And then the waiter comes, and pours a rich red soup into their dishes: ‘I hope you like, kapus’nuc,’ says Vera. ‘Soup of the cabbage,’ says Lubijova. ‘We call it, Comrade Cabbage,’ says Tankic. ‘Because it is red,’ says Princip. Wine is poured into their glasses: ‘It is very typical,’ says Vera, ‘We call it pfin.’ ‘They say we export always the best wine, and keep the worse,’ says Lubijova, ‘Now you see it is not true.’ ‘No, we drink the best, and the people drink the worse,’ says Katya Princip, ‘So works the planned economy.’ ‘Our state vineyards, cooperative, very advanced,’ says Tankic, across the table. ‘Once they were nunneries,’ says Vera. ‘I think monasteries,’ says Lubijova. ‘From the klosters,’ says Tankic. ‘Where live the religious,’ says Vera. ‘If a monk, always a bottle,’ says Tankic, ‘Now no more, under socialism.’ ‘No, now if an apparatchik, always a bottle,’ says Princip. ‘Nothing wrong with a bottle, I hope?’ says Tankic. ‘Of course, I also like,’ says Princip, ‘Mais plus c¸a change, plus c’est la même chose.’ A certain sharpness is in the air; Petworth, drinking soup, attempts diplomacy, as he likes to. ‘So you speak French too,’ he says, ‘How many languages?’ ‘Oh, my dear,’ says Princip, turning to him, and reaching out to ruffle the hairs on the back of his neck, ‘When I am with you, then I speak everything.’ ‘Our writers, very good translators,’ says Tankic. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Princip, ‘As you hear in the speech, we have many writers here. They work for the state and the future, especially of course the state. For this is needed many skills. Example: sometimes I am a writer, sometimes I drive a tram.’ ‘Really?’ says Petworth, ‘That’s amazing.’ ‘Yes,’ says Princip, ‘Here, if they do not like what you write, they let you drive a tram. But never, I notice, the other way round.’ ‘We have very good Writers’ Union,’ says Tankic. ‘And always they will look after you very well,’ says Princip, ‘And make sure that you do not write things that are silly and not correct. And if you do, well, they are very kind, and you can go to a dacha on Lake Katuruu. And there all the best writers will come, and sleep with you, and tell you how to write in a way that is correct. Oh, look, Professor Rum says something else, what is, Professor Rum?’ ‘A very naughty lady,’ says Tankic, his eyes rather less twinkling. ‘Oh, he tells that Maxim Gorky founded modern writing,’ says Princip, ‘Then he died, and that was great mistake. Do you agree?’
And so, in the Restaurant Propp, in the older part of Slaka, under Vlam’s great castle, the official meal of welcome unfolds. Certain bitternesses are in the air, trading uneasily through Petworth’s head as he struggles to catch the prevailing discourse, the flow of interlingua, English as a Second Language for Social Occasions (ESLSO). A new course comes: ‘You know this, ruspi?’ asks Vera, pointing with her knife. ‘I’m not sure, what is it?’ asks Petworth. ‘Ruspi is a swimmer,’ says Tankic. ‘Is a fish,’ says Princip. ‘With two pencils in its nose,’ says Lubijova. ‘Two pencils?’ asks Petworth. ‘Yes, so,’ says Katya Princip, putting two fingers beneath her nose, and jutting them out, ‘What do you call those pencils in English?’ ‘Feder?’ cries Professor Rum, ‘Stylo? Pen?’ ‘No, you do not at all understand, Comrade Rum,’ says Princip impatiently, ‘And our guest is liking to tell us that language brings all together. But really it is like sex. You think it brings you together, but only it shows how lonely you truly are.’ ‘Sex is not so lonely,’ says Vera. ‘Do you try at all our sex in Slaka?’ asks Katya Princip, ‘In Slaka, sex is just politics with the clothes off.’ ‘Well, perhaps everywhere,’ says Petworth. ‘And do you try also our beer?’ asks Vera, ‘It is called, oluu.’ ‘Not yet,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, he tries everything else,’ says Lubijova. ‘Professor Rum says, in England your ideas are bad, but your beer always very good,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Of course here, you will find, it is entirely the opposite.’ ‘But he must try some,’ says Vera. ‘Of course,’ says Katya Princip, ‘I hope we are friends now, I take you to a nice place afterward.’ ‘Well, he has a very full programme,’ says Lubijova, ‘Also perhaps he is very tired.’ ‘I think not too full, not too tired, to drink one beer with me,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Of course he must go to the cafés where our most interesting people go. Then, my friend, you can try our beer and also our thinking. Often the beer runs short, but the thinking, always in full production.’
