Rates of Exchange

by Malcolm Bradbury

  ‘Ah, here you are, all enjoying yourselves hugely,’ cries Budgie Steadiman, emerging in a small apron from the inner intestines of the apartment, ‘Our little sensation is going very well. Angus, give me a wee sip of your drinkie. I hope they’re all entertaining you. Has anyone bothered to show you our quite outstanding view?’ The outstanding view to which Budgie leads him is mostly of darkness, for Slaka at night is not as brightly lit as most Western cities. But the big moon glows, with a dome and a tower or two sticking up into its great orb; lights twinkle somewhere down below, and the red star flashes on the top of Party Headquarters. Down below in the street, under faint trees, a few, a very few, cars and a few muffled human figures move. ‘I never cooked terribly well,’ says Budgie, interlacing her fingers with Petworth’s, ‘We always used to advise our guests to eat first before they came to our dinner parties. But I’m quite a vigorous hostess. Of course I had an excellent upbringing. You don’t think I’m too grande dame for one of my tender years?’ ‘Not at all,’ says Petworth. ‘Bless you, Angus,’ says Budgie, ‘You know, I think we’re two of a kind. Two lonely, tense, star-crossed people. In this world, like knows like. I feel a curious deep intimacy growing up between us.’ ‘Cam’radaku,’ says a voice; the big bulk of Magda is somehow squeezing itself in between them. ‘Angus, excuse me,’ says Budgie, ‘I’m afraid I must try my pidgin. Da, Magda?’ ‘Squassu, squassu,’ says Magda. ‘I’m afraid that means our tête-à -tête must be deferred a little, not, I hope, for long,’ says Budgie, ‘Magda tells me the soup is ready. Attention, please, everybody. Magda bids us to the table!’

  And so the small party moves, across from the Mexican masks and the Iranian donkey bags to the dining table just round the corner, set with silver from Paris and place mats from Korea. Before the settings stand little folded place cards, written in a foreign hand; to the right of the hostess is one that says ‘Doktor Pumwum.’ ‘Yes, come beside me,’ says Budgie, squeezing Petworth’s leg under the table, ‘And you’re on my other side, Dr Plitplov.’ ‘Do we get nearer now to the secret?’ asks Plitplov, sitting down and shaking out his napkin, ‘Is it perhaps a something to eat?’ ‘Cunning man,’ says Budgie, slapping his wrist, ‘Remember, pleasure deferred is pleasure increased. That has always been my motto, so long as I haven’t had to wait too long. As the great Mae West once said, I like a man who takes his time.’ ‘This is a philosopher?’ asks Plitplov. ‘No, she’s a film star, in our part of the world,’ says Budgie, ‘Have you been to our part of the world, Dr Plitplov? Have they let you out to take a look?’ ‘I have been several times,’ says Plitplov, ‘In London and some other cities. I have good recollections of Tottenham Court Road.’ ‘I’m not surprised,’ says Budgie, ‘How that imprints itself on the memory. They must think well of you here, if they let you out.’ ‘I have not committed bad offences,’ says Plitplov, ‘But of course we are quite liberal now, in many ways. You see how we invite here your fine speakers, like Dr Petworth.’ ‘A quite outstanding choice,’ says Budgie. ‘Of course, I think so,’ says Plitplov, ‘We expect to learn many fine things from him and improve our self-criticisms, Do you read perhaps his good books?’ ‘Well, no,’ says Budgie, ‘I think I’ll wait for the film.’

  Magda appears, with a soup tureen and a ladle; Steadiman tours the table with a bottle of white wine. ‘And do you perhaps have some children?’ asks Plitplov. ‘We did have some somewhere, two or three,’ says Budgie, ‘Where are our children now, Felix?’ ‘Ow ow Oundle,’ says Steadiman, pouring wine. ‘Please?’ says Plitplov. ‘At an English public school,’ says Budgie, ‘Which of course means a private school. You probably know, the better class of Briton likes to send his children away to school until they’re old and intelligent enough to come home again. Then they’re too old and intelligent to want to. Angus, do you have children? Little Petworths crying in their cots?’ ‘No, I don’t,’ says Petworth. ‘But there is a Mrs Petworth, is there?’ asks Budgie, ‘Matrimony has not passed you by?’ ‘Yes, there is,’ says Petworth. ‘I hope she is very charming,’ says Plitplov. ‘Indeed,’ says Petworth. ‘Yet you didn’t bring her with you to Slaka,’ says Budgie, ‘Was that thoughtfulness or neglect?’ ‘She’s not entirely well,’ says Petworth. Plitplov looks across the table at him: ‘I hope you have telephoned her,’ he says. ‘Mr Plitplov, I seem to remember we sent you to the Cambridge summer school once,’ says Miss Peel, leaning along the table. ‘Who, I?’ cries Plitplov. ‘Do you know it at all, Mr Petworth?’ asks Miss Peel. ‘Yes, I do, actually,’ says Petworth, ‘I’ve given the odd lecture there.’ ‘We’ve managed to send a few people over on scholarships,’ says Miss Peel, ‘Rather difficult, the authorities always want to substitute others. It must have been three years ago when we sent you, Mr Plitplov.’ ‘To Cambridge?’ asks Plitplov. ‘Yes, to Cambridge,’ says Miss Peel.

