‘Of course all this is not true, none of it,’ says Mari, ‘To me you are attractive, perhaps just a little bit beautiful, Petwurt, and strange. Perhaps not in your own country, but here. And you know those who watch us and listen to us, they would like us to make some love.’ ‘Who do you mean?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, please, you know them, they are always there,’ says Mari, ‘But I do not think it is their business. I think we disappoint them, yes?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘But I cannot go now,’ says Mari, ‘I think we turn out the light and be together very quiet for a bit. And if we say nothing, no one can tell anything of us.’ ‘Who would tell?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Mari, ‘Someone is always telling of you and me. So we are quiet together, and we make no words.’ Outside the window there is the noise of the rushing river, and there is a scent of trees in the air. But it is totally quiet and entirely dark in the little bedroom, and there is absolutely nothing to hear or see. A clock ticks, but one cannot tell how much time is passing; certainly it is some time later when Mari, in the dark, says: ‘Comrade Petwurt, now I go. You must sleep very nicely, don’t forget you must make an early wake, to go on that train to Nogod. Thank you for the drink, thank you to be with me, thank you to be quiet. And perhaps even we did make some love, if not in the usual way.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘But there is nothing to know, nothing to tell,’ says Mari, ‘And I hope you understand now that I am really your very good guide. And always I like to look after you very, very well.’ ‘I do,’ says Petworth. ‘And now I will sleep next door, where they have put me,’ says Mari, ‘And I hope you do not mind if I think of you a little?’ ‘I’d like you to,’ says Petworth. In the dark room, the door opens, and Mari stands for a moment in the light from the corridor; in his clothes, Petworth turns on his side, and sleeps.
III
‘So now you go to another city, isn’t it nice?’ says Marisja Lubijova, as Petworth lifts his luggage aboard the train that has belatedly come to a halt at the single platform of the railway station at Glit. It has been a long wait, and many cups of acorn coffee have been taken by the few waiting passengers, under the eyes of the two or three armed men who walk the platform; but it has come at last, a train of old, red-painted coaches, drawn by an ancient black steam engine with a large red star on its nose. Telegraphic noises come from an office; a few black-uniformed railwaymen make signals; Petworth and Lubijova struggle down the central aisle and find a seat opposite two young soldiers, who sit under a window with a red sign on it saying NOKU ROKU. ‘Yes, you will like it, Nogod,’ says Marisja, opening a volume of Hemingway and spreading it on her knee, ‘It is also old but not at all like Glit. There is a lake and some hills there, also a kloster and a kirkus. We will stay in a nice modern hotel, and have a good weekend of leisures, you have worked very hard. I hope you enjoy now a rest. Don’t you like our train?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, as the rails rattle under them, ‘But I suppose the signs mean I can’t smoke?’ ‘Oh, dear, poor comrade Petwurt,’ says Marisja, ‘Do you want to? We don’t so much like those things in our country. I think you find our regulation a little hard. Well, it is for your good, we do not like you to be ill.’ ‘I’ll just go and stand at the end of the car,’ says Petworth. ‘I don’t think is permitted there either,’ says Marisja, looking down into her book, ‘But if you like to look.’ The soldiers stare at him as he rises; he walks to the end of the coach and stands by the door. Lighting a cigarette, he leans through the open window, and looks out.