The waiter comes again, taking away the fish course, and bringing instead a meat dish which bubbles away in strange sauces. ‘Lakuku,’ says Vera, pointing, ‘The veal of a cow cooked as not in any other country.’ ‘The vegetable,’ says Lubijova, ‘A special grass that grows only under the sheeps on a mountain.’ Across the table Tankic is rising, with a refilled glass: ‘Says he likes to make another toast,’ says Lubijova, ‘To the beautiful ladies, for the first time, this time very sincerely.’ ‘Really, this man,’ says Katya Princip, ‘I think he does not like me to drink. Perhaps he knows that when I am drunk I talk only about my lovers.’ ‘What about your lovers?’ asks Vera, giggling. ‘Oh, do you like to know?’ asks Princip, ‘Well, I have had many lovely lovers, such nice lovers, because, you see, I love love.’ ‘You are lucky,’ says Vera. ‘Not always,’ says Princip, ‘So, Mr Petwit, what do you do here? Do you make lectures?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘Tomorrow, at the university.’ ‘Oh, I would like to come there,’ says Katya Princip. ‘It is for the students,’ says Lubijova. ‘See, she does not like me to come there,’ says Princip, ‘Do you like me to come there?’ ‘I’d be delighted,’ says Petworth. ‘Then perhaps I do it,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Here we have a saying: a good friend is someone who visits you when you are in prison. But a really good friend is someone who comes to hear your lectures. Well, I hope now I am your really good friend, so perhaps you will see me there. But you must speak for me very slowly, if you do. I am not so good with the English. Do you do it?’ ‘Of course,’ says Petworth. ‘I like you,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Yes, I think perhaps you will see me there, listening to you.’
Across the table, Tankic is on his feet again, with a full glass: ‘Says, to the beautiful ladies, for the first time, this time truly and entirely sincerely.’ ‘How can we be beautiful, if we cannot drink?’ asks Princip. ‘Of course,’ says Vera, ‘The more that drink the men, the more are the ladies beautiful.’ ‘Oh, Professor Rum likes to ask you a question,’ says Princip, ‘He asks, where do you keep your dissident writers?’ ‘Comrade Tankic asks you something,’ says Lubijova, ‘He asks, how is your British disease?’ ‘He wonders, do you keep them perhaps in a jail in Northern Ireland?’ ‘He asks about the economics of your liberal Lord Keynes, are they dead now in your system?’ ‘Professor Rum says he has been often to London, on his scientific travels, and seen many beggars there, is that true?’ ‘Many beggars, where?’ asks Petworth, eating his grass. ‘He tells they play for money in all the stations of the metro,’ says Katya Princip. ‘Oh, they’re not beggars,’ says Petworth, ‘They’re American tourists financing their vacations.’ ‘He does not believe you,’ says Princip, ‘He says this is what your press likes you to think, but is not the reality. He says do you not think that here under Thatcher is marked the collapse of the capitalist system?’ ‘Soon you join us,’ says Comrade Tankic, leaning over the table, laughing. ‘It’s in trouble,’ says Petworth, ‘But I don’t think it’s collapsing.’ ‘Oh, Mr Petwit, now you have upset Professor Rum!’ says Katya Princip, ‘He thinks you deny the immanent reality of the historical process. He suspects you are a bourgeois relativist. I tell him it cannot possibly be true.’ ‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about politics or economics,’ says Petworth, ‘It’s really not my field.’ ‘Oh, Mr Petwit, you don’t know politics, you don’t have economics, how do you exist?’ cries Princip, ‘I’m afraid you are not a character in the world historical sense.’ ‘Your heart’s good, your system, bad,’ says Tankic, leaning across the table, laughing. ‘So who could put you in a story?’ says Princip, ‘Poor Petwit, I am sorry. For you there is no story at all.’
