Rates of Exchange

by Malcolm Bradbury

  Outside in the darkness, where dark things are done, there is a noise: the clocks on the government buildings, the chimes on the belfries, are sounding. It is eleven; he goes to the bed, sits down, picks up the big brass telephone, and puts it to his ear. As he does so, the telephone, with a dragging chirp, begins to ring: ‘Da?’ says Petworth. ‘Ha,’ says a sexless voice, ‘You like make call for United Kindom?’ ‘Da,’ says Petworth. ‘Hold please your piece,’ says the voice, ‘I try to make this number.’ In the interstices of the international wiring, strange things now begin to occur. Several voices come on the line, asking each other questions; ratchets begin to click, digits to whirr; connections are made and unmade; there is noise and redundancy, redundancy and noise. Then out of the static comes a voice: ‘Hallo, Slaka caller, what number are you calling?’ it asks, in a very British accent. The voices on the line confer; Petworth sits on the bed, and thinks of a small and fairly modern house at the end of a bus-route in Bradford, where the furniture is contemporary and the television set flickers, showing a late-night news. A dull ringing tone starts; Petworth thinks of a dark wife, tired after a domestic day, rising from a contemporary sofa and walking across to the telephone. The ringing tone continues, and into the familiar image Petworth begins to intrude a note of doubt, a sense of mystery. For his dark wife is a wife who does not go out in the evenings, a domestic wife, a woman of familiar rounds. ‘I’m sorry, Slaka caller,’ says the British voice, after a while, ‘That number isn’t answering.’ ‘Isn’t answering?’ cries Petworth. ‘No good,’ says the sexless voice in the hotel, ‘Put down please your piece.’

  Mystified, Petworth puts down his piece, and looks around the dark bedroom, doubly lonely now. There is indeed something about space that brings strangeness to usual relationships, something about old hotel rooms which, just like old sad songs, administers to fear and gloom, loneliness and guilt, and forms the exact outward expression of one’s anxious inner twinges. The soul empties, the familiar goes, especially in those who have not much soul to start with. He sits on the bed; the great crack in the ceiling now seems wider, the mirrors glisten everywhere, the image of the female foot in the shoe stares at him from the opposite wall. He is just about to rise from the bed when, with its dull dragging note, the telephone rings again. ‘Hallo,’ says Petworth, picking it up, ‘Is that you?’ ‘Me, is me,’ says a voice, ‘Who is you?’ ‘Petworth,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, Petworth,’ says the voice, ‘And you are alone?’ ‘Completely,’ says Petworth. ‘Excuse me,’ says the voice, ‘Perhaps you have there a person?’ ‘No, no person,’ says Petworth, ‘Who is this? Is it Plitplov?’ There is a long pause on the line, and then the voice says: ‘Perhaps it is someone like that. It is just a good old friend.’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course we cannot talk now,’ says the voice, Plitplov or someone like that, ‘You know it is necessary to be cautious. It is not such a good situation. But I have a message from the one you mention. He is afraid you think him discourteous.’ ‘Not at all,’ says Petworth, ‘I hope his headache is better.’ ‘Of course it was not really a headache,’ says the voice, ‘He thought that occasion called for such a small ruse. You know such ladies as your guide are not always the best companies for dear old friends. They like to be such bureaucrats. That lady, she has left you?’ ‘Yes, she’s gone home,’ says Petworth. ‘You had a nice drink with her?’ asks the voice.

