Rates of Exchange

by Malcolm Bradbury

  A soldier blocks the way, in a beret, with a gun and a radio transmitter; Lubijova shows him a pass, and they climb up wooden steps onto a viewing stand. ‘You see we have a good place,’ says Lubijova, as they go up high, ‘You are an important visitor. From here you will see everything.’ Petworth looks across the great masses, a man not used to them. There is a little rain in the air, and some hold up umbrellas, some black, some plastic and transparent, so that they have the effect of a great pebbled beach. But more important than the umbrellas are the flags that are waving from side to side: red flags, blue and green flags, white and brown flags. ‘Oh, don’t you like the flags?’ says Lubijova, ‘Please don’t think of all the nice shirts they would make. We like them very much on our special occasions.’ And above the flags in the crowd are the great banners flapping on the poles; and above the banners and the bunting are the great photographs, those realistic images of constructed seriousness. ‘Do you recognize them?’ asks Lubijova, ‘Comrade Marx, Comrade Lenin, Comrade Brezhnev, Comrade Grigoric, Comrade Vulcani?’ ‘What happened to Comrade Wanko?’ asks Petworth ‘I don’t think I remember this Wanko,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘Of course it is hard for you to remember names in another language.’ ‘And who is Vulcani?’ asks Petworth. ‘Well, there you see him,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘Look, down the stand. The men of the Party take up their positions.’ Petworth looks along the stand, and sees faces he knows: Felix and Budgie Steadiman, she in a great green garden party hat, are waving at him. And there, in the middle, right in the centre of things, is Tankic, grinning in his plastic Homburg hat. ‘Oh, Tankic, where does he stand?’ asks Marisja, craning to see, ‘That is what we come to look for. Oh, that is nice; they must have made him the Minister of Culture! And that is Vulcani beside him, with the Russian minister. Don’t you think he is a handsome president? Oh, don’t you excite? And now they have come, the parade will begin.’

  From round the comer, where the Palace of Culture stands, there comes a noise of martial music; then, through the strip in the centre, which the armed men keep clear, there comes, for some reason, a row of rocket launchers, and a tank or two. Behind the tanks comes a marching procession: ‘First the musicians,’ says Lubijova. At the front there steps a military band; behind the band are musicians of another kind, carrying violins and French horns and bassoons and cymbals. Then behind them there come, in great quantities, children in leotards, all of them carrying bunches of flowers which they wave, in ceremonial fashion, from side to side in rhythm, first to the left, then to the right. The smallest children are in the front, and then the sizes grade upward, toward the adult. ‘They are the lovers of revolutionary culture,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘And now, look, the academicians, our very best scholars.’ And now there marches, behind the children through the square, a very solemn body of men, eminent in their grey hair and neat suits. Among them it is possible to see a very familiar figure, Professor Rom Rum, his topcoat loose on his shoulders, a medal on his lapel, a sash across his chest. The barriers to the side break, to let through a bevy of small children, all carrying bouquets of flowers; they hand the flowers to the eminent men, and Professor Rum bends to kiss one on the cheek. ‘I hope you treat also so your professors and your writers,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘It shows how we like to value them. Oh, yes, look please, here come next our professors. I expect you will remember some of them from your travels.’

  The professors, it must be admitted, march somewhat raggedly, like a poor conscript army following on from the élite troops the academy has managed to muster. Their armaments, too, seem less: a few have sashes, and one or two have medals, but others attempt to define their rôle by holding up, like winners of a world cup, their trophies, which are in the form of books. Among them it is indeed possible to recognize a number of familiar faces, like a reprise of the recent past. For Mrs Goko from Slaka is there, marching sturdily, and beside her the little assistants Miss Bancic and Miss Mamorian, as well as the big Mr Picnic, who still wears his sunshades and carries his camera. Professor Vlic from Glit has somehow, despite the troubled air-routes, managed to be there, transporting himself somehow from one side of the country to the other; and there too are all the short stout lady professors from the Restaurant Nada, holding up great big bunches of flowers. ‘And which are the people I didn’t meet?’ asks Petworth, ‘The ones from Nogod and Provd?’ ‘Oh, I don’t think I see them,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘I expect there has been just a little confusion. But see, look, there is your good old friend, I think? Of course he has to be there.’ Petworth looks around, and then sees, a little to the side, as if he has a procession of his own to march in, none other than Dr Plitplov. He steps out in his suit and his white sportshirt, with a blazon on the pocket, and holds rather low down over his head a big black umbrella; conspicuous in his chosen inconspicuousness, he slinks by the saluting stand, where Vulcani salutes his intellectual troops.

