So Petworth works, by the day, by the evening. That night at eight, Professor Vlic comes to the hotel with a gloomy elderly lady. ‘My wife,’ he says, ‘She does not speak at all English. She will sit very quietly. She has a magazine.’ ‘Won’t it be boring for her?’ asks Petworth, at the table under the umbrella by the river. ‘Not at all,’ says Professor Vlic, ‘She eats. And perhaps your guide will say some things to her. I hope you have tried all our nice foods, very good in Glit. There is a typical thing, a cream of cucumber made with the chords of a yog, or do you like perhaps to eat a brain? I hope you try our things. And how is your monetarism? You think it is working? I think now money is not making sense any more. All our economies are wrong, capitalist and socialist. Of course our disasters are more rational, we plan them better. And yet everywhere people seem to have some riches. New clothes, a television receptor, perhaps a little car. Even our people here have many possessions. But I wonder, do these things represent what truly we desire, or does money make us take them? I have an apartment to sit in, a car to go in, am I happier man? I do not laugh any more, my worries are bigger. You have been in United States?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Is it as Tennessee Williams portrays, a decadent nation?’ asks Professor Vlic, ‘Always people lying in hot tubs? And everyone divorcing to be singles? Did you take an analyst while you are there, to get your head straight? It looks quite a straight head to me. Did you go to a sex shop? And what do you buy there, I don’t even know what they sell. Do they have topless seminars now in the universities, the topless physics, the topless mathematic? How is your ego and your id? Look, I now recommend the cake eskimo. It is a specialism of this place. If you like, I will ask them for it.’ ‘Thank you,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, so sorry,’ says Professor Vlic, after a long conversation with a sad waiter, ‘It is eaten all. A fruit instead, perhaps? He has one orange.’
It has been a usual day, and the one that follows promises to be much the same. The battered car comes, and Petworth gets in it to travel to the university; in the same gloomy auditorium he stands to lecture on the Uvular R. The audience is smaller today, perhaps because the Uvular R is of less pressing interest, perhaps because of the gloomier weather, or because of the presence of a rival attraction – for somewhere outside there seems to be a noise of students shouting, and even the occasional celebratory bang. But the man with the newspaper has not failed to come, and today he looks even more like Plitplov than ever; for in some moment of curiosity he lets the newspaper slip, to reveal a neat white sports shirt of the kind that Plitplov wears, though others wear them too, and in any case it could be an optical illusion. Later, as they walk to the university cafeteria, a window or two seems to have caved in in the corridor, perhaps as a result of the morning’s celebrations, and in the air there lingers a strange smell of acrid smoke. After lunch there is another faculty seminar, and Professor Vlic, evidently a liberal soul, says he wants it to be even more of a dialogi; he insists on explaining what a dialogi is. ‘In dialogi,’ he says, as they sit in the small seminar room, from which it seems possible to hear the sound of firecrackers going off, ‘each partner must be considered consenting person and no one should be subservient and no one on top. Of course in dialogi different partners will have different priority and the objects of attention will not be quite the same. But if dialogi shall work well, and be a true coming together, the different elements will be fit to the satisfaction of both partners. A tendency toward individuation exists in dialogi, but should be criticized. Our aim is not partial dialogi, but whole dialogi. Now I call you to begin.’
The dialogi goes on most of the afternoon; afterwards, Professor Vlic leads him out to the battered car in the car park. Round about, the broken glass seems quite wide-spread, there are a few steaming canisters about, and several khaki vans with wire mesh over their windows and shadowy people sitting inside stand round the university. ‘Has something happened?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, it is just a small thing,’ says Professor Vlic, ‘I think there has been just a little demonstration about our languages. You know, we have here so many, of the north and the south, of the Indo and the Turkish. All of them confuse, but all of them like to be the main language of the country, which is why now is a tiny problem.’ ‘I thought there was a language reform,’ says Petworth. ‘One reform, and some people ask always for more,’ says Professor Vlic, ‘Well, it is a little problem, and we solve it quite quickly. Your lecture is very good, and tonight we like to thank you. Please to be our guest at a special faculty dinner at a restaurant in the town. Your guide, also, please. Now the man takes you back. The policemen will let you through, it is arranged. If you can be ready at eight we collect you and take you to a very nice place.’ There is time to change in his innocent quiet room overlooking the river; there is time to take a little pleasure in his pleasant visit to Glit. Then he sits with Marisja Lubijova in the hotel lobby until a very small car containing four of the short stout lady professors, who now wear bright flowered dresses and carry large handbags, stops and takes them off, through the cramped, quiet old streets of Glit, to an ancient timbered restaurant somewhere. Inside the restaurant, the Restaurant Nada, many are gathered together, the faculty faces of the day, and there is laughter; hands pat Petworth’s arms, smiles flash in his face, and he is steadily pushed toward a seat in the centre of the table.
