‘Well, it is difficult,’ says Lubijova, turning over the written pages, while in the auditorium the buzz and chatter of the audience rises, ‘But I try. In acta first, a student paramour falls into love with a beautiful girl who has bad father, who forbids a marriage. He is a magician who is sometimes turning people into a bear, and of course this makes laughable confusions. Also the boy has cruel father who does not understand him. That father tells he must not marriage but make travel to the big city and make his examen to become a government official. The girl is sad and disguises herself as boy to go after him. But the boy is sad and decides to stay, so he disguises as girl. Also his mother is loving an uncle who disguises himself like a king from a foreign country so he can make visits. But also there is naughty maid and a silly servant who is sometimes in love with this maid but often not. These two also are disguising all the time, but of course in oper nothing is as it seems. By two scene, the confusions are very bad and then come more people, like a tough aunt, a man from Turk, a soft-wit brother who is more clever than he looks, and a priest who is perhaps policeman. I hope you understand it now, a bit? It is not so easy for me.’ ‘Yes, I think so,’ says Petworth. ‘Why don’t those people leave now?’ says Lubijova, looking up, ‘Perhaps they like to make protest. Sometimes this happens. But our ushers are always very efficient.’ And indeed the curtains leading to the auditorium now part, and, between two black-suited ushers comes a couple, he wearing bright tartan trousers, she a diamanté-ed trouser suit. ‘Jesus, when will you guys ever learn to run a country?’ says the man to one of the ushers, in a Texas accent. ‘Do you know this is the third goddam night this has happened?’ says the woman to the other. ‘You see how easily our little problem is solved,’ says Lubijova, rising, ‘Now we go in. Please take my arm, we do it nicely.’
The auditorium, high, round, and ornate, is a monument to the baroque taste. Three tiers of boxes run round it; in the boxes sit, in a buzz of chatter, shining people with white glowing shirt fronts and bright dresses. The great proscenium arch is finely plastered and decorated with cupids; only the cusp in the centre shows history’s workings, for, where damaged plaster shows the arms of an imperial power must once have stood, there is emblazoned a red hammer and sickle. ‘Our seats are in stall,’ says Lubijova, as they are led to the second row from the front, ‘That is nice, we will see everything. And not even late: only now does the orchester come. Perhaps they wait for us. Of course this orchester is very fine, our players are in the class of the world. Perhaps sometimes they have just one little problem.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Petworth, sitting down, ‘What’s that?’ ‘They like to work hard, like all our people,’ says Lubijova, ‘So when it is rehearse often they are too busy, and must send their substitutes. Then at performance, well, of course always they play very well, but often they do not understand what the others do. But it will not be so tonight. They are playing together one night already. And now here is coming the conductor. It is Leo Fenycx, geboren Prague and if quite young also very famous. Perhaps you know of him already?’ ‘I’m afraid not,’ says Petworth, as the audience begins to clap, and Leo Fenycx, in his white tie and tails, bows his head. ‘No?’ cries Lubijova, clapping, ‘Many fine evaluations have been written of his work. You don’t read them?’ ‘No, I haven’t,’ says Petworth, as the conductor turns toward the orchestra and the bright lights of the house begin to dim.
‘Oh, Petwurt,’ says Lubijova suddenly, squeezing his arm, ‘Who is that?’ ‘What?’ asks Petworth. ‘Someone waves you, at the loge up there, in the second tier, where sit the party officials,’ says Lubijova. But the boxes are deep dark circles in a near blackness; and now, with a great plucking of strings, a romping, bantering overture begins. ‘Who was this?’ whispers Lubijova. ‘I didn’t see,’ whispers Petworth, ‘A man or a woman?’ The bassoons come in loudly. ‘Of course,’ murmurs Lubijova, ‘Another lady. In a red dress.’ ‘I have no idea,’ murmurs Petworth. The noisy brass enter. ‘Of course you have idea,’ whispers Lubijova. ‘I don’t suppose she was waving to me at all,’ whispers Petworth. There is an arabesque of woodwinds. ‘Yes, to you,’ murmurs Lubijova, ‘Petwurt, you are like romantic little boy. Everywhere you go, there are ladies.’ ‘No, not really,’ murmurs Petworth. The fiddles come in to state a second theme. ‘Perhaps you are an American,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you like to think of sexing all the time, like those people?’ ‘No,’ whispers Petworth. The new and darker theme begins to swell, while the light woodwinds play the first theme against it. ‘I think so,’ murmurs Lubijova, ‘Is this why you come to Slaka? To make your romantic life? I thought you are here to make some lectures.’ ‘I am,’ murmurs Petworth. The brass come in, to restate the first theme more strongly. ‘Only two days ago you are coming to Slaka,’ says Lubijova, ‘You are telling me you know no one. Now is two days, and everywhere there are ladies. In the morning, the afternoon, the night, always some ladies. Who is this one?’ ‘I really don’t know,’ whispers Petworth, conscious that along the row heads are swivelling to look at them. ‘Please,’ says a voice in English from the row behind, ‘We try to listen this music.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ whispers Petworth, turning. ‘Oh, is it you, my good old friend,’ says the voice from behind, ‘Do you make a quarrel? Something has gone wrong?’ The overture swells and rises, the two themes become one. ‘Not you, Comrade Plitplov,’ murmurs Lubijova. ‘Oh, we sit close,’ says Plitplov, ‘What a good coincidence.’