  ‘And now the writers!’ cries Lubijova, as another large company emerges from the corner beside the Palace of Culture. ‘Such a lot of them,’ says Petworth, staring at the large massed company. ‘Of course,’ says Lubijova, ‘You know we are literate country. Of course some are journalists and some make only translations, but here too are many poets and novelists. Do you impress?’ The writers, men and women, step out; the children run out from the crowd to give them flowers; there is applause from the crowd. ‘Oh, and there walks your little princess,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘So she is in Slaka.’ And there, indeed, toward the back, walks Katya Princip, looking very well. Despite the rain that is falling increasingly, she still wears her sunglasses, pushed back into her blonde hair, and is clad in the familiar batik dress. Her expression, as Petworth tries to stare into it, is clear. Around her the writers walk; and, though not generally known for their skill with flags, they all carry little flags, and wave them from side to side, now to the left, now to the right, with a regulated efficiency. Above them blow the bigger flags, the banners on the poles, red, blue and green, white and brown. And higher still, over the whole display, unbelievably big against the tiny faces of the marchers down below (at whom, or rather at one of whom, Petworth is looking), are the greater faces, some goatee-ed and some pincenez- ed, some moustached and some bearded, some stern and clean-shaven, of Marx and Lenin, Engels and Grigoric, Brezhnev and Vulcani, those writers of history without whom the present occasion would not have been possible. The writers go off toward the lower end of the square, past Grigoric’s tomb; the batik dress disappears into the mass; ‘Oh, look, now here the painters,’ cries Lubijova, tugging at Petworth’s arm.

  II

  It is Petworth’s last day in Slaka, and tomorrow he flies; so, as the crowds disintegrate, carrying their flags, and they all leave Plazsci P’rtyii, it makes sense to tell Marisja Lubijova that he would like to take the afternoon to himself. He takes his lunch in a stand-up cafeteria, looking out into the hotel square where men are putting up a new sign that says SCH’VEPPII; the word is changing in Slaka. Then he goes to the greasy telephone, finds a number written on a small slip of paper, and carefully dials it. ‘Da?’ says a voice at the other end. ‘Katya Princip?’ he asks. There is a pause; then the voice says, ‘Oh, really, is it you?’ ‘Yes, it’s me,’ says Petworth. ‘And you have made a good tour?’ says the voice, ‘You go to many places in my country? But now you are back, someone told me.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And did you learn anything, I hope so, you were not here for fun,’ says the voice. ‘I don’t know,’ says Petworth. ‘And do you wear still that stone?’ asks the voice, ‘Perhaps you have lost it.’ ‘No, I still have it,’ says Petworth, ‘It’s here.’ There is another pause, and then the voice says: ‘And now do you want to know the end of the story of Stupid?’ ‘I do,’ says Petworth. ‘Wait, I think,’ says the voice, ‘You know we cannot go back there to that place, the one with the lift. Things are not very easy now, I told you how it might be. You are all right?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘You know I like to see you very much,’ says th
e voice. ‘And I you,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course, we are in the same story,’ says the voice, ‘Listen, there is a place, if you can find it. Do you know where is the Cathedral, to Saint Valdopin?’ ‘Down by the power station?’ asks Petworth. ‘Near to the river Niyt?’ says the voice, ‘Well, can you go there, we say at three o’clock. You have your watch? Go inside there, be somewhere near the altar, wait for me. You can find it, you won’t be lost?’ ‘I can find it,’ says Petworth. ‘I waited here,’ says Katya Princip, ‘I knowed you would telephone to me. Of course I am a witch.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And I will witch you again,’ says Katya, ‘So, go there, wait for me.’

