He relied heavily on the handrail.
Fyothor had told him to head straight to the end of the corridor. It was a sensible instruction, because most of the apartments were missing numbers. The prevailing hush amplified his knock. The door opened a crack. A hairy arm beckoned him in.
Pfefferkorn stepped into the entry hall. A sack-eyed Fyothor stood re-cinching his bathrobe. Through a doorless frame was the kitchen: a closet with a hotplate and a hand sink. A wooden drying rack nailed to the wall held four plastic plates. There was no refrigerator. It didn’t look like enough for a family to get by on. Down the hall was a darkened room.
“After you,” Fyothor said.
Pfefferkorn groped his way forward. His nose picked up a briny, masculine smell. He could hardly see. The room’s shades were drawn against the moonlight. He stopped short. Fyothor bumped into him from behind. He reached past Pfefferkorn and switched on the light.
Pfefferkorn cringed at the bright blast. Then his eyes opened and he was disappointed to learn that he indeed lived in a world where nobody could be trusted. The person waiting for them was not Fyothor’s wife. If Fyothor even had a wife. And if Fyothor was even his real name. The person waiting for them was six-foot-five. He—for it was a he, very much so—was muscular and mean-looking, with a jet-black goatee and tattoos on his hands and neck. He wore a leather motorcycle jacket and black leather boots, and he was making a growly noise not unlike a garbage disposal. Pfefferkorn sank to his knees, gasping for breath. Nobody had hit him yet, but his mind seemed to know what was coming, and it was determined not to be awake when it came.
102.
“Ahn dbhiguyietzha.”
“Dyiuzhtbhithelnyuio?”
“P’myemyiu.”
“Friend. Friend. Are you all right? Can you hear me?”
Pfefferkorn opened his eyes. Fyothor and the man in the motorcycle jacket were standing over him, fretting. Contrary to expectation, he was not back in his cell, but the selfsame living room, laid out on a mushy sofa. He tried to sit up. They restrained him gently.
“Please, friend, rest. You had a bad fall. You went down like a sack of root vegetables. We thought you had a heart attack.”
Down the hall a kettle whistled. The man in the motorcycle jacket growled and left.
Pfefferkorn palpated himself. He was not tied up, and aside from a sore head, he did not seem to be injured.
“Akha,” Fyothor said. He grunted as he sat down in a plastic chair. “I apologize. It was not my intention to disturb you. I assumed that you, as a foreigner, would be more accustomed to such things. But perhaps I am wrong.” He sighed and rubbed his face, then smiled tiredly. “Well, friend. My secret is now yours.”
Pfefferkorn, coming around, pointed to his ear and then to the wall.
Fyothor shook his head. “Not here. Besides, it is not them I worry about. It is my neighbors, friends, family. Jaromir’s mother is old. It would kill her to find out.”
Jaromir brought three steaming mugs of tea. He handed them out and sat on the floor near Fyothor. Fyothor laid his hand comfortably on Jaromir’s brawny shoulder. Jaromir’s hand went up to meet it. Their fingers laced and stayed that way as Pfefferkorn told them what he needed to do. He finished talking and fell silent and then he waited for a response. Fyothor’s eyes were focused on an imaginary point in the distance. Jaromir was likewise expressionless. Pfefferkorn feared that he had asked too much. He was betting the chance to save his life and Carlotta’s life against all of their lives, and he was getting poor odds. Action heroism was not a rational undertaking. He was far too preoccupied to wonder if that might make an interesting premise for a novel.
Suddenly Fyothor pushed himself out of the chair and went into the next room. A moment later he could be heard talking on the phone. Pfefferkorn offered Jaromir an apologetic smile.
“Sorry to disturb you like this,” Pfefferkorn said.
Jaromir growled and waved him off.
“Have you been together a long time?” Pfefferkorn asked.
Jaromir held up all ten fingers, then one more.
“Wow,” Pfefferkorn said. “That’s just great. Mazel tov.”
Jaromir smiled.
“And, eh. What is it you do?”
Jaromir growled as he searched for the word. He smiled and snapped his fingers. “Semen,” he said.
Fyothor came back with a slip of paper. “She is here.”
Pfefferkorn looked at the address.
“This is the Metropole,” he said.
Fyothor nodded.
Pfefferkorn looked at the room number. It was four higher than his old room number.
“Be at the harbor no later than three,” Fyothor said. “Jaromir sails at dawn.”
Pfefferkorn looked at Jaromir. “Ah,” he said. “Right. Seaman.”
“He told you this?” Fyothor chided Jaromir in Zlabian. “He is the captain.”
Jaromir shrugged modestly.
Pfefferkorn shook Jaromir’s hand and thanked them both. Fyothor embraced him and walked him to the door. Before he let him out, he said, “Tell me, friend. Is it true that in America men can walk down the street together, free of shame?”
Pfefferkorn looked him in the eye. “I’m not American,” he said. “But that’s what I’ve heard.”
103.
The night was gauzy and moist. At that hour there were few pedestrians other than soldiers. Preparations for the festival were coming along. The sidewalks had been swept. Bright banners rippled and snapped. Aluminum barricades lined the parade route. Pfefferkorn guessed that there would be a good deal more pomp than usual, owing to the momentous nature of the anniversary. To avoid attracting attention, he stuck to side streets and kept a medium pace. He put his head down, his hands in his pockets, and his faith in his moustache.