Rates of Exchange

by Malcolm Bradbury

  ‘Indeed, Mr Petworth,’ says Budgie, seizing him firmly by the femur, ‘Police cars follow me to the tennis club. Agents pursue me to the butcher-shop. Microphones are trained on me now. When we make love, we have to play Wagner, and I doubt if he is enough. Tell me, are you fond of Wagner at all, Mr Petworth?’ ‘Yes, very fond,’ says Petworth. ‘I knew it,’ says Budgie, ‘You like a little Wagner, do you? Well, perhaps if our evening goes well, I shall play you some. Opera, opera, Mr Petworth, that is very much to my taste. People travelling round masked in coaches, singing away, I’ve always felt I belonged in that world. That is how I see myself. Dancing in gauzy veils with men of destiny. You see how I aspire. And what about you, Mr Petworth? Are you a man of destiny?’ ‘I hardly think so,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, I think so,’ says Budgie, ‘Governments have chosen you, you’re a man of affairs, of secrets. Perhaps there is a power in you you do not even know you possess. I believe there is a power in most of us we never fully tap, don’t you?’ ‘I suppose so,’ says Petworth, as a hand gently feels the hair on the back of his neck. ‘Please, don’t think so humbly of yourself,’ says Budgie, ‘I never have. You have a very nice neck. A dull thought, I’m afraid, but sexual attraction is always expressed as cliché.’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ says Petworth, looking round, ‘Felix is having his shower,’ says Budgie, ‘We are quite alone, except for the policemen. And think how dull life would be for them if one didn’t light the occasional flame. One feels almost a duty to be a little interesting.’ ‘I’m sure you are,’ says Petworth.

  ‘Indeed, I am,’ says Budgie Steadiman, staring at him, ‘Do you know how long I have been here? Three years, three imprisoned years. As you might gather, this is not a posting I desired, not at all. I’ve always seen myself in one of the world’s great cities. Dancing, laughing, wearing a diamond in my navel. Do you know what they say? That if Felix hadn’t stammered, we’d have had Tokyo?’ ‘I’m sure there are worse postings than Slaka,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Budgie, ‘Perhaps an oil rig in the North Sea? Assistant Language Officer, Accounts, Bangladesh? Yes, they always say there’s someone worse off than you are, but I’ve never found it a great consolation.’ ‘But Slaka must have its compensations,’ says Petworth. ‘What do they call you?’ asks Budgie, ‘What is your first name?’ ‘Angus,’ says Petworth. ‘Really, like the steak?’ says Budgie, ‘Well, Angus, I don’t think you quite understand what I’m telling you, as one kindred soul to another. I’m telling you, Angus, I am a lonely woman, a very lonely woman.’ ‘Yes, I understand,’ says Petworth. ‘And I think I understand you,’ says Budgie, putting her hand into Petworth’s trouser pocket, ‘Do you know how I see you? As a man disappointed in love. You have that gloomy, self-engrossed look, am I right? Have I struck the truth?’ Petworth recalls his day, sees the image of Katya Princip: ‘well,’ he says, ‘More or less.’ ‘How much we share in common,’ says Budgie, ‘Loneliness, and the need for reassurance. I have a migraine, Angus, would you mind stroking the back of my neck? No, not there, a little lower; don’t worry about the dress. Oh, Felix, I thought you’d gone to have a shower.’ ‘They’ve cut off the wart cut off the water again,’ says Steadiman, standing there in his fine suit, looking down on them. ‘I was just explaining to Angus what a confined life we lead,’says Budgie Steadiman.

  Steadiman sits down in a Danish armchair opposite and looks at them: ‘It’s not so bad,’ he says, ‘One can hardly expect it to be as lively as Washington or Moscow.’ ‘Or Belgrade or Chittagong or Wagga Wagga,’ says Budgie. ‘I enjoy it,’ says Steadiman, ‘One doesn’t have to mind the earthquakes, and there are only certain days when you can get food, but there’s an excellent pee peach brandy, yes, I like it very much.’ ‘Beneath that boyish charm, Felix is dullingly sober,’ says Budgie, ‘Little wonder my mother, an intelligent woman, warned me not to marry. She said it could well inhibit the taste for wandering into other people’s bedrooms, and it has.’ ‘Yes, Budgie,’ says Steadiman, ‘Can you just try now? Magda’s coming in with the drinks.’ A moment later a large tray stands before Petworth’s face, on it two large fizzing gins and tonic, and a glass of white wine, equally large and equally fizzing. ‘Plis, comrade,’ says Magda, standing staring down at him, as if his face might be worth remembering. ‘Slubob,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, indeed,’ says Steadiman with great warmth, taking his drink, ‘We love it here. There are some nice resorts and some excellent . . .’ ‘Countryside,’ says Budgie. ‘I was going to say that,’ says Steadiman. ‘Marvellous lakes and beaches,’ says Budgie. ‘Splendid horseback riding,’ says Steadiman, ‘Large woods for sportsmen.’ ‘Magda’s supposed not to understand a thing,’ says Budgie, after her big black back has disappeared round a corner, ‘But she always starts dropping drinks when we complain about anything here. I suppose you’re awfully busy, Angus, I do wish we could take you to the lake. You can take all your clothes off there.’ ‘Budgie, you are really not supposed to take your clothes off at the lake,’ says Steadiman, ‘This is a very puritanical country. I’m sure it’s reported.’ ‘I don’t find them so puritanical,’ says Budgie, ‘Look at my tan, Angus. And just think, I’m like that all over underneath.’ ‘Very nice,’ says Petworth.

