‘Aaaarrggghhh,’ says the man, turning; the two gipsies now come on either side of him, and begin bowing their fiddles at him in musical frenzy. ‘Not today, thank you,’ says the man to the gipsies, ‘Who are you?’ ‘My name’s Petworth,’ says Petworth, ‘I thought you might be looking for me.’ ‘Pet Pet Petworth?’ says the man, his fresh features taking on an expression of cunning, ‘And you’re looking for a chap called Ster Ster Steadiman?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘You’re alone?’ asks the man. ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And no one followed you here?’ asks the man. ‘Only you,’ says Petworth. ‘And you think I might be this chap whatsisname you’re looking for?’ says the man, who has a public-school English accent. ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Look, do let’s sit down,’ says the man. ‘I’ve already got a table,’ says Petworth. ‘Where is it?’ asks the man. ‘Over there in the alcove,’ says Petworth. ‘Show me,’ says the man, ‘Is this it?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Very good, old chap,’ says the man, after a moment, sitting down, ‘Do take a pew.’ ‘Thank you,’ says Petworth. The man looks around, and then lifts up the table-lamp and looks curiously underneath it. ‘We should be alright here,’ he says, ‘Do you have a pass pass passport?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘May I see it?’ says the man lifting up the table cloth and looking underneath it. ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Aaarrggghh,’ says the man, taking the passport, and looking at it, ‘Very good. And what was the name of the contact you were looking for?’ ‘Steadiman,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, believe it or not,’ says the man, ‘That’s me, actually. Yes, I’m St St Steadiman. Well well welcome to Slaka.’ ‘Thank you,’ says Petworth. ‘Clever of you to spot me,’ says Steadiman, ‘I like to keep a low pro pro profile. I suppose it was the suit.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth.
And indeed, close to, it is clear that this suit is not like other suits; the other male garments here and there about the room are only pale approximations to the suit Steadiman wears, which is suit itself. It is pin-striped, its lapels handstitched and exact; the jacket falls open to reveal a neat waistcoat, the bottom button left statutorily undone; the finely creased trousers drape carefully over clocked silk socks and finely cleaned shoes. The shirt underneath is wide-striped, and bespeaks an address in Jermyn Street; on the collar is a scatter of blood spots, that necessary testament to fine wet shaving. The tie is an English tie, indicating its character as a badge of membership, of some club or regiment or school, without uttering the vulgarity of being actually recognizable. And the face above, staring frankly at Petworth, and then with suspicious cunning round the rest of the room, well, that is clearly made from British genes; fine, long-chinned, it has that hopeful, boyish expression, touched with a small adult pain, that makes all Englishmen feel they have once sobbed collectively together in the dorm of some universal prep school after lights out, even if, like Petworth, they never went to one. Yes, Steadiman is, quite certainly and unmistakably, Steadiman, the Second Secretary at the Embassy. ‘Awfully sorry,’ he says ‘Multos apologiosas about being late. I had to go out to the air and pick up the dip, out to the airport and pick up the diplomatic pouch. Of course the Heathrow flight was three hours late again. I wonder if those chaps who are always on strike ever think they might be putting our international relations in utter jep jep jeopardy. I think it’s time for drinkies.’
Steadiman suddenly raises his right arm high in the air, and leaves it there. ‘Were you out at the airport yesterday?’ asks Petworth. ‘Ah,’ says Steadiman, ‘Aaarrgghh. Why do you ask? Think you spotted me there, do you?’ ‘I did actually, yes,’ says Petworth, ‘I saw you waving after my taxi.’ ‘Oh, did you?’ says Steadiman, looking a little crestfallen, ‘Yes, I had to go to the air and pick up the dip, so I thought I’d do a little careful checking to make sure you’d made a safe land land landfall. We like to keep an eye on our high-level visitors, you know; but their Min Min Ministraty doesn’t like us po po poaching on their pa pa patch. Naturally one’s a little discreet.’ ‘Naturally,’ says Petworth. ‘But they are looking after you nicely?’ asks Steadiman, ‘Giving you a goo goo good time?’ ‘Very good,’ says Petworth. ‘And did they give you an official lunch today?’ asks Steadiman. ‘They did,’ says Petworth. ‘Tell me,’ says Steadiman, looking carefully round the room, ‘Who was the host? Was it the min the min the Min . . .’ ‘No, it wasn’t the Minister,’ says Petworth, ‘It was a man called Tankic.’ ‘Ah, yes, Tankic,’ says Steadiman, ‘My wife’s met him. Bald, humorous sort of chap.’ ‘That’s it,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, well, they gave you their number three,’ says Steadiman, ‘Not bad. Very clever operator, Tankic. Big in the party, they say, and undoubtedly destined for high high higher things. Ruthless as hell, of course. As they put it here, he’d sell his mother to the butcher to improve the food production target. Where did he take you?’ ‘The Restaurant Propp,’ says Petworth. ‘Really?’ says Steadiman, ‘Very good. They’re treating you well. I wonder what they’re up to. What happened to our drink?’ ‘I ordered one three-quarters of an hour ago,’ says Petworth, ‘It never came.’ ‘Oh, they’ll come for me,’ says Steadiman, confidently, clicking the fingers on his raised right arm, ‘Over here, my dear. Two thirsty gentlemen waiting.’ Evidently the confidence is justified; the red-checked waitress, smiling pleasantly, comes over to the table. ‘See what I mean?’ says Steadiman, beaming up at her cherubically, a faint babyfuzz on his cheekbones, ‘They always come, I don’t know why. Hello, my dear. Now then, what would you say to a nice cock a nice cock . . .?’ ‘Not a cocktail for me, thanks,’ says Petworth. ‘Something a bit softer, then?’ asks Steadiman, continuing to beam up at the waitress. ‘I’d just like the Sch’veppuu I ordered earlier,’ says Petworth.
