III
Just behind the Cosmoplot stall, the armed man still stands there, talking to the girl in the grey coat. ‘Please,’ says Petworth to him, ‘Do you speak English? Someone has stolen my luggage.’ ‘Va?’ says the armed man, turning, his nose hard and fierce, his gun swinging on its short strap, ‘Va?’ ‘My luggage,’ cries Petworth, ‘Stolen!’ ‘Please,’ says the girl in grey, ‘He does not understand you. But I know how to interpret. Describe please these luggages to me, and I will explain you.’ ‘Thank you,’ says Petworth, turning gratefully to the girl, who has a white tense face, a mohair hat on her head, a shoulderbag over her shoulder; and in her hands and at her feet a blue suitcase, a bulging briefcase, a heavy overcoat, and a plastic bag which says ‘Say Hello to the Good Buys at Heathrow.’ ‘What consists your luggages?’ says the girl, patiently, ‘Please explain it. He is a policeman and likes to help.’ ‘That’s my luggage, there,’ says Petworth, ‘You’ve got it.’ ‘These?’ says the girl, staring at him, ‘No, these are not your luggages.’ ‘I left them over there, by that pillar,’ says Petworth. ‘But they are not your luggages,’ says the girl, firmly, ‘They are the luggages of another. They belong to Professor Petworth.’ ‘Exactly,’ says Petworth, ‘Me.’ ‘He comes from England to make some lectures,’ says the girl. ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘I’m Petworth.’ ‘Oh, do you like to think so?’ says the girl, looking at him, and laughing, ‘Well, I am sorry, you are not.’ ‘I’m not?’ asks Petworth. ‘No, really you are not,’ says the girl, ‘I have his photograph, sent from Britain. Do you think you are that man?’ Petworth looks at the photograph; it shows a large round balding face, of late middle age, wearing heavy glasses, and underneath it the legend Dr W. Petworth. ‘Well, no,’ Petworth admits, ‘That’s someone else.’ ‘I have looked three hour for this man,’ says the girl, ‘Now I find his luggage. But it is not you. You do not even look like a professor.’ ‘I’m not, yet,’ says Petworth, ‘But I am Petworth.’ ‘You are not,’ says the girl, ‘Please go away.’
‘Wait, I think I know who that is,’ says Petworth, pointing at the photograph, ‘There’s another Petworth, who teaches sociology at the University of Watermouth, I get his mail sometimes. He’s not very well known.’ ‘And you, who are you?’ asks the girl; the armed man steps nearer. ‘Well, I’m an even less well-known Petworth than he is,’ Petworth admits, ‘But I’m the one they sent.’ The armed man pokes Petworth with his fingers: ‘Dikumenti,’ he says. It is a happy intervention, for out comes the grey letter from the Min’stratii Kulturi Komitet’iii, which the girl seizes. ‘Oh, oh, yes, you are the one, really!’ she cries, ‘Oh, Petwurt, you have confused me, you do not look like yourself. And there I waited for two hour at INVAT, to bring you past the custom, but I looked for that man with the big head. Well, no matter, it is just a small confusion, quickly solved.’ ‘Then you’re from the Ministratii Kulturi Komitet’iii?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, Petwurt,’ the girl says admiringly, looking at him with her white, saddened face, ‘You are in Slaka just three hour and already you speak our language. Actually we say it so: Min’stratii. Do you see the difference? You intrude a redundant “i.” But that is natural error for an English. Yes, I am from there, your guide for this tour. My name is Marisja Lubijova, Oh, dear, that is hard for you. Do you think you can say it?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘Marisja Lubijova.’ ‘Very good,’ says the girl, ‘But I think it is too long for you. You call me Mari, like all my good friends. And in Slaka it is your first time? I don’t think so, you speak our language so well.’ ‘Yes, my first time,’ says Petworth. ‘Then I welcome you to my country,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do we do it the English way? How do you do, shake the hand, I wish you very nice visit?’ ‘What’s the Slaka way?’ asks Petworth, ‘In customs they gave me a comradely hug.’