  Magda has come again, to collect up the soup plates; Steadiman has risen, to fill their glasses again. ‘It won’t be long now for the secret,’ cries Budgie, ‘Oxford was my university, I read history with A. J. P. Taylor. I was very famous there, for my breasts.’ ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, gallantly, ‘This is to be expected.’ ‘Alas, they’re not what they were,’ says Budgie, ‘Time and tide, wear and tear, take their toll even of the most perfect monuments.’ ‘Of course not, they are quite outstanding, one immediately remarks it,’ says Plitplov, ‘Don’t you say so, Dr Petworth?’ ‘You’re very kind,’ says Budgie, ‘Notable, perhaps, but not outstanding. Good but not excellent. Not of the first rank, but worthy of a visit.’ ‘So did you go to Cambridge?’ asks Miss Peel. ‘To beautiful Cambridge?’ says Plitplov, ‘perhaps I was there. But you understand my confusions. In my country, if you study English, you must study also the Russian. This is how we keep a balance. So now I am in Moscow, now perhaps in Cambridge. Here I read Gorky, there I read Trollope. Here I see Bolshoi, there I see Covent Garden. In Moscow I study the Marxist aesthetics, and in Cambridge, if it was Cambridge . . .’ ‘You study Marxist aesthetics also,’ says Budgie Steadiman. ‘And for the travelling scholar it is hard to keep such things apart, don’t you say so, Dr Petworth?’ says Plitplov. ‘It can all become a blur,’ says Petworth. ‘Cambridge and Moscow? Really?’ says Miss Peel, ‘I wouldn’t have thought they were terribly easy to confuse.’ ‘Of course one remembers certain differences,’ says Plitplov. ‘Like what?’ asks Mr Blenheim. ‘In Russia the smell is of food and cats,’ says Plitplov, ‘In England of drink and dogs.’ ‘I see you’re a man of subtle cultural discriminations,’ says Budgie. ‘Can I just be clear?’ says Miss Peel, ‘Did you or did you not go to Cambridge? I’m sure we sponsored you.’ ‘Then I am very grateful,’ says Plitplov. ‘Good,’ says Miss Peel, ‘Now then, Dr Petworth, when did you lecture there? Where you there three years ago?’

  ‘Just a moment, just a moment!’ cries Budgie, ‘Here comes the secret! The sensation of the evening!’ In her big black dress, Magda is now advancing on them from the kitchen; high in her hands she holds a large silver covered dish. ‘It is here, in here, your secret?’ asks Plitplov, staring at it curiously. ‘Put it down on the table, Magda,’ says Budgie, ‘Thank you very much. Well, shall we ask our honoured guest if he’d unveil it? I’m a great believer in putting our visitors to good use. If you please, Angus.’ As the faces round the table watch, Petworth reaches and lifts the cover of the dish: to disclose, beneath it, a quantity of meaty, brown, skin-covered objects, not unlike cooked turds, assembled in neat rows. ‘Oh, don’t they look marvellous,’ cries Miss Peel. ‘Bella, multa bella,’ cries Mr Blenheim. Only Plitplov looks sceptical; he leans forward a little, to inspect. ‘Do you know them?’ asks Budgie. ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, unbelieving, ‘This is a sausage.’ ‘Yes, but a British sausage,’ says Budgie. ‘A Marks and Spencer sausage,’ says Miss Peel. ‘The secret is a sausage?’ says Plitplov. ‘You must have gone to an enormous amount of trouble,’ says Miss Peel. ‘Actually,’ says Budgie, ‘they came over yesterday in the diplomatic bag. They must have been on the same plane
as you, Angus.’ ‘Let’s empty our glug glug glasses,’ says Felix Steadiman, ‘I think we really ought to switch to the red.’ ‘This party is all for a sausage?’ asks Plitplov. ‘The party is to celebrate Angus’s arrival,’ says Budgie, squeezing Petworth’s leg under the table, ‘But we wanted to give everyone a treat.’ ‘I will tell you a secret myself,’ says Plitplov, ‘Even in Slaka, where we are so backward, we have invented the sausage.’ ‘Ah, but not like these sausages,’ says Miss Peel.

