Rates of Exchange

by Malcolm Bradbury

  6 – LECT.

  I

  Petworth wakes in the morning, under the great duvet, in the great room, to find himself in a world that has changed its weather. A bright sun glints through the cracks in the dusty curtains; a warm wind dries off the gravel under the people and the trams in the Plazscu Wang’luku, down below his window; flashes of sunny light twist and turn the knobs and domes of the great government buildings. No one is taking down the sign saying SCH’VEPPUU, and in the breakfast room the menu is the same as yesterday’s, and so, despite the fact that he makes a quite different order, is the breakfast. In the lobby, at the appointed time, it is a more summery Marisja Lubijova who stands there; she wears a flowered dress and a tam o’shanter hat that falls to one side over her dark hair and tense white face. Only her manner does not fit the illuminated brightness; it contains – Petworth has every reason to expect it – a note of saddened rebuke. A man, he knows, in a difficult world, a place of false leads and harmful traps, doors that will not open and toilets that will not flush, needs a guide, severe yet competent, warning yet enlarging, to bring shape to the shapeless, names to the unnamed, definition to the undefined. Yes, a bruised man, he is pleased to see her, neat in the lobby; but evidently she is less pleased to see him. ‘Oh, today you are on time,’ she says abruptly, ‘You amaze, Comrade Petwurt. Your breakfast, did you eat it?’ ‘I did,’ says Petworth. ‘And your evening, you enjoy it?’ ‘It was very quiet,’ says Petworth, ‘I just ate and went to bed.’ ‘All by yourself?’ asks Lubijova, ‘You didn’t do it with a lady writer?’ ‘Oh, no,’ says Petworth, ‘She just left me here and went home. I don’t suppose I shall see her again.’ ‘Of course,’ says Lubijova, ‘She comes today to your lecture,’ ‘Well, no,’ says Petworth, ‘She changed her mind.’

  ‘Oh, poor Comrade Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, looking brighter, ‘What a shame for you. I have good intuitions, I am a little bit psychic, I think yesterday you were very pleased with Comrade Princip. Oh, Petwurt, look at you, you spent a quiet evening, I don’t think so. You have bruised all your face, at the mouth.’ ‘Ah,’ says Petworth, ‘Ah. Yes, I walked into a door I didn’t see.’ ‘At the hotel?’ cries Lubijova, ‘You should complain to them. It hurts? A doctor comes here, I think we go to the desk and ask he looks at you.’ ‘Oh, no,’ says Petworth, ‘It’s just a small bruise.’ ‘A door in your room?’ asks Lubijova, ‘You don’t go out and make some fights?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, Petwurt, I don’t know if I believe you,’ says Lubijova, ‘You have met a lady writer and now you tell me some stories. Do you think you can lecture very well, your mouth is important.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And your telephone to your wife, did you lose it?’ asks Lubijova. ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘You see, you drink so much, and you must go somewhere with a lady writer,’ says Lubijova, ‘Then you cannot do the things you must do. Always you are a trouble, hah? Well, I go to the desk and arrange again. When do we fix it? In the morning you make lecture, you have free afternoon, and then tonight we go, do you remember it, to the oper, that will be very nice. Do we say before the oper?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘That’s fine.’ ‘Sit down please and I fix,’ says Lubijova, ‘Then it is time to go to the university.’ Petworth sits down in one of the red plasticated armchairs; along the row, the big-hatted man who sat here two days ago, still wearing his raincoat despite the shining sun, looks up. Petworth glances rapidly through the text of his lecture, on ‘The English Language as a Medium of International Communication,’ to ensure that all the pages survive; they do, in all the novel neatness imposed on them by the lady in DONAY’II, so long, it seems, ago.

