Potboiler (22 page)

86.

Pfefferkorn was driven to death row in a metallic purple limousine. They took the scenic route. Savory rode along to point out East Zlabia’s many attractions. Old Town had been restored to its former glory, with brand-new artificially weathered cobblestones and new cornices and gargoyles for the cathedral. Everything was nightmarishly quaint. There was nobody strolling. Nobody was throwing coins into the fountains. The limo cruised past lush public parks filled with blemish-free flowers. Nobody was sunbathing. Nobody was tossing the Frisbee around. They passed the opera house, the museum of modern art, ZlabiDisney, the shopping district—all empty. It was as if a neutron bomb had fallen, leaving a perfect stillness, perfectly chilling.

Just as Pfefferkorn was about to ask where everybody was, the limo turned the corner onto what could be described only as the Las Vegas Strip unfettered by good taste. The chauffeur slowed to five miles per hour, allowing Pfefferkorn to drink it all in. He counted eleven separate casinos. There was an
Oliver Twist
–themed one. There was a Genghis Khan–themed one. There was a Las Vegas–themed one, its frontage occupied by a one-eighth scale model of the Strip. Next door was a casino whose theme was the very street they were driving on, its frontage occupied by a one-eighth scale model of everything around them, including a one-eighth scale model of the Las Vegas–themed casino complete with a one-sixty-fourth scale model of the Las Vegas Strip and adjacent to a one-eighth scale model of the casino on which the model was located that in turn featured a one-sixty-fourth scale model of the street they were driving on that in turn featured a one-five-hundred-twelfth scale model of the casino on which the model of the model was located. Pfefferkorn assumed there were further models embedded in that model. He wasn’t close enough to tell, and his sight line was then blocked by a seventy-foot-high LED marquee touting an upcoming performance by a 1970s rock supergroup he had thought defunct.

It was a lively scene, made more so by the presence of what appeared to be the entire population of East Zlabia. For the most part they looked like their cousins across the border, except more obese. They were snacking and sipping soft drinks, pushing strollers and leaving junky compact cars at any of the myriad valet stands. Outside the Amazon jungle–themed casino, they applauded and snapped pictures as a team of pink dolphins broke the hypnotic blue of an artificial lake to execute a precisely choreographed midair pas de deux.

The largest casino was at the end of the street. It had a
Vassily Nabochka
theme. A massive gold statue of the prince stood out front. He was holding a root vegetable in one hand and a sword in the other. Though the iconography made it clear who he was, his face had been cast to resemble Kliment Thithyich’s.

The limo pulled up. Valets rushed to greet it. Pfefferkorn was escorted inside at gunpoint and guided through a bleeping, blooping field of slot machines to the shopping promenade. Savory led the way. They entered a men’s haberdashery done up in dark wood and brass railings. Pfefferkorn was handed a binder of sample fabrics and made to stand on a wooden box. A tailor appeared and began taking his measurements.

“Pick a good one,” Savory said. “It’ll be in the photos.”

Pfefferkorn selected an understated blue. The tailor nodded approvingly and rushed off.

In the meantime Pfefferkorn was taken to the spa. He got a hot-stone massage at gunpoint. He swam a few laps in the saltwater pool, also at gunpoint. His moustache came off, revealing a semi-hardened scab. He left the moustache floating on the surface of the water.

Back to the haberdashery they went. He stood up on the box for a fitting. The tailor slashed at him with chalk.

“Have you ever had a suit made before?” Savory asked.

Pfefferkorn shook his head. “I’ve never had a hot-stone massage, either.”

“First time for everything.”

The tailor promised the finished product by morning.

Their last stop was the casino courtyard, wherein a magnificent black granite plaza surrounded a runty 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)

Pfefferkorn and Savory bowed their heads.

“All right,” Savory said. “Party’s over.”

They got into an elevator. One of the guards pushed the button for the thirteenth floor. Beside it was a little placard.

13: EXECUTIVE LEVEL / HONEYMOON SUITE / DEATH ROW

87.

Pfefferkorn’s death-row cell featured movies on demand, a bidet, multizone climate control, and seven-hundred-thread-count bedding. For a man about to be publicly shot, he didn’t feel afraid. Nor was he angry, at least not at Thithyich, who after all was a barbaric, unhinged autocrat acting on the advice of an expensive American consulting firm. Mostly he was disappointed in himself. He had failed the mission, and by extension Carlotta, his daughter, and the free world.

