Rates of Exchange

by Malcolm Bradbury

  They have crossed the great bridge, entered the heart of the city. ‘His women are stony bitches, and the men must resist their destructive tendencies,’ says Plitplov. There is a park, and greenery. ‘To the right, the state operhaus,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you know, you will go there in your programme. You are wrong. His women are of a new kind, and he understands them well.’ Outside the state opera house, a heavy building of ornate nineteenth-century splendour, built in the Germanic style, large posters announce the performance of a work called Vedontakal Vrop. The boulevard leads on into the city; on central tracks a bright pink tram, towing a trailer, both vehicles ancient, survivors of more than one war and revolution, rattles along. The taxi driver speeds to pass, on the inside, the tram, tight-packed with people, some riding on its wooden steps or clutching onto its ornate ironwork. On the forehead of the tram, a sign says VIPNU; enthroned in the prow, ringing her bell violently at the taxi, is a hard-bosomed, uniformed young woman. The tyres skid on the cobbles; the taxi sways. ‘Well, we do not lack an expert,’ says Plitplov, puffing up thick smoke, ‘Let us ask Dr Petworth for his opinion.’ ‘The statue of our great revolutionary poet of 1848, Hrovdat,’ says Lubijova, ‘There you see him on the horse he falls from when he recites his great poem in the battle. Beyond, you do not see it very well, the university, where teaches Dr Plitplov, I think.’ ‘Well, Dr Petworth, you do not speak,’ says Plitplov, ‘Perhaps you like to be diplomatic? But give us please your serious critical assessment. Do you say Hemingway really likes to be a woman?’

  ‘Now our monument of solidarity with the Russian people,’ says Lubijova, gesturing to a vast mass of statuary in the centre of the boulevard: in a mixed mass of styles, constructivist and abstract, realistic and epical, a big stone soldier holding aloft a rifle stands amidst a huddled mass of venerating stone women. ‘Well,’ says Petworth, ‘Obviously he did like to emphasize the masculine role, with all the bullfighting and big-game hunting.’ ‘We do not forget their help,’ says Lubijova. ‘On the other hand, he had the instincts of a great writer,’ says Petworth, ‘And there’s something very androgynous about his work.’ ‘Yes, androgynous, what is that?’ asks Plitplov. ‘Oh, you don’t know that word?’ asks Lubijova, ‘Well, it is not so common. It means when a man likes to be a woman.’ ‘It means thus?’ asks Plitplov. ‘Well, it really means possessing male and female in one,’ says Petworth, ‘As so many writers do.’ ‘So you are agreeing with this person?’ asks Plitplov, turning. ‘I understand both points,’ says Petworth. ‘I see, my friend,’ says Plitplov, ‘Well, I do not think this is a very solid critical assessment. Really we had much better literary conversation when we are in Cambridge. You are much shrewder then.’ ‘Here almost the centrum,’ says Lubijova, ‘Don’t you like very much our trees?’ But now Plitplov is leaning forward, and saying something to the driver; the tyres screech on the cobbles, and the taxi stops suddenly, producing much loud hooting from behind, and a clanging of bells as the tram marked vipnu clatters past them the white-bloused driver gesticulating from the prow. Plitplov now sits there, his hands pressed to his head, his face in a grimace; he turns one eye and looks at Petworth.

  ‘Excuse me, my friend,’ he says, ‘All of a sudden I am having a headache. Perhaps this loud music you like does not suit me. I think I make excuse and leave you.’ ‘Really?’ says Petworth, ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘Well, you are nicely looked after, by this lady you like to agree with,’ says Plitplov, ‘She makes sure you find your hotel. But for me it is better to rest. Also my wife is a very delicate person, who is very nervous that she does not see me for more than five hours, while I struggle to the airport to make my duties to my good old friend.’ ‘But how will you get home?’ asks Petworth. ‘I think he manages,’ says Lubijova, unconcerned in her corner of the taxi. ‘My apartment is one block from here,’ says Plitplov, ‘It is lucky coincidence.’ ‘Yes, I should have a rest,’ says Petworth. ‘Please, my good friend, do not worry,’ says Plitplov, stretching out an arm, ‘My pain is severe, but does not concern you. You are very important guest, with major tasks to perform.’ ‘Perhaps better you come with us to that chemist shop,’ says Lubijova, ‘They will give you a mixture.’ ‘Those things are no use,’ says Plitplov, ‘Beside, I am strong and will be better soon. So I leave you. Madame Lubijova, look please well after my friend. He is nice man, and really his lectures are sometimes quite good. Even if I do not agree at all his poor assessment of Hemingway. Well, Dr Petworth, goodbye.’ Plitplov opens the door of the taxi, and gets out ‘Shall I see you again?’ Petworth asks as he stands above him on the curbside, ‘I do hope I haven’t . . .’ ‘As we say here, the days will tell what they will tell,’ says Plitplov, ‘But one day our paths could cross again, fate is like that. Perhaps I come to one of your talks, unless I am too busy. Perhaps even you come to hear at the university my famous lecture; it is on the hairy-chested hero of Ernest Hemingway. Now please, put inside your head, I shut this door. Oh, but one thing.’ ‘Yes?’ asks Petworth. ‘Remember, when you telephone to your nice wife, to Lottie,’ says Plitplov, ‘Give her the love of Plitplov. Tell her you see me, and all is well. No need to mention that headache.’