But now, in a cloud of dust, the great curtain in front of them ascends. A three-dimensional painted landscape of very bosky aspect is disclosed, with barrel-shaped tree-trunks rising up to branches that shake paper leaves. Centre stage is a papier-mâché cave; from the cave comes a young man dressed as an old man and wearing a long grey beard. He sings lustily at the audience: ‘Tells he is a very old man with a long grey beard,’ whispers Lubijova to Petworth. In the orchestra pit a flute-bird twitters; from stage left comes, tripping lightly, a young girl dressed as a boy. ‘Tells she is a young girl dressed as a boy,’ whispers Plitplov from the row behind, after a moment. ‘Of course the old man does not know she is really girl,’ murmurs Lubijova, ‘Because now she is telling him she is soldier.’ ‘Also she does not know he is really her uncle,’ whispers Plitplov, ‘Because he tells her he is really the king of another country.’ But now, backstage, a singing boy, wrapped in a very large cloak, has appeared, slinking through the cardboard trees, and singing. ‘Oh, what a silly boy!’ cries Lubijova, laughing, ‘He tells he is a young man in love with a girl who is lost.’ ‘That is this girl,’ whispers Plitplov. ‘But he cannot marry her because all the fathers forbid, so he hides in the forest dressed like robber,’ says Lubijova, ‘He tells he likes to take from the rich to give to the poor.’ ‘To spend on his bets,’ says Plitplov. ‘To give to the poor,’ says Lubijova, firmly, ‘Now he sees the old man and thinks he will steal his purse, so everyone will know he is robber.’ ‘Look, he steals it,’ whispers Plitplov. ‘But the girl wants to show now she has the honour of a man,’ says Lubijova, ‘She tells that boy she fights him to a duel. Doesn’t she know he is her best lover?’ ‘No,’ says Plitplov. ‘Look, they both pull out their arms,’ says Lubijova, ‘Oh, what a pity. He shoots her and she falls. She sings she dies of a plum in the breast.’ ‘A plum?’ asks Petworth. ‘The plum he has shooted from his arm,’ says Lubijova.
‘Bullet,’ whispers Plitplov, ‘Plum is a make of fruit.’ ‘I am right, plum,’ says Lubijova, ‘Now he sings he is sorry. He thinks he will bend to loosen her blouses. Perhaps he will find there a very nice surprise, don’t you think so?’ ‘No,’ says Plitplov, ‘Because now is coming a man who tells a wizard has turned him into a bear.’ ‘It is funny,’ says Lubijova, laughing. ‘The old man laughs at him and says he was always a bear!’ ‘But he tells he was not bear before, but only dog,’ whispers Plitplov, ‘Because he was always servant and a servant is only a dog.’ ‘Now they help the one with the plum,’ whispers Lubijova. ‘No,’ says Plitplov, ‘Because now comes a man who say
s he is a Turk who comes from Turkey, but really he is the brother of the girl.’ ‘Also comes a girl who sings she is the maid of the mother of the girl,’ says Lubijova. ‘He says he must hide from this maid or she will know him,’ says Plitplov. ‘She tells her naughty plan to marry the mother of the girl to the father of the boy, because they are always loving each other.’ ‘But first must die the father of the girl and the mother of the boy,’ says Plitplov, ‘That is why she carries here a pot of poison from an apothek.’ ‘From a magician,’ says Lubijova. ‘You tell it wrong,’ says Plitplov. ‘I tell it right,’ says Lubijova. Meanwhile the stage fills with an extravagant crowd of people, some in costumes of relative realism, others resembling animals. ‘Here some people who go to make a festival in the forest,’ says Plitplov. ‘They stop to sing a chorus about making some nice cakes,’ says Lubijova. ‘About the coming of the spring,’ says Plitplov. ‘Now they see the girl who is dying of the plum,’ says Lubijova. ‘Of the bullet,’ says Plitplov. ‘And now steps forward one to take her off to the cave of the magician.’ ‘The shop of the apothek,’ says Plitplov. The chorus ascends, the girl is lifted, the singers move, the curtain falls.
