Rates of Exchange

by Malcolm Bradbury

  The tight-dressed lady goes to one of the cupboards and produces a bottle and four glasses; Tankic says something which makes her laugh very loudly. ‘Says he does not smoke, drink, gamble with cards or play at all with women, except when you come,’ says Lubijova, ‘This is why he hopes you come very often.’ The lady puts the glasses on the table; Tankic takes the bottle and begins to fill the glasses with a bright clear liquid. ‘Says it is special from a farm he knows,’ says Lubijova, ‘Now he makes a toast. Remember with the eyes, Petwurt, I taught you. Says: a toast to many more toasts together.’ Petworth, raising his glass, tries to remember Lubijova’s lesson: ‘Na, na, na,’ says Tankic. ‘Oh, Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, ‘He says you do it wrong. Says in our country when we do a thing, we always follow afterwards a criticism session, so we can do things better. He remarks you let the brandy touch the tongue and the throat, which wastes much time that could be devoted to the good of the people. Now he regrets he must fill your glass again, to see if you make improvement.’ And over the next half hour, in the office of the Uprattu Tankic, Petworth improves and improves. There is much laughter in the room; Tankic chuckles and grins; other heads from other offices peer in. Then Tankic rises and claps Petworth on the arm: ‘Says he must take you to another place, to give you some lessons in Slakan food,’ explains Lubijova, ‘It is an official lunch given in your honour, he hopes you accept.’ ‘Delighted,’ says Petworth, rising, a little uncertainly, from the black plastic chair. Tankic puts on a belted black overcoat, and a black Homburg hat; then he leads the way into the corridor, shouting boisterously at functionaries sitting at their desks behind half-open doors.

  Down the stairs and out into the street they go, past the militiaman in the cage, the soldier in the box. In front of the building, a crop-headed driver in a grey shirt and black trousers stands in the rain, holding open the door of a large Russian Volga, a great black car with a toothy front grille. ‘Oh, Petwurt, you go in one after all,’ cries Lubijova, from the front seat, turning round to look at where Petworth sits in the middle again, between the tightly dressed lady and Tankic. ‘Where are the curtains?’ asks Petworth, looking round. Tankic laughs and claps Petworth boisterously on the shoulder. ‘Says do you think he would let you ride with his beautiful secretary in a car with curtains?’ explains Lubijova. The secretary wriggles and laughs too, a rich perfume spilling from between her breasts. ‘Tells the people who wait at the restaurant to meet you. Professor Rom Rum, of the National Academy of Arts and Sciences, who makes an important research into literary science from a hermeneutic viewpoint. Perhaps already you know him by his work?’ ‘I’m afraid not,’ says Petworth. ‘And someone you know already, Katya Princip.’ ‘I know her?’ asks Petworth. ‘Petwurt, Petwurt, you are terrible, sometimes you make me annoy. Don’t you remember please that book I just gave to you?’ ‘Yes, of course,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, dear, you are terrible,’ cries Tankic, mimicking, laughing, ‘Very tough lady, this, ha? Like a wife. I pick her special for you.’ ‘Sometimes he is very bad,’ says Lubijova. ‘But I also think quite nice,’ says the lady in the tight dress, smiling at him. The car is passing along the modern boulevard, past MUG and WICWOK; Petworth suddenly notices that, lined up along the curbsides, there are thick rows of children, waving small green flags at them as they pass. He points them out to Tankic, who laughs. ‘Says not for you,’ explains Lubijova, ‘A sheikh of Arabia comes here today. Says when you bring us something useful, not culture but oil, you also can have the children with little flags.’

  But now the stiff-necked driver turns the wheel, and they leave the boulevard, turning up a narrow, rising street, lined with high old houses, toward the ancient part of the town. ‘Here now old Slaka,’ says Lubijova, ‘Notice please the buildings of Baroque and Renaissance. Now you see how Slaka is so fine.’ ‘You come before?’ asks the tight-dressed lady, wriggling against him. ‘No, my first visit,’ says Petworth. ‘A church and a rectorate,’ says Lubijova. ‘Many pretty girls,’ says the lady. ‘Oh, don’t look at those, please,’ says Tankic, laughing, ‘Think of production.’ ‘Now the festung, builded by Bishop Vlam,’ says Lubijova, ‘Where is made the sound and the light.’ ‘Vlam, very successful,’ says Tankic, ‘Much power, many ladies. But no more, under socialism.’ ‘Oh, no?’ cries the tightdressed lady, ‘I think so!’ ‘A famous old square,’ says Lubijova. The car stops in the famous old square, which is filled with trees, and lies under the crenellated wall of the castle; there is a vista down across the river, to gardens and white-painted, creeper-clad houses on the further bank. ‘Here very nice restaurant,’ says Tankic, pointing to an old timber-framed building in the corner, with tables outside it, now wet with rain, ‘No gipsy, no violin, only talk, very good.’ The driver opens the rear door of the big Volga, and they step out into the square. Elevating a large flowery umbrella, the tight-dressed lady puts her arm through Petworth’s, and leads him under the trees toward the restaurant; heavy drops of rain explode on the thin fabric over them. ‘Please,’ says Tankic, ushering him through a door where a sign says PECTOPAH PO, ‘Nice, yes? Many official come here.’

