Rates of Exchange

by Malcolm Bradbury

  7 – OPER.

  I

  It is, this room that Petworth now steps into, a small, tight room, short of space for human endeavour. But human endeavour has been here, and humanized it: two antique chairs stand to either side of a fine wide modern sofa, which elegantly fits into the bookshelves on the wall, a wall on which hang three modern paintings of violent and erotic concept, and two small ikons. The rest of the wallspace is taken up with bookshelves, from which many hundreds of volumes tumble; and books, too, lie scattered on the tables and on the large wide desk standing by the window, on which sits also a telephone, a typewriter, a jumble of loose papers which flutter in the small draught that comes through the curtains above. ‘Well, my dear, I hope you don’t expect a special place,’ says Princip, taking off her white scarf, ‘Here in my country, the apartments are small, the heat is bad, the telephone usually does not march, the men do not mend a thing when it makes wrong. Of course, you do not have such problems in your country.’ ‘I suppose not,’ says Petworth. ‘Really, do you say so?’ asks Princip, laughing, ‘You think I have not been there? Don’t you know I was in London once?’ ‘You were?’ asks Petworth. ‘My dear, of course. Perhaps I saw you even in the street, and did not know it. If it was so, would it not be sad? But I think you have those problems too. Especially at my hotel. Some things grow the same all over the world, I think. It is a time when life is not so easy. Well, it is not so good, but I hope you like. Do you like these paintings of my friends? And my nice antiquated chairs? Do you know they are from before the revolution? Some of those things still exist. And my desk where I work, do you like it? Here is the private place where I make all those books. Oh, they are made here in my nice place, but then of course I must go to the world and put them to the market. That is the hard thing, to go to the market. To please those people at the Union. To value their wise criticisms. Well, you don’t come here to criticize me, I hope.’

  ‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘I like your room.’ ‘Well, it has a good taste,’ says Princip, ‘Or so I try. And, for a time, it is ours all. No one else comes. We have it for today. So please sit down, my dear, take a nice chair, make some music with the player, take off your shoes. And do you know what I do now? I go to the kitchen just to make you some coffee and bring you some cake. That is what you came for, I think, well, you must be served.’ Princip goes into the kitchen; Petworth walks about the small, cramped room, evidently living room, study, and bedroom, for a nightgown lies under the sofa pillow. ‘What do you look at?’ calls Princip from the kitchen, ‘I hope you don’t read what I write. It is very private, until it is finished. But of course, you do not know my language. In a minute maybe I will teach you some.’ ‘So many books,’ says Petworth, looking in the bookshelves, where the unbound volumes with their Cyrillic titles lie. ‘Yes, every day I read them and I become some more a person,’ says Princip, ‘Look please in the street. Does anyone watch?’ ‘Watch the flat?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Princip, ‘Don’t you know this is a main work for many people? To sit there in cars and watch the others? And I am a writer, not reliable, often they like to watch me for a while. Also to photograph me now and again, and make list of who my friends are. Of course perhaps it does not mean anything. It comes in useful perhaps for some later day, when I am not any more a person to invite to an official lunch and meet a nice foreign visitor.’ Petworth goes to the window and leans over the typewriter, where a page of unknown words spirals out; beyond the net curtains the street is quiet and empty, except for one parked car.

  ‘There’s just one car,’ he says. ‘Is it a black one?’ asks Princip. ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And do you see someone in it?’ asks Princip. ‘I can’t tell,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, of course,’ says Princip, ‘It is a state of mind, you know, to be watched. We like, don’t we, to see our lives from the inside. But if you are watched you see them from the eyes of those others. You can’t remember any more if you have really an inside, or if the inside is already the outside. You become like an actor, or those girls in a dress photograph, what do you call?’ ‘A model,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, perhaps now we are all so,’ says Princip, ‘Perhaps the inside was always just a little illusion, a false secret. But we like that secret, don’t we? And then, one day, they stop you perhaps, and take you to a place. They do not arrest you, it is just for a day and night, to ask you some little questions. So you can help a little the state. They are often nice, with cigarettes and drink. But they open your file and it is fat and everything is there, the notes and the pictures. And they tell you what you are and what you do. They know more than you, they remember everything, the things you don’t ever remember that you did, but you did them. They tell it, you say, “It is not me, I am not like that, I was never there.” And they tell: “Yes, it is you, really you, the other is your illusion.” They have made your story, a bad novel, and you are in it for ever. And here is what is strange. You begin to agree it, because it fits, because it has your images, your voice in a tape. You begin to confess it, yes, I am like that, how well you know me. And they are right, because in all of us is a doubt, that we do not know ourselves at all. We all feel a bit guilty to exist. And this they know very well. To be is the crime we commit, and anyone will confess it. Don’t you think you would do the same?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth.