In the dark auditorium, heads all round them have turned to stare. Two bassoonists rise to peer critically over the top of the orchestra pit at them. ‘I think we’re disturbing everybody,’ murmurs Petworth. ‘Comrade Plitplov, I think they will stop this oper if you are not more quiet,’ says Lubijova. ‘It is you,’ hisses Plitplov. ‘Well, we don’t talk,’ says Lubijova, ‘I explain you all in the interlude, Comrade Petwurt.’ ‘In the interval,’ whispers Plitplov from the rear. ‘I am interpreter, I am right,’ whispers Lubijova, firmly, ‘See, again arises the curtain. Now we will be quiet and perhaps you will make the sense for yourself. Look, the cave of the magician.’ ‘The shop of the apothek,’ hisses Plitplov, before he subsides in the row behind. Left to his own resources, Petworth stares up at the great stage, where the voices sound and the complex musical codes continue to unwind. One thing is clear: whatever the miseen- scène, during that brief dropping of the curtain, much has changed in the imaginary world of artifice that is being composed and constructed just above his head. Perhaps much stage-time has passed, or everyone has died, or turned into something quite different, for the mind and senses are evidently being taken toward a new landscape of deceit and desire. Continuities may exist; the boy who was previously dressed as a robber could well be the same boy who is now dressed as a girl, though this could be an error; the coquette-ish maid in the dirndl who formerly carried her pot of poison might well be the girl now dressed as a cavalry officer, with moustaches, though this could be an optical illusion. Sexual arrangements are clearly other than they were. The boy-girl with the plum in her breast has either made a rapid recovery, or died, along with everyone else, but her erotic attention is now devoted to the magician or apothek, whom Petworth had previously understood to be her father. Meanwhile the boy dressed as a girl is being wooed by the young wife, or mistress, or perhaps assistant, of the magician, or perhaps apothek, though whether because she has unmasked his disguise, or because her tastes are oblique, or because she is a man who thinks he is a woman, is hard to surmise.
Shards and fragments, chaos and Babel; Petworth sits in his plush seat in the great auditorium, where from the circle of boxes the audience in their costumes of bland civility stare down onto the stage, and looks at the spectacle. Above him the faces move, painted and prettified, the cosmetics and the false beards gleam, the cadenced words, in the language he still does not know, spill out in their mysterious series, high sound that flows out erotically over him, as if his body is being washed in a shower of noise. The operatic confusion seems entirely in tune with that tumultuous exhaustion, that waning of utterance, that fading of self into contingent event that comes over a man in the midst of a difficult journey. Yet the mind, even when worn, still seeks order; lost in the garden of forking paths, where the narratives divide and multiply, he struggles to find a law of series, a system of signification, discover a story. But the author of what is being enacted in front of him seems to have little regard for the normal laws of probability, the familiar rules of genre and expectation. It is no longer clear to him who desires whom, nor which of any two partners is of which sex, nor, if he or she is, whether he or she will remain so. Identities have no proper barriers; people seem facets of each other. A singer appears who does not sing. The magician, or perhaps apothek, has big shoulders and many gold teeth; his wife, mistress, or assistant, has a fine neck and a mole above her right breast. Only impersonation seems true, the charade itself, the falsehood that is being created, the codes that proliferate and turn into counter-code. His mind drifts, dislodges, seems to find a room somewhere else in the big dark city he knows he is in, a room where water pours over him, and his body is being warmly touched.