  Plitplov slams the door; the taxi jerks forward; Petworth, face to the glass, stares out at Plitplov as he stands at the roadside, putting, in a final gesture, one forefinger to his nose. Then there is a screech as the taxi, moving out into the traffic stream, narrowly misses a brown Ford Cortina, passing them at speed; when he looks back through the rear window, the pavement where Plitplov had stood is quite empty, as if he has departed in some great magical leap. ‘Now the new part of the city,’ says Lubijova, in a tone of improved good humour, ‘Here do you see our new shopping and commerce street, all the world knows about it. Who can wonder many congresses like to come here?’ ‘Quite,’ says Petworth, staring down a great wide central boulevard built in the style of international modernism, ‘Do you think I offended him?’ In the violet dusk, the showpiece buildings line the great street, in glass and steel; there are office blocks and stores, goods in half-lit windows, high flashing neon signs saying WICWOK and JUGGI JUGGI, MUG and COMFLUG. ‘I thinks he likes it very well, to get a free taxi right next to his apartment,’ says Lubijova, ‘Our department store, mug, you must buy some glass there. Also the foreign currency store Wicwok.’ Many pink trams fill the boulevard; traffic lights flash; a few passers-by with overcoats on walk by the stores in the darkening and now windy evening. ‘I shouldn’t have said that about Hemingway,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Lubijova, laughing, ‘You were very good. He thinks he is famous critic, always writing in the newspaper. And his bad lecture on Hemingway, I heard it twenty times when I was student. That is why I teased him. Look, here the Sportsdrome, of Olympical standard. It holds ten thousand spectator all at one time.’ ‘So you do know him?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Lubijova, ‘He knows me well. He gives the examen on my thesis.’

  Over the wide boulevard, great flagpoles project; onto them men on hydraulic platforms, elevated over grey trucks, are hanging great banners. ‘Look, do you see, they put out the nice flags?’ cries Lubijova, ‘Do you know why? Don’t you guess?’ ‘A parade?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, Petwurt, you are clever,’ says Lubijova, ‘Now I know why we ask you. Yes, soon it is our Day of National Culture, when our writers and painters and teachers march the streets. Of course you will spectate it, it is on your programme.’ ‘When do I see my programme?’ asks Petworth. ‘Later, at the hotel,’ says Lubijova, ‘And so this Plitplov, he is your good old friend? Perhaps you know all about him?’ ‘No, not at all,’ says Petworth, ‘He’s just a chance acquaintance.’ ‘Here we turn to the old part of the city, all the buildings in the older style,’ says Lubijova, ‘There a museum of old pianos, there the state theatre, there the Russian Embassy. But he tells he knows you very well.’ ‘He doesn’t,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, perhaps he likes to make himself more famous, by knowing you,’ says Lubijova, ‘And now you disappoint him, how very sad. Oh, look, th
ose up there, do you know them?’ The taxi is now moving down a narrow street, with high, creeper-clad public buildings hemming in each side; above the street there hang, many times life-size, great stylized photo-portraits of the faces of several solemn men. Depicted in the mode of heroic realism, the faces wear beards, moustaches, expressions of moral seriousness, the conviction of being characters in the world historical sense. ‘Marx, Lenin, Brezhnev,’ says Petworth. ‘Please, Comrade Marx, Comrade Lenin, Comrade Brezhnev,’ says Lubijova rebukingly, ‘Also Comrade Grigoric, our great liberator, and Comrade Wanko, president of the praesidium of the party. But he seems to know very well your wife.’