  So, as the big orb of the moon shines curiously in through the window, and in the Slakan night the signs saying MUG and COMFLUG flash furiously on and off, the British exiles raise their knives and forks and devote themselves to the delicacy. The sausages are served, as well they might be, with an attempt at mashed potatoes, a bottle of red tomato sauce, and a red wine that Steadiman takes round the table, saying: ‘They have some quite out outstanding wines here you can’t get at home. Unfortunately this isn’t one of them.’ The candlelight flickers; only Plitplov appears bemused. ‘How do I explain such a people to my students?’ he says, ‘In the middle of history, in these strange times, when everywhere there are diplomatical dangers, you come all here to celebrate the sausage. Is this what is called phlegm?’ ‘Just tell them the British know how to make a good sausage,’ says Blenheim. ‘I’m afraid it’s not such a treat for you, Angus,’ says Budgie, ‘You probably have them all the time,’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘But they are quite delicious.’ ‘Always he is diplomatic,’ says Plitplov, ‘This was noticed, even in . . .’ ‘In Cambridge?’ asks Miss Peel, ‘You did meet there?’ ‘These things are very hard to know,’ says Plitplov, ‘So many lectures, so many faces. How do you recall?’ ‘What about you, Dr Petworth?’ asks Miss Peel, ‘Do you recall Dr Plitplov?’ ‘We may have talked once, in a public house,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, I don’t think it,’ says Plitplov, ‘I do not like to go into those places.’ ‘What did you lecture on, Dr Petworth?’ asks Miss Peel. ‘I believe it was on Chomskyan linguistics,’ says Petworth, ‘A rather specialist affair.’ ‘It doesn’t ring any bells, Dr Plitplov?’ asks Miss Peel, ‘The lecture made no imprint on you at all?’

  ‘I think I do now recall it,’ says Plitplov, ‘An excellent piece, now I remember. Such a strange coincidence, that our paths cross again.’ ‘Yes, isn’t it,’ says Miss Peel. ‘Of course you will not at all remember me,’ says Plitplov, ‘I was just one of so many listening to your words with admiration.’ ‘I believe I do, actually,’ says Petworth, ‘Weren’t you working on Trollope?’ ‘Oh, my small chef d’oeuvre,’ says Plitplov, ‘Do you recollect it?’ ‘Trollope,’ says Budgie, ‘Wasn’t he some kind of postman?’ ‘Your great novelist,’ says Plitplov, ‘More famous than a sausage.’ ‘I think you know each other perfectly well,’ says Miss Peel, ‘I don’t see any need for concealment.’ ‘Well,’ says Plitplov, as if stirred to act, suddenly looking at Petworth with his bird-like eyes, ‘Perhaps I do not wish to embarrass your guest.’ ‘How could you possibly embarrass him?’ asks Budgie, ‘He doesn’t look at all embarrassed.’ ‘Oh, I think we don’t discuss such a thing,’ says Plitplov, ‘In front of the nice people enjoying their sausages. I think you make a saying in your country: let the sleeping dogs lie?’ ‘I can’t imagine what you’re talking about,’ says Petworth. ‘It is just I recall a little problem between us that has made me very discreet.’ ‘How utterly fascinating,’ says Budgie, ‘What little problem?’ ‘No, I go too far,’ says Plitplov, ‘Really I should not mention it. Your wife would not please with me.’ ‘My wife?’ says Petworth.‘Her name is Lottie,’ says Plitplov. ‘I know her name is Lottie,’ says Petworth. ‘A very amusing lady,’ says Plitplov, ‘She smokes the little cigars. She came to Cambridge and we made some very good walks together, also sometimes the shoppings. Well, on these occasions sometimes certain confidences are made that should not be repeated. Now you see why I make a little concealment.’