  ‘Well, I am nearly ready,’ says Princip, ‘Put on please some music, my dear. Do you see my records player? Do you know how to make work that thing? I expect you are a little bit a mechanical person.’ ‘Yes, I can do it,’ says Petworth, finding the machine and switching it on. ‘You cannot read my books, but of course you can hear my music, that is a language we can all know,’ says Princip, ‘Do you find my records? What do you pick?’ Petworth sifts through the shelf of records in the bookcase; most of the covers are in the language he does not know. ‘Do you like the classical or the modernismus?’ asks Princip, ‘There are both.’ ‘Classical,’ says Petworth, ‘Here’s some Mozart.’ ‘Oh, do you like?’ asks Princip, ‘Well, he is civilized. Now do you sit down and take off your shoes.’ The courtly music comes through the speakers; a civil guest, Petworth sits on the sofa-bed, and removes the shoes from his feet. ‘And now here is your awful coffee, your terrible cake,’ says Princip, coming in in her batik dress, carrying a silver tray, ‘Also a little peach brandy that will make you better. I hope you do not mind to fatten a bit. I think it is good, really you are too thin. But I think in the West the thin is very popular.’ Princip sits down with him on the sofa, and hands him a plate: ‘I am sorry I am so long,’ she says, ‘But I do not make many foods. I like to eat in a restaurant, with my friends. But it is nice to have a friend who is here with me. I think you are one now. We make a little risk, but I think it is worth it. It is only what civilized people do, to make the frontiers go a little bit away. I think you would give me tea if I meet you in London.’

  ‘So you went there?’ asks Petworth. ‘Yes, I have been, I know where you come from,’ says Princip, ‘It is not easy to get travels, you know that. But I am a writer, that gives sometimes certain privileges. Also there were other reasons.’ ‘What were they?’ asks Petworth. ‘Well, you see,’ says Princip, smiling at him, ‘One of my husbands was high once in the Party. He was even for a little while minister. Of course then it was very easy to get travels. You see, here in Slaka, always there must be someone who can help. A person with a power who can pull for you some strings. We learn to live in this way. And if you have a nice body also, this is help. You make some love the way you join the Party. If you do it the right way, you get a nice reward for it. A very good meal at a restaurant, a place at the opera, a ticket to make travels. An apartment with a nice viewing, a place on a list. You become clever to do all these things very carefully. That is the way you get somewhere. Perhaps you think it is bad. Perhaps you think your life is not like that.’ ‘I suppose I do,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, do you?’ says Princip, ‘Well, perhaps you are simple. Don’t you think that is your nice illusion? Don’t you
think everywhere all life is an exchange? What makes your people marry? What makes them choose their friends? Why do they say what they say, think what they think? And their desire, how do they make their desire? We have nice words, love, and friendship, and faith. But don’t you think there is, what do you say, a calculus? Perhaps what we do in Slaka is not so strange. Your coffee, you don’t like?’ ‘Yes, it’s very good,’ says Petworth, ‘So that was one of your husbands. Have you had many?’

  ‘Oh, not so many,’ says Princip, laughing, ‘I just had four. Some people like to collect the stamps or some china. Now you get idea what I have liked to collect.’ ‘And now?’ asks Petworth. ‘A husband, now?’ asks Princip, ‘Oh, no, I don’t, now. Now I am lonely in quite a different way. And what about you, Petwit. How many wives do you have had?’ ‘Me?’ asks Petworth, ‘Oh, just one, actually.’ ‘Only a one?’ cries Princip, ‘Really that is not very much at all, almost none. I think perhaps you are not very ambitious. And this one, you had her a long time?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And she likes you?’ asks Princip. ‘Well,’ says Petworth, ‘A little.’ ‘Oh, not enough!’ cries Princip, ‘Do you tell me she does not care for you so much?’ ‘That’s my impression,’ says Petworth. ‘She likes some other?’ asks Princip. ‘I don’t know,’ says Petworth, ‘She seems quite fond of her dentist.’ ‘And you think he fills some more cavities too?’ asks Princip, ‘Well, perhaps you are not so nice to her. If you are lonely, perhaps she is lonely too. Don’t you think it?’ ‘I think probably she is,’ says Petworth, seeing the view down the garden. ‘And she is warm, she is good at the bed?’ asks Princip. ‘Not very,’ says Petworth. ‘Really, my dear,’ says Princip, ‘This does not sound at all right. My husbands are always very good in that. Very bad in other things, but in that always very good. And what do you do? Do you take many lovers?’ ‘Not really,’ says Petworth. ‘I do not understand you,’ says Princip, ‘Perhaps you mean you like to, but do not have the courage. Well, if you do not, that confirms me. You are not a character in the world historical sense.’