‘Ah,’ says Steadiman, ‘Aaarrggghhh. The Sch’veppy you ordered earlier. Let me just explain that to her. Heh, froliki . . .’ ‘Da?’ says the waitress, attentive. ‘Mi amicatog,’ says Steadiman. ‘Ah, do, tou amucutak,’ says the waitress, encouragingly. ‘Da, mi amicatog op darigayet ei Sch’veppy,’ says Steadiman. ‘Da, durg’atap oc Sch’veppuu,’ says the waitress. ‘That’s it, well, if you could just bring it,’ says Steadiman. ‘Ah, da, da,’ says the waitress. ‘I think she’s got it,’ says Steadiman, ‘Ec op ig ei ginnitoniki, da?’ ‘Da,’ says the girl, ‘Oc gunnutonukku.’ ‘That’s it,’ says Steadiman, ‘Ec froliki, metto pikani, da?’ ‘Mettu pekanu,’ says the girl. ‘Nice girl,’ says Steadiman, looking after her appreciatively as she goes away, ‘Good bust good bust good bustling manner. Of course she’s flat she’s flat she’s flattered if you try to speak the lingo. The trouble is they’re changing it, you’ve probably heard. Hence the small diff diff difficulties.’ ‘Yes, I gathered that,’ says Petworth. ‘I find that typically foreign,’ says Steadiman, ‘It’s just like the French parking system. You learn to park on one side of the street and then, just because it’s the ver ver vernal equinox or something, they switch it over to the other.’ ‘Well, there have been languages that changed with the seasons,’ says Petworth, ‘And others that changed according to sex.’ ‘Acc acc according to sex?’ says Steadiman. ‘Where men and women have different words for the same things,’ says Petworth. ‘Ridiculous,’ says Steadiman, ‘Of course, you’re a bit of an expert on these things, I believe. Isn’t lin lin lingo your line?’ ‘Linguistics, yes,’ says Petworth. ‘I suppose you know lots of languages,’ says Steadiman, ‘Shouldn’t bother too much with this one, though. You’re only here for two weeks, and you’ll never need to use it again. I’ve been here three years, and only just mastered it. Then they change it. Thank God for Eng Eng English, at least that stays the same.’
‘Well, not exactly,’ says Petworth, ‘Actually it’s changing quite rapidly.’ ‘Not in Sevenoaks,’ says Steadiman, adjusting his tie, ‘In any case, this change is quite diff diff different, purely political.’ ‘Really,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Steadiman, ‘It’s a bunch of lib lib liberals and diss diss dissidents putting pressure on the regime. So they’ve given ground on the easiest thing, the
lan lan language.’ ‘Hardly the easiest thing,’ says Petworth, ‘Change the language and you change everything.’ ‘Oh, they know what they’re doing,’ says Steadiman, ‘They draw the radicals out of the woodwork, then put them away and everything goes back to normal. It’ll all be the same again in a couple of months, you’ll see. One ought to sympathize, but one’s quite grateful really. Change plays hell with dip dip diplomacy. Anyway, un un understand and be un un un understood, that’s always been my motto.’ ‘So it won’t come to anything,’ says Petworth. ‘It’s a hard regime,’ says Steadiman, ‘But they do know how to run a country. Ah, here come our drinks. I told you she’d look after us.’ And the red-checked waitress is standing smiling above them, putting their two drinks onto the table, along with a bowl of cocktail delicacies. ‘Slibob, my dear,’ says Steadiman, beaming and putting some money in a dish, ‘Por vo.’ ‘Slubob,’ says the waitress, putting the money away, and smiling at Steadiman. ‘Nice people here,’ says Steadiman, watching her leave, ‘Healthy and charming. And the chaps here have the most marvellous nuts.’ ‘Do they?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Steadiman, holding out the bowl of cocktail bits, ‘Try some. They’re a local speciality.’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth, ‘Thank you.’ ‘And they’ve certainly put you in an ex ex excellent ho ho hotel,’ says Steadiman, looking appreciatively round the bar, ‘Couldn’t have done better.’ ‘Yes, it’s quite pleasant,’ says Petworth.