  Petworth stares up at the solemn photographs, flapping above: ‘As far as I know, he’s only met her once,’ he says, ‘In a pub in Cambridge.’ ‘Oh, beautiful Cambridge,’ says Lubijova, ‘Of it he has the most happy memories. Of course, he would love it. He likes history so much he wants it all for himself. But why does he say that? He is not a foolish man.’ ‘I can’t imagine,’ says Petworth. ‘Over there the puppet theatre, there the Military Academy,’ says Lubijova, ‘And your wife, Comrade Petwurt, do you know her very well?’ ‘We’ve been married thirteen years,’ says Petworth, looking out at a large building, with a colonnaded entrance, on the steps of which many crop-headed young soldiers in uniform sit, smoking, holding portfolios under their arms. ‘Well, that is long?’ says Lubijova, ‘But people are secrets to each other. In my country, men and women do not get on so well. Of course our divorces are liberal and marriage is not so important a thing any more. Is it so in your country?’ ‘A bit like that,’ says Petworth. ‘Perhaps that is why you like to travel to Slaka,’ says Lubijova, ‘You have some wishes you cannot make real at home, so you go to somewhere and hope they will happen. Often I feel so. Look, here, the square where is your hotel. It is Plazsci Wang’liki, remember it, please, because you will need to find it again. I hope you like it?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, looking out; the square has high old buildings round it; a café with tables sits on a corner; signs flash, saying PECTOPAH, and COPT, and SCH’VEPPII, and HOTEL SLAKA. There is a gravelled area in the middle, with shade trees; under it there is a stopping and meeting place for the pink trams.

  ‘Please look round, do you see any chemist shop where your good old friend can go for his recipe?’ says Lubijova, sitting in the far corner of the taxi, ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘Yes, he’s an odd sort of chap,’ says Petworth. ‘I wonder if your wife thinks also he is an odd sort of chap,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you call her Lottie? It is a nice name. How is she, your Lottie? Also a nice person? Would she like one like that for a friend?’ ‘She’s dark, very private,’ says Petworth. ‘And also she smokes the small cigars,’ says Lubijova, ‘Here, see, your hotel. Isn’t it grand? Do you see now you are important visitor?’ And the Hotel Slaka, under the portico of which the taxi now moves, is clearly a hotel in the old grand manner, with fine stone fac¸ades and many balconies. ‘Very nice,’ says Petworth. The glass entrance doors open, and two limping doormen walk toward the taxi; the driver switches his radio from jazz to massed choir music, and gets out. Petworth is about to get out too when, in the half-darkness, a hand seizes his arm; in her corner Lubijova, holding him, is staring at him urgently. ‘Comrade Petwurt, before you get out, I tell you one thing, for your good,’ she says, ‘This odd sort of chap, I think you shall be a little careful of him. Always in my country there are those who want something. Perhaps he makes for you some trouble.’ ‘Trouble?’ says Petworth, looking at her. ‘I am your good guide, I like to help you,’ says Lubijova, ‘I do not know what he plans, but remember, it is good to be cautious. I hope you understand?’ ‘I think so,’ says Petworth. ‘I think so too,’ says Lubijova, putting her forefinger to her nose, ‘Now let us get out, and you see your nice hotel.’

  II

  The Hotel Slaka, located in Plazsci Wang’liki (somewhere toward the top of your map), is indeed a hotel in the old grand manner. Imperial times have made it, and the grand travellers of an older Europe; its fac¸ade is stone, its portico wide, its lobby vast, its ceilings high, its ferns abundant. Archdukes and hussars, duchesses and décollettée ladies must once have passed through these fine halls, beneath these cut-glass chandeliers, beside this faintly erotic statuary, up these grand staircases, into these discreetly curtained alcoves. But history, sparing no one and nothing, affects even hotels. Now portraits of Lenin, Brezhnev, Grigoric hang over the reception desk; at it work girls in the blue uniform of Cosmoplot. Today’s visitors have contemporary political significance: a group of Vietnamese women in dark blue worksuits, cadre pens in their top pockets, hair fringed over their eyes, stand and talk quietly in one corner, and a cluster of black Africans in long flowing robes laughs and chuckles in another. In Petworth’s path, as he goes toward the desk, which is marked R’GYSTRAYII, two men stand silently facing each other, holding red carnations, while the two interpreters beside them talk fluently. A limping doorman takes Petworth’s luggage to the desk, which is surrounded by a crowd of large women, several with dyed hair, most in dresses of pink and green. Large suitcases stand at their feet; they look at Petworth curiously. ‘Ivanovas,’ says Lubijova, ‘Push through them, push, push, push. They like to make their factory outings here, we are so cheap. But you are important visitor.’