  ‘Oh, was your friend in the bar of the hotel tonight?’ asks Petworth. ‘In the bar?’ asks the voice, Plitplov or whomever, ‘I don’t believe it. He has a headache. I hope you did not give that lady too much to drink. Our ladies here are not like those English ladies. I believe you have a wife who enjoys a drink and is very amusing.’ ‘Do I?’ says Petworth. ‘I have heard this,’ says the voice, ‘Well, our friend hopes you are comfortable and have made some nice arrangements. He hopes you have a good programme. You know he had a little finger in that pie.’ ‘Yes, it’s excellent,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, I will tell him,’ says the voice, ‘If I see him and his head is gone away. If you are pleased, he will know there is no hard feeling.’ ‘No, there’s no hard feeling,’ says Petworth. ‘I think he likes perhaps that sometime you will dinner with him at his apartment,’ says the voice. ‘That would be very pleasant,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course he does not want to raise remarkable expectations,’ says the voice, ‘He knows how well you like to eat, such dinners in Cambridge. Here is not so easy. His wife is a simple and confused person, and not such a cook as your marvellous Lottie.’ ‘He knows my wife’s cooking?’ asks Petworth. ‘He remembers with a delight her boeuf à la mode,’ says the voice, ‘Often he speaks of it. He hopes you remembered to telephone at her, and give her his love.’ ‘Does he?’ asks Petworth, ‘Well, tell him I rang and got no reply.’ ‘He will think this is very strange,’ says the voice, ‘He knows she does not like to go out at the night. But perhaps that telephone does not march so well. Often this happens in my country.’ ‘Does it?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course he hopes to see you again,’ says the voice, ‘But you know he is busy man and has many doings. He thinks your paths will cross suddenly in several places.’ ‘Good,’ says Petworth, suddenly feeling very tired. ‘I expect you are feeling very tired,’ says the voice, ‘I hope you sleep very nicely. And that I do not disturb you if you are with someone.’ ‘I’m not,’ says Petworth, ‘Please thank him for the message. Goodnight.’

  Petworth puts down the telephone. Yes, he is tired; it has been a long day, a day of multiple chapters, of testing and troubling exertions. He briefly tries the enormous radio, which emits, for all its splendour, only one channel, in the language he does not know. He takes off his jacket, and puts it over the dressing-table mirror; to see that, all round the room, from behind the bathroom door, the walls, even the ceiling, many more mirrors are watching him as he strips down to his tartanpattern shorts. He uses the bathroom, where more mirrors look at him; he puts out all the lights but one, a great brass Sezession tablelamp by the bedside, gets into bed, pulls the great duvet over him, douses that light too. But full darkness does not come; car lights illuminate the ceiling, the gantries of trams flash pink into the room, an explosion of neon turns the glow to green. Pipes hiss, trams clang, official clocks on government buildings clang out news of the lateness of the hour. The ceiling crack gapes; there seems to be something like a loudspeaker affixed high on the wall just above the bathroom door; and everywhere the eye in the mirror, the ear in the roses, the pain in the stomach, the doubt in the head. His feet sticking from the end of the duvet, he thinks lazily on to two weeks of life in strange and unexpected cities: Slaka and Glit, Nogod and Provd. Cold in the room, he thinks of the warm marital bed at home, where a dark wife lies, or perhaps does not: the dark wife who smokes small cigars, and whose strange doings in Cambridge now begin to mystify him, the dark wife whom Plitplov knows better than he should; then Plitplov who, grinning, chuckling, present, absent, also knows and does not know his guide, Marisja Lubijova; the Lubijova who, with cold spectacles and warm laugh, grey coat and round figure, helpfully guides and suspiciously questions.

  His mind slides, and more vague, disorienting images fill it – of a man on a plane with a beetroot, another man smoking a cigarette in an airport room, two men, one in a topcoat, another with a furled umbrella, who stare after him in a corridor of space. In the darkness outside the hotel, strange unseen shouters shout, there is a faint sad sound of music from somewhere, bells ring. The bells are distant, yet seem to grow nearer, taking on a dragging, chirping note; he comes awake to realize that, by his bed, by his head, the foreign telephone is ringing. He reaches out into the dark to pick it up, put it to his ear; ‘Yes?’ he says, ‘Da?’ ‘Aarrgghhh,’ says a male voice down the wire, ‘Aaaarrggghhhh.’ ‘Who’s there?’ asks Petworth, staring up at the frescoed ceiling, where a green light goes on and off, on and off. ‘Doc doc doctor Pet Pet Petworth?’ asks the voice. ‘Yes, who is that?’ asks Petworth. ‘Aarrghhh,’ says the voice, ‘Ah, well. You don’t actually know
me, but my name’s St St Steadiman. I’m the sec sec second sec secretary at the British Embassy.’ ‘Oh, yes, Mr Steadiman,’ says Petworth. ‘Just wanted to say, well well welcome to Slaka,’ says Steadiman, ‘Sorry I’m late. I’ve been ringing round all the ho ho hotels, their chaps wouldn’t tell us where you’re staying. Glad to find you.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘The Slaka,’ says Steadiman, ‘They’re really giving you the whole tree the whole treatment. You did get a din din dinner invite from me, did you? I had to scatter them liberally round in the hope of fi fi finding you.’ ‘I did, thank you,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, my wife and I are greatly hoping to enjoy your come your come your company tomorrow evening, if you can man man manage it,’ says Steadiman, ‘It’s not often we get a fellow cunt a fellow . . .’ ‘No, I suppose not,’ says Petworth, ‘I’d be delighted.’ ‘Good,’ says Steadiman, ‘Why don’t I meet you in the bar of the ho ho hotel at, what shall we say, seven seven? You’ll easily spot me, I’ll be wearing a suit. They’re looking after you prop prop properly?’ ‘Very well,’ says Petworth. ‘Fine,’ says Steadiman, ‘If you do get into any diff diff snags, call me at the Embassy. If they haven’t cut the fo fo phones. Or just come in. If they’re not turning back all vis vis visitors. Well, till tomorrow.’ ‘Thank you,’ says Petworth, putting down the telephone.

