‘So you must be very cautious,’ says Plitplov, ‘It is for instance well you do not say anything about me to this girl. Perhaps I am indiscreet already. Now they know I am once in Cambridge.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And then with you,’ says Plitplov, ‘I have said you are my friend. But how do I know your intentions? Perhaps you will say in your lectures many bad things about my country, or use ideologies that are not correct. Perhaps you have some orders.’ ‘Not at all,’ says Petworth. ‘Remember, I have pulled some strings for you at a very high level. If you commit some wrongs here, that will be bad also for Plitplov,’ says Plitplov. ‘I don’t think you need worry,’ says Petworth, ‘They’re very ordinary lectures.’ ‘Or if you make some wrong friends,’ says Plitplov, ‘Well, a wink to a blind horse, as you say. Or is it a nod to a blind horse?’ ‘It probably doesn’t matter,’ says Petworth, ‘If the horse is blind.’ ‘Even to talk here to a foreigner at an airport, that is a risk for me,’ says Plitplov. ‘Surely not,’ says Petworth, turning – to see that, beside them, there now stands another blue armed man. Plitplov’s face whitens; the armed man speaks to him. ‘He likes to see our documents,’ says Plitplov, ‘Do not worry. A small matter.’ The armed man inspects the papers of both of them. ‘I have broken some small rule,’ says Plitplov, knocking out his pipe into his hand, ‘They are such bureaucrats here.’ ‘What rule?’ asks Petworth, as the armed man, apparently satisfied, goes off. ‘Oh,’ says Plitplov, ‘Not to smoke in public place. But I explain him I am with important government visitor who likes me to smoke.’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth. ‘You observe now one must be here an artist in relations to survive,’ says Plitplov, ‘Luckily I am such artist. I do not embarrass you, I trust? You don’t think, my good old friend tries to compromise me?’ ‘Not at all,’ says Petworth. ‘Good,’ says Plitplov, ‘Because I think we can make both some profits from this visit. I expect you will find me by your side quite often.’ ‘How nice,’ says Petworth. ‘But do not surprise if sometimes you do not see me,’ says Plitplov, ‘Or if we meet and I say I do not know you. I like to take care, I have a nervous wife, who cannot live without me. Now, tell me please, the transformational grammar of Chomsky, that still convinces you? Or do you join the army of structuralism, which has cut such a wide swathe in the thinkings of the West?’
But that large and crucial question is never answered: for, at Petworth’s side, Marisja Lubijova, in her grey coat, is quietly standing once more. Behind her stands a small man in a plastic black cap and a grey shirt. ‘Oh, my dear young lady, so soon you are back?’ cries Plitplov, turning in apparent surprise, ‘We are having such good talk about optative counter-factuals in elegaic works. But I think we continue it now in your taxi.’ ‘I do not think it goes in your direction,’ says Lubijova, firmly, ‘It is a very small taxi that goes to the hotel only.’ ‘At least I bring your luggage, my friend,’ says Plitplov, bending to grasp Petworth’s baggage, which now dangles lightly on the ends of his fingertips. ‘The driver comes for them,’ says Lubijova. ‘Oh, please, I have such strong arms,’ says Plitplov, striding out toward the door that is marked OTVAT. ‘I am afraid your good old friend is a nuisance,’ says Lubijova, with a frowning brow, a lady with a tough side, following behind. ‘Quite a character,’ says Petworth, opening the door to let out the taxi driver, and then colliding very briefly with a tall, neatly besuited man, carrying a furled umbrella, who has come running from a brown Ford Cortina parked at the curbside on some urgent and frantic errand. But it is a small delay; Petworth is out now, beyond the terminal, in the world to come. The asphalt spreads, but beyond is nature: fields, trees, the jagged curve of the mountains. A football team is getting into one blue bus, an entire orchestra with its instruments into another, a row of grizzled priests into a third: the sun is dipping, the evening light growing blue, the low-watt forecourt lights coming on, the wind sharpening. There are two distinct smells in the air: a rustic odour of rot and dung, and an acrid stench of industrial pollution.