  There is a girl behind the desk in blue uniform, with dark red hair, spread fanlike from her head in lacquered splendour; she looks at them without interest. ‘Hallo, dolling,’ says Lubijova, ‘Here is Professor Petwurt, reservation of the Min’stratii Kulturi, confirmation here.’ ‘So, Petvurt?’ the girl says, taking a pen from her hair and running it languidly down the columns of a large book, ‘Da, Pervert, so, here is. Passipotti.’ ‘She likes your passport, don’t give it to her,’ says Lubijova, ‘Give it to me. I know these people well, they are such bureaucrats. Now, dolling, tell me, how long do you keep?’ ‘Tomorrow,’ says the girl, ‘It registers with the police.’ ‘No, dolling, this is much too long,’ says Lubijova, ‘I do not love you. You can arrange, do it for me tonight. Tomorrow he goes to the Min’stratii Kulturi, and they don’t let him in without it.’ ‘Perhaps,’ says the girl, ‘I try.’ ‘Comrade Petwurt, remember, come back in three hour and ask it from her,’ says Lubijova, ‘Remember, here if you do not have passport, you do not exist. And I expect you like to exist, don’t you? It is nicer.’ ‘Here, Pervert,’ says the lacqueredhaired girl, pushing a form across the desk, ‘I need some informations.’ ‘It is not English, he doesn’t understand it,’ says Lubijova, ‘We do it together. Put here: name, address, where born, how old; so old, are you really, I didn’t think it. Now where you come from, London, didn’t you, and how long you stay, that is three nights. Now where you go next, do you know, I tell you: Glit. Write it down, four letters, G-L-I-T. She can do the rest herself. There, dolling, is good?’

  Taking the pencil from her hair, the girl checks the form. ‘Okay, is good. Now, Pervert, this card I write for you, it is your hotel ident’ayii, ja? Only this gives you your key. If you lose, no replace. And don’t forget, no this, no key, no breakfast.’ Petworth picks up the card, which has a name, A. Pervert, written on it, and a room number, and on the back a message saying: ‘Bienvenue à Hotel SLAKA, une Hotel «COSMOPLOT». Services gratuits: transports du bagages jusqu’à et depuis la chambre; brosses à habit, aiguilles, fils; information sur la température de l’air.’ ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘Dolling, let us find out if anyone loves him,’ says Lubijova, ‘Does he get some messages?’ The lacquered-haired girl inspects the pigeonholes behind her: ‘One letter,’ she says. ‘Oh, from Slaka?’ asks Lubijova, ‘You have some more good old friends here?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth, putting the letter into his pocket, ‘I can’t think who could know I was coming.’ ‘I expect it is some nice girl who remembers you,’ says Lubijova, ‘Now is everything good? Do you need anything? Do you want perhaps to call your wife, your dark lady? If so, please tell me. There are certain regulations, they are such bureaucrats here. We must boo
k it before.’ ‘Yes, I would like to call her,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course, you must give her the love of Plitplov. I will make arrangements while you are upstairs. Please write down me the number.’ The lacquered-haired girl leans over the counter and bangs on it with a large key: ‘Sissi funvsi forsi,’ she shouts to a large bald hall-porter, who comes over, takes the key, and drapes himself in Petworth’s luggage.

  ‘It is not permitted that the guides go upstairs,’ says Lubijova, ‘So you go there, take a time, do a wash, what you like. I sit here in these chairs and read some more pages of Hemingway. Then you come down and we make some business.’ ‘Business?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, don’t you like some money?’ cries Lubijova, ‘And a programme? Don’t you like to make some objections and changes? Look, go quickly, you will lose your luggage again. See, the man gets in the lift, be quick.’ Petworth pushes back through the crowd round the reception desk; the big Ivanovas, smelling of musk, stare at him, though whether they are struck by his charms or his sagging Western clothes he cannot tell. The elevator has great copper doors, embossed with modern reliefs showing peasants and factory workers happy in their activities: the scowling porter holds them apart. Petworth gets in; so do three more Petworths, in baggy safari suits and flat earth shoes, staring at him from the mirrored walls. Slowly, jerkily, the doors close, and the downstairs world of travellers and tours, guides and delegations goes from sight; slowly, jerkily, the elevator, its decor evidently in excess of its technology, begins to bump and grind upward through the building. Then the big doors tug open again, to reveal an upstairs world: a silent wide corridor, carpeted down the middle, flanked with vases on pedestals, holding plastic flowers; an old wooden desk with an old wooden chair, on which sits an elderly floormaid, in white overall, mobcap, black socks, white shoes with the heels omitted, who looks up from an old paperback book to inspect him.