Marisja Lubijova stares at him: ‘Oh, I see, Petwurt,’ she says, ‘You are only just come but already you want everything. Well, of course, the Min’stratii will not be outdone.’ ‘I just meant . . .’ Petworth begins, but his words choke; for two arms come firmly round his neck; he is tugged, forward, downward, into Lubijova’s grey coat. This time it is nicer: no male sweat, but the scent of healthy soap; no belt of hard leather, but a delightful soft mammary cushion; no prodding male groin, but a better mesh of bodily economy, a fairer rate of exchange. ‘Camarad’aki,’ Lubijova cries, thrusting him back, ‘So welcome in Slaka! Oh, dear, Petwurt, your face goes quite red. Perhaps you are shy, like all English.’ ‘It seemed the right colour for the country,’ says Petworth. ‘I think you like our customs,’ says Lubijova, ‘That means you will make good visit. Now, I just tell this policemen all problems are solved. Please take some of your luggages, and we go somewhere. Do you like a nice hotel of the old kind, I hope so?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, sensing he is back on the old course of things, ‘I do.’ They begin to go, Petworth carrying his recovered luggage, walking with his recovered guide, toward the evening light, the doors marked OTVAT. ‘Oh, dear, you must think I am bad guide,’ says Lubijova, ‘Did you think no one comes for you? I think you did, but you shouldn’t. Of course someone finds you, you are important visitor. Everywhere people are waiting to see you, and expecting remarkable talks. Often there are confusions in these places, but no matter. Now we find a very nice taxi. Oh, I please you are here.’
But it is now, as they come up to the doors marked OTVAT, and are about to step outside, that Petworth realizes that someone has been watching him – indeed has been inspecting him, and the process of meeting and greeting, for some time. By the entrance doors, against the light, a small dark-eyed man, in his thirties, with a neat curve of beard round the line of his chin, stands, arms folded. He wears a white sweater with a small animal-like symbol sportively decorating the left nipple, sharp black trousers with a white chalk stripe. His bird-like face holds a large curved pipe; it is a face Petworth has caught sight of several times before, in the tidal movement of the crowd, feeling he almost knows it, though not how, or where, or when. Now the face responds, beams at him, removes its pipe, moves toward him, speaks. ‘Well, my good old friend Dr Petworth,’ it says, ‘I see you are getting very well received. But always with the ladies you are lucky. And how are you?’ A hand comes out, which Petworth shakes, having put down his luggage: ‘Very well, thank you,’ he says. ‘Of course,’ says the man, ‘And the lovely Mrs Petworth, what of her? Perhaps you have just left her, I hope she does not put on some weights. When thin, her figure is very good. But that is a lady who must watch always the plates.’ ‘Very well also,’ says Petworth, staring at the face grinning at him. ‘You must not let such ladies spoil themselves,’ says the man, ‘Often I think of her. And of course of wonderful Cambridge. How is it these days? Of it I have the very best memories.’ ‘Cambridge?’ says Petworth, ‘Oh, Cambridge is very well too.’
Beside him, Lubijova impatiently shifts her shoulderbag; Petworth stares at the face in front of him, with its sharp little grin, its bird-like look, and finds that certain small things are beginning to come back to him. There is the place, Cambridge, England, in the summer, the sun shining, the greenfly busy, the language-school season at its peak, the streets full of noisy youths from many cultures, speaking multi-lingua; a long room, hot and sunfilled, packed with easy chairs, windows open, admitting the noise of student transistors playing pop music on punts and the bright cries of blonde Swedish girls as they fall, with great regularity, into the river; at the front of the room, at a podium, Petworth himself, lecturing on some linguistic crux or other; somewhere at the back of it, in a chair by a door, this same sharp face, with its bird-like eyes and curve of beard, moving busily, nodding, grimacing, beaming at wit, shaking from side to side in dissent, nodding up and down in affirmation. The time is vague: this could be any one of a long succession of British Council summer schools, annually held, where university teachers from universities abroad are invited, to bring themselves up to date with contemporary writing, and criticism, and linguistics, and the detailed stuff and custom of Engl
ish life, like going regularly into pubs. For a number of years now, Petworth has done his stint there, staying for a few days, lecturing on such questions as whether the mind is, or is not, a tabula rasa before language enters it, drinking in rooms, wandering in Heffer’s, bringing with him his dark wife – who, glad of the chance to leave domestic routine, and Bradford, comes to explore the wickerwork of Joshua Taylor, the cramped flowerprint of Laura Ashley, the wine bars, the college chapels, the mirrored, musical boutiques.