The curtains to the alcove are now thrown o
pen, and through them comes the waiter; impressively, he is bearing high a vast white dessert, an elaborate concoction from which bright blue flames are rising. ‘Oh, look,’ cries Vera, ‘It is vish’nou!’ ‘Oh, this is very nice,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you have in your country?’ ‘I don’t think so,’ says Petworth, ‘What’s in it?’ ‘Outside is an ice cream, inside, nurdu,’ says Vera, ‘You know nurdu?’ ‘I can’t say it in English,’ says Lubijova, ‘A very nice fruit that is not an orange.’ ‘And not a lemon,’ says Vera. ‘A melon?’ asks Petworth. ‘A little bit like, but not really,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you know that name, Comrade Princip?’ ‘No, not the name,’ says Katya Princip, ‘But I know a story all about.’ ‘Oh, tell us,’ says Vera. ‘It is a bit long,’ says Princip, ‘Do you really like to hear it, Mr Petwit?’ ‘Of course,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, really for a story you should give me a precious stone, but I don’t think you have one,’ says Princip, ‘Perhaps if I tell it you give me one little wish instead. Do you agree?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘So, once upon a certain time, and you know all stories start so, there was a king who had three sons, and the youngest is called Stupid,’ says Katya Princip. ‘That is his name?’ asks Vera, ‘Stupid?’ ‘In your story call him what you like,’ says Princip firmly, ‘but in mine he is called Stupid. And one day the king tells Stupid he must travel to another land and make a peace with the king of it, because these two kings have fighted each other. Fighted?’ ‘Fought,’ says Petworth. ‘Good, you help,’ says Princip, ‘So Stupid goes to that other court, and there he sees the king’s daughter, a very beautiful princess, and you know what happens, because it always does. Stupid falls there in love.’ ‘That is why he is called Stupid?’ asks Vera. ‘He is called Stupid because I like to call him Stupid,’ says Princip, ‘Do I go on?’
‘Please,’ says Petworth. ‘Her father the king, a rough man with a big red beard, tells: Stupid, no, you cannot marry her, because already she is promised to marry another else, so go away. Well, of course, poor Stupid, he is sad, a long, long face right down to here. And he walks out into the forest and there he meets an old woman who is special, she is a makku, we say, do you know?’ ‘A witch,’ says Petworth. ‘That is the word, a witch,’ says Princip, ‘Perhaps you know this story already?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, of course you know some like it,’ says Princip, ‘But perhaps not my special story of poor Stupid. So, that witch tells to Stupid, please, come walk with me in the forest. Well, he goes, the branches catch at his hairs, the animals make howl, he does not know where he goes, you know how it is in forests. And then suddenly they are both falling, down a dark, dark hole, a long far way. And then, bouff!, they are at the bottom, with sore behinds. And there in front is a new land, with great trees and sunshine and gardens, and on top of a hill a castle, with some high towers. Well, Stupid looks up at the castle and there, in the very highest window, on highest tower, he thinks he sees, looking out, his very beautiful princess. In the sky is the shining sun, in front of them some water. Some frogs sit there on the water-plants, and the witch, who can talk to them, asks them all about that castle. And they tell, be careful, it belongs to a great big bad man, bigger than anybody, what do you call him?’ ‘A giant?’ asks Petworth.