  And it is pleasant indeed in the Restaurant Propp; there are wine barrels in the corners, old swords on the wall, and a great vine grows through and over the diners who sit there at white-clothed tables, served by waiters in black waistcoats and white aprons. Some open-mouthed carp, four silver trout, gape at them from a bubbling fishtank. ‘Not here, more,’ says Tankic, leading the way toward a curtained alcove; when the curtain is drawn there is a small room, a table set for six, a waiting waiter, and two other waiters too, the early guests, standing there, holding small drinks. One is a small middleaged man, in a neat dark suit and a white shirt, who wears his topcoat hung over his shoulders; he stares at Petworth, who stares back. ‘Lyft’drumu!’ cries the man, ‘Flughavn!’ ‘Feder! Stylo!’ says Petworth. ‘Scrypt’stuku!’ says the man, laughing. ‘You meet before?’ asks Lubijova. ‘It’s the man from the airport who borrowed my pen!’ says Petworth. ‘And Plitplov thinks he steals it?’ says Lubijova. ‘Oh, yes, Plitplov, you know him?’ asks the other guest, a fine, handsome lady, who wears a loose batik dress, cream sheepskin waistcoat, high gloveleather brown boots, and has white sunglasses pushed up into her blonde hair, ‘That silly man who writes those essays in the newspaper?’ ‘Trollop,’ says the middle-aged man. ‘Yes, he writes on Trollope,’ says Petworth. ‘It is awful,’ says the lady. ‘Weren’t you at the airport too?’ asks Petworth, looking at her. ‘Oh, did you notice me?’ asks the lady, who looks like a very elegant shepherd, ‘You know your silver pen was for me? Well, it is a magical thing, to lend a pen.’ ‘Our writer Katya Princip, our Academician, Professor Rum,’ says Tankic, ‘Meet please our English guest of honour, Dr Petworth.’

  III

  And so it is that Petworth comes to the Restaurant Propp beneath the castle in Slaka, residence once of Bishop-Krakator ‘Wencher’ Vlam (1678–1738, if my hastily scribbled notes are correct), and meets there the brilliant, batik-clad magical realist novelist Katya Princip, who takes him familiarly by the arm, leads him out of the group, and moves him toward the corner of the room. ‘Come now and talk to me,’ she says, ‘Not about that Plitplov, you don’t know him, do you; no, please, explain me something. Why am I here? Why do I get invite to an official lunch?’ ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea,’ says Petworth, ‘Of course I’m delighted you did.’ ‘I am not invite before,’ says Katya Princip, ‘You know, I am not so well, with this regime. Usually it is only the reliable ones, like Professor Rum, who come to such things. So of course I wonder, have I done something bad, and don’t know it? Is my new book so terrible? Do they think I am good?’ ‘Your new book,’ says Petworth, ‘I have it.’ ‘Oh, really?’ cries Katya Princip, staring at him with grey eyes, ‘Then perhaps that is it. Perhaps you are famous admirer of my writings? Perhaps I am chosen just for you? But you have our language? It is not translated in English.’ ‘I don’t yet,’ says Petworth, ‘I mean to try.’ ‘Yes, I see,’
says Katya Princip, ‘You don’t be my admirer yet, but one day you will be. Now I understand everything. You see, nothing in this world is accident. Especially here in Slaka.’ ‘Could you sign it for me?’ asks Petworth. ‘If you have a pen,’ says Katya Princip, ‘But of course you have a pen.’ ‘Oh, she signs your book?’ says Lubijova, coming up. ‘Oh, don’t you know, this is my admirer,’ says Katya Princip, ‘That is why I am here.’ ‘Comrade Tankic likes you to come to the table,’ says Lubijova. ‘Oh, we are naughty, we talk too much,’ says Princip, ‘Everyone thinks we are rude. Well, I leave you now, I hope we meet again.’ ‘She’s very nice,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, perhaps you must be a little cautious with this lady,’ says Mari Lubijova, leading him over to the table, ‘Sometimes she makes a little trouble, and not everyone likes her work.’ ‘Here, Comrade Petworth, between our fine Slakan roses,’ says Tankic, gesturing him to the seat facing him; Petworth sits down.