  ‘Budgie,’ says Steadiman, standing up, ‘You did actually invite some other guests, didn’t you?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Budgie, ‘But we did have quite a lot of refusals. There’s a party for the Sheikh and it’s the first night of the opera.’ ‘However, some people did consent to visit us?’ says Steadiman. ‘The Ambassador sent his apologies,’ says Budgie, ‘He very much wanted to meet you, but he doesn’t like to go out at night now. He says he’s being followed everywhere by a man with a raincoat and a cigar.’ ‘Very probably he is,’ says Steadiman. ‘Yes, but he thought that when he was still in the Ministry of Education in London,’ says Budgie. ‘What about the Wynn-Joneses?’ asks Steadiman, ‘He’s our first sec.’ ‘They’re awfully sorry, but they’re asked to the Sheikh’s reception,’ says Budgie. ‘And the Couttses?’ asks Steadiman, ‘He’s the thir thir third sec.’ ‘You know how they love music,’ says Budgie, ‘They’ve gone to this strange new opera.’ ‘So did anyone say yes?’ asks Steadiman, ‘I did send out the car all over the town with invitations.’ ‘Miss Peel and Mr Blenheim,’ says Budgie. ‘The confidential sec and the information officer,’ says Steadiman. ‘And then of course we invited a number of the locals.’ ‘The trouble is,’ says Steadiman, ‘one never knows whether any of them would take the risk of coming. They’re really supposed to report it. Or whether if they did the g g guard would let them in. It could be a small g g gathering.’ ‘But that’s awfully good for getting to know each other,’ says Budgie, ‘And then, of course, there’s the surprise.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Steadiman, ‘Yes.’ Even now, the doorbell rings, and Magda, who has evidently been hovering in an alcove just behind them, emerges in her white gloves and walks across the room to open it. ‘You see?’ says Budgie, squeezing Petworth’s hand quite tightly, ‘They’re all coming.’

  There are murmurs at the door; someone hands in a coat and a pair of windscreen-wipers. Then the visitor stands in the doorway, in a dark suit, and under it a neat white roll-necked sweater, holding in one hand a male handbag, in the other a few red carnations. ‘Good evening,’ he says, his bird-like eyes gleaming, ‘Plitplov.’ ‘Flowers, how gallant, I love them,’ says Budgie Steadiman. ‘Oh, please, my dear Mrs Steadiman,’ says Plitplov, bending neatly and giving Budgie’s ringed fingers a fine kiss, ‘You are most charming to invite me. We have met a time or two before, I think. Here is the sad thing, I bring you an apology. Professor Marcovic likes to come, but he does not like to be photographed at the door. Of course you know I have taken a certain not small risk to come here.’ ‘Well done, old chap,’ says Steadiman, ‘Now come over and meet our guess guess guest of honour, Dr Petworth.’ ‘Oh, yes, your English visitor, Dr Petworth, I believe I have read some books of him,’ says Plitplov, standing at the doorway and looking around the room in all directions, as if any o
ne of the people not standing there might be the distinguished visitor, ‘So despite the strikes in London he still manages to arrive?’ With some effort, Steadiman steers him face to face with Petworth; the dark eyes gleam. ‘Ah, then you are the well-known Dr Petworth,’ says Plitplov, ‘You see we have heard of you. My name is Plitplov. Please allow me to welcome you to Slaka.’ ‘Delighted to meet you,’ says Petworth. ‘You’ve not met before?’ asks Steadiman. ‘You have been in Slaka before, Dr Petworth?’ asks Plitplov, inspecting him up and down, ‘I don’t think so. No, then it cannot be possible. Tell me, please, is it true you make some lectures now in my country?’