  Petworth goes out into the square, buys a ticket from the stall that is marked LITTI, and gets on board a pink tram that is marked VIPNU. It is crowded in the tram, filled with children carrying flags and flowers from the morning celebrations. Gradually the tram empties, as it takes its route out over the Bridge Anniversary May 15, and rattles down the boulevards toward the new workers’ apartments; Petworth is almost the only one left when it reaches the end of the line, to turn in a circle in the marshy land near to the power station and the river Niyt. At first sight, the cathedral close to is not impressive, but he walks up the steps toward its massed blackened brick. He is very early, so he walks to the side, and finds the entrance to the crypt; paying his vloska, he goes down into the deep stone rooms where the gallery of ikons hangs. He looks for a long time at the dark strained faces, staring out from the paint, the tempera, the gilding, uttering the pain, the faith, the love behind their sacred stories. It is nearly three, time to look for the person he wants so much to meet again; he goes outside, and walks to the great curved porch, scattered with confetti from a recent wedding. He steps inside, into the great solemn darkness, everywhere lit by spluttering beeswax candles, which scent the air. From the central dome comes more light, falling over painted canopies and the plaster, silver and gold of the great long altar; the altar is set far forward in the nave, as if to protect deeper mysteries within. The cathedral is almost empty; a few, a very few, old ladies in shawls kneel in the side chapels under lit candles; a small number of tourists wander about in the half-dark, with cameras slung round their necks; somewhere in the darkness, a priest is intoning.

  Petworth walks toward the altar, looking for the person he has not at all forgotten, the person who makes all other faces somehow look like hers. There are alcoves near the altar, one of them holding a glinting silver tomb; in the half-dark someone comes out of one, toward him. ‘Oh, are you here, my good old friend?’ says a familiar voice; Petworth stares at Dr Plitplov, with his sharp black eyes, his natty shirt, his elegant little handbag, ‘And you have turned back to Slaka safely, I am very glad. You have made your tour in some awkward days, but I hope it did not spoil it at all.’ ‘Not at all,’ says Petworth. ‘And now you look at our cathedral,’ says Plitplov, ‘Do you like it? I do not much, myself. Always I remember how the priests took from the peasants all their money, in those past times. Of course sometimes they have made something very fine of it. I hope you notice this tomb, Saint Valdopin, he was a very famous saint of us.’ ‘Saint of ours,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, ‘Always I get so excited when I see my good old friend. Do you like to walk? Or perhaps you are meeting someone?’ ‘Well, no,’ says Petworth. ‘No, you don’t?’ asks Plitplov, ‘And your lady-guide is not with you? That is very unusual.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘But there are certain businesses we must always do on our own,’ says Plitplov, ‘You are sure you don’t meet someone? Perhaps a lady? Always you are lucky with the ladies.’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course you are right to be very cautious,’ says Plitplov, ‘I told you this: in my country always one must be an artist of relations. Well, at last you seem to learn quite well your lesson. But I am your good old friend, I know your wife, you know that you can trust me, I think. I know you mean to meet here a certain lady writer.’

  ‘Really, do you?’ says Petworth, walking away. ‘My dear friend, please, I do not mean to make you embarrassment,’ says Plitplov, coming after him, ‘Understand me, please, I also know that lady. You know what is go-between, she sends me with a message. She cannot come now, there is a difficulty, a small confusion. Her life is not so easy now as before, I think you know why, I believe you had a finger in that pie?’ ‘You’ve seen her,’ says Petworth. ‘You rang on the telephone,’ says Plitplov, ‘That was to my apartment. Sometimes she is there. She asks me to tell that she is very sorry and that she likes to see you, very much. She regrets that you do not meet again before you leave Slaka, it is tomorrow, I think?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘But she likes to send you a present,’ says Plitplov, ‘Do you like to walk outside, on that terrace? Perhaps it is the smoke of all these candles, but I feel again a little headache.’ They go out of the porch and onto a paved terrace; side by side, mosquitoes buzzing by their ears, they stare down into the marshy waters of the river below them. ‘A present?’ asks Petworth. ‘A very nice present,’ says Plitplov, ‘Her new book. And she tells that if you read it you will find the end of the story of Stupid.’ Petworth stares down at the turgid waters below; ‘But I can’t read it,’ he says after a moment, ‘I haven’t learned the language.’ ‘I think you will read it,’ says Plitplov, ‘I think you read French.’ ‘It’s in French?’ asks Petworth. ‘No, it is not yet in French,’ says Plitplov, ‘But there is someone in Paris, a good old friend. He likes to translate that book, and publish it there. You understand that since certain difficulties, I think you know them, you had a finger in that pie, she cannot publish that book here. Of course it is not so easy to get it out of the country.’