  ‘Oh, you sit with me, is nice,’ says the tight-dressed lady, giggling, placed to Petworth’s left. ‘Oh, we meet again, what a surprise, how good,’ says Katya Princip, coming to Petworth’s right. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know your name,’ says Petworth, to the tight-dressed lady. ‘Oh, it is Vera,’ says the lady, ‘It means truth.’ ‘No, it means faith,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Pravda means truth. Oh, Mr Petwit, you must be very important man. Look, they draw the curtain to hide you. I expect you are at least a Shah or a Minister.’ ‘Expert,’ says Tankic, pointing at Petworth with his fork. ‘Oh, expert,’ says Princip, ‘And what do you expert? I am sorry I do not know.’ ‘The teaching of English,’ says Petworth, ‘That’s all.’ ‘Really, well, you must show us your skill on Professor Rum,’ says Katya Princip, ‘His English is terrible. We like it perfect by the end of the meal.’ ‘Yes, my English, poco, I am all mistake,’ says Professor Rum, who has tucked his napkin into the neck of his white shirt. ‘Don’t mind, Comrade Rum,’ says Katya Princip, ‘We will translate you. If we like what you say. My English, not so little, not so big, just middle. You are lucky Mr Petwit, you speak a language everyone understand. Except for Professor Rum.’ ‘Not everyone,’ says Petworth. ‘But think of us!’ says Katya Princip, ‘We are just a little country, a tiny flyshit on the great map of the world. And we speak just a silly little language, and no one understands. Not even us.’ ‘He tries to learn it,’ says Lubijova, who sits opposite Vera, ‘He likes to read your book.’ ‘Oh, don’t bother,’ says Princip, ‘My book is so good you can understand it in any language. And now we make a language reform, so what you learn this week is no good next.’ ‘Now we must change all our signs, it is very bad,’ says Vera. ‘No, very good,’ says Katya Princip.

  Then the waistcoated waiter leans across Petworth’s shoulder, and fills his glass with a clear spirituous liquid. ‘Rot’vitti?’ he asks. ‘Now you must not say rot’vitti, rot’vuttu,’ says Vera. ‘But in any case is not rot’vuttu,’ says Princip, ‘Is lubuduss, made of the squish of a plum.’ ‘I think kicrak,’ says Lubijova, ‘From the mush of a pear.’ ‘No, is plum,’ says Katya Princip, ‘I am writer, I know everything.’ ‘Oh, everything?’ says Vera. ‘Yes, everything,’ says Princip, ‘Example: I do not come before to official lunch, I am not such good citizen, but I know Comrade Tankic will rise now and tell of our great cultural achievements. And then, Comrade Petwurt, you will reply, and tell us of your milk production.’ ‘My milk production?’ says Petworth. ‘Of course, we concern very much,’ says Princip, ‘Why do you think we come so far, through Slaka in the rain?’ And the prophecy seems correct, for Tankic has risen already, and is tapping his glass with his knife; he begins a fluent, beaming speech. ‘Says Comrades,’ explains Lubijova, when he pauses, ‘I am pleased to represent here our Minister of Culture, who regrets he is elsewhere, to welcome our excellent visitor Comrade Petwurt.’ ‘Our Minister of Culture,’ Princip whispers in Petworth’s ear, ‘A soldier who has read a book. Better than the last one: a soldier who had not read a book.’ ‘Says we are proud to welcome you to our country of many achievements, economic and also cultural. Since the feudal and bourgeois times, we have made a great leap forward.’ ‘Who hasn’t?’ murmurs Princip. ‘Our peoples support the modernization programmes everywhere in train,’ says Lubijova, ‘The productions of our agro-industries rise thirty times since socialism. Per capita floor space is ten square metres.’ ‘Now we no longer sit on top of each other,’ whispers Princip. ‘Our National Academy of Arts and Sciences makes notable wissenschafts, represented by Professor Rum. Our Writers’ Union claims over a thousand fine members, represented here by Comrade Princip.’ ‘Your nice friend,’ whispers Princip. ‘Comrade Petwurt, you will see many great achievements in your tour,’ says Lubijova, ‘We hope you like them much and tell them in your country. You will see many beauties of our heritage, but let us make toast to the very best, we know you agree it. Welcome, and please drink to our finest treasure: the beautiful ladies, for the first time.’

