And Madga stands over them, taking away the last plates; under the table, Petworth feels Budgie Steadiman’s hands playing rhythmically across his knees. Across the table is the sharp, glinting face of Plitplov, half malicious, half worried. The troubling conversation runs through his mind, fuddled and gloomy with the day’s drink. Down vague, complicated passages, he tries to think back to his wife, that dark anima; sitting at a table with candles in Slaka, he tries to recover Cambridge, the brown river, the punts, the greenfly, but it seems very far away. The glinting face opposite him looks across, in an expression that could be apologetic, or victorious; he has a moment’s glimpse of that face as it comes, late one night, to the room he and his wife have shared somewhere high in the Cambridge college, bearing, civilly, some carved wooden object, which may have been an egg-holder or a pipestand, doubtless carved by some peasant in these Slakan woods, and talking on into the night long after Petworth has retired exhausted to sleep. But is there more? He remembers the long hours in which his wife wandered, tries to recall whether Plitplov was present or absent at those same times; it is too far away. He looks around at the table of exiles, and wonders why he is here; he recalls a domestic conversation: ‘He asked me if you had great sexual energy; I told him so so.’ A sense of being implicated, complicated, in someone else’s plots comes over him, but he is too tired to understand them, too will-less, too lonely, too personless, not enough the noun, too much the object. ‘Some brandy,’ says Steadiman, coming up with a bottle. ‘No, thank you,’ says Petworth, putting a debilitated hand over his glass. ‘I see you make an excellent choice among our spiritous liquors,’ says Plitplov, smiling, ‘Just a small. But you enjoy it, I think, your diplomatic life here?’
‘Talking of secrets,’ says Budgie Steadiman, putting her hand back on Petworth’s knee, ‘A story that illustrates the odd difficulties of the way we live here. About those yellow areas. You know whenever we leave Slaka, we’re checked to find out where we’re going. We have to report at the control points on every route out of the city. One Friday night we left in the car to go skiing for the weekend. The roads were dark, we had to go through the thick forest, and we must have missed our turn. We came to a small town and checked on the map, and it was in one of the yellow areas. Felix tried get the car turned round, but there was a dance going on in the street, and the dancers came all round us, gipsies playing their violins through the window, you know. We couldn’t move, so I made Felix get out and we joined in the dance.’ ‘I wanted to go, you remember,’ says Felix. ‘But I like dances,’ says Budgie, ‘You know I have a wild and foreign nature. Well, we danced, then we were taken to a house to get warm, and these peasants all started pouring brandy down us, and I sang some songs. Well, we went back to the car, and a huge tent had been built on top of it.’ ‘Who did it?’ asks Miss Peel. ‘The militia,’ says Budgie, ‘They weren’t allowed to move it, you see, because we had diplomatic plates, but they weren’t going to let us move it either.’ ‘So what did you do?’ asks Miss Peel. ‘Oh, we slept in it all night,’ says Budgie, ‘Then in the morning Felix said the only way to get out was to go to the militia and explain. Well, they held us there for two days. We asked them why; they said we had seen things we were not allowed to see. But, I said to the colonel at the barracks, all we saw was a dance. Yes, said the colonel, but to see it is not permitted. So I told him not to be silly and they put us in the car and we drove between two army trucks all the way back to Slaka. Then the Ambassador put on his raincoat and went and apologized and the incident was closed.’
‘But you should not go there,’ says Plitplov, ‘You should not know that place.’ ‘You mean it’s a secret dance?’ asks Budgie. ‘Your secret is a sausage,’ says Plitplov, ‘Why not ours a dance?’ ‘You know these things ex ex excite you, Budgie,’ says Steadiman at the other end of the table. ‘Excite me?’ cries Budgie, ‘Who knows what excites me? Who in thirty-five years has ever succeeded in unlocking that particular door?’ ‘I think it’s getting late,’ says Miss Peel. In a big black coat, carrying a plastic bag, Magda appears gloomily beside the table. ‘Yes, time to take Magda home,’ says Steadiman, rising, and going to look for his windscreen wipers. ‘Dr Plitplov,’ says Budgie, seizing her visitor by the arm, ‘Do you perhaps understand, just a little, why in this country, in this world, I feel a confined soul?’ ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, ‘But really you must not depress.’ ‘Depress?’ cries Budgie, ‘I think I’m awfully gay.’ ‘Time for bye-byes, I think,’ says Mr Blenheim, stretching his arms, ‘Look, I’ll see Miss Peel safely down the stairs and take her back to her apartment.’ ‘I think I make also a quiet excuse me,’ says Plitplov, ‘My wife probably has a headache. Also I have said perhaps some things I do not mean.’ ‘Not at all,’ says Budgie, ‘I thought you remarkably good value.’ ‘Yes, well, my friend,’ says Plitplov, rising and shaking hands with Petworth, ‘I hope so much we stay good colleagues. You know I do not like to distress you. But, as you say, a man has to keep his end up. I hope please one day you come for a dinner to me. Of course I cannot promise you such a sausage. And remember always, when you call your wife, to give her the love of Plitplov.’ ‘Going?’ asks Budgie, ‘Everyone going?’ ‘Mrs Steadiman,’ says Plitplov, kissing her hand, ‘A most interesting evening, and my compliments to your menu. You know I have taken many risks to come, and perhaps it was worth it.’ ‘I must get back too,’ says Petworth, ‘Can I call a taxi?’ ‘Of course I would take you,’ says Plitplov, ‘But I do not like to go in your direction.’