  He lies there in the undark darkness. Outside Slaka moves, city of flowers and gipsy music, of watchers and listeners. He reaches for sleep, but his mind lies awake, swimming in tumultuous exhaustion. Noise and redundancy, redundancy and noise, pass through it, a singsong of words and images that will not fix: slibob and tinkii, passipotti and crak’akii, the steelwork is famous for the high grade of its product, we wish you pleasant tour and hope it will bring friendship between our peoples, her name is Lottie I think, you must be very tired. The chatter grows, come from the dark psychic disorientations of travel; images flutter, in accelerating disconnection. From somewhere high up, there is a view down, over vast, encrusted lunar landscapes, rough peaks, icy cavities. Now a small dark wife sits in a garden under a parasol, while an observer spies down from an upstairs window, where in a room paper flutters in a typewriter. Now a soldier comes down a long metal tube, holding a gun in his hand. There is a great glinting mirror and it cracks suddenly open; beyond there is a deep dark hole into which something is drawn. Then there is a malign father, shouting; a forgotten mistress, in a kimono, hair swinging over one eye, coming through a door into a room; an old friend who might not be a friend, lying by a river; and a HOGPo man in a hat, who sits in a technologized room somewhere over a dark city, and listens, listens, wide awake, to the sound of snores, as Petworth sleeps.

  4 – MINKULT.

  I

  Rain and storm are beating violently against the windows when Petworth comes to consciousness again, to find himself in his great bed, in his great bedroom, in the middle of Slaka. Now his programme will begin, and a day of formal meetings and duties lies before him – a purpose that gets him from his bed, into the bathroom, and then to the window to throw open the curtains and look out on the new world beyond. The view is strange; three men on a hydraulic platform are swaying in the air a few yards away from him, staring at him in his undershorts. Below, the square, so quiet last night, is busy again, a crowded place, filled with moving umbrellas, raincoated walkers, wet-topped pink trams. The hydraulic platform rises in the air from a dull grey truck; the three men are man-handling a great neon-sign saying SCH’VEPPII, which last night had stood on the building in the corner, and are lowering it to the ground on ropes. Petworth takes his grey suit from his blue suitcase, and retires to the bathroom to put it on; clad in formality, he goes out into the corridor, where a new young floormaid sits at the desk, and descends to the lobby to find breakfast.

  It is not an easy task. Breakfast is served, not in the great dining room, but in a small room at the back of the hotel, where many besuited men, as neat as himself, sit reading newspapers and awaiting service. ‘Is nicht schnell here, nicht schnell,’ says the bald man, reading an East German newspaper, whose table he joins, none being empty, ‘This is why they haf bad economy.’ Petworth picks up the menu, a well-thumbed card written in several languages, and offering rich fare: sausidge and pig-bacon, sheese and eggi. A waiter comes at last, with a laden tray for the bald man; Petworth determines to set to work on the new tongue. ‘Pumpi, vurtsi, urti, kaf’ifii,’ he says to the waiter. ‘Moy,’ says the waiter, picking up the menu, shaking his head, and bearing it away. He comes back again a moment later, bearing a new menu. Petworth looks at it in mystery, for its offerings are much the same as the last. ‘Ranugu up pumpu? Ku up kaf’ufou?’ asks the waiter, taking out his pad. ‘They make a small linguistic revolution here,’ says the bald German, leaning forward, ‘They change a little all the grammatiks. This alzo is vy they are nicht schnell.’ ‘Ah,’ says Petworth, reading the new menu, ‘Pumpu, verstu, irtu, kaf’ufuu.’ ‘Slubab,’ says the waiter. ‘Now the old words are to be no more used,’ says the bald German. Petworth looks around. At the next table a man reads the red-masted party newspaper, P’rtyuu Pupulatuuu, which has the headline Untensu Actuvu. ‘I see,’ he says. ‘It is a very important political matter,’ says the bald man, ‘Even Wanko may be replaced.’ The important political matter evidently delays things greatly; it is not until just before nine o’clock, the hour at which Petworth should be meeting Marisja Lubijova in the lobby, that his breakfast arrives. There is just time to gulp a little of the large bowl of irtu, snatch a few bites of the vertsu, drink down the pumpu, and sip a little of the hot acorn-flavoured kaf’ufuu, before he rushes out to the crowded hall, where a new group of Ivanovas mills round the desk marked R’GYSTRAYUU. In a plastic transparent raincoat over her long grey coat, and shaking a folded umbrella, Marisja Lubijova is already there.