Over the years Petworth has met many students, made many friends, there; but, once remembered, this one can only be recalled as memorable – for his sharpness, wryness, slyness, for his interventions, his omnispresence, his readiness with an issue at a lecture’s end, his demanding face looking over the plates in the college hall at dinner. ‘What a place!’ says the man now, at Slaka, ‘Of it I have the most extraordinary recollections. But especially I recall some excellent literary conversations we are making together. Oh, Dr Petworth, you were acerbic then, I remember, quite caustic. We look forward to those qualities again. I hope you don’t forget my name, my good old friend. Plitplov.’ ‘Of course, Mr Plitplov,’ cries Petworth, ‘How nice to see you again.’ ‘Well, Doctor Plitplov now, you will please to learn,’ says Plitplov, putting his head down in humility, ‘Things change for us all, for the better or the worse. And thanks in no little part to you. Perhaps you remember a certain small writing – small, that is, for you, large for me – you assisted with? To you I owe many important footnotes, references I cannot at all obtain at the libraries of Slaka. You know for us books are a problem, we must fight to see them. But you are very kind, and that work has appeared now in my country, to create, if I do not be immodest, some stir.’ ‘Splendid,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course I reserve a copy for you,’ says Plitplov, ‘And you find in its openings acknowledgement of your contributions, a gratitude for scholarly and not-so-scholarly assistances. Also to Mrs Petworth. I do not overlook her great help to me.’ ‘Really, she was a great help to you?’ asks Petworth. ‘Indeed,’ says Plitplov, ‘what a fine person.’
In the lobby at Slaka, Petworth thinks once more of Cambridge, and something else comes back: an occasion in the courtyard of a pub, probably the Eagle, on a summer’s night, with cockscombed punks and louche youths from the language schools drinking and sitting on the cobbles all round, and the fingers of his dark wife tapping in irritation on an empty gin glass, while this same engrossed face has held them both and discussed, at great length, over the potato crisps, an enterprise in the linguistic analysis of nineteenth-century fiction, something on the imagery of food and drink in . . . ‘Wasn’t it Trollope?’ Petworth asks. ‘Ah, my friend, I see your recall is total,’ says Plitplov, beaming, ‘Trollope, your great and toomuch- neglected novelist of the bourgeois realist era, now I think over. Well, I like to believe I have restored his interest, secured his reputation again.’ ‘Good,’ says Petworth, ‘Splendid. Tell me, I’ve forgotten: do you teach here at the university in Slaka?’ Plitplov takes a pouch from his pocket; slowly he lifts vegetable matter from it and deposits it thoughtfully into the bowl of his large curved pipe. ‘You might say I hold certain posts in my country of pedagogic kind,’ he says after a moment, ‘In fact you also might say it is not accident you are invited to come here. Evidently some influential person has spoken somewhere of your talents, had a finger in that pie. Perhaps a person not so very far from you now.’ ‘I’m most grateful,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, if your visit here is very good,’ says Plitplov, ‘I hope you will remember that person very nicely, and perhaps give a little more help. If not so good, then remember that also others have been involved.’ ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ says Petworth, ‘It’s my first visit.’ ‘I know it,’ says Plitplov, ‘I have researched you, quite a little bit. I have some schemes for you, plans of every kind. Also I know many good lectures will come now our way.’
Marisja Lubijova has been standing, fidgeting, at Petworth’s side. ‘Let us find now your taxi,’ she says, ‘They wait you at the hotel.’ ‘Oh, excuse please,’ says Plitplov, turning, beaming, ‘This pleasant young lady. You have not introduced me. Perhaps she is your guide. How is it, when I see you, you have always the most attractive female companies?’ ‘Oh, please excuse me,’ says Petworth, ‘Yes, this is Miss . . .’ But it is too late: Plitplov has already bent forward from the waist and has seized Miss Lubijova’s hand. Now he is putting it to his lips and lightly kissing the back of it – a grace-note, Petworth suddenly remembers, that went down exceedingly well, like some others, with his dark wife when Plitplov made just this gesture in Cambridge. ‘Plitplov,’ says Plitplov. ‘Lubijova,’ says Lubijova, ‘I think we perhaps meet somewhere before.’ ‘Before?’ cries Plitplov, ‘Oh, no, not possible. One does not forget to meet such a nice young lady.’ ‘I think so,’ says Lubijova. ‘No,’ says Plitplov, ‘Perhaps you know my small articles in the newspaper. Or perhaps you read a book of me.’ ‘Book of me?’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you really say “book of me”? And there is rumour you like to teach English. Yes, I think there was a time once when I did have to read a book of you.’ ‘Oh, please!’ cries Plitplov, slapping his brow with the heel of his hand in a theatrical fashion, ‘Did I say “book of me”? Oh, my good old friend, do you see how much your arrival has excited me? You know from Cambridge my English is well-nigh faultless, better than many British. But emotion can have such an effect.’ ‘Well, I think your good old friend wants to go now to his hotel,’ says Lubijova, briskly, ‘I think he is quite tired of his journey.’ ‘Ah, now, that is interesting question,’ says Plitplov, turning his bird-like eyes on her, ‘Is our good friend tired of his journey? Or is he perhaps rather tired by his journey? There are two different things. Well, we have here expert in such questions, a dab hand. Let us ask him. Pronounce for us, please, Dr Petworth.’