‘No, Angus, you stay here and help me with the washing up,’ says Budgie. ‘Oh, really, you should not do it,’ says Plitplov, putting on his coat, ‘You are the wife of a diplomat.’ ‘How nice of you to offer,’ says Budgie. ‘Oh, I do not offer, I am guest,’ says Plitplov, ‘But you have a maid to do it.’ ‘I like a maid to leave early,’ says Budgie, ‘A hostess needs a little privacy for her indiscretions. Angus, you’re not too proud to help me? And Felix will take you back when he returns from dropping Magda.’ ‘Bye, Mr Petworth,’ cries Miss Peel from the door, ‘Told you it would be a stunning evening.’ ‘Take care, old chap,’ cries Blenheim. Then Petworth looks round at a diplomatic room suddenly empty; drained glasses shine on the table, the Mexican dance-masks stare blankly off the wall. ‘Could you just take a few of those things into the kitchen?’ says Budgie, ‘I must just discard a few jewels and make myself more comfortable.’ In the kitchen, it seems churlish not to put on rubber gloves and wash a dish or two in the sink; it is in this domesticated condition that Budgie finds him when she comes in a few moments later, clad in a very diaphanous nightdress. ‘A sorry tale that funny little man tells,’ she says, ‘I hope it hasn’t distressed you.’ ‘I don’t understand what he’s up to,’ says Petworth, scouring a saucepan. ‘When two people are together in agony, Angus,’ says Budgie, drawing him away from the sink, ‘There is only one solution. You are not a young man, Angus. You have a certain sophistication and expertise. This is the centre of the house. I always think it’s harder for telescopic sights to see in here. Do you prefer the kitchen table or the floor?’
‘It doesn’t seem a terribly good idea,’ says Petworth.
‘You’re worried about Felix?’ asks Budgie, ‘Felix and I have an arrangement. He lets me get away with murder.’ ‘It’s not really that,’ says Petworth. ‘You’re worried I don’t have protection,’ says Budgie, ‘Believe me, I don’t just have protection, I have diplomatic immunity.’ ‘No, it’s not that,’ says Petworth. ‘You have other interests,’ says Budgie, ‘That does not concern me in the slightest.’ ‘It seems rather dangerous,’ says Petworth.‘Of course, it’s dangerous,’ says Budgie, ‘But England expects, my dear. One is not a guest of honour for nothing.’ ‘I’ll call for a taxi,’ says Petworth. ‘You will not call for a taxi,’ says Budgie, ‘You’ll stay here and fly the flag. I’m just going out to put on a little music, you did say you liked Wagner, didn’t you? You look like a man of taste. I imagine you have quite an eye for specia
list lingerie. Let me show you some.’ Petworth stands in the kitchen: a booming noise begins in the back of the apartment as the noises of Wagner, that metaphysical romper, sounds on the record player, and on, doubtless, the tapes and the film, the screens and the consoles, that whirl and flicker in some technologized office nearby, where the HOGPo men sit, reducing Petworth, that virtuous subject, into sign or object, transient image. Luckily there is just time to finish the saucepan before, along the corridor, he hears the bedroom door open.