The train is moving very slowly; beside the track, there are peasants walking along with produce who seem to advance almost as fast. It rattles over the stone and wooden bridges and through the short tunnels of the mountainous landscape; there is a sharp smell of woodsmoke, an ancient dust in the air. Forest closes round the track, and small streams bubble. Presently a man in a black uniform, with much dandruff on it, comes by; he points to Petworth’s cigarette, and says: ‘Negativo.’ ‘Ah, da,’ says Petworth, turning, and beginning to walk down the shaking train, looking for a place where the signs do not say noku roku. The train seems very empty; the corridors are wide between the seats, which are also wide and plush. Wooden doors divide the carriages into sections; at halfopen windows, curtains blow; the seats change colour from blue to brown as he walks on. He opens a door, and beyond is a dining car, its tables covered with dirty white cloths. The car is empty except for one grey-jacketed attendant and two men, who sit together at a table under one of the familiar signs that say noku roku. One of the men has a big black beard and gold bangles on both his wrists, and he smokes an aromatic Balkan cigarette; the other, his back to Petworth, wears natty sportive trousers and smokes a large curved pipe. The men turn to look at him, and the one with the pipe gets up suddenly. ‘Well, is it really?’ he cries, ‘Is it truly my good old friend Dr Petworth? Are you also on this train?’ Petworth stares: ‘Well, Dr Plitplov,’ he says, ‘Fancy meeting you.’ ‘Such a strange thing,’ says Plitplov, laughing, ‘You are come to take a meal, no, is too early. You like to take a drink. Please, sit down here with us, we would like it.’
‘I was looking for somewhere to smoke, actually,’ says Petworth, ‘There doesn’t seem to be anywhere on this train.’ ‘No, is not permitted, in such a public place,’ says Plitplov, puffing at his pipe, ‘But of course in my country many things are possible, if you know a someone. And this gentleman my friend here, I am sorry, he does not speak English, he knows well the crew of this train. He likes to make a lot of travels. Well, sit down, please, make a smoke, it is all right. Also we drink some very fine brandy. Please won’t you take some? It is not too early in the day for you?’ The attendant, prescient, has already appeared, with a clean new glass; Plitplov fills it from a very large bottle that sits on the table in front of him. ‘Well, I think we drink to a very fine coincidence,’ says Plitplov, raising his glass, ‘Here I am going to make some businesses in Nogod, I think you go there too; and on the train who I meet except my very good friend! And your lectures in Glit, tell me? I hope they went very nicely?’ ‘I think they were all right,’ says Petworth, drinking, ‘You didn’t happen to be there, did you? I thought I saw you.’ ‘In Glit?’ cries Plitplov, laughing, ‘At your lectures? I don’t think so. Oh, my friend, I know in our academical life, lectures are most important, and of course I would like to be there. But really life is more than some lectures. How I wish I could hear you at Nogod, always you are quite fascinating, as I remember of Cambridge. But no, I must make a congress there. You know perhaps Nogod is a famous place to make a very good congress. But your nice guide, you have not lost your nice lady guide?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘She’s further down the train.’ ‘How well that lady looks after you,’ says Plitplov, ‘Please, some more in your glass.’ ‘Only a little,’ says Petworth, ‘Too much.’ ‘I don’t think,’ says Plitplov, ‘In my country your too much is only a little. Drink it please, it is a special brandy that is kept on this train only for certain people. It is good I am one of them.’
From time to time the train stops; the stations have no names and the train halts at nowhere. People with big suitcases get off, get on; the landscape as they move begins to flatten gradually. ‘And your tour, you like it?’ asks Plitplov, ‘You are pleased to come?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Then you are grateful to me?’ asks Plitplov, ‘You know I had a hand in the pie. Really I am sorry we do not make a bigger time together, but we all have our businesses, and we do not agree on all things, like Hemingway. Oh, you are wrong there, you cannot be right all the time. How was your strip?’ ‘My strip?’ asks Petworth. ‘Your strip after the opera,’ says Plitplov, ‘You know I did not come because I had headache.’ ‘Not terribly enjoyable,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, of course, these things, for tourists only,’ says Plitplov, ‘There are better things I can show you. But there is always your nice lady guide, she doesn’t like it. In Nogod, where do you stay? What is your hotel?’ ‘I don’t know,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, really there is only one, the Universe,’ says Plitplov, ‘I stay
there also. Let us take together a little dinner. This gentleman my friend knows very well Nogod. He can meet you some ladies, find you some dancings, if those are your pleasures. I know you like to make nice time.’ ‘I shall be busy giving lectures,’ says Petworth. ‘Perhaps you will,’ says Plitplov, ‘Perhaps you will not.’ ‘I don’t understand,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, it is nothing,’ says Plitplov, ‘But here in my country we are having some little troubles, not very much. But it is the language reform, so a lecture on language could be even a provocation. But don’t think of it, I am wrong to mention. Of course you will give your lectures, I wish I could hear them.’
