Rates of Exchange

by Malcolm Bradbury

FOR MY BROTHER BASIL

  WITH ALL MY LOVE

  Author’s Note

  This is a book, and what it says is not true. You will not find Slaka, Glit, or Nogod on any map, and so you will probably never make the trip there. The Heathrow air traffic controllers’ strike of 1981 never took place, but was held in a quite different year. There is no resemblance at all between the imaginary figures here and any person who chooses to believe that he or she actually exists. So there is no Petworth, no dark Lottie, no Marisja Lubijova and no brilliant Katya Princip. Rum, Plitplov and the Steadimans have never existed, and probably never will: except insofar as you and I conspire to bring them into existence, with, as usual, me doing most of the work. Or, as the literary critics say, I’ll be your implied author, if you’ll be my implied reader; and, as they also say, it is our duty to lie together, in the cause, of course, of truth.

  So, like money, this book is a paper fiction, offered for exchange. But, as with money, one contracts with it various debts. I must express mine to many helpful friends: Chris Bigsby, Anthony Thwaite, George Hyde, and others. But I especially thank those members of the British Council English Studies seminar who, over several summers, in various long rooms in Cambridge colleges, helped me in more than one sense to invent a language.

  MB, 1982

  Narrative: Legal tender

  – Roland Barthes

  ‘You have a quarrel on hand, I see,’ said I, ‘with some of the algebraists of Paris; but proceed.’

  – Edgar Allan Poe, The Purloined Letter

  The language of this country being always upon the flux, the Struldbruggs of one age do not understand those of another, neither are they able after two hundred years to hold any conversation (farther than by a few general words) with their neighbours the mortals, and thus they lie under the disadvantage of living like foreigners in their own country.

  – Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels

  It seems to me the further east you go the more unpunctual are the trains.

  – Bram Stoker, Dracula

  Contents

  Visiting Slaka: A Few Brief Hints

  1 – ARR.

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  2 – RECEP.

  I

  II

  III

  3 – ACCOM.

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  4 – MINKULT.

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  5 – CD/GB.

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  6 – LECT.

  I

  II

  III

  7 – OPER.

  I

  II

  8 – TOUR.

  I

  II

  III

  9 – NATKULT.

  I

  II

  III

  Visiting Slaka: A Few Brief Hints

  If you should ever happen to make the trip to Slaka, that fine flower of middle European cities, capital of commerce and art, wide streets and gipsy music, then, whatever else you plan to do there, do not, as the travel texts say, neglect to visit the Cathedral of Saint Valdopin: a little outside the town, at the end of the tramway-route, near to the power station, down by the slow, marshy, mosquito-breeding waters of the great River Niyt.

  A city infinitely rich in this, and no less lacking in that, Slaka is, you will remember, the historic capital and quite the largest metropolis of that small dark nation of plain and marsh, mountain and factory known in all the history books as the bloody battlefield (tulsto’ii uncard’ninu) of central eastern Europe. Located by an at once kind and cruel geography at the confluence of many trade routes, going north and east, south and west, its high mountains not too high to cut it off, its broad rivers not too broad to obstruct passage, it is a land that has frequently flourished, prospered, been a centre of trade and barter, art and culture, but has yet more frequently been pummelled, fought over, raped, pillaged, conquered and oppressed by the endless invaders who, from every direction, have swept and jostled through this all too accessible landscape. Swedes and Medes, Prussians and Russians, Asians and Thracians, Tartars and Cossacks, Mortars and Turds, indeed almost every tribe or race specialist in pillage and rape, have been here, as to some necessary destination, and left behind their imprint, their customs, their faiths, their architecture, their genes. This is a country that has been now big, now small, now virtually non-existent. Its inhabitants have seen its borders expand, contract and on occasion disappear from sight, and so confused is its past that the country could now be in a place quite different from that in which it started. And so its culture is a melting pot, its language a pot-pourri, its people a salad; at different times, these folk have worshipped nearly every well-known god, consumed almost every possible food (from the milk and eggs of the north to the spices and fruits of the south and east), spoken in numerous tongues, and traded in all the coins and currencies, stamped or embossed with the ever-fleeting heads of the uncountable emperors and princelings, thains and margraves, bishop-krakators and mamelukes who have mysteriously appeared, ruled for a time, and then as mysteriously disappeared again, into the obscure and contorted passages of history.

