And inside is the cabin. On the forward bulkhead are lighted signs, saying FASTEN SEAT BELTS and NO SMOKING. It smells faintly of cleaning fluid, though no one has cleaned out the seat-pockets or the ashtrays. Petworth is old, old enough to remember the days when all British air captains had names like Hardy, and Frobisher, and Savage, just as all stewardesses seemed to come from county families and served, as it were, from the sideboard. But things change; it is not quite so on today’s flight BA231. The gloved stewardess who is now checking his lapstrap has acne. ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain, Captain Smith,’ says a voice over the intercom, ‘We’ve got what they call a gatehold here, that means something or other’s got to be sorted out. We’d serve you a drink, but local regulations don’t allow it. I’d like to introduce your steward today, Mr Maggs, and your delightful stewardesses Babs and Shirlene. Let’s hope the delay won’t be long, and we’ll soon be pushing off.’ ‘Isn’t that typical Slaka?’ says the passenger who sits between Petworth and the window, in 21E. It seems to Petworth that the man, who wears a suit and striped tie, and has a smell of rot’vitti strongly on his breath, is familiar; that indeed he closely resembles the man who was led off by the khaki soldiers on the day of Petworth’s arrival, two remote weeks ago. ‘They let you all on so they can take you off again,’ says the man, ‘Just to create a false sense of security. I’ve seen it, I’ve seen it. Fifty get on, only forty fly. I’m here often, I sell scalpels.’ ‘Do you really?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, yes,’ says the man, ‘One of those fields in which they respect our British know-how.’ ‘Do they?’ asks Petworth. ‘It’s an interesting job,’ says the man, ‘I like travel. The only problem is, they have no idea how to do business. For instance, you can never find anybody there who’s actually empowered to buy anything. You have a very nice time, sitting in cafés talking over coffee and brandy; then you find you’re with completely the wrong chap. They’re a little bit elusive, if you know what I mean.’ ‘Yes, I do,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, look,’ says the man, tapping the window, ‘This is what all the fuss is about.’
Petworth cranes to look out; two figures, one carrying a suitpack, and both surrounded by a bevy of armed men, are coming toward the plane, disappearing under the wing. The steps are put back against the plane’s side; there is a thudding of footsteps, and of people entering at the back of the cabin. Petworth turns to look, to see coming down the aisle a man in a fine suit, carrying an umbrella, and a woman bright in a green party hat. ‘Oh, look, how marvellous,’ says the lady, looking down at him, ‘It’s darling Angus. Do you mind if I sit next to you?’ ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have our start clearance, so we’ll push off now,’ says Captain Smith over the intercom, ‘We’re flying to Heathrow with a stopover at Frankfurt, a short stop, so we’d like all ongoing passengers to remain in their seats. I can’t give you a flight-time because there’s still a bit of a problem at Heathrow, and we may be diverted. But I’ll let you know more about that nearer the time.’ The engines roar; slowly at first, then with growing rapidity, the plane begins to move. ‘Thank God,’ says the man who sells scalpels, in 21E. ‘Take hold of my hand and hold it very tight,’ says Budgie Steadiman in 21C, ‘I’ve never understood why these things should suddenly rise up into the air, when the perfectly natural thing is for them to continue straight along the ground.’ But rise, rise, rise into the air it does, over the polythene crop covers and the onion dome. ‘They seem to have given you very special treatment,’ says Petworth, ‘Is this diplomatic privilege?’ ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ says Budgie, continuing to squeeze Petworth’s hand very tightly, ‘We were being bundled out of the country. I thought they did it very well.’
The wheels come up, the casings lock; below, in a haze, is the city, the apartment blocks, the strange web of streets, the moving pink trams, the great central square, Plazsci P’rtyii, the castle of Vlam up on its rock. The bulkhead signs go out; Petworth, one-handed, lights a cigarette, thinking of the briefcase in the hold, the story of Stupid, the troubled world he flies above. ‘Bundled out?’ he says, ‘God, I hope it had nothing to do with—’ ‘Of course,’ says Budgie, ‘Everyone’s bound to think it was I. Being so famous for my indiscretion. No, that was absolutely nothing to do with it. I come out white as driven snow.’ Below, cloud is drifting over, but one can just see the orange pollution of a power station, the bulk of a cathedral that seems to have had its top knocked off, a river spilling everywhere beyond its banks, a jagged cup of mountains. ‘Then what was it?’ asks Petworth. ‘It was Felix,’ says Budgie, still holding his hand, ‘He did something to a peasant.’ ‘Ra ra ran over him, actually,’ says Felix Steadiman, leaning across the aisle in his blood-speckled shirt. ‘He stepped out in front when Felix was driving along, absolutely perfectly properly actually,’ says Budgie, ‘Then he lay in the road and said he was dead.’ ‘Yes, we were in a pa pa part of the country we shouldn’t have been. That rather counted against us,’ says Steadiman. ‘The ambassador moved awfully fast, though, I must say,’ says Budgie, ‘For one of his years.’ ‘Probably turn out to be a bi bi bit of luck,’ says Steadiman, ‘You know they expect the Vulcani regime to announce martial law this evening. Oh, froliki, some thirsty people here. Could we have a gin and tonic?’ ‘Yes, sir, as soon as we leave their airspace,’ says the stewardess, smiling down at him, ‘Sma sma smashing girl,’ says Steadiman.