  ‘You think I should?’ asks Petworth. ‘It is not for me to advise you,’ says Princip, ‘But I think you must have a will and a desire. Otherwise you are empty.’ ‘Well, in my country there is a saying,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Princip, ‘If a country, always a saying. What is yours?’ ‘A man needs a good woman,’ says Petworth, ‘And when he’s found her he needs a bad one too.’ ‘My dear, I do not know if I like this,’ says Princip, ‘Do you like to tell me I am a bad woman?’ ‘No, I didn’t mean that at all,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, continue, please,’ says Princip, ‘You tell me you hope I will be your bad woman. You like to make me a little insult. Perhaps in your country you make a compliment, but it is not, here.’ ‘You’ve misunderstood,’ says Petworth. ‘I don’t think so,’ says Princip, ‘My English is not so good, but I am not foolish. You see, here in my country we like to be a little bit admired. Even though feminist attitudes are very important, we like to think we make a little respect.’ ‘I admire you greatly,’ says Petworth. ‘That is different,’ says Princip, ‘Now you have convinced me. Remember, I am not your bad witch, I am your good one.’ ‘I know,’ says Petworth. ‘You see what I have done,’ says Princip, ‘I have changed for you the weather. I have made you disappear. I have brought you to my room. And now you do not know what I will do with you. Do you like that cake? Perhaps it makes you feel sleepy.’ ‘Not really,’ says Petworth. ‘I think so,’ says Princip, ‘Don’t you know you are careless? In a fairy story, you do not eat a cake. Or talk at all to the people with the red hairs. Or open a locked door, or go inside a room that is forbidden. If you do, things will change for you, and perhaps it will not always be nice.’ ‘Well, I know,’ says Petworth, ‘But that’s in a fairy story.’ ‘And you are not in one,’ says Princip, ‘No, you are not. And the cake is just a terrible cake and I do not even make it, just a shop. But I think you are tired, because you have been busy. Do you like to take now a shower?’ ‘I’d rather talk,’ says Petworth. ‘No, I think you must relax,’ says Princip, ‘Beside, I arrange it for you, while I make the coffee. There is a nice bathplace just behind the kitchen. You find there towel, hanging at the door. The soap is scented and very nice. It is all ready, please go now.’

  ‘Well, very well,’ says Petworth, getting up from the sofa. ‘And take please your time, my dear,’ says Princip, smiling at him, ‘We are lucky, this is our afternoon, you do not need to hurry. I can put away these plates and tidy for you my room, I did not expect such a visitor. Do you find it? You go through the kitchen and there is a little white door.’ Petworth goes, through the kitchen, through the white door, into a small, tiled bathroom with bare pipes and a great green mirror. In the mirror his body glints as he undresses, hanging his safari suit behind the door. A dull gloom goes with him, as he thinks of his confession, the admission of his wanting sexuality. He stands in the tub, turns the taps, feels the surge of water come over him, cold first, and then turning to hot; he thinks of his dark wife, who dyes her hair, and paints dark paintings in the lumber room, and stays silent, a dull dark anima at the end of a long tunnel. Like wasted words the water splashes over him; the heat grows, the mirror where his body shone fades and blurs. There is no shower curtain; the thick pipes roar; the flood washes over his face. He turns his head away, to realize that, in the steamed room, a person is standing there. ‘Who is it?’ he asks. ‘You don’t mind I come in?’ says Katya Princip, ‘You see after a cake, I like always to weigh, and my machine is here.’ ‘Please,’ says Petworth. ‘I hope the shower makes you fresh after your lecture?’ says Princip, a vague shape in the steam. ‘Yes, it does,’ says Petworth, naked and white. ‘Here is my machine,’ says Princip, ‘Now, do I get fatter? My weigh, fifty five kilos, that is not so bad. My high, one meter sixty five, that does not change. Other traits, grey eyes, blonde hair, all as usual. Special marks, not any. Rate of pulsation, normal, except when I look at you. You do not mind I look at you?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘The soap, do you like it?’ asks Princip, close to his side in the steam, ‘It is special, a present from France.’ ‘It’s very nice,’ says Petworth. ‘And this water, it makes itself hot enough for you?’ ‘Yes, just right,’ says Petworth. ‘Often it does not work so well,’ says Princip, ‘I just try it with my hand. You are my guest here, it is not right that you burn your shoulders. Oh, it is good today, perhaps a little hot, you are sure it is not too much?’ ‘No, it’s just right,’ says Petworth, politely, standing there bedraggled in the steaming shower. ‘Oh, look at you, my dear,’ says Princip, ‘Such a thin man, doesn’t it hurt to be so thin?’ ‘Not at all,’ says Petworth, ‘I’ve always been like this.’