Down the forecourt, a small orange taxi stands, its rear door politely held open by a topcoated armed man. ‘Oh, this is a very big taxi,’ Plitplov is saying, ‘I think we can all get in it.’ ‘It goes to Hotel Slaka,’ says Lubijova. ‘By an interesting coincidence, I must go just by there to a chemist, with a recipe for my wife,’ says Plitplov. Petworth follows his two contending guides. He is tired, of his journey, by his journey; he feels dismantled and deconstructed, like some fictional sentence; but he has companions, directions, somewhere to go. The scented smell from Plitplov’s gross pipe, the orderly common sense of Lubijova, a good if tricky guide, not an old lady or a man, which is not so amusing, reassures, familiarizes. The taxi is a small home from home, a domesticated place: its vinyl upholstery is protected by furry blue nylon covers, with pink cushions on top of them; from stereo speakers in the two corners of the back window comes the stirring chorus of some massed choir unable to contain itself. ‘Slibob,’ says the armed man, ushering him into the rear seat. Meanwhile Plitplov and Lubijova are thudding his luggage into the trunk; from them, over the noise of the music, comes a familiar noise, the sound of a quarrel, intimate, violent, almost marital. Then, to his left, Marisja Lubijova slams into the taxi, her shoulderbag swinging furiously. A moment later, and the right-hand door opens; Plitplov gets in, his bird-like face grinning. Pushed to the middle, knees high over the transmission shaft, Petworth suddenly finds his head neatly caught at that point between the two stereo speakers where it becomes a perfect booming receiver. ‘Oh, this is very nice music, do you like it?’ asks Lubijova to his left, ‘It is a military song of the people.’ ‘Oh, no, such noise, too much, I think,’ says Plitplov to his right, ‘I think we like it turned off, don’t you, Dr Petworth?’ He is tired, very tired, but always the diplomat: ‘It’s very nice,’ he says, ‘But perhaps he could turn it down a little.’
Lubijova taps the shoulder of the driver, sitting in front in his plastic black cap; he lowers the sound and roars the engine. At the same moment another sound replaces it: a sort of demented tapping, as if someone were beating fingers on the roof. The car begins to move; simultaneously Petworth notices a pair of human hands scraping at the glass of the window, beside Plitplov’s face. ‘Someone is here,’ says Plitplov, winding down the window a little; a small hand wriggles in, waving in the fingers a bright silvery pointed object, looking like . . . ‘It’s my pen,’ says Petworth. ‘Slibob, slibob,’ shouts a voice through the window; the little creased face of the man in the topcoat beams in through the glass as he runs along beside the moving car. ‘Slibob,’ Petworth calls back. Plitplov turns the pen in his hand, and stares at it: ‘You lent to him this, your good pen?’ he asks. ‘Yes, I did,’ says Petworth, taking it. ‘Well, I think you are lucky he brings it back to you,’ says Plitplov, ‘That is Parker, very good.’ ‘Of course he turns it back,’ says Lubijova, ‘You don’t think in our country the people will steal?’ Meanwhile Petworth, with difficulty, turns to look through the rear window. The topcoated man, still waving, stands on the forecourt; he has been joined by a companion, a big, fine, fairhaired young woman, in boots and a batik dress. ‘Oh, really, you believe our people do not steal,’ says Plitplov, ‘Do you read it in the newspaper?’ ‘He brings it back,’ says Lubijova, crossly. ‘Because he sees this is important government visitor, with a guide,’ says Plitplov. ‘I hope you don’t criticize your country to a foreigner,’ says Lubijova. ‘I think this is intelligent person who has been in Cambridge and can make up his own mind,’ says Plitplov. The intelligent person who has been to Cambridge stares on, through the back window: under the forecourt, the couple wave and wave. Then they stop, for a third person joins them, and holds them in conversation. He is familiar, this third person; he is the besuited man with whom Petworth had just a moment ago collided, at the door marked OTVAT, as he came out and the man went in. He still carries his furled umbrella, but for some mysterious reason he has added to it a large sack.