‘Here is a white wine, here a red, here a juicy if you like it,’ says Professor Vlic, who sits in the place opposite him. And down the table, to either side, stretch the long rows of lady professors, smiling and laughing, gossiping and talking. The restaurant has a low ceiling, and pots of flowers hang from it; a goat is looking curiously in through the window at the long, bottle-laden table where, in two happy rows, the learned people sit, chatting as, at faculty dinners, faculty diners do. ‘I have read your great poet of debunkery, Philip Larking,’ says a stout lady to Petworth’s right, ‘I like to visit him and talk to him for three days and make a thesis.’ ‘Do you know also a campus writer Brodge?’ asks a lady to his left, ‘Who writes Changing Westward? I think he is very funny but sometimes his ideological position is not clear.’ ‘You like it, Glit?’ asks a lady across the table, ‘Really it is very pleasant, except in the earthquakes. Then our buildings fall down and it is not so amusing.’ ‘Oh, my English, I wish it was gooder,’ says another lady across the table, ‘Your language, so difficult. Always those sentences that appear correct, but you must not say. I swimmed. This is the lady I want to eat.’ ‘And some things you may say in Britain but not at all in the United States,’ says the lady to his right, ‘Elevator, not lift. Hood, not bonnet.’ ‘When you visit the United States,’ says the lady beyond her, leaning toward him, ‘You should not say to a lady, please may I stroke your pussy. It is quite correct, but it has a meaning that is not intended. But I do not know what it is.’ ‘Oh, you don’t know it?’ asks the lady beyond, ‘Then I will tell you.’ Laughter spreads down the table; a sizzling pot of strange food appears on the table in front of him; more, and more, of an unusual wine is poured.
There are voices, strange voices, singing in Petworth’s head, the words of an English that is not quite English, English as a medium of international communication. He is well attended, and the ladies all lean toward him; he talks himself, of Sod’s Law and Hobson’s Choice, of laughing like a drainpipe and not having a sausage, the happy small talk of the passing linguist. ‘I have been in Wales, that was very dark,’ says a lady across the table. ‘You are in Glit,’ says the lady next to him, ‘Here always a strong oral tradition, we like to tell the stories.’ ‘Oh, yes, we are famous of it,’ says the lady beyond. ‘I believe you have some very bad inflations,’ says the lady on the other side, ‘We have some here also, but they are not the same.’ ‘Do you like to hear one of our stories?’ ‘The one about the tailor?’ ‘No, the one about the shah.’ ‘In Wales there are many teashops, always closed.’ ‘Each partner in a dialogi should be considered a person and consenting always to the part.’ ‘Do you think Larking likes to
see me for three days?’ ‘Once in a certain kingdom, not ours, there lived a shah.’ ‘A tzar?’ ‘It is a wine made from a grappa that a frost has bitten.’ ‘Here ours is a Marxist inflation, caused not at all by the entrepreneurial processes of capitalism but by the workings of economic laws.’ ‘The shah had a beautiful fair wife, a great hareem, a big Turk slave and a fine black horse.’ ‘I have been to a place called Rhyl where always is showing the film Going With the Wind.’ ‘Oh, don’t they love you?’ whispers, in his ear, his guide Marisja Lubijova, as she makes her way out of the room, toward the lavatory or wherever, ‘Oh, aren’t you success? And how much you like to enjoy it.’ Petworth looks up, and sees her walking away, swinging her shoulderbag.