  ‘So, you are come, Comrade Petwurt,’ she says briskly, ‘And you have put on your nice suit for our official day. But don’t you think you need perhaps a coat for the rain?’ ‘I haven’t had time to go and get it,’ he says, ‘They were very slow with breakfast.’ ‘Of course, you are not now in America,’ says Lubijova, looking at her watch, ‘And do not be long, already we are late for our sightseeings. Did you remember to call your wife?’ ‘She wasn’t there,’ says Petworth. ‘So I suppose I must make a new arrangement,’ says Lubijova, ‘You go, I will do it. And did you get your passport?’ ‘I asked for it last night,’ says Petworth, ‘It wasn’t ready.’ Lubijova looks at him crossly: ‘Oh, Petwurt, can’t you do just one thing? Now you are not a person, is that what you want? Do you like it that you don’t exist? That I can’t take you to the Mun’stratuu?’ ‘I’ll go and ask for it now,’ says Petworth. ‘Go upstairs now, bring your coat,’ says Lubijova, ‘They will give it to me, don’t you think so? I think you don’t try very hard. Here you must fight a bit. Go, be quick.’ Petworth goes up to his room, to see from the window that the men on the hydraulic platform are raising up a new sign saying SCH’VUPPUU to replace the old sign saying SCH’VEPPII; when he comes down again to the lobby in his raincoat, Lubijova is standing outside the elevator doors, waving his passport aloft. ‘Of course it comes if you make it,’ she says, ‘She gives it to me. Also I have arranged a new telephone call. It is for six o’clock, after your programme today is finished. Now, do we go and do it? Or perhaps first I must button up your coat for you? Petwurt, Petwurt.’

  It is a chilly Lubijova who walks ahead of him out of the lobby and into the square, where a heavy nineteenth-century bourgeois realist rain is washing down the high-gabled buildings and teeming over the moving street-crowds and the clanging trams. A squad of men in oilskins are digging up the cobble-stones between the tram-tracks; Lubijova walks through them. ‘This way, please,’ she says sharply, ‘See how the men are working. Always we are improving our city. Always the work goes on. Look where you go, you are not from the farm, I think. First I take you to a very special place. Usually for foreigners it is forbidden, but you have a special permission, you are an offic
ial visitor.’ Walking ahead, Lubijova dives suddenly into a dirty-windowed eating place, where many wet people eat hot dogs in standing position. ‘Not here, we go to the back,’ she says, leading the way to the door of an elevator, where an old lady in a chair sells tickets. The elevator is crowded, the ascent long; suddenly the doors open, and Petworth finds himself, in the driving rain and the whistling wind, on a very wet roof, with a short wire fence around it, high above the city, which is visible below, moving remotely about its business. ‘You see, this is our skyscraper,’ says Lubijova, ‘Of course you must not photograph. Now from here is a very good view, but we cannot really see it. I hope you do not suffer the vertige. Now, please, look on this side. Over there the power station, do you see it, through the mist, it is more than sufficient for our needs. Near there the cathedral, but it is not visible. Well, it does not matter, it is not so interesting. Now we go this side, and here you see the old town. You can see the bridge Anniversary May 15, and the festung and the capella. At night you can go there and see a sound and a light. Is that how you say it in English?’