  As a result, in Slaka history is a mystery, and it is not surprising that the nation’s past has been very variously recorded and the facts much disputed, for everyone has a story to tell. Perplexities abound, accounts contradict, and accurate details are wanting. But there is no doubt that that history goes back into the deepest mists of ancient Europe, back into the dark and virgin forest, where all history is supposed to begin, all stories to start. A certain reputable encyclopedia, consulted in an old edition, authoritatively observes (if I have read it accurately, and if my hastily scribbled notes, gathered amid the distractions of the great round Reading Room of the British Museum, where white-eyed Italian girls shout hotly for company around tea-time, tempting serious scholars, of whom I am not one anyway, into folly, are correctly transcribed):

  No certain historical data exists for the period prior to the Xth. An obscure passage in a chronicle by Nostrum, Monk of Kiev, suggests a possible origin for these people somewhere in the region of the Bosphorus, but even this much is disputed. The people are generally finely built, dark in the southern part of the country, fair in the northern, inclined to spectacular deeds of heroism, but somewhat deficient in energy and industry. Long periods of outside occupation depressed the people, until the national awakening of the XIXth., led by Prince Bohumil the Shy, and celebrated by the poet Hrovdat, killed on his horse in 1848 as he declaimed epic verse in battle. The earliest specimen of the language occurs in a psalter of the XIth., but some seventeen different, regional languages presently exist in the country. Salt, gypsum and iron ore are mined. Principal cities are Slaka, the ancient capital; Glit, a seat of learning; and Provd, an industrial centre.

  But this, as you see, is a long outdated account, written before two modern World Wars once more transformed the nation’s history. Today, following more invasions, pillage, bombardment, jackboots and conquest, the nation is now a people’s republic, issuing pretty stamps, in the Soviet orbit, a member of the Warsaw Pact and Comecon. It is a net exporter of beets, rose-water, china, timber, shoes, an excellent peach brandy (rot’vitti), glassware and brown suits, a net importer of oil, grain, machinery, manufactured goods, medical and sanitary supplies, meat and soft drinks (sch’veppii). Ballet and opera are good, footwear scarce, mostly going for export, literacy high, sporting achievements spectacular. Its swimmers win Olympic gold medals with regularity; its horse riders fall off less often than most. The units of currency are the vloska and the bittii, one hundred bittiin to the vloska. Hard Western currencies, especially the dollar, are scarce and much sought after. Money may be exchanged officially only at the change desks (camb’yii) of the state tourist board, Cosmoplot, found in all major hot
els and at branches of the government bank (Burs’ii Proly’aniii). It should be admitted that, in the streets, bars and cafés, transactions of a more informal kind do occur, at very advantageous rates for the Western visitor; however, travellers should note that these transactions are serious crimes against the state, attracting the most severe penalties. The voltage is 110. No vloskan may be taken from the country on leaving.

  Of course in Slaka now history is perceived as a dialectical progress, and not, as in decadent Western thought, as a sentimental past. Even so, the national cultural heritage is taken very seriously, and, since much of it was destroyed in the battles of the Second World War, it has been rebuilt to the most exacting standards. As the guidebooks say, few, walking the city fine streets, can well tell which building have standed over the centuries and which are restituted in a living lifespell. However, if, as is likely, you are travelling with the guidance, and the guide, of Cosmoplot, you will probably not be taken to see the Cathedral. It is indeed some way out of the centre of town, at the end of the tram-route, down by the Niyt. And, though churchgoing is permitted and in fact much practised, secular materialism is the official state philosophy. It will therefore be assumed that, as a citizen of the present (which, like it or not, you are), you will want to see the triumphs of proletarian endeavour, the heroic achievements of socialist planning, the collective works of the people. So you will be taken to see the advanced glassblowing factory, perhaps the best in the world, with production targets that invite emulation; the reformed watercress industry, an oustanding example of agro-organization; the apartment blocks for the workers, erected in brief hours through miracles of pre-fabrication and pre-planning; the Park of Freedom, celebrating the friendship of all peoples; the tomb of Grigoric, who, when liberal elements hesitated, resolutely delivered the nation over to the Soviet liberator in 1944, and whose mausoleum, guarded by the soldiers of the state guard, in their fine feathered shakos, stands in Party Square (Plazsci P’rtyii); a neat, busy collective farm, with happy workers and clean tractors; the Museum of Socialist Realist Art, with pictures of the happy workers and the clean tractors.