The landscape flattens further; beyond the windows show the shores of a large lake. ‘Perhaps you should find now your guide,’ says Plitplov, ‘In Nogod there are three stations, none of them with names. Take care, my friend, and I will find you. Is not such a big place. I may be a little elusive, but yes, we will make together a little dinner. Is it agreed?’ ‘If we can arrange it,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, ‘You know I like to make plans for you, plans of many kinds.’ Petworth walks shakily down the shaking train, down the wide corridors, through the wooden doors. Marisja Lubijova sits reading in her spectacles: ‘You are gone a long time,’ she says, setting aside her book, ‘Oh, comrade Petwurt, what are you doing? I let you go for a moment, and now you are smelling of drink.’ ‘I met someone, guess who?’ says Petworth. ‘I don’t want to play game with you,’ says Marisja, staring at him, ‘Who is on the train?’ ‘Dr Plitplov,’ says Petworth. ‘Really, your good old friend?’ says Mari Lubijova, ‘And he goes to Nogod?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Why does he follow you?’ asks Marisja. ‘I don’t think he does follow me,’ says Petworth, ‘Our paths just keep crossing.’ ‘Petwurt, I think you are a very simple man, really you do not know anything about life, how to live it. Of course your paths cross. That is because he likes to follow you. But what is his reason? What does he want from you?’ ‘Nothing, as far as I know,’ says Petworth, breathing brandy fumes. ‘Oh, yes, he does all this for nothing,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘What does he know about you? How does he know you so well? And your marriage?’ ‘He just came to that course in Cambridge,’ says Petworth. ‘That is all?’ asks Marisja, ‘I don’t think so. You know, I cannot even imagine him as student. That man, he likes to think he was borned knowing everything. Well, Petwurt, take up please your baggages. Look, we are nearly here.’
And beyond the windows there is an urban landscape, a blowing wind, washing hanging between tenements, a long black wall, an advertisement, very tattered, for P’rtyuu Populatuuu, a heap of coal, a smell of oil fumes, a platform with people on it. They descend from the train; there is a high glass ceiling, a line of parcel trucks, a concourse, a number of people waiting expectantly, a few armed men, a forecourt, a few orange taxis. Marisja Lubijova walks firmly to the head of the line and claims one; meanwhile Petworth notices, coming toward them with waves and shouts, Plitplov and the man with the big black beard. ‘Quick please, inside,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘He does not come again in a taxi with us.’ They drive through the town, which has a humid atmosphere and a somewhat Mediterranean feel. Unseen shouters shout in the streets, children run about, car horns hoot with abandon, behind half-screened open windows unshaven men at desks answer telephones. The Hotel Universe is a high modern hotel by the lake, with a pool and a pier; there are display cases of souvenirs in the lobby and a blue Cosmoplot girl behind the desk. ‘You stay at the Universe,’ says Marisja, conducting the formalities, ‘I must stay at the small annexe behind.’ Petworth’s hotel room is the universal room, with bigger table lamps in it than has the rest of life, a small television set that will not switch on, and a card on the dressing table that says: ‘Please tickle one: I like very much my stay; it is all right; I disappoint.’ The cafeteria where, a little later, they meet to take a little lunch is called a Butter’um, and is like a hamburger joint, without hamburgers. ‘Why does he come?’ asks Marisja, over the salad, ‘Now I think our nice weekend will really not be so well.’ Through a glass wall they can see into the lobby: in the lobby stands Plitplov, talking to the blackbearded man, and a man in a big felt hat, and someone who looks curiously like Professor Rom Rum. ‘We try not to mind,’ says Marisja, ‘We try to enjoy ourselves. The Mun’stratuu has been very efficient, and many things have been arranged.’