‘You are very good, really you should tell this story, it is a giant,’ says Katya Princip, patting his arm, ‘A giant who every day takes a prisoner, a very beautiful girl, and he kills her at night when goes down the sun. Well, Stupid does not like this news, and sees also that the sun begins to go down, down, down behind the trees. And so of course he approaches to the castle and tries to go in there, to rescue his princess. But the gate is shut, and on every window are many bars. He looks up again at the sun, it slips nearer and nearer the ground. He looks up at the high window, and there, beside the lady, who cries, he sees that, what do you call, giant, and there in his hand is a big axe that is made specially just for great giants like him. The girl leans, and tries to shout, but over her face the giant puts his big hand, and he laughs down the tower at Stupid. Well, Stupid shakes at the gate, he pushes at the windows, what would you do, but he finds no ways to get inside. What can he do next?’ ‘He could ask for help the witch,’ says Vera. ‘My dear, you are right,’ says Princip, ‘He turns to that witch, a good witch, a bad witch, he does not know. He does not know anything, he is Stupid. So the witch tells again, come, walk with me, and she takes him to a beautiful garden next the castle, in it many trees and plants. The sun is going now, the castle rises high, and no way at all to go in. But the witch takes Stupid over to a big round fruit that is on the ground. The sun has made it a bright yellow, and inside is fat and good to eat, how do you call it, Petwit?’ ‘A marrow,’ says Petworth. ‘No, not marrow, but like,’ says Princip, ‘Inside is more sweet. A fruit that is in all the stories.’ ‘Yes, of course,’ says Petworth, ‘A pumpkin.’ ‘That is it, pumpkin,’ says Katya Princip, ‘And now you know what vish’nou is made of. Now you know what you eat. Try it and tell me you like it.’
‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘But what happened to the prince?’ ‘To Stupid?’ asks Princip, ‘Oh, now it is no matter. Don’t you find out what is your dessert?’ ‘I’d also like to find out how the story ends,’ says Petworth. ‘But you know how it ends,’ says Princip. ‘That is the end, on your plate. I made it to make you remember a name.’ ‘But now we all are thinking, what has happened to Stupid?’ says Vera. ‘Why? How does it matter?’ says Princip, ‘You know what happens to Stupid, all stories are the same, you know the end already.’ ‘Please tell,’ says Vera. ‘Oh, of course the witch is a good witch, Stupid goes into the castle and he kills the giant, the princess goes home with him, the king her father with the big red beard tells he is very sorry, and they marry and live happy ever after, under socialism, and make many children who all work hard for the state.’ ‘But no more adventures for Stupid?’ asks Lubijova. ‘Of course some adventures, but the adventures are always the same, and they do not change the story,’ says Princip, ‘What matters is: it is a useful story, Maxim Gorky would please. Petwit knows now what meal he eats, it is pumpkin,’ ‘We never heard what the pumpkin did, in the story,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, so many questions, I wonder why?’ says Princip, ‘The pumpkin of course did what pumpkins like to do in the stories. It turned to something else, perhaps a ladder, perhaps a coach. Perhaps someone climbed the ladder, perhaps someone rode the coach. But it is no matter. You are in Slaka, you make your meal, you eat your fruit, and you know it is pumpkin.’ ‘You see now what kind of a book Comrade Princip likes to write,’ says Lubijova. ‘Not really,’ says Princip, ‘My books are a bit magical also, but more complete. And I never tell them at official lunches. Of course, Mr Petwit, if one day our paths are crossing somewhere, if you come back again here to Slaka, well, then I might really tell you what happened to that prince and that pumpkin. You see, what I tell now is not true. There were some more adventures. The witch was not such a good witch, the giant did not die like that. The girl in the tower was not as she appeared, the king with the red beard was not such a good king. So, poor Stupid.’