This was the part of the story where he applied his ingenuity to escape from a life-threatening situation. Now that he was in such a situation, he appreciated how asinine a trope it was. In real life, evil captors did not forget to lock the door. They didn’t accidentally leave out an assortment of parts that cleverly combined to form a working crossbow. Lying on his comfy sheets, he ruminated on the phrase “action hero.” It didn’t mean merely that the hero underwent a series of exciting events. It meant that the hero was active—that is, he
did
something. But what could an action hero do when there was nothing doable? Did the fact that he wasn’t attempting to escape mean that he wasn’t a hero, or that the concept of action heroism was inherently far-fetched? He decided it was both. He might not be able to escape, but he doubted that anyone else could, either. Still, his passivity did make him feel guilty, as though it was morally incumbent upon him to fight back. He could kill himself. That would show Thithyich. His first thought was to hang himself with his bedsheet, but the walls of the cell were made of a smooth plaster inhospitable to nooses. He examined the bedframe, hoping to take it apart and use a piece to slit his wrists. The screws were tight, meant to resist just that sort of mayhem. The television was set into the wall and covered with a thick layer of Plexiglas. The minibar held pretzels, Baked! Lay’s, SunChips, golden raisins, two ingots of Toblerone, six-ounce cartons of orange and cranberry juice, cans of Coke and Diet Coke, and plastic mini-bottles of scotch and vodka. With luck he might be able to snack himself to death, but more probably he would go to his fate with heartburn. Suicide was out.

He rummaged around in the desk. Beneath a leather-bound copy of the East Zlabian edition of
Vassily Nabochka,
he found a small pad of paper with the casino insignia at the top. A golf pencil had rolled to the back of the drawer. He sat down and started to write.

It was a purely symbolic form of resistance—he did not expect anything he wrote to leave the room—but he felt compelled to give it his all.
Sweetheart
he began. He used metaphors, he used similes, he made allusions. He stopped and reread. Overall, the tone was self-conscious, as though he was trying too hard to ingratiate himself to an audience of strangers. He threw the page away and started over, beginning with a story from his own childhood. He wrote for an hour before going back to assess his progress. Again, it was all wrong. It wasn’t about her or how he felt about her. He tried again and again. Nothing worked. A significant pile of paper accumulated on the floor of the cell. Soon enough he ran out. He banged on the cell bars until the guard came. He asked for more paper. It was brought. He wrote through that whole pad, and when he still failed to express himself adequately, he called for and was brought a third pad. His pencil snapped. He still hadn’t written anything he could live with. He decided to stop. Then he changed his mind. Then he changed it back. It was four forty-eight in the morning. He could no longer think clearly. It was coming now, fear. He curled up on the floor and held himself. He wasn’t ready to give up on life. He still had so much to do. He wanted to see his daughter happy in her new house. He wanted to see her children. He wanted to hold Carlotta one more time. Would he ever feel ready to die? Could a man know that he had accomplished as much as he ever would? He believed he had more in him. He always would. He could be on death’s door and still he would be reaching. No matter what the world said, he would always believe that the best of him was yet to come.

The cell door slid open. A guard wheeled in a room-service cart. He paused briefly to stare at Pfefferkorn, lying fetal on the floor. Then he set the cart up and left.

Gradually the light in the room increased. The cell turned pink and purple and gold. The sun was a herald. The day was catching up with him. Nothing could not stop it. Pfefferkorn sat up. He was going to die today. Suddenly he felt ravenous. He attacked the food. There were croissants, half a grapefruit, Danish, coffee, a panoply of fancy jams and jellies, and an egg-white timbale in the shape of a Calabi-Yau manifold.

Everything was delicious.

The bathroom was stocked. Pfefferkorn took a shower. He shaved with an electric wet/dry shaver. He brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth with mouthwash. He applied talcum powder and swabbed out his nose and ears. A card on the sink informed him that in order to protect the environment, a towel back on the rack would be reused, while a towel on the floor would be replaced. He dropped all the towels on the floor, including the clean ones.

His new clothes had arrived while he was showering. Everything had been laid out for him on the bed. In addition to the suit there were fresh socks and broadcloth boxers, a bright white shirt and a canary yellow necktie. Pfefferkorn pulled the pins from the shirt and put it on. The polished cotton felt good against his skin. He took the suit out of its garment bag and stepped into the pants. They fit perfectly, enough so that he didn’t need the crocodile-skin belt. He put it on anyway. The soles of the penny loafers were slippery, so he scuffed them up with a disposable emery board from the bathroom. He tied the tie, taking time to get the knot right. He held up the jacket. The lining was burgundy. The label read
. He shrugged the jacket on and tugged it straight. It was snug but not overly so. He folded the white handkerchief and tucked it neatly in the lapel pocket. He went back to the bathroom and reordered his hair in the mirror. He put some petroleum jelly on his upper left lip. Except for the scab, he didn’t look too bad, and even that looked better than it had the day before. He examined himself in profile. He buttoned the suit and felt something poke him in the ribs. He patted himself down. He unbuttoned his suit. He reached into the left inside pocket and took out a piece of paper. He unfolded it. He read it. It was a list of instructions on how to escape.