‘Well, first-rate, I’d say,’ says Steadiman, looking around again, ‘You can always tell a good ho ho hotel here by the quality of the tarts. You ought to see the old bags at the Orbis, where we put our visitors. Tell me, what do they charge here?’ ‘I don’t really know,’ says Petworth, ‘The Mun’stratuu’s paying the bill.’ ‘Not the room, the hew hew whores,’ says Steadiman, ‘How much are they?’ ‘I haven’t asked,’ says Petworth, ‘I’m only here two weeks.’ ‘No need,’ says Steadiman, looking at the exotic row of girls by the caravan bar, swinging their legs languorously, ‘You can always tell by their feet.’ ‘Their feet?’ asks Petworth. ‘They always chalk their price on the so so soles of their shoes,’ says Steadiman, ‘Have a look.’ Petworth looks at the swinging legs along the bar, and sees that Marx was right; beneath each leathered shining superstructure there is an economic infra-structure, for each decorated boot, each shining fashion shoe, bears a waving chalked hieroglyph. ‘I didn’t bring my specs,’ says Steadiman, ‘But take for instance the blonde in the middle, the one with the enormous nip enormous nip enormous nip of whisky. How much is she?’ ‘It looks like forty,’ says Petworth, looking. The girl smiles; ‘Forty, really, amazing,’ says Steadiman. ‘Unless it’s her shoe size,’ says Petworth. ‘No, that’s her price,’ says Steadiman, ‘Very good for a girl like that, in a place like this. Think what you’d pay in Chelsea.’ ‘Really, is it?’ asks Petworth, ‘I wouldn’t know. No one’s told me the rate of exchange.’ ‘Ah, the cambio,’ says Steadiman, ‘The wechsel. No one’s explained it to you?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, well,’ says Steadiman, ‘You have to understand you have now entered a loo entered a loo entered a lunatic economy. For all their socialist rationalization, they’ve ended up with about five different rates of exchange.’ ‘Five?’ asks Petworth.
‘It’s utter chaos,’ says Steadiman, sipping his drink, ‘One never knows the value of anything. There’s a dip dip diplomatic rate, the one we get, the worst, of course. Then there’s a bis bis business rate, a congress rate, and a tourist rate. Then there’s the unofficial rate, that’s these chaps who stop you on the street and ask to buy your trousers. They’ll offer you up to twenty times more than the banks. Strictly illegal, of course, mustn’t touch it with a bar bar barge-pole.’ ‘It sounds very confusing,’ says Petworth. ‘It is,’ says Steadiman sourly, staring across at the girls along the bar, ‘What it means is you could be paying anything between the price of a round of drinks and the cost of a three-piece suite for exactly the same ba ba bang. You can get anything you like for a few dollars. Of course, these girls, mustn’t touch them with a bar bar bargepole. You know they make their money by whip whip whipping.’ ‘Do they?’ says Petworth. ‘Whip whip whipping straight round to the security police with any information they can get. Or they arrange for fo fo photographs to be taken, to go into the file until they prove useful. We call it the turn of the screw.’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth, looking at the teasing, tossing, multivalent girls, who are looking across at them. ‘Fraid so,’ says Steadiman, looking gloomily down into his drink, ‘Actually, the answer, as so often, is to turn to private enterprise. Plenty of it about, they’re a prac prac practical people, the Slakans. Or you could try the girls in some of the smaller nightclubs downtown.’ ‘Well, I’m not anxious,’ says Petworth. ‘But even that’s risky. They tell me some of those strip strip strippers have the rank of colonel in the army.’