  ‘You went for walks with my wife?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, you do not know this?’ asks Plitplov, ‘I am wrong to mention it, then. Really I do not mean it. But so many glasses of whisky, and now this nice sausage, I am not so cautious as I should be.’ ‘This is fascinating,’ says Budgie. ‘What kind of confidences?’ asks Petworth. ‘I think I displayed her just a friendship that was necessary,’ says Plitplov, ‘Often the ladies need a person to talk to about their troubles.’ ‘This is true,’ says Budgie. ‘What troubles?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, you are angry, please do not blame me,’ says Plitplov, ‘You see how hard I try to conceal what has happened there from these people. You know I am your good friend. Only if your wife is still with you, and you are happy again, please to remember I had just a little finger in that pie.’ ‘She wanted to leave him?’ asks Budgie, ‘Oh, Angus, now we begin to see the secret of your gloom.’ ‘This is nonsense,’ says Petworth. ‘She did not ever explain you?’ asks Plitplov, ‘Well, it is natural. We cannot always tell our distresses to those who come closest to them. That is why a stranger is sometimes a good friend. Such a person may see what the involved ones do not: that a person is sad, feels a neglect, has a distress.’ ‘And you performed this generous service for my wife?’ asks Petworth. ‘I was there when a certain help was needed,’ says Plitplov, ‘You must remember, you are a famous scholar, everyone is admiring you. You are giving notable lectures on the Chomskyan linguistics and all are spellbound. But for her life is not the same. She comes, but no one regards her. She walks alone in the streets. There are fulfilments she does not enjoy. It is natural she talks to someone who can listen, even if that is a stranger from a faraway country where you cannot get even an English sausage.’

  ‘I recognize all those feelings,’ says Budgie Steadiman.‘What exactly did you do with my wife?’ asks Petworth.‘Please, it was just a little friendship,’ says Plitplov, ‘All the time I am speaking very well of you. I tell her a fine scholar is a very valuable man, who needs very special understandings. I point out to her the high spots of your work. Not every woman appreciates these achievements. I explain of course you are attractive to other women, of course your students fall a little sometimes in love with you, and you are flattered. But this does not mean always that love is ended. Now you understand perhaps why I am curious about her condition. When one has been of such an assistance, one feels a devotion. Of course my respect is for both of you. You know you helped me very well with my book. I have made due acknowledgement in the preface, which I will like to show you. But now you see why I do not like to mention such acquaintances. It is better if such things are just a little secret. Like a sausage.’ ‘I think in matters of sex discretion is sometimes advisable,’ says Budgie Steadiman, ‘I’m afraid we live in an age of excessive sexual confession. There are people nowadays who only go to bed with you to tell you long stories about all the other people they’ve had, who, and when, and how often, where and why and which way up. Personally I find it quite distasteful. One gets quite enough of that sort of thing at the hairdresser.’ ‘Please, Dr Petworth, remember,’ says Plitplov, his eyes glinting sharply across the table, ‘I am always your good friend. I like to make a nice toast to you for your tour, and hope it will be always a success. Also I try to get to your lecture, because I hope our paths cross somewhere again.’ ‘How very nice,’ says Budgie.

  But now Magda is with them again, putting on the table a cakey, flakey dessert. ‘Perhaps you could tell Dr Petworth a bit about these places he will visit,’ says Felix Steadiman from the other end of the table. ‘I will make some advices if I can,’ says Plitplov, ‘But of course I do not know the places you visit.’ ‘Glit, Nogod and Provd,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, really?’ says Plitplov, ‘Well, these are cities out in the country. You will have nice times there, I know.’ ‘But what are they like?’ asks Steadiman. ‘They are towns, like all towns,’ says Plitplov, ‘I do not know them so well. But I think you have a guideinterpreter. She of course will tell you where you are. You know: in my country we have a saying.’ ‘I bet you do,’ says Mr Blenheim. ‘You cannot build
a city with words only,’ says Plitplov, ‘Also: the future will come, whether we speak of it or not. I am afraid my poor words would spoil these places for you.’ ‘But who will he meet?’ asks Budgie. ‘In Glit is Professor Vlic,’ says Plitplov, ‘He has good assistants who will ask advanced Marxist questions. In Nogod, not so good perhaps, the professor is a lady, Personip. In Provd is not university, so I think you attend congress, perhaps in a place that was once hunting lodge for the emperors. But I think you can explain all this, Mr Steadiman.’ ‘Well, no,’ says Steadiman, ‘These places are in the yellow areas.’ ‘What is yellow areas?’ asks Plitplov ‘The areas marked yellow on the diplomatic map,’ says Steadiman, ‘Where we’re not allowed to go.’ Plitplov’s face whitens:‘Then you should not ask me,’ he says, ‘Now I am indiscreet again. Tonight I say too many things.’