  Tankic sits down, grinning at Petworth. ‘A quite good speech, a very bad toast,’ says Katya Princip, ‘It is to me, so I cannot drink.’ ‘Comrade Petworth, is your turn,’ says Vera. ‘Please, your milk production,’ says Princip. ‘Oh, me?’ says Petworth, but hands from either side are pushing him erect; he finds himself looking round the table. ‘Friends,’ he says. ‘Comrades,’ says Princip. ‘Comrades,’ says Petworth. For some reason, the room seems to be swirling and creaking a little, and words, which are his business, will not come easily. But, words being his business, it occurs to him to comment, sociolinguistically, a word that, somehow, is not very easy to say today, on the great differences between the speechmaking habits of different nations: Germans will speak soulfully of Kant and Beethoven, Americans colloquially of space and territory, Norwegians poetically of mountains and fish, Russians proudly of industry and sport, while the British will speak only about their weather, and then to condemn it. An illustration comes to mind, perhaps not the best, Petworth realizes after a moment, as he reports a tale of what different women of different nations are supposed to say after love-making – ‘What, finished so soon?’ says the Frenchwoman, ‘My sadness has almost gone away,’ says the Scandinavian, ‘Great, what did you say your name was?’ says the American, ‘You have made a great contribution,’ says the Russian, ‘Okay, now let’s eat,’ says the German, and ‘Feeling better, darling?’ says the Englishwoman. No, it is not of the best; Lubijova, scribbling furious notes for her translation, stops, staring up at him over her glass; ‘It is yoke?’ asks Tankic, fuming to her. It seems wise to conclude the occasion, to raise the glass, to propose a toast, and what better than to language? ‘To language,’ he says, ‘The words that bring us all here, and bring us closer together.’

  ‘Well, it is not so good a speech,’ says Katya Princip, squeezing his arm as he sits down, ‘I am ignorant about your milk production much as I was before. But I like very much your toast. You see, I can drink it.’ ‘Comrade Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, leaning over the table, ‘You did not leave time for me to interpret you. Also you make yokes, and those are not so easy.’ ‘Really, no need to translate,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Everyone understands enough, except Professor Rum, and I think he has heard speeches before. Oh, look, here is Professor Rum, he likes to say something to you, what do you like to say, Professor Rum?’ ‘This is naughty lady,’ says Tankic, grinning at Petworth across the table. ‘Oh, he asks about the politics of your speech,’ explains Katya Princip, ‘He likes to know whether in our language revolution here you are supporting the forces of stability, or of reform.’ ‘I know nothing about the situation,’ says Petworth, ‘There were no politics.’ ‘I told him that already,’ says Katya Princip, ‘He doesn’t understand it. Well, I think while you are here you will learn some. We make here a fine change.’ ‘A very bad change,’ says Tankic. ‘Oh, dear, I am sorry,’ says Princip, ‘Already you learn there is more than one opinion in this world. Well, I am bad, I talk too much. But then you know our saying? The more talk, the more country.’ And there is
more talk; the chatter flows round the table, and the glasses fill and refill. Across from Petworth, Tankic is rising again, and tapping his glass: ‘Cam’radayet,’ he says. ‘Says he understands our excellent visitor likes yokes,’ explains Lubijova, ‘He is pleased, because also in Slaka we like yokes very much.’ ‘Of course,’ whispers Princip to Petworth, ‘Many of them are in office.’ ‘He tells our visitor, you will go on your tour to Glit, so here a yoke of Glit, where the yokes are about peasants. One day a man meets on the road a Glit peasant who is crying over the corpus of his dead donkey. “I am sorry is dead your mule,” says the man. “It is much worse than you think,” says the peasant, “He was not an ordinary mule. Since a week, he had learned to live without eating.” So he makes another toast: to all here, who have not learned to live without eating. Also to the beautiful ladies, this time sincerely.’ ‘And to the politicians, who find for us all our food,’ says Princip, raising her glass, ‘May their efforts one day be rewarded.’