And many have. Over the weekend, Petworth is taken to various spots round the lake, to sit in cafés drinking light beer; he is taken by coach to a monastery high up a hill, where a little old moustached man issues him with very large felt slippers, which he wears to be shown, by a monk in a great vestment, an ancient hand-illustrated Bible in an alphabet that is now very little used. ‘Those places,’ says Marisja afterward, wrinkling her nose, ‘How they love to sell their propagandas to the foolish people who think it is all so.’ He is taken to a circus, the Kyrku Hyvardim, where he looks at the sad-faced lions, the romping monkeys, and feels curiously at home. He is taken to a state-run fish-farm, and given a lecture on rural reform; he is taken to a cinema to watch films, filmed in the style of heavy photographic realism, evidently shot by big cameras that are not easy to move around, about heroes of labour, campaigns for teaching things to deaf children, factories with steaming chimneys, and nuclear power stations. Occasionally Marisja Lubijova translates – ‘Katrina advances revolutionary ballet by her prize posture,’ she explains – but most of it is floating images, as the heavy urgent commentaries go on in the language he still has not managed to learn. Plitplov is not to be seen, until on Sunday night, after his guide has gone to her annexe behind the Universe, Petworth sees a sign saying CONGRUSS’UM. Two of the blue armed men guard an open door; through it Petworth can see a big hall with a platform with many flags on it. Men sit on the platform and in front of them are signs with their names on. Photographers stand at the side of the hall and step forward now and then, their cameras flashing. To the side of the stage, four translators sit in a box marked DOL’METSCHUU, their mouths moving rapidly. It seems to Petworth that one of the translators is Plitplov. One of the blue armed men closes the door, and gestures Petworth away; he goes to the lift and back to his room, where the big table lamps and the small television set seem to look at him, listen to him.
The weekend is over; in the morning it seems that the cycle will begin again. His lectures in a folder, he goes down to breakfast in the Butter’um; during the meal, of bad black coffee and bread rolls, Marisja is called away to the telephone. ‘There is a small confusion,’ she says when she comes back, ‘Your tour will not be quite the same. I am afraid you miss your last city. You do not go after it all to Provd. What a pity, you would like it. But there are some little troubles there that make it not a good idea. Also your lectures here, perhaps you do not give them. Instead we take you to a nice state farm with tractors, you will have a very nice day. Also tomorrow we try to find you a ticket for a plane back to Slaka, so you have more time to go to the Wicwok shop and find some nice souvenirs.’ ‘Is it to do with the language reform?’ asks Petworth. ‘Something like that,’ says Mari, ‘It is not very important and it will all soon be solved. But what a pity for your tour. Now you will not be able to give your best lectures.’ It seems to Petworth that when they go out into the lobby there are rather more of the blue armed militiamen than usual, and that, at the nice state farm with the tractors, as they trudge along furrows, Marisja Lubijova is whiter and more tense than he is used to. When they get back to the hotel, the sign saying congruss’um has gone; after he goes to his room, the telephone rings. ‘You are alone?’ says a voice, ‘No person is with you?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘Is that Plitplov?’ ‘Someone of that sort,’ says the voice, ‘You wonder about a dinner, you think you are neglected.’ ‘I haven’t worried,’ says Petworth. ‘I think we make a raincheck, you understand this expression, it is American,’ says the voice, ‘I like to take now the way back to Slaka. I have an anxious wife, very delicate, and she has not seen me for three
days. Do you make your lectures?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, a little word of advice from an old friend,’ says the voice, ‘I think you tell your nice lady guide you like to go back to Slaka too. It is not so hard to arrange. You are important official visitor.’ ‘I fly back tomorrow,’ says Petworth. ‘Is good,’ says the voice, ‘I hope the planes go. Sleep very well, my friend.’
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