  ‘So, Comrade Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, coming back, ‘You ate and then you went to bed last night, did you? I don’t think so.’ ‘Pardon?’ says Petworth, getting up. ‘They tell at the desk you came in at three in the morning,’ says Lubijova, ‘Your clothes are torn and you do not walk straight.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Petworth, ‘I did go for a walk.’ ‘Where do you walk, at this time?’ asks Lubijova, ‘Well, no matter, it is not my business. Your telephone is arranged: six o’clock. They do not please that you do not come last night. Also the porters like to take a little sleep and not have to wait for the official guests who are here for a purpose. Now I think we take the tram to the university. It is not far but perhaps too far to walk, especially if you do not have so much sleep. Your lecture, do you have it? I must check on everything. I try to be good guide but you must help me. You were well when I find you at the airport. I hope when you turn back home to England and you are tired and your clothes are torn and your face is hurted and there are perhaps other troubles as well they do not blame me because I do not watch after you. I try, Petwurt, I try.’ ‘You do,’ says Petworth, as they walk out of the door of the hotel, ‘You’re a fine guide, really.’ ‘And I don’t like it you do not tell me the truth,’ says Lubijova, ‘I don’t know what to believe of you, Petwurt, I don’t really. You understand I do not want you to have some troubles here. But I think you don’t know life here and its difficulties. I believe you don’t mean harm, Comrade Petwurt, but you will find some. Petwurt, not on that tram, please, this one goes the wrong direction. Wait here with me and be good.’

  They stand in the square, in the sunlight; the people move, and the newspaper man sells newspapers, the balloon man balloons. A tram comes with a sign on the front saying krep’atatok: ‘Now we go on,’ says Lubijova. They bounce, standing, as the tram rattles them through the city, along the fine wide boulevard, past the statue of Lip Hrovdat, who shines on his horse in the brightening sun. ‘Here we get off for the university,’ says Lubijova, ‘Watch always for Hrovdat, then you tell you arrive.’ Young people with briefcases stream across the crossing with them, toward a large classical facade of stained stone, where pigeons strut back and forth over the portico; more sober-looking young people sit taking the sun on the steps. Caryatids support the roof of the entrance, statues of the muses; ‘They say they move when a virgin passes in,’ says Lubijova, ‘But you see they are quite still. Now we go along many corridors here. You are lucky I know the way. That is because I made my studies in filologie here.’ ‘Is it a good department?’ asks Petworth, following Lubijova past a porter’s box filled with many faces and up a wide dark staircase. ‘Of course,’ cries Lubijova, ‘You see what a good student they produce. The professor is Marcovic, very old, very famous. Perhaps you will not meet him. Often he does not come because so many of the faculty work against him. Of course he himself worked against the professor before.’ They turn into a long dark corridor where faint figures scurry past; posters flap on noticeboards on the wall. ‘Oh, look what these students do now,’ says Lubijova, ‘When I came, the authorities would not permit.’ ‘What do they do?’ asks Petworth. ‘Here are posters to ask for more language reform,’ says Lubijova, ‘As if the party has not been kind enough. They will not get a reform, they will get the police and some prison.’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth.

  The corridor is dirty and has bare board floors; offices with glass doors stand open along it. ‘Now here Germanic languages and filologies,’ says Lubijova, ‘Of course it is always hard to find somebody. They are all so busy working somewhere. Look, I try here.’ She knocks on a door and opens it; Petworth waits in the corridor, where a few students pass, looking at him with suspicion. ‘Oh, is here, Prifessori Petworthi?’ cries a voice, and a sturdy short middle-aged lady emerges into the corridor, wearing heavy spectacles suspended around her neck on a chain, as if otherwise someone might steal them, ‘Prifessori Petworthi, welcomi. I have been reading your booki, what an interesting thingi. Of course it is not my sorti of worki.’ ‘No?’ says Petworth, ‘What’s your field?’ ‘Goldi and silveri imagery of the Faerie Queeni,’ says the lady, ‘I am afraidi Professori Marcovic sends apologies, very sorry. He is not so well, is his stomachi. I step instead into the breachi, my name is Mrs Goko.’ ‘Delighted,’ says Petworth. ‘Come pleasi into my office,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Here some coffee, and also some of my assistan
ti, waiting to meet you. All are doing most interesting scientific enterprisi, and they welcome your criticisms and suggestions.’ Petworth steps out of the dark corridor into a dark room, shelved with old wooden shelves holding books, some in the Cyrillic alphabet, some in the Latin, some even British paperbacks. In the middle is a desk, in the corner a coffee table, with a coffee machine on it, and some cups, and around it a worn settee and some easy, all too easy, chairs. On the chairs sit three young ladies and one young man, who wears Tonton Macoute sunglasses, and a camera round his neck. The three young ladies rise civilly and look at Petworth with sceptical curiosity; the young man takes the lens hood off the camera and takes a photograph. ‘Here has come Professori Petworthi,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Please sit down and take some coffee. We have much timi and these ladies have many questions.’ Petworth sits down. The ladies look at him and ask no questions. The young man takes another photograph.