The taxi stops at a sign; the besuited man raises
his umbrella in the air and, carrying his sack, starts to run, in pursuit of it. The driver roars the engine, and swings round a corner. Behind, the man, indeed all three of the wavers, have dropped from sight. It occurs to Petworth that this small drama is a matter worthy of comment; but he is tired, tired of the journey, tired by the journey, and in any case his companions have other matters to discuss. Having left the public space of the airport, the taxi driver has tuned to another station: the sound of woodchoppers’ music is replaced by a jazz track, by someone called Henry James and His Imps. ‘Ah, Western,’ says Plitplov. ‘It is decadent,’ says Lubijova. ‘You like it?’ asks Plitplov. ‘You don’t want it,’ says Lubijova. ‘Of course he wants it,’ says Plitplov. ‘I don’t think so,’ says Lubijova. In front of the taxi, a long, thin, straight road lies ahead, pointing toward the horizon and the mountains; along the way, a high stack of orange smoke rises like a marker from the tips of the chimneys of the power station. ‘Tell me,’ says Petworth, rousing himself from lethargy to minor conversation, ‘What’s the rate of exchange here?’ ‘You don’t have some money?’ asks Lubijova. ‘You like change?’ asks the taxi driver, turning round in his black plastic cap. ‘You know,’ says Plitplov chuckling, ‘We have here a saying: why is Slaka like the United States? Because in the United States you can criticize America, and in Slaka you can criticize America also. And in the United States you cannot buy anything with vloskan, and in Slaka you cannot buy anything with vloskan also.’ ‘You criticize your country,’ says Lubijova. ‘I make a joke,’ says Plitplov, ‘Really I do not criticize my country.’ ‘Of course, it is a crime,’ says Lubijova.
The bitter chatter goes on, trouble to the right of him, trouble to the left. In the middle, Petworth sits, holding on tightly to the plastic seat covers. In front of him points the long straight road, directed straight at the jagged rim of the mountains. And ahead too there lies, he knows, function, definition, who are you, why are you here, what do you think, why do you think it – the questions that, if he can summon up enough belief or identity to do so, he has come all this way, over two time-zones and to new skies, to answer. Somewhere behind him, back at home, there is the identity that he should be able to summon up those answers from, if only he can remember what it was, or if he ever really had it. Caught in the fragile universe of his own gloom, Petworth bounces, over the hard transmission shaft, up and down, up and down, staring forward at the red setting sun that, falling over the mountains, gilds the long straight road ahead.
3 – ACCOM.
I
As the travel texts say, the journey of 8km/5mi from the airport to central Slaka offers indeed a journey of the most interesting contrasts. Here, on the famed Vronopian plain, one may see peasants in typical costume following the rural praxis of times immemorial; also evidence of the industrial achievement of this energetic and reformist people. In the taxi, bouncing over the transmission arch between the muscular sporty thigh of Plitplov and the soft silky-textured leg of Lubijova, Petworth stares out. The straight, thin, rutted road ahead, pointing to the power station chimneys, the far-off mirage-like towers of what must be workers’ apartments, the glaring red of the sun, runs between gnarled old trees with heavily whitewashed trunks; beyond the trees, large muddy unhedged fields stretch out vacantly. In the fields are strange shapes, the shapes of haystacks that look like round loaves of bread; among them, white ducks wander freely. By the roadside, here and there, sit, in scattered groups, a few low wooden unpainted houses, very weathered, their windowholes covered with mesh screens; round the houses are small fenced yards where vegetables grow, geese cackle, a child or two plays, dogs bark, and strange semaphoric arms, tilted over wooden uprights, rise up – the poles, presumably, of wells. At the side of the long, straight, rutted road, a few peasants, men in blue overalls, old ladies in black, bundles on their heads, walk slowly along; these leap suddenly into ditches or deep puddles as the taxi, klaxon hooting, comes up to them at high speed. Radio blaring, black plastic cap at a rakish angle, the little driver screws his eyes up to face the red sun and pushes down the accelerator. Out of the sun, detail comes up very suddenly: like the ancient horsedrawn farm-cart, laden with hay, topped off by two lounging children, which is suddenly in front of them, causing the driver to brake violently, Petworth to bounce high in the air over the transmission.
‘So your flight on Comflug, very good, I think,’ says Lubijova, the thigh to his left. ‘I hope your mother is very well,’ says Dr Plitplov, ‘You mention her to me once.’ Nudging forward, the driver inspects the red glare round the obstacle. ‘And many strikes now, in Britain, I believe,’ says Lubijova, ‘Here of course our people like to work. They have the moral for it.’ ‘Also no food if they don’t,’ says Plitplov, chuckling, the thigh to his right. Now the taxi swerves and swings round the cart; Petworth bounces again as the wheels hit the rutted road-edge; from behind there comes a shrill whinnying of horses. ‘In the West now, many economic difficulties,’ says Lubijova, ‘What a pity it makes late your plane.’ ‘I’m sorry you both had such a long wait,’ says Petworth, seeing ahead of them now a long, long line of grey trucks with huge tailboards, on which are painted white numbers and Cyrillic letters, and which is moving very slowly toward Slaka. ‘They told me your flight is cancel,’ says Plitplov. ‘I hope you did not believe it,’ says Lubijova, ‘They know nothing, those people.’ On the other side of the narrow road, another line of great grey trucks, with big blunt noses and small shining headlights, has appeared, moving toward them with equal slowness. ‘Notice please in our fields we make a very good harvest,’ says Lubijova, as the taxi driver, adjusting his plastic cap, begins an ambitious overtaking manoeuvre, cutting in between the first and second of the oncoming trucks in order to pass the last of the ongoing ones. ‘Your very nice wife, she still smokes the little cigars?’ asks Plitplov, as the driver goes on to cut between the third and fourth of the oncoming trucks, to overtake the next to last of the outgoing ones.