IV
‘Actually,’ says Steadiman, as he drives the brown Ford Cortina back through the urban darkness toward the centre and the Hotel Slaka, ‘I’m afraid it’s terribly easy to get the wrong impression of Budgie. She finds life here rather diff diff difficult, and she reacts to it. Also, you know, she has an aristocratic background, her father was a duke, actually, and she expects service from everyone. I think she rather expected it from you.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, through his split lip, ‘I see what you mean.’ ‘People often get a wrong impression of dip dip diplomatic life,’ Steadiman explains in the dark, ‘It can be awe awe awfully confining. That’s what she revolts against. Besides, she’s always liked to extra-mural a bit, I understand that. And if we were in Paris, or Athens, or Washington, I can’t say I’d terribly mind. That’s the trouble with Slaka, it’s rather diff diff different. I do hope that wrist isn’t sprained.’ ‘Oh, no,’ says Petworth, ‘I don’t think so, just bruised.’ ‘Yes, well, terr terr terribly sorry,’ says Steadiman, ‘One hardly wants to wound one’s most distinguished visitors. I must be a bit bit fit fit fitter than I thaw thaw thought. Yes, Budgie’s really a sort of tease, you know. I think what she enjoys best is just tan tan tantalizing all these little secret police squits who spend all their working hours listening in on us, beastly, isn’t it? I suppose she just doesn’t like to think how unutterably boring their nasty little lives must be, so she tries to brighten them up a bit. At least, that’s how I explain her conduct. So there’s nothing sort of personal about you.’ ‘Oh, isn’t there?’ says Petworth, holding his wrist, ‘Well, yes, I see.’ ‘I’m awe awe awfully sorry about the suit,’ says Steadiman, driving into the rain, ‘I hope you’ve brought another one. Never mind, there should be a sort of tailor person somewhere in the hotel.’ ‘I expect so,’ says Petworth, ‘It’s just a little hard to explain.’ ‘Tell them it was a football match,’ says Steadiman, ‘Nowadays I find that more or less explains everything.’
The rain pours down in front of them; it is not, as it turns out, a good night in Slaka. ‘I really didn’t mean . . .’ murmurs Petworth. ‘No, no, of course you didn’t,’ says Steadiman, ‘I do understand. You know the trouble with Budgie? She just doesn’t recognize the realities of the game she’s playing. And with half of myself I don’t blame her. The only trouble is, that stuff is terr terr terribly terr terr terribly dangerous.’ ‘Is it?’ asks Petworth, nursing his wounded arm. ‘You know dip dip diplomacy,’ says Steadiman, ‘Well, it’s like life, isn’t it? Everybody trading this for that. The trouble with these chaps here is they play some very nasty games indeed. A dip dip diplomat is just a chap on the football field, trying to protect his own goal and hoping to score once in a while. But of course there are some corrupt types who try to get at the players.’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth. ‘And this is what Budgie doesn’t understand,’ says Steadiman, ‘This stuff could be the end of my dip dip diplomatic career.’ ‘Surely not,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Steadiman, ‘You see, it’s not what you do that’s important. It’s the way it looks. When they write it down, or record it, or photograph it, or put it into the Smolensk com com computer, or wherever all this stuff is put together. Of course that’s how life is played now, in front of the screens. Collate, file, store, re-arrange, produce at the opportune moment.’ ‘And with me too?’ asks Petworth. ‘Well, of course,’ says Steadiman, ‘You’ve travelled a lot, you have a position, you don’t seem very discreet, I should think they’ve got a hell of a lot on you by now, all there in the computer. Lip still bleeding?’ ‘No, I think it’s all right now,’ says Petworth. ‘Please don’t think it was per per personal,’ says Steadiman.
Yes, it has been a difficult departure, from the diplomatic apartment, with its Danish chairs, its Kurdish trunks, its Afghan wall-rugs, somewhere five floors up over Slaka. Indeed the details, still, are not quite clear in Petworth’s admittedly not quite clear head. ‘Don’t you love red lingerie?’ Budgie Steadiman, he recalls, has said, standing there in the kitchen in some, of admirable quality, while the coffee maker bubbles and Tannhäuser rages somewhere nearby, ‘Actually I bought it in the Reeperbahn in Hamburg. Look what it does.’ ‘Budgie, I really think it’s time Mr Petworth was returning to his ho ho hotel,’ Steadiman has then said, coming into the kitchen in his coat, dropping windscreen wipers on the floor to grip Petworth rather firmly by one wrist, ‘He looks pretty tired and ready for bed.’ ‘Oh, he doesn’t want to go, Felix,’ Budgie has said, ‘Can’t you see he’s sad and lonely? And I too am sad and lonely. I want him to try on uniforms. I want him to stay here with me.’ ‘Come on, Budgie, let go of him, there’s a go go good girl,’ Steadiman has said, taking Petworth round the head in an expert arm-lock, ‘The ho ho hotel will probably alert the po po police if he’s not in his room tonight. We don’t want him in trouble.’ ‘Loneliness and the need for reassurance,’ Budgie has said, holding fast to the waistband of Petworth’s trousers, ‘Don’t you understand, Felix, that is the meaning of life.’ ‘Budgie does not understand the meaning of life,’ Steadiman has said, wrenching Petworth free with a ripping of material, and dragging him into the living room, ‘She only thinks she does. Mr Petworth would like to go home.’ ‘He wants to spend the night with me,’ Budgie has said, falling sobbing into a chair. ‘Don’t you, Angus?’ ‘Well, I do,’ Petworth has said, diplomatic in the diplomatic living room, ‘But I’d better go.’ ‘He’s a very polite man and he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings,’ Steadiman has said, ‘But he’s go go going.’