  ‘I see,’ says Petworth, ‘You want me to take this typescript out of the country.’ ‘I believe you have a book by this writer before,’ says Plitplov, ‘Well, it is just another. No one will stop you, you carry papers all the time, you are a lecturer. And the next weekend you can take it to that person in Paris.’ ‘I’m not going to Paris next weekend,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, I think so,’ says Plitplov, ‘I have telephoned your wife, your Lottie. She asks why you do not call, and sends you her love. We have made some arrangements and she likes to be in Paris. Of course she thinks I will be there also but that will not be possible. There is a café, the Rotonde, that person will meet you there. I hope you don’t mind, you know how I like to make plans for you. Already I begin to arrange your tour next year in my country.’ ‘My tour?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, ‘You still have those lectures to make at Nogod and Provd. Everyone likes you to come because you make such good talks. And you know I have a string or so I can pull.’ ‘I don’t think I want to make another tour here,’ says Petworth. ‘My dear good friend,’ says Plitplov, ‘Do you know how you get a good apartment here, I will tell you. You must make some bribes in hard currency. Otherwise you wait for five years.’ ‘What has that to do with it?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, ‘By this time there will be many francs in Paris, of the book. You change those francs into dollar, bring here all those dollar when you make your next tour, and there is a very nice apartment.’ ‘And who is this very nice apartment for?’ asks Petworth. ‘That lady writer, who sends you her present, and cares for you so much,’ says Plitplov, ‘And also perhaps her very good friend.’

  Petworth stares down at the stagnant water below him; he says, after a moment, ‘And you are that very good friend?’ Plitplov stares down at the water too; he says, after a moment, ‘Perhaps we all have a secret. Sometimes it is a sausage, sometimes it is more.’ ‘And you’ve been that good friend for quite a long time?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course in my country, people need a friend,’ says Plitplov, ‘I have made some books, I write in the newspaper, my criticisms are well respected, even on Hemingway. It is not so easy to survive here if people do not help each other. I am sorry you did not meet my wife. She is a very dull person. She does not even make a very good dinner. I think you would understand it, but perhaps you do. You know very we
ll these things yourself. Really I think we know each other very well, now. I am very glad you came, and I enjoy well your lectures. Sometimes your theories are not correct, but you make up for it with good examples. Well, of course, I will say farewell to you at the airport. The package will be small and it will go well into your briefcase. If they ask you at the donay’ii, tell them you must have picked it up by accident in a confusion at a conference. And I think it is always a pleasure to go to Paris, perhaps like a little honeymoon.’ ‘And why should I do this?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course there are ways of embarrassing everyone,’ says Plitplov, ‘You have not been so discreet on your tour. Really it would not be hard to make some difficulties for you. Perhaps you would have to stay here a long time in our country, not in the best conditions. But I do not make those reasons to you, because you know there is another.’ ‘Do I?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, that lady writer, she likes me a little, and I am useful. Soon Professor Rum will not be doing so well, there is a new regime, so it is good to have a friend who is all right, with Tankic and some others. These are our necessities, you know it. But for you there is a different feeling, I don’t know why, of course I am jealous. She tells she has to see you again: that is why she sends her book, it is the book of you both together. You will see she dedicates to you. She says: here you will see, you are in one story. Also she asks me to say to you one more thing: I mean to give you a better sense of existence. Do you think you know what that means?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, turning away from the parapet. ‘And so I find you at the airport?’ asks Plitplov, ‘I must know you really mean it. You know you will do something very good.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, perhaps I will be a bit elusive there, you may not see me,’ says Plitplov, ‘Now, how our exchange is done, what you must do. Take in there your bags, put them down by the stall that is marked Cosmoplot. It is in the centre, you do not miss. Do not lock please your briefcase. Leave it there, ask to go for a cup of coffee, there is a place. Wait a few minute, then remember you have left it, and go back. That is all, and you do it?’ ‘Yes,’says Petworth. ‘I am so pleased to see you again, my good old friend,’ says Plitplov, shaking his hand, ‘And you have made very good visit. I do not ashame I pulled those string for you. Well, my friend, I think perhaps here is our farewell. I don’t think I will talk to you tomorrow, though I wish your flight well. I hope you will remember always your visit very nicely, I hope you think once more about the work of Hemingway, I hope you give to your nice Lottie my love and wishes to meet again. Most, I cannot tell you how much I wait your next visit here. And not I only, you know that other one waits longingly for you.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘So, do you go back now to your hotel?’ asks Plitplov briskly, ‘It is the tram marked Wang’liki over there, but first you must buy ticket at the Litti.’ ‘I know,’ says Petworth. As he gets on the tram, Petworth looks across to the Cathedral of Saint Valdopin; Plitplov, with his bright, bird-like look, is standing on the steps. But when, a moment later, he looks through the glass, he has gone, quite suddenly, as he once did before.