‘The rain affects our production, but is still a record,’ says Lubijova, pointing out of the window. ‘Her name is Lottie, I think,’ says Plitplov, chuckling reminiscently, and beginning to stuff his curved pipe with garbage, ‘Always I found her the most amusing company.’ The driver is overtaking again; stones explode in the wheel arches, dust rises, headlamps flash, horns blare, Petworth bounces, up and down, up and down, his head hitting the roof. ‘Isn’t he driving rather fast?’ he asks, shutting his eyes. ‘Here we like in cars to go with a little adventure,’ says Plitplov. ‘Also it is good, because we are late at the airport,’ says Lubijova. ‘It is a very boring airport,’ says Plitplov, ‘Not as in the West.’ ‘I do not think it boring,’ says Lubijova, ‘I found a seat and read almost one hundred pages of Hemingway. Comrade Petwurt, please. Your eyes are shut and here is coming Slaka, don’t you like to see it?’ Petworth opens his eyes: the sun’s glare has died, the grey trucks have all disappeared, the road in front has widened out and is busy. To the left the big power station stands up, with its vast metal chimneys; webs of power line thread away from it in every direction across glinting marshes. There are low factories at the roadside, surrounded by high fences and barred gates, each one having a board outside with a list of figures on it, topped with hammer and sickle. ‘Our state industrial enterprises’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you see their remarkable figures of production?’ ‘Really, Hemingway,’ says Plitplov, leaning across Petworth, and chuckling quietly, ‘My dear young lady, do you really like to read him?’ Now, beyond the factories, huge blocks of prefabricated apartment buildings, thirty or forty storeys high, rise up above scoured and naked earth. ‘Here they build a great and startling project,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you surprise I like Hemingway? Perhaps you think he is decadent.’
Petworth looks out at the apartments, which look duller from the ground than from the air. Dust blows between the blocks; there is the Eastern European spectacle of much vacant open space. Few cars are parked here, few people walk, no children play; no shops are visible
, and on the ends of the apartments are great maps of the complex for the guidance of the residents. ‘No, he is a fine writer, and his style good,’ says Plitplov, grinning round his pipe, ‘But I do not think he is very tolerant of women.’ Behind the apartments the river has overspilled its banks; amid the marshland is a large brick building, resembling a sombre domed warehouse. ‘The river, it is the Niyt,’ says Lubijova, ‘And also there the cathedral of Valdopin, not very interesting. Well, I am not professor, but I think he makes his women very well.’ Now the taxi races at speed down a long tree-lined boulevard, with tram-tracks running down the centre, and on either side old, dirty-faced apartment blocks in the familiar Continental style, from which balustraded balconies stick out, like Victorian corseted breasts. ‘Don’t you observe his suspicion of female treacheries?’ asks Plitplov, puffing at his pipe, ‘Don’t you notice his hairy-chested hero?’ ‘The old part of Slaka, really not the best,’ says Lubijova, ‘You can see here there were many fightings, where our people made a heroic stand of 1944. Well, perhaps I do not know so much about these things, but I think Hemingway would like very much to be a woman.’ Petworth peers out at the bullet-pitted stucco, broken balconies, eyeless fac¸ades, mostly unrestored. ‘You are talking of Hemingway?’ cries Plitplov, leaning across Petworth in excitement, ‘The author of Whom the Bell Tolls For and Men With No Women? Don’t you observe his cult of the masculine? The buildings break, a view appears, of the wide river, crossed by a long suspension bridge, hung by wires from a gantry to one side only, and beyond it a craggy outcrop, where there are spires, old roofs, the crenellated mass of a castle. ‘Now the Bridge of Anniversary May 15,’ says Lubijova, ‘Also the castle of Vlam, from century eighteen, I hope you try hard to go there. Perhaps his works have only subjective ethical realizations, but I think he well understands the plight of the modern woman.’
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