  ‘First the coffee, you do not mind it strongi?’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Also a little rot’vuttu, to make it go downi?’ ‘Well, just a little,’ says Petworth. ‘Of coursi,’ says the lady, ‘Is that just nicei?’ ‘Fine,’ says Petworth. ‘These are my brightest assistants,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘As you see, three of them are ladies, and that one is a mani. In my country, no discrimination for sexi, yet still the ladies study the languages and filologies and the menis the heavy thingis, like to build bridges, although a lady can plan a bridgi just like a mani. Of course you interest in such sociological thingis. Please say now your namies to Professori Petworthi, so he knows you all.’ ‘Miss Bancic,’ says one. ‘Miss Chervovna,’ says the next. ‘Miss Mamorian,’ says the next. ‘Picnic,’ says the man, looking at him through his dark sunglasses. ‘Now tell Professori Petworthi what you make your theses on and explain your enterprises. Please be as critical as you wanti, here we are always critical of our praxis and try to make our thinking always correcti.’ ‘I work on anarchistic nihilism of the proletarian novel of A. Sillitoe,’ says Miss Bancic, ‘I investigate his quasi-radical critique and his modus of realismus.’ ‘This should be interesting to Professori Petworthi,’ says Mrs Goko. ‘It is,’ says Petworth, ‘Tell me . . .’ ‘I work on the anarchistic nihilism of the drames of J. Orton,’ says Miss Chemovna, ‘I use a new concept of tragi-comedy and investigate his corruption-image.’ ‘That should interesti you very much, Professori Petworthi,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘It does,’ says Petworth, ‘Fascinating.’ ‘I compare the political poem of William Woolworth and Hrovdat,’ says Miss Mamorian.

  ‘Of whom?’ asks Petworth. ‘Yes,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Please be as critical as you liki.’ ‘Hrovdat,’ says Miss Mamorian. ‘Our national poeti,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Has translated Byroni and Shakespeari, was friend of Kossuthi.’ ‘You saw his statue when you came,’ says Lubijova. ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘But who was the English poet?’ ‘Woolworth, author of Prelude,’ says Miss Mamorian. ‘I think you mean William Wordsworth,’ says Petworth. ‘Our visitor’s criticism is correcti,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Woolworthi is name of department storyi.’ ‘This is correct?’ asks Miss Mamorian. ‘Our visitor’s criticism is righti,’ says Mrs Goko firmly, ‘And we must learn to put it into practicei.’ ‘And Mr Picnic, what are you working on?’ asks Petworth, as Miss Mamorian gulps and begins, very quietly, to cry. ‘I think you are bourgeois ideologue,’ says Mr Picnic, ‘Why do you come here to our country? How are you sent?’ ‘Professor Petworthi is guesti of the Ministrat’uu Kulturu Komutetuu,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘His visiti is approved by the Minister.’ ‘Who asks you?’ says Picnic, ‘Someone here on this fakultetuu?’ ‘I think it is time for your lectori,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Because of Professor Marcovic’s little sickness, I am agreed to introducei you.’ ‘I like answer please,’ says Picnic, ‘Is this invitation arranged by a person of this fakultetuu?’ ‘I don’t think so, Mr Picnic,’ says Petworth, ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘Marcovic?’ asks Picnic, ‘You know Marcovic?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘You don’t know who supports your visit?’ asks Picnic, ‘Varada? Plitplov?’ ‘I thinki we go now, to the lectori, where our studenti are waiting,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘The session is of two houri, you know the continental fashioni, with perhaps a fifteen minuti breaki for the lavatory or for smokings in the middle. You accept to take questions?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Then we hear your lectori and see if we want it,’ says Mrs Goko, as Mr Picnic takes another photograph.