  And so, doubtless, you will; and you will understand the better the promise of the future. Even so, it is still worth going to look at the Cathedral. It lies at the end of the Vipnu tram-route; tickets are not available on board, but must be bought in advance at the state tobacco kiosks (marked Litti). Mosquitoes are busy down by the river, so you would do well to spray before leaving your hotel. The Cathedral is, at first sight, not impressive, looking from the outside little more than a sombre domed warehouse of recycled blackened brick. The interior, however, is rich in splendours. Baroque finery illuminates the solemn darkness; beeswax candles splutter on the many small shrines; the altars are bright with plaster, silver and gold. Begun in the XIth., extended, under Bishop Wocwit the Good, in the XIIIth., vandalized in the XVth., restored in Baroque fantasy by Bishop ‘Wencher’ Vlam in the XVIIIth., briefly a mosque in the early XIXth., severely damaged by aerial and land bombardment in the XXth., and since rebuilt from medieval and Renaissance plans by attentive scholars, it enshrines many stages both of human and artistic evolution. Pillage and damage over the generations educated its priests and monks in the arts of survival and the tactics of hiding, preserving and, when the time was ripe, resurrecting its holy treasures. Much of excellence has thus remarkably survived: the many ikons, wonderful for the dark-souled expressions in the tortured saintly faces, in the crypt; the plasterwork cherubs in the nave; the medieval image of Christ Pantokrator painted and carved in the drum; the fine Flemish altar-piece; and, a little to the right of the main altar, the marbled tomb, a shrine and place of pilgrimage, of Saint Valdopin himself – patron saint of the church, bringer of the alphabet, Christianizer of the land, and the first of many national martyrs.

  To Valdopin a great many stories attach; who is to know whether they are true or false? In the Xth., or just possibly the IXth., he came, from somewhere to the south, or possibly the west, to convert the prince or khan of the tribe that was settled in this middle terrain of marsh, forest and mosquito. In due course the prince was converted, to great political advantage; recognized by the Holy See, the tribe became a nation. But Valdopin put his trust in more than princes, and brought his mission to the people. He set up the Holy Texts for all to read, translating them and devising his own alphabet for the purpose. This is the Valdopian alphabet, now little used: examples may be seen carved into the Cathedral’s stone walls, though there is some dispute about the accuracy of the restoration. Thus the nation was won over to the ways of Christ – though later, it must be admitted, there was a pagan revival, when, according to the authoritative encyclopedia from which I have quoted, wild beasts made their lairs in the idle and desecrated churches. But to Valdopin the mission seemed complete; he now moved on to a tribe adjacent, still heathen and given to the most barbarous practices. And, story tells us, by these people – to the north, or the west, or just possibly the east (though for some reason this is particularly strongly disputed) – he was attacked, slain with stones, decapitated, and his body hacked with swords into very small pieces. A bas-relief in the Cathedral may be seen depicting this event, though modern scholarship questions the accuracy of the costume.