  ‘I thought you already knew,’ says Steadiman, ‘He’s speaking to the universe speaking to the university tomorrow morning,’ says Steadiman. ‘Really, at what time?’ asks Plitplov, ‘How very interesting.’ ‘Eleven,’ says Petworth. ‘At eleven, what a pity,’ says Plitplov, taking out a small diary and opening it at what seems to be an entirely blank page, ‘There are many meetings and it will not be easy to be there. But you will accept me if I can change things? And understood also if I do not manage it? I expect you teach in a university, you know how busy is the life, I think.’ In her white gloves, Madga now appears before them all, offering a silver tray filled now with many drinks, enough for some much vaster scale of party. ‘I think I try something just a little Western,’ says Plitplov, bending over to inspect them very carefully, ‘Vusku, da?’ ‘Da, cam’radaki,’ says Magda. ‘I am told whisky is the drink of all Western intellectuals,’ says Plitplov, taking one, ‘Perhaps there is something in it that is very good for the brains. Therefore I need it very much. A toast to your tour here, please, Dr Petworth. I hope you go to many places.’ ‘A few,’ says Petworth, ‘Glit, Nogod, Provd.’ ‘All are good,’ says Plitplov. ‘I thought you might have had an organ organ organizing role in all this,’ says Steadiman. ‘Oh, I?’ cries Plitplov, with an air of great surprise, ‘No, of course it was Marcovic.’ ‘I’ve never actually met him,’ says Steadiman. ‘Perhaps you know him, Dr Petworth?’ asks Plitplov, ‘Perhaps you met him at a conference? Perhaps he is a dear old friend of yours? Perhaps he knows your wife, if you have one?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘I’ve never met him.’ ‘Well, he tells me he looks forward very much to meeting you and having good critical talks,’ says Plitplov, ‘I expect you know the fine book he makes on Defoe.’

  ‘You are actually at the universe university, aren’t you, Dr Plitplov?’ asks Steadiman. ‘The answer is a bit yes and a bit no,’ says Plitplov, ‘I have certain important connections there, but also I do other things. Of course our system is different from yours, and very boring to explain. In any case we now make certain reforms that make it not useful. What is your field, Dr Petworth? Some people say it is language. That must be a very interesting matter.’ ‘It is,’ says Petworth, ‘Particularly in Slaka at the moment.’ ‘Oh, you hear about our changes,’ says Plitplov, ‘Some of them are very good and some of them are very bad. My opinions are in the middle.’ Out in the hall, the doorbell rings. ‘Ah,’ says Budgie, squeezing Petworth’s hand again, ‘Someone else!’ Magda has appeared with great rapidity, and gone to the door; the Steadimen, a handsome couple, rise and follow. ‘Always with the pretty ladies,’ says Plitplov, turning his sharp dark eyes on Petworth, ‘I remember that. And this one likes you. But we must all be cautious. Everywhere are some ears.’ Meanwhile in the doorway two new guests are handing their coats to Magda. One of them is a lady peasant in a mittel-European dirndl, with a sharp face, bunned hair and a very English accent; the other is a greyheaded man with a silver moustache, a foulard neckerchief tucked into his shirt, white jacket and dark trousers. Some misfortune has evidently attended their arrival; tears course down the nose of the lady peasant. ‘Sorry we’re late,’ says the man, giving Budgie a small peck on the cheek, ‘A slight contretemps.’ ‘I’ve been stuck in your lift for half an hour,’ says the lady, ‘People kept passing but no one would answer. Luckily Mr Blenheim came by and, gallant man that he is, managed to get me out.’

  ‘Well, come on in and meet everyone,’ says Budgie. ‘Perhaps you were shouting,’ says Plitplov, graciously stepping forward. ‘Yes, I was bawling my head off, actually,’ says the lady. ‘I heard some shoutings when I came upstairs,’ says Plitplov, ‘But I thought to myself, perhaps this is a marriage, I do not interfere. In my country one always takes a care not to interfere.’ ‘So I’ve noticed,’ says the lady peasant. ‘But accept please my apologies,’ says Plitplov, taking the lady’s fingers and kissing them, ‘I am Plitplov.’ ‘This is Miss Peel and Mr Blenheim, both from the em em Embassy,’ says Steadiman.‘Wasn’t there a guest of honour or something?’ asks Miss Peel.‘Here he is, our darling Dr Petworth,’ says Budgie, plucking Petworth forward by the hand. ‘Ah, got here, good,’ says Miss Peel, ‘Enjoying it, hope so.’ ‘Hullo, old chap,’ says Mr Blenheim, ‘Welcome to the madhouse.’ ‘Now, how about the big event?’ asks Miss Peel, ‘Have they come? Did they arrive?’ ‘Yes,’ says Budgie, ‘But let’s keep it a secret.’ ‘Oh, marvellous,’ says Blenheim. ‘Oh, is there secret tonight?’ asks Plitplov, ‘Everywhere secrets.’ ‘An extremely nice secret,’ says Miss Peel.‘And do we perhaps find it out?’ asks Plitplov. ‘You do, later on,’ says Budgie, ‘Which is why I must just disappear for a minute. Please amuse yourselves. And keep yourself pure for me, Angus.’ ‘Another of Budgie’s marvellous evenings,’ says Miss Peel, ‘That’s how she lures us here.’ ‘And with Mr Petworth, of course,’ says Mr Blenheim. ‘Cam’radaket,’ says Magda, appearing with her tray. ‘Orange juice, please,’ says Miss Peel. ‘Da,’ says Magda, handing it to her. ‘Doesn’t she do marvellously, considering she can’t speak any English?’ says Miss Peel, turning to Petworth, ‘Well, isn’t it lucky you came tonight? You wouldn’t have wanted to miss one of Budgie’s secrets.’