  They walk in a crowd along the dark corridor, which has statues in gloomy niches, and many cigarette ends on the floor. ‘The Presidenti of the University hoped formally to greeti you,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Unfortunately he is not so welli also, in his chesti. He asked me to sendi to you his welcomes and his sentiments of scholarly amity and concordi.’ ‘Thank you,’ says Petworth, ‘I should like to send him mine.’ ‘Our studenti are of excellenti standard but perhaps you should speak just a little slowly,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Also you do not mind if we maki tape-recording, only for educational purposes?’ ‘Not at all,’ says Petworth. ‘And do you have some special needi?’ asks Mrs Goko, ‘For a screeni or a big sticki?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. A few students stand huddled round an open doorway out of which comes a buzz of noise. ‘Pleasi,’ says Mrs Goko, ushering him in through the door. He is in a large raked auditorium in which, in stacks, students in considerable numbers sit. They rise to their feet as the party comes in; ‘Thank you, sitti,’ says Mrs Goko. The students resume their seats and a familiar form of coma, leaning hands on elbows or whispering to each other from behind notebooks. There is a podium with a very high desk on it, and behind the desk chairs for two. ‘Now, pleasi, I introduce you, but one question. I note you were borni in the twentieth century but what is the datei?’ ‘1941,’ says Petworth. ‘A year of destiny, I thinki,’ says Mrs Goko. ‘I’ve always thought so,’ says Petworth. ‘On the deski a glass of water,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘All is welli?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. Mrs Goko then rises and goes to the high podium, cranes over the top of it so that her head is just visible, and begins to speak, while Mr Picnic, in the doorway, takes a photograph of the audience.

  ‘Cam’radakuu,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘It is a greati pleasurum to introduct our guesti Professori Petworthi. Doctora Petworthi is lecturi of sociologyii at the Universitet of Watermuthi.’ ‘No, no,’ says Petworth, leaning forward in his chair. ‘He is authori of monographic achievementis to the number of seven, inclusive of An Introducti to Sociologyii, Problumi in Sociologyii, Sociological Methodi, and so forthi.’ ‘I’m sorry for interrupting,’ says Petworth, ‘But a confusion has occurred. I’m not that Doctor Petworth.’ ‘You are not Prifessori Petworthi?’ cries Mrs Goko, fuming at the podium. ‘I am,’ says Petworth, ‘But I’m a different Professor Petworth.’ ‘You are looked up in Whosi Whosi,’ says Mrs Goko. ‘I’m not in Who’s Who,’ says Petworth, ‘That’s another Professor Petworth in another university. He’s a sociologist. I’m a linguist.’ ‘Don’t you give lectori on prublumi of English sociologyii?’ asks Mrs Goko. ‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘On the English Language as a Medium of International Communication.’ ‘But that was the approved lectori, approved by the rectori,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘It is not permitted to give it on something else. I must cancel, tell them all to go away.’ ‘Mrs Goko, in the approved programme he is giving lecture on the English language,’ says Marisja Lubijova from the front row, ‘That is on the programme of the Mun’stratuu.’ ‘But he must give the lectori approved by the rectori,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘I think he should give the lecture approved by the Mun’stratuu,’ says Marisja Lubijova. The two hundred or so students sitting in the room stare, delighted, like all students everywhere, by confusion; Petworth stares back at them, red in the face, like all lecturers everywhere, when, as is so frequent, lectures do not go as they are meant to. ‘I think we take a break for fifteen minuti,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Please to come back here and don’t go awayii.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ says Petworth when they all huddle, a moment later, in the corridor, ‘It is easy to confuse the two of us. I sometimes get h
is letters by mistake. I bet he never gets mine.’ ‘It is not your fault,’ says Marisja Lubijova, reaching in her shoulderbag and producing a file, ‘See here, please, here is written the programme of Petwurt, all quite clear.’ ‘The Mun’stratuu has changed the programme approved by the rectori,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘We have applicated for this subjecti. Is this man a qualified scholari?’ ‘Isn’t Mr Plitplov here?’ asks Petworth, ‘He’s met me before.’ Picnic, who has been taking photographs, comes nearer. ‘Dr Plitplov is not so welli also, in the head,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Well, I think I must telephone now the Mun’stratuu for confirmation and also the rectori so I am not to blami.’ Mrs Goko bustles off, to her office. ‘Petwurt, you don’t embarrass,’ says Lubijova, ‘These people have made their own mistake and must take a responsibility.’ ‘How is this mistake occurring?’ asks Picnic, approaching, from behind his sunglasses. ‘Obviously this man is an agent,’ murmurs Lubijova to Petworth, ‘They are in all universities. Do not tell him so much.’ ‘Do you have ident’ayuu?’ asks Picnic, ‘And Plitplov, you are friend of Plitplov?’ ‘The Mun’stratuu of course has checked all ident’ayuu,’ says Lubijova, ‘You must look somewhere else for the cause of this error.’ ‘So, very welli,’ says Mrs Goko, coming back, her face looking white, ‘You are righti, there is an error. But now I do not know how to introduct him. Also some of these studentis are studentis of sociologyii. Their English is not so goodi. You must tell one sentence at a timi, and I do translati. Now we go back.’