The food comes, the ladies smile. ‘The shah loved alike his wife and his horse, and one day when he had ridden the first he went for a ride in the desert on the second.’ ‘Of course we have abolished entirely the bourse and therefore our market is entirely scientific.’ ‘On that way he meets a wizard who sits under a tree, and the wizard tells to him: “If you can answer please my question, you can have all your desires, don’t you like that? And if you cannot, I can have your beautiful wife. What do you say? Is it bargain?” ’ ‘I hope you went to our castle, we have much history here.’ ‘“Now my question,” says the wizard, “What is the strongest, the loveliest, the fattest, the most beautiful thing in the whole world?” ’ ‘If you walk past there just a little way, you will come to a place that is very interesting.’ ‘And the wizard then tells: “Now you have fourteen nights, until the moon, to make your travels and find it out. Then at the moon you tell me, or I take your wife.” ’ ‘Do you like now to take some spirits, for the end of our nice meal?’ ‘So for fourteen day that shah makes travel, and then he comes back to the wizard, and tells, very sad: “No, still I do not know what is the strongest, the loveliest, the fattest, the most beautiful thing in the whole world.” ’ ‘A visky or a bols? A Tichus or a Blackuu and Vuttuu?’ ‘Because of these fundamental differences, therefore the two systems are not at all the same, but are subject to different historical forces.’ ‘I think he likes to try the custom of the country, give him rot’vuttu.’ ‘And so that wizard goes away with the beautiful wife, and the shah is very sad and lonely. Oh, do we pay? Please, not you. You are our very nice guest.’
A great pile of vloskan, that paper fiction, grows in the middle of the table, supplied from the purses of the laughing ladies. ‘But, please, you don’t tell us what is the strongest, the loveliest, the fattest, the most beautiful thing in the whole world?’ ‘I do not know, but if you find him, bring it to me,’ says the lady professor, laughing. ‘We thank you, a good visit,’ says Professor Vlic, rising, shaking hands. ‘Time to go, Comrade Petwurt,’ says Marisja Lubijova, leaning across Petworth’s shoulder in a wifely intercession, ‘You have had nice evening, but tomorrow you take that train to Nogod. Kiss goodbye all the nice ladies, make them farewell.’ ‘Of course, you must kiss us all,’ says the lady professor who has told the imperfect story of the shah, ‘But then we take you back.’ ‘No, I think he needs some fresh airs,’ says Lubijova, firmly, as Petworth makes his embraces, writes down addresses, lists the titles of some useful books. He is led outside; the small smoky restaurant has grown remarkably hot, and even the outdoor air of Glit is almost glutinous. In the streets, as he walks back with his guide, the moon shines, and the scent of flowers from the balconies fills the evening. In the market place, the fountain burbles – though here there is a new smell, the aroma of acrid smoke, and more broken glass lies scattered about the pavements. There is a tired hysteria in Petworth, a sense of being over-used, spent in some massive verbal orgy; he pauses by the fountain. ‘Yes, look at you,’ says Lubijova, standing and looking at him, ‘Oh, yes, you please now. You feel better. Always you like to amuse, always you like to be with the ladies. Are you an American, Comrade Petwurt? Don’t you think of anything but sexing? Do you dream to be a star? Do you think the world exists to make you feel very okay?’ ‘I’m tired,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, you should be happy,’ says Mari, ‘I think they were all in love with you, and would like to sleep with you.’ ‘Really?’ says Petworth, ‘Why?’ ‘Of course,’ says Marisjia, ‘Because your speeches are a good success, and that is always erotic. And also in your eyes it shows always you like women, and they like to be liked. Even under Marx.’
Later, in the small innocent bedroom where nothing has happened, and no pain has yet come, Petworth sits on the clean narrow bed; his duty-free bottle of whisky is open before him on the bedside table, and he has a toothglass in his hands. Words are spilling through his mind, in strange excess, a medley of sounding voices that penetrate and confuse. But it is as Katya Princip, that deceptive novelist, has said to him, in another place, now distant: the more words, the more country. But what country is it? The English that is no longer English, the English of second language users, reels through his head, a head that hardly feels like his. The acrid smoke-smell from the market place is still burning strangely in his nostrils. His throat is still tanged with the strong sweet taste of rot’vuttu, which is never to be missed. His body feels an empty place, longing for some fullness; there is a misery of feeling about a relationship that has betrayed, gone. A little along the bed, also holding a glass, sits Mari Lubijova; her hair has come down, and her round grey eyes, in her white tense face, are staring at him. ‘I don’t know, I don’t know what to think of you,’ says Mari, ‘You are a soft person, you come from a soft place, you are not like these men here at all. And you are the worst I have ever guided.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ says Petworth. ‘No, really, I should not say these things,’ says Mari, ‘Even I should not be here. But you must understand, perhaps I am always just a little bit jealous.’ ‘Jealous?’ says Petworth, ‘Why, of what?’ ‘Really, Petwurt, you can’t think?’ asks Mari, staring down into her glass, ‘Then you are not very bright. But of course, I know what I am. I am just your guide, your interpreter. I am invisible person. A voice, a sort of machine, I do not have words of my own. Just your words to take there, the words of others to bring to here. Well, of course, it is my job. And I hope I try to do it very well.’