  III

  And so there, in foreign parts, in distant Slaka, under another ideology, where the big maid is omnipresent and the walls undoubtedly have ears, the far-flung British exiles start their party. Wind and rain blow outside, and a big, almost green moon has been pasted, by whomever is responsible for providing such detail, over the dark roofs of Slaka; a dome and a tower or two stick up into its green orb. Below is the city, revealing itself in an occasional flash of COMFLUG and MUG, a place of watchers and listeners, threats and fears. The party, it is true, is sadly depleted, by the conflicting claims of the sheikh and the opera, and the silver tray the big maid holds out to them displays far more good things to drink than the small gathering they make can ever possibly consume. A certain civil caution hovers in the air, as you might expect when the nations meet across complicated political and social barriers; in any case conversation is never easy for the British, who are never keen to express themselves to strangers or, for that matter, anyone, even themselves. But a certain mood of relaxation now begins to emerge, as Steadiman, in his suit, goes over to the record player and puts something on, a nostalgic number called ‘Try a Little Tenderness,’ and people turn and talk to people. The tray of drinks comes back and forth, back and forth, and a small sociability begins to grow, a set of glimpses of a world somewhere that links them somehow all together. ‘See the test matches?’ asks Blenheim affably of Petworth, lighting up his pipe. ‘Oh, do you smoke one of these?’ cries Plitplov, taking out his vast carved smoking bowl, and waving it, ‘I also.’ ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow it,’ says Petworth. ‘Cricket? You talk perhaps of cricket, your national game? The men in the white clothes like doctors?’ asks Plitplov. ‘They say a man who is tired of cricket is tired of life,’ says Blenheim. ‘I don’t think Mr Petworth is tired of life,’ says Miss Peel. ‘Tired of, tired by,’ murmurs Plitplov. ‘No, I can take it and I can leave it alone,’ says Petworth. ‘I expect you know my friend Sir Laurence Olivier,’ says Miss Peel. ‘Not personally,’ says Petworth. ‘Then you don’t know him at all,’ cries Miss Peel. Made doubly ignorant, Petworth also knows, with a true British instinct, that he has also now been made welcom
e; in their own way, the British have begun to enjoy themselves.

  Outside the treacherous dark city turns on itself; inside a certain version of the good life begins to flower. Now Miss Peel begins to talk about someone or other’s Papageno, and Steadiman chatters about Princess Margaret’s visit to some island somewhere or other to which he was at some time posted; Mr Blenheim talks of the All Blacks, and even Plitplov, refusing exclusion, becomes entertaining, magically producing nuts from his ears. ‘I hear all the plays in London now are about sex and have naked people in them,’ says Miss Peel, ‘It sounds dreadfully dull. I’ve never been fond of realism.’ ‘The work of your Edward Bond is very famous,’ says Plitplov.‘Who?’ asks Blenheim. ‘He writes Saved, also a Lear,’ says Plitplov. ‘Never heard of him,’ says Blenheim. ‘He’s rather of the left,’ says Miss Peel, ‘They rather fancy him here.’ ‘I think nobody in Britain wants to work now any more,’ says Plitplov, ‘They tell it is too boring for them. Here our people like very much to work. Often our workers ask the managers to do more work for no money because they are liking it so much.’ ‘Really?’ says Miss Peel, ‘Amazing.’ ‘You’ll gather our indus industrial reputation isn’t too high here just now,’ says Steadiman. ‘We’re not an easy race to explain to the world,’ says Blenheim, puffing comfortably on his pipe. ‘But perhaps this is your job?’ asks Plitplov, ‘Perhaps this is why your government is sending you here to Slaka?’ ‘Ah,’ says Blenheim, chuckling, ‘You’re asking me what I do. What’s my bag? It’s the diplomatic one, actually.’ ‘I think you like to be cautious,’ says Plitplov, ‘But doesn’t your economy collapse? Won’t you one day be socialist economy, like us?’ ‘I don’t think so,’ says Blenheim, ‘Not our cup of tea, really.’