His body is being warmly touched: ‘Do you like it, do you like?’ a voice asks, while someone shakes at his arm and tugs his hand. He opens his eyes; he is in the great baroque auditorium, with the lights ablaze. The orchestra has left the pit, the curtain is down, the stacks of boxes high above him are emptying of the party officials, the generals, the décolletée ladies. ‘I hope you like it, they make it very well, I think,’ says Lubijova, her hand on his arm, ‘Of course, that poor boy, for him it is very difficult. He asks himself, is that man a woman, or the woman a man? And if there is this confusion, how many more? No wonder he is puzzled, and cannot believe his eyes or his senses.’ ‘Quite,’ says Petworth. ‘But in the ending all comes clear, if not in the way those people intend,’ says Lubijova, ‘Well, for an oper, such confusions are essential. Always an oper is a little bit erotical. Now, do you like to go in the foyer and make a promenade?’ ‘Do I?’ asks Petworth, looking around. ‘Yes, you do,’ says Lubijova, firmly, pulling her stole around her, and rising, ‘That is what we always like to do at the interlude.’ ‘Perhaps you like to visit also the men’s room,’ says Plitplov, solicitously, from the row behind, ‘The next act is very long, and I will come with you.’ ‘Don’t you like to take a drink that is a bit like champagne?’ asks Lubijova, leading the way toward the aisle, ‘Or if you like it, a pancake that is often very good? And perhaps also you will see your nice lady in red who likes to look out for you.’ ‘I don’t think she was looking for me,’ says Petworth, struggling along behind. ‘Of course for you,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you think we do not know what is your favourite interest?’
In the wide aisle, the people flow toward the exit; in her stole, Lubijova hurries in front. Following, Petworth stumbles, over, he finds, Plitplov, who has somehow managed to drop his programme and has bent down to retrieve it. ‘My good friend,’ hisses Plitplov, rising suddenly, and clutching urgently at Petworth’s sleeve, ‘don’t you see now how foolish you have been?’ ‘Foolish?’ asks Petworth, looking at him. ‘Please talk quietly, pretend you discuss the opera,’ says Plitplov, walking beside him, ‘Of course, you have compromised everyone who is your friend. Now that one, your guide, knows everything. She sees right to your heart. Of course she knows what relations you have made this afternoon. And with what a nice lady.’ ‘That was a private matter,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, my friend,’ says Plitplov, ‘Do you think you are in the Cambridge of Russell? What is a private matter? You cause trouble for that lady, I think also for me. Do you see I cannot trust you any more? And so you think this work contains a problematic of identity? Of course, you are right, with your sharp critical acumen. Ah, Miss Lubijova, I hope we don’t make you wait. We dispute a little this opera.’ ‘But you miss the promenade,’ says Lubijova, leading them out into the foyer, ‘And I think that is really why people come to an oper. To see and to be seen. It is one of our events, don’t you like to join it?’ ‘My dear lady,’ says Plitplov, bowing, ‘Clearly you are our guide.’ Petworth looks around; the foyer has been strangely transformed. Evidently many intervening doors have been thrown open, to create a long curving corridor that leads, through plush passages, from one
mirrored room to another, in a great circle round the entire building.
And round the opened-out concourse the people walk, in stately procession, some in one direction, some in the other: the party officials, the military figures, the décolletée ladies. The clothes are fine, the dresses bright, the shirt fronts glow; they walk slowly, as if to some civil dance, the music from the opera still in their heads. Some carry glasses of sparkling wine, others fine food on plates; the high-ranking officer walks by, on his arm the cleavaged lady, her hair in a bun, her body seemingly split bare and open down past the ribcage, and each of them carries a large ice-cream, topped with artificial foam. ‘They say if you walk here at the oper you will soon see everyone in the world you know,’ says Lubijova, as they join the moving slow circle, with Petworth to one side of her, Plitplov to the other. ‘Of course not everybody likes that,’ says Plitplov. ‘I think now you are learning our country very well,’ says Lubijova, ‘You see our academical life, at close quarter. Our literary life, at very close quarter. And now our cultural life, which all support, the workers and their wives.’ ‘Oh, these are the workers and their wives?’ asks Plitplov, chuckling. ‘Oh, who do you like to say they are?’ asks Lubijova. ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, smiling, ‘The apparatchiks and their mistresses. ‘Well, there are workers of the head and the hand,’ says Lubijova. ‘And some other parts of the body also,’ says Plitplov, ‘You know what we say, some advance on their knees, some on their backs. Well, I think it is not hard to recognize those who make a horizontal progress.’ ‘Ah, I understand you,’ says Lubijova, ‘You like to say that the wives of our leaders are horizontals.’ ‘So you admit they are our leaders, not the workers,’ says Plitplov. ‘So you accuse our party officials of sexual crimes?’ says Lubijova.
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