Below, the cloud has covered, and there is nothing to be seen. There is something in the air, perhaps to do with the ears, that changes the world obscurely; one can scarcely dispute Marx’s proposition that changes in condition produce changes in thought. Consciousness shifts; words and concepts change in weight; reality is not eternal, but a collective construct. Yet things elsewhere matter, history is universal: ‘Martial law?’ asks Petworth. ‘Yes, end of lib lib liberalization,’ says Steadiman, ‘Vulcani’s an old soldier. I expect things will be rather sticky for some of those people you met. You’re well out. I tried to call you at the ho ho hotel actually, but the telephones were cut. You had no trouble leaving?’ ‘No, not really,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, jolly good,’ says Steadiman, ‘Ah, my dear, I take it we’re all gin and tonics? Yes, three, please, with ice and lemon, and could you bring some nice nuts?’ ‘It’s the quarrelling I’m looking forward to,’ says Budgie, ‘We can do it all the time.’ ‘You realize this is probably the end of my dip dip diplomatic career?’ says Steadiman. ‘Don’t be gloomy, Felix,’ says Budgie, ‘Better than twenty years with your lorry drivers. And there’s still always Bangladesh. I do hope Angus, you’ll come and visit us on your next tour. You do do this kind of thing a lot, don’t you? One would not want an acquaintance like ours to lapse.’ ‘Here you are, drinkies,’ says Felix Steadiman, ‘Did you actually get to Provd?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘There was a small confusion and they dropped out that bit.’ ‘Pity, really,’ says Steadiman, ‘That might have been interesting. That’s where they were shoe shoe shooting people. You didn’t see anything of that anywhere?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘I suppose I’m just not a character in the world historical sense.’ ‘Well, anyway,’ says Steadiman, ‘Ch ch ch ch cheers.’ ‘Yes, cheers,’ says Petworth.
There is a brief stopover in a very rainy Frankfurt, where a few of the passengers get off; the rest remain strapped in their seats, unable even to go and visit Dr Müller’s Sex Shop, for that intimate small present that might please her so much. There is a glimpse of autobahn, packed, as the flight resumes, and then soon they are circling and recircling a strikebound Heathrow, while Budgie grasps Petworth’s hand in a desperate grip: ‘These people always think they’ve got more petrol than they really have,’ she says. But the signs come on, and soon there is a glimpse of a red bus and they are running along the runway. They go through the long half-empty endless corridors and through the United Kingdom channel in immigration; beyond is the luggage hall where the carousels turn. Petworth collects a cart and goes to the turning machine with a sign marked SLAKA, where luggage vomits into view and is collect
ed. The businessman in scalpels, from 21E, waves and walks off; ‘Are you coming?’ asks Budgie, holding his hand again. ‘No, my briefcase hasn’t turned up, they seem to be leaving it till last,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, Felix has to go straight to a debriefing at the FO,’ says Budgie, ‘So it looks like au revoir, though not, I trust, goodbye.’ There is another kiss, and then, in their fine clothes, the Steadimen walk out. Petworth waits for a while longer, and then goes to a desk. A clerk in a white shirt makes some telephone calls, and then says: ‘I’m afraid they offloaded your briefcase at Frankfurt by mistake.’ ‘Oh, no,’ says Petworth, ‘When will I get it?’ ‘I’m afraid you won’t,’ says the clerk, ‘When they found the passenger wasn’t scheduled through the airport, their security people blew it up.’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth, ‘You’ll take more care of me.’ ‘Well, these days one has to be very cautious,’ says the clerk, ‘You’re entitled to make a claim, of course. Was there anything in it of great value?’ ‘I suppose not,’ says Stupid. He walks away, following the signs, the words, the arrows, that lead him out, through the green channel that means nothing to declare, into the Heathrow concourse; where, at the barrier, he sees, waving at him, his dark wife.
Rates of Exchange
MALCOLM BRADBURY was a well-known novelist, critic and academic. He co-founded the famous creative writing department at the University of East Anglia, whose students have included Ian McEwan and Kazuo Ishiguro. His novels are Eating People is Wrong (1959); Stepping Westward (1965); The History Man (1975), which won the Royal Society of Literature Heinemann Prize; Rates of Exchange (1983), which was shortlisted for the Booker Prize; Cuts (1987); Doctor Criminale (1992); and To the Hermitage (2000). He wrote several works of non-fiction, humour and satire, including Who Do You Think You Are? (1976), All Dressed Up and Nowhere to Go (1982) and Why Come to Slaka? (1991). He was an active journalist and a leading television writer, responsible for the adaptations of Porterhouse Blue, Cold Comfort Farm and many TV plays and episodes of Inspector Morse, A Touch of Frost, Kavanagh QC and Dalziel and Pascoe. He was awarded a knighthood in 2000 for services to literature and died later the same year.
ALSO BY MALCOLM BRADBURY
Eating People is Wrong
(1959)
Stepping Westward
(1965)
The History Man
(1975)
Who Do You Think You Are?
(1976)
All Dressed Up and Nowhere to Go
(1982)
Cuts
(1987)
Why Come to Slaka?
(1991)
Doctor Criminale
(1992)
To the Hermitage
(2000)
First published 1983 by Secker & Warburg Ltd
First published by Picador 2000
This electronic edition published 2012 by Picador
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
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eISBN 978-1-4472-2278-1 EPUB
Copyright © Malcolm Bradbury 1983
Introduction copyright © Giles Foden 2012
The right of Malcolm Bradbury to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
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Rates of Exchange Page 39