Tired or not, Petworth senses a diplomatic crux when he meets one, calling for the best exercise of his talents. ‘Yes, fascinating, isn’t it?’ he says, there in the airport at Slaka, ‘One of those delightful English cases where two idioms meet and both are relevant. Yes, I’m indeed tired by my journey, and I’m also tired of my journey.’ ‘And wants to get taxi to his hotel,’ says Lubijova. Taking his pipe from his mouth, Plitplov stares at Petworth. ‘Yes, I recall,’ he says, ‘Always you like to be diplomat, to please everyone. This was noticed in Cambridge. Of course not always everyone is pleased. But, excuse me, I am not considerate. You like to go to the hotel. My dear young lady, do you find for that purpose a taxi. Meantime I stay here and amuse our tired and diplomatic guest.’ ‘I expect you will amuse very much,’ says Lubijova, hitching her shoulderbag high on her shoulder. Then she goes through the glass doors and out into the world outside: Petworth and Plitplov, two gentlemen scholars, stare out through the dirty and fingerprinted glass as she goes across the forecourt to yet another armed man, who stands in the road, invigilating the cars and the taxis, the Ladas and the Wartburgs, that pick up and put down. ‘Oh, this is good guide,’ says Plitplov, pointing with his pipe, ‘Sometimes the guide is not so suited. Sometimes it is an old lady or a man. That is not half so amusing.’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Also, look, she treats you like important visitor,’ says Plitplov, ‘She makes that police stop a taxi for you, so you do not wait in a line with the people.’ ‘How nice,’ says Petworth. Outside the militiaman raises his baton, and blows whistles; an orange taxi screeches to a stop. Inside, Plitplov turns suddenly, so that his back is to the window. ‘Of course with that one we must both be very careful,’ says Plitplov, staring at Petworth, and putting a forefinger to his nose.
‘Really?’ says Petworth. ‘I think you notice my small ruse to send her away,’ says Plitplov, chuckling, ‘Of course she is very suspicious of me, because I have come here to meet you.’ ‘Is she? Why?’ asks Petworth. ‘Well, of course,’ says Plitplov, turning and looking through the window, ‘I do not come so many miles to the airport just to see those planes go up and come down. I do not wait here three hour j
ust to exchange some little memories. No, in my country, we have a saying. Certain matters are certain matters.’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth. ‘This is not your very nice Cambridge,’ says Plitplov, ‘There you can play your games of the mind, I remember them. Does the reality exist, or is it just a construct of the head? Here we know some answers to that. There is reality everywhere, the art is to survive.’ ‘Yes, I see,’ says Petworth. ‘Do you notice how that one pretends we have met before?’ asks Plitplov. ‘Hadn’t you?’ asks Petworth, ‘Why did she do that?’ ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, sucking on his pipe, which fumes like a small bonfire, ‘She likes to find all out about me. She has her duties. Why do they give to her such a job, to escort an important intellectual of the West?’ ‘I don’t know,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, I know some things of her,’ says Plitplov, ‘No matter how. Slaka is small city. Everyone knows a little of someone else. Her father is a high party member.’ ‘What duties?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, there is always a way to embarrass everyone,’ says Plitplov, ‘For example, I have certain positions. Here, with positions, there are always enemies. Someone works to replace you. Of course these things are not done directly. One approaches always a matter by a corner.’ ‘Yes, I understand,’ says Petworth.
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