  But, story further tells us, the faithful in the land of which Slaka is now capital had not forgotten Valdopin; they determined to recover their martyr and give him Christian burial. Emissaries were sent, and a contract arranged with the pagan. A set of scales was placed on the border between the nations: the mincemeat saint was to be placed on one pan, to be traded for an equal weight of gold from the prince’s coffers in the other. However, you know stories, and how these legendary contracts always breed complications. The scales were raised, the portions of saint produced, ingot after ingot put into the pan; still the scales obstinately refused to tip. Gold was piled on gold until the treasury ran dry; the pans still failed to balance. Only a magical intercession could save the day; happily these were times when magic was still operational. The prince despaired and the faithful wept, but then, from the back of the crowd, there stepped a little old widow woman, dressed entirely in black, and leaning bently on a bent stick. In one twisted little hand she held out one tiny gold coin, her entire life’s savings. The prince laughed and his retainers mocked, as in such stories they always do.

  But you indeed know stories, and are quite familiar with the powers possessed by these little old widow women with their mites; I need hardly go on. Down went the coin, up went the scales, mad went the crowd, red went the prince. The pagans, who, as pagans go, had not done badly, loaded up their gold; the prince’s retainers brought a coffin and filled it with hamburgered saint; the prince kissed the old woman, who did not turn into anything; the corpse was borne home, a marbled tomb was raised, somewhere in the marshy land down by the Niyt, where, for some reason, the first conversions had occurred, Valdopin won his martyr’s burial, the tomb became a shrine, pilgrims came from distant destinations, miraculous wonders occurred, the sick threw off their crutches, the mad grew wise, the dumb began to speak. Sainthood was duly recognized, monks settled the site, a chapel was built, and then in time a cathedral, which you should not neglect to visit. The legend grew, as legends do. Even during Ottoman rule the memory of the saint survived in the minds of the people; and it survives still, even in these secular times, when miracles are usually economic, other kinds of sainthood are recognized, and Valdopin’s tomb now has to compete for attention with that of Grigoric, with the shakoed soldiers around it, there in Plazsci P’rtyii.

  Of the story, you may make what you like. Like all good stories, it can be read in many fashions. For the romantic nationalist historians it is of course a tale about the emergence of a people. For Christian theologians, it is a miraculous fable of divine intercession. For the Marxist aestheticians it is a classic socialist realist allegory displaying that power lies not with princes and their capital but with the combined power of the common people. For th
e folklorists it is – with its contract delay, magical intervention and happy outcome – a perfect example of the morphology of folktale. And for more fashionable thinkers of the Structuralist persuasion, debating these matters in the Rue des Ecoles, well, is it not a perfect example of the pensée sauvage, of Lévi-Strauss’s the raw and the cooked? And if you were to ask me, as well you might, since it is, just for the moment, my story, then I would probably pause for a moment, lighting my pipe to give an appearance of critical sagacity, think a little, and then suggest, very tentatively, that its deep structure is fairly apparent: mightn’t we say, shouldn’t we say, that it is a typical Slakan fable about rates of exchange?

  For, if you should ever happen to make the trip to Slaka – metropolis of gypsy music, wide streets and rectorates of baroque accretion, where the trade fairs are held, the congresses meet, the languages criss-cross – you will still find everywhere an old Valdopian preoccupation with barter and transaction – a trading of goods, a shuttling of values, a fixing of rates. It is there in the currency checks (geld’yii) at the airport; at the change desks (camb’yii), found in the state banks or the lobby of your Cosmoplot hotel; in the great government department store, mug, on Vitz’vitzimutu, where they sell shortages as well as plenty, so that many people solemnly visit it in order not to shop; in the endless commerce on the quiet park benches, where carefree children play on the sunlit lanes, pensioners enjoy their well-deserved repose, and briefcases open, to switch a pear for a cucumber, a pair of underpants for a bright pink bra; in the special foreign currency stores, WICWOK, where tourists compete with party officials for malt whiskies from rare Scottish glens and the Western blue jeans created by that other and far better known Levi-Strauss; in the dim-lit restaurants, where the waiters will ask ‘You pay dollar?’ before revealing whether or not they have any meat on the menu; on the wide pavements of the city, where passers-by will stop you as you walk and offer to exchange your suit for their antiques or, if you dress as badly as I do, vice versa. Yes, there are times in Slaka when it seems life is nothing else but making a trade, finding an equivalent, striking a bargain, forging a value, putting so much person into one pan and seeing how it matches up with so many goods in the other.