‘Yes, of course,’ says Petworth. ‘And I hope you understand I try to look after you a little, or you would be always in misfortune,’ says Mari, ‘Perhaps you blame me for what goes wrong.’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘I think you do, a little,’ says Mari, ‘And perhaps you are right. It is hard to know how betrayal works. Please, I take some more of your whisky? I think you do not like to carry it all the way home again.’ ‘Please,’ says Petworth. ‘You know, when you are interpreter, you are not supposed to like the words you hear,’ says Mari, ‘All your speakers are the same. But, what is funny, in public places, all the speakers say almost the same things. You can have all those phrases ready in your head; you know you will need them. We wish you amity, friendship, concord of the peoples. We make here a fine progress. We wish you all come together in new ways. And because you know what will be said, you learn to change things a little bit, sometimes to make them easier, sometimes to make them better. You like to help your speaker a little, you want him to succeed.’ ‘Yes, I see,’ says Petworth. ‘Perhaps you do that for yourself,’ says Mari, ‘Because if you are interpreter, it is easy to grow a little afraid. You speak all the time, but always the words of others. Then you wonder: is there inside me a person, someone who is not the words of those others? You think: can I have still a desire, a wish, a feeling? But of course if you think like this, it is bad for your job, you must forget it. You are not here for that, you are here to make those exchanges, to let the others talk, so the world can go on. But, excuse me, please, sometimes I do have a little feeling. And now, I am sorry, it is jealous.’ ‘Yes, I understand,’ says Petworth, looking at her tense white face as she sits beside him on the bed.
‘So,’ says Mari, raising up her glass, ‘At least I hope I have taught you some things. I believe you know how to make a toast; show me you can do it. I don’t like
you to forget the lessons you have learned here in my country. Raise please the glass.’ ‘I remember,’ says Petworth, raising his glass. ‘Now, wait, what do we drink to?’ says Mari, ‘Yes, I think dialogi, you have heard of it, I believe? Dialogi is a linkage of context and relation, made in the assumption that both partners like to enjoy the same things. The aim is not partial dialogi but whole dialogi. If dialogi shall work well, there must be a true coming together. All elements must fit to the mutual satisfaction of both parties. So, please drink to dialogi. Do it right. Look with the eyes, be always sincere, remember what to think: I like you, you are fine, I want you so much in my bed.’ There is a face, Mari Lubijova’s, curiously close to Petworth’s, and coming closer; for some reason he momentarily recalls a grey-haired lady who smokes a cigarette in a dark London office of the British Council. The face is very near, and then it turns. ‘No,’ says Mari, dropping her head and putting down her glass, ‘Is not such a good toast. I am afraid you will do something to me and I do not like it.’ ‘I will?’ asks Petworth. ‘Please understand,’ says Lubijova, ‘Really I do not find you at all attractive in that way. You are not a bit my kind.’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘I hope you do not try to force me,’ says Mari. ‘Of course not,’ says Petworth. ‘You are bourgeois reactionary without a correct sense of reality,’ says Mari, ‘You are not serious, and no important thing matters to you. You live a decadent life.’ ‘That sums me up pretty well,’ says Petworth. ‘And no sooner do you go from one trouble than you find another,’ says Mari, ‘You have had one lesson with the ladies, don’t you learn?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course I like to offer you a nice tenderness, but not at all in that way,’ says Mari. ‘No, of course,’ says Petworth, ‘I wasn’t going to . . .’
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