The girls at the bar have all turned round now, and are staring at them with interest; Steadiman, raising his glass, regards them morosely. ‘I’m afraid cha cha chastity’s the only sensible answer,’ he says, ‘If you can manage it. Of course, you’re only here two weeks. I’ve been here for three years. You know, it’s funny. Before you’re po po posted, the effo the effo give you a brief brief briefing, very detailed and explicit. Microphones and moles, unreliable staff and drugged cigarettes. And they show you these films, all very frank, of dips being comped, diplomats being compromised by beautiful women, sitting up there on the bed, naked except for a gold chain round the waist. For the first year here, you’re ter ter terribly cautious. You stay out of shady corners, you won’t get into a car without the company of a chap chap chaperone. In the second year you relax a bit, and, by God, nothing happens. By the third year, you’re wondering when the devil it’s going to be your turn. You go to the embassy parties, all the French and the Swedes and the Americans and the Ger Ger Germans, and wonder which lucky sod is getting it. And why no one’s after you. Is your info info information so worthless? Are you going to the wrong parties? Have you got bad breath? Doesn’t Britain count any more?’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth. ‘Well,’ says Steadiman, putting some money in the saucer on the table, ‘I suppose we’d better wend our way. We have some people coming in. And my wife has just been die die dying all day to meet you.’ Picking up his umbrella, Steadiman rises, fine in his suit; the whores at the bar watch and giggle; Steadiman casts them a sad glance, and leads the way, through the curtain, up the stairs, out of the lobby, into the night-time square outside.
In the square, blank and empty of most of its people, a sharp fine rain falls over them, blown by an iced wind straight from the Urals. ‘Ah, nice night,’ says Steadiman, erecting his umbrella and looking around, ‘Thought it might be nice to take a stroll. I’ve parked my car several streets away. Share my um.’ Steadiman raises his umbrella over them both, and seizes Petworth firmly by the arm. The icy wind digs deep into his lungs; Marx and Lenin, Lenin and Marx, creak noisily over them as they turn down the narrow street leading out of the square. ‘Yes, I think we just go down here,’ says Steadiman, glancing behind him, and then steering Petworth down a blank-looking alley. ‘It doesn’t seem to go anywhere,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Steadiman. ‘It looks like a dead end,’ says Petworth, as they reach, indeed, a dead end, blocked by a small, closed shop, with one tin of beets in the window, and a small sign over the doorway, which flashes and says PLUC. ‘Now if you’d just mind stepping into this door door doorway,’ says Steadiman, suddenly taking Petworth by the arm and pulling him into the shuttered entrance of the shop. ‘Why?’ asks Petworth. ‘We can’t be seen,’ says Steadiman, folding up his umbrella and clutching Petworth by the arm, ‘Now, I’d like you to show me your it.’ ‘My it?’ asks Petworth. ‘Your it, your it, you must have an it,’ says Steadiman, ‘The Ministraty must have given you one, well, I’d like to see it.’ ‘The it?’ says Petworth, ‘Do you mean my itinerary?’ ‘That’s it,’ says Steadiman. ‘Very well,’ says Petworth, proferring the grey sheet of paper; Steadiman unfo
lds it and, like one trying to read a novel with the aid of the Eddystone lighthouse, he holds it out under the flashing neon sign.
‘Why are you doing this?’ asks Petworth. ‘Entirely in your own in in interest, old chap,’ says Steadiman, ‘It’s my job to keep an eye on you over the next two weeks, and their Ministraty plays its cards very close to its chest. I’ll soon take it in, if this light would just stop flashing, I’m blessed with a fo fo photographic memory.’ ‘It says I’m going to Glit, Nogod and Provd,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh,’ says Steadiman, ‘Does it? Very interesting. You know western dip dip diplomats aren’t allowed in Nogod and Provd?’ ‘Really,’ says Petworth. ‘You are making a report when you get home?’ asks Steadiman. ‘On academic matters, yes,’ says Petworth. ‘That would include soldiers in classrooms, tanks in quads, that sort of thing?’ asks Steadiman. ‘If it affected the teaching of linguistics,’ says Petworth. ‘Ex ex excellent,’ says Steadiman, ‘Provd especially is a centre of linguistic unrest. So if they should shut the place down . . .’ ‘Of course I’d mention it,’ says Petworth, ‘Hardly worth sending visiting lecturers there, is it?’ ‘Splendid,’ says Steadiman, ‘Perhaps we’d better retrace our steps. Could look odd if anyone saw us like this. My car’s by the hotel. Excuse the little ruse, but I wanted a chat. And in this country the street’s the only place where you can hold a rat hold a rat hold a rational conversation.’ ‘I suppose so,’ says Petworth. ‘Car’s dangerous, of course,’ says Steadiman, ‘At least, it has to go in every two weeks for what they call an off off official service, so I assume there’s a bug in it. And of course they have devices in the apartment, and the embassy. We really should be talking in the middle of a newly ploughed field, but that can be a bit difficult in the mid mid middle of a city.’
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