  ‘Oh, you think I criticize the way you look, please, I do not,’ says Princip, ‘Really you look so nice there in the water, your wet body, very nice. But I hope you admit your lecture was open to an ideological criticism?’ ‘Too pragmatic?’ asks Petworth. ‘Exactly,’ says Princip, ‘Do you like me to soap you, and we can talk also about your deviations?’ ‘Well, yes,’ says Petworth, ‘It seems a good idea.’ ‘Perhaps it is easy if I come there in the tub with you,’ says Princip, ‘I do not want to get wet with this dress, do you like it, I paid for it much money?’ ‘I love it,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, I am nice in it,’ says Princip, fading into the steam, ‘But I am nice without it too. We must not be bound by fetishism of the commodities. I hang it up and come back to you.’ Without it, Princip emerges again from the steam, her naked back a blur in the mirror. ‘Make please a room for me,’ says Princip, ‘It is not such a big tub. Yes, you are easily disproved. Stand still, please, I put this soap on you, oh, what a soft skin. Yes, you see, my dear, in our histories, we both have an old grey man.’ ‘Do we?’ asks Petworth. ‘Is good? You like?’ asks Princip, ‘Oh, yes, one is Marx, and the other Freud. Naturally my thinking has much of Marx. My husband the apparatchik, he talked to me much of Marx.’ ‘Does he have to be here?’ asks Petworth. ‘My husband is nowhere, Marx everywhere
,’ says Princip, ‘Of course he is here. My dear, it is you should not be here. You know if I make you a guest in my apartment, if I give you some terrible coffee and a nice shower, I should report this contact to the authorities? That is our law, of course I do not do it. Don’t you wash me now, I think you are very clean.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘Certainly.’ ‘You do not know Marx, but I think you know Freud,’ says Princip, ‘Isn’t this water very nice?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ says Petworth, his hands moving over the soft contours of no-longer batik-clad magical realist novelist Katya Princip. ‘Marx explains the historical origins of consciousness,’ she says, ‘Freud quite ignores this, neglecting the ideological foundations of the mind. Yet it must be admitted he made some essential discoveries. He knew that it is nice to put a certain thing you have into a certain thing that is mine. For this he made a contribution to the progress of thought, don’t you say?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘So you are deviationist, but not entirely to be condemned,’ says Princip, ‘Both thoughtsystems have their deficiencies. Do you think it is possible to make a dialectical synthesis? If we do it well, it might not produce a false consciousness. Do you like to try it? Oh, Petwit, look at you there, already I think you do. No, no, wait, my dear, my dear, I do not think we succeed like this, do you? For some problems in philosophy, Plato shows it is best to think lying down. Don’t we go back there to my bed, isn’t it better, oh, what do you do to me now, my dear, oh do you, oh do you really, oh isn’t it nice, perhaps I am wrong, perhaps we stay, isn’t it too wet, don’t we fall down, no, we don’t, I think we stay, yes, we stay, yes, yes.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ says Petworth, an unattached signifier amid steam. ‘Da, da,’ says Princip, ‘Da, da, da, da.’ The water showers over them; for a moment there are no words. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Princip, a little later, ‘This was a real contribution to thought. But now I bring you your nice towel and we dry. I think we go back to my little room and consider again our positions. Oh, Petwit, you are lovely.’