And so it is that Petworth now sits, with throbbing arm, hurt lip and torn trousers, the zip quite gone, in the brown Cortina as it drives speedily and erratically toward Slaka. Driving rain and road mud smear over the windscreen, eliminating all visibility – for, in the rush of his departure, out of the flat, down, down, down the long staircase, into the car, Steadiman has failed to bring the wipers with him. ‘Well, look, I do apologize,’ says Petworth. ‘Not at all, old chap,’ says Steadiman, ‘You gave her a good evening, che che cheered her up no end. I should have warned you, really, she does that. I should apologize to you. I don’t usually use violence on my guests of honour.’ ‘It could be serious for you?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, God, for heaven’s sake,’ says Steadiman, looking into the mirror, ‘There’s a tail on us.’ ‘Why?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, they follow us everywhere,’ says Steadiman, ‘HOGPo is the biggest employer in the country. That’s how they manage to have no unemployment. Everyone’s followed by somebody else. I just hope I don’t hit anyone. See anything ahead?’ ‘There’s someone now,’ cries Petworth, as a khaki figure leaps for the curb. ‘I hate to think what the sentence would be, after all the stuff we’ve put away tonight,’ says Steadiman, ‘Pru pru Proust wouldn’t be half long enough.’ ‘I really shouldn’t have had so much myself,’ says Petworth, ‘Two parties in one day.’ ‘Never mind, good fun, enjoyed it,’ says Steadiman, ‘Thank God, they’ve turned off.’ A sign on a building in front of them flashes through the mud, saying SCH’VEPPUU. ‘This is your square, isn’t it?’ asks Steadiman, ‘Wang’likii? I’ll just park and make sure you get in all right.’ It is lucky that Petworth has his topcoat to cover his one best suit, split now right down to the crotch; they walk together toward the entrance of the Hotel Slaka. ‘Marvellous evening,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes,’ says Steadiman, ‘Let’s do it again. Call me when you get back to Slaka next week. I’d like to hear your news. Oh, damn, look, the hotel’s all locked up.’
Peering through the glass doo
rs of the hotel, they see it is dark, dark, dark in the lobby; but then it is late, late, perhaps three in the morning. One faint light shines over the registration desk, but nobody in blue uniform sits at this hour beneath Marx and Wanko. ‘They seem to have lock lock locked you out,’ says Steadiman, ‘Can you see a bell?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth, tapping on the glass door. No one walks, no trams grind, in the great square; the rain beats on the gravel. After a long wait, and much tapping, a door inside does open, casting a beam of light; a limping figure comes toward the doors, looks out at them, and then turns away in a gesture of dismissal. ‘Don’t you have an ident’ayii?’ asks Steadiman. Petworth takes out his hotel passport, spreads it against the glass, and taps again. The doorman turns, puts on spectacles, stares; then, slowly and grudgingly, he takes out a key and unlocks the door. ‘Give him a tip,’ says Steadiman, ‘And don’t forget. If you feel in need of a bit of ass, a bit of assistance call me, any time.’ ‘I will, thank you very much,’ says Petworth, ‘It’s reassuring to have someone to turn to. Many thanks.’ He watches a moment through the glass as Steadiman walks off, in quite the wrong direction from his car, while the aggrieved doorman inspects the ident’ayii. Petworth takes out a handful of vloskan; the doorman nods, stares, and then limps away to the desk, to come back with Petworth’s key, and disappear inside his door.
The lobby is dark, but somewhere in the darkness there is a faint murmur: ‘Change money?’ says a voice. ‘Na,’ says Petworth, groping toward the elevator, to find it switched off. Groping, he finds a back staircase, long and dark, like the staircase at Steadiman’s apartment, like life itself, in a sense; he ascends, up and round, round and up. In his corridor, at her desk, under a little light, the floormaid sleeps, to wake in surprise as Petworth unlocks his door. Inside the great room the lamps are lit, the cracks in the ceiling wide, the pyjamas spread. Loneliness and fear, guilt and betrayal, spread from the room into Petworth, from Petworth to the little house in Bradford, his old domestic space. In the great mirrored bathroom Petworth takes off his torn and ruined trousers; under the duvet he tries to sleep. The voices begin to sound again: she is a very tough lady, chosen special for you; this is a forbidden area, you do not go there; the witch was not a good witch; this is not the posting I would have desired. In the night there are dark and winding staircases, going up and down, round and up; a wind blows; a car follows; a maid in gloves waits by a dead man’s tomb. Two men talk under a sign that flashes and says PLUC. A soldier with a gun appears and holds it toward a car. There is a glimpse of Katya Princip, falling falling down a hole, to the middle of a forest, where people dance and gipsies play violins. There is a pain in the wrist, a taste of blood in the mouth, and around the wall secrets hanging, like sausages, in strings.
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