‘And the pumpkin?’ asks Vera. ‘No, the pumpkin did not really turn into a ladder or a coach. Poor Stupid ate it, and came in the power of the witch, and some very strange things happened to him.’ ‘Won’t you tell?’ asks Lubijova. ‘Please, it is late,’ says Princip, ‘Also I have talked so much to our guest that, don’t you see, his vish’nou gets cold. Finish it quickly, please, Mr Petwit, or it is not nice.’ Tankic leans across the table and says something to Petworth, laughing. ‘Says a bureaucrat always has a bureau, and he must go to his,’ says Lubijova, ‘He says he knows you are a good man because you like to drink with him. So he makes you one last toast. To good tour, good lectures, good times and also one more thing. To the beautiful ladies, for the first time, this time completely and more than ever sincerely.’ The glasses go up again; Tankic beams, half kind and half malicious. ‘So, Mr Petworth,’ says Tankic, putting on his shortie raincoat and his black Homburg hat
, ‘Take care for bad witches.’ ‘I will,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, Comrade Princip,’ says Vera, squeezing Petworth’s arm, ‘You didn’t ask your wish of him!’ ‘Oh, yes, my wish,’ says Katya Princip, combing her hair at a mirror, ‘I had forgotten it. It was just a little wish and you probably do not have time for it. My wish was only, Mr Petwit, please come take walk with me.’ ‘To the forest?’ says Vera. ‘Not the forest, I am not bad witch,’ says Katya Princip, laughing, ‘Just to a café. I want to show you our beer, our thinking, and something else interesting. Do you have just a little time?’ ‘Comrade Lubijova can go with you,’ says Vera, ‘Then you do not get lost.’ ‘Do we do it?’ asks Princip. There is a small pulsing in Petworth’s head, the effect of a long day of toasts. The lunch has been good, the company pleasing, and it seems too soon to end it. ‘Do you think so, Marisja?’ he asks. ‘If you want it,’ says Lubijova. ‘Good, we go,’ says Katya Princip, holding out Petworth’s coat to him, leading him through the dining-room beyond, now quite empty except for the gaping fish, and out of the Restaurant Propp.
IV
And now it is later, and the sun is going down, and a very good-humoured, very confused Petworth is walking through a vast busy market place. The rain still falls, the crowds are wet, the people push; the stalls are lamp lit, and on them strange twisted vegetables, great beets and garlics, release a warm odour into the air. All round are high old gabled houses; by the curbside, an organ-grinder in a bent old felt hat, and white moustache fringed with nicotine, turns a handle on a hurdygurdy where a wet, jacketed monkey chatters. Peasants with sere old faces move by in shawls to keep off the rain; in the centre of the square is an ancient market hall, topped with a high ornate tower with on it a decorated old clock. ‘Isn’t it nice, don’t you like it?’ asks Katya Princip, in her sheepskin waistcoat, holding his arm, ‘Really my favourite place in Slaka. Don’t you like the shapes of these vegetables? It is the private produce those peasants grow in their yards, to make a little money.’ Ahead of them, Marisja Lubijova walks with Professor Rum, whose topcoat is back over his shoulders: ‘Which café do you like?’ asks Lubijova, turning to stare back at them. ‘Oh, dear, she does not enjoy this,’ says Princip, ‘Café Grimm, on the other side. Yes, it is nice, Mr Petwit. I hope it makes no trouble for you.’ ‘Trouble?’ asks Petworth, ‘Why?’ ‘I was wicked there, they do not ask me again, to an official lunch,’ says Princip, ‘Of course they cannot blame you, but if you are clever, you should refuse to come with me.’ ‘But they wanted me to come,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes?’ says Princip, laughing, ‘Didn’t you see their faces, Tankic and his mistress? This is why they sent your nice lady guide with you.’ ‘His mistress?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course his mistress,’ says Princip, ‘Why else does she go to such a lunch? There is a saying here: in my country some people advance on their knees, others on their backs. I think that is one that advances on her back.’ ‘This one, Grimm?’ asks Lubijova, turning, ‘Do we go inside?’ ‘No, we sit outside, even though it rains,’ says Princip, ‘You see, we have a thing to show you, Mr Petwit.’
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