Authors: Malcolm Bradbury
Lubijova hands Petworth another grey letter, much like the one he has in his pocket, and bearing the same insignia from the Min’stratii Kulturi Komitet’iii. Headed
‘Vyag’na Priffisorim Petworthim,’ it is clearly the plot of his days, the plot he has wanted. It records an orderly destiny; this Petworthim is evidently going to be a busy
fellow. Few hours of his waking life are unfilled with some form of activity: lecturing and meeting, travelling and sightseeing. Here he is visiting a Min’stratii, there a kloster; here he
makes reformist didaktik recommendation at a Fakult’tii Fil’gayiim, there he attends an oper. His days are mobile and moving; here he goes by car to Glit, there by train to Nogod, then
by train to Provd. It is, to Petworth, a likeable story, lively, familiar, harmless, well suited to his talents. ‘Please read it very carefully,’ says Lubijova, looking at him over the
spectacles, ‘We make here our proposals. You can object and ask for changes, but tell me now at this time. Or else it is our contract, and you must do it.’ Yes, it’s fine,’
says Petworth, putting it down on the table. ‘Do you look at it carefully?’ asks Lubijova, staring at him, ‘Please notice, all days are taken care of. All the places you attend
have good academies. All are very nice. Glit has towers on an old castle. In Nogod you can see an old kloster with paintings, and forest with hirsch. Provd is modern, and has a fine
steelwork.’ ‘Good,’ says Petworth. ‘You come back to Slaka for our day of national rejoicerings, you saw those flags,’ says Lubijova, ‘You make seven lectures
and go to four places. It is clear?’ ‘Yes, it’s excellent,’ says Petworth.
Over her spectacles, Lubijova is staring at him in exasperation. ‘It is all right, four places, you don’t want three?’ she asks, ‘You accept all those titles for your
lectures? You have brought them with you? You don’t like to change them? No places you want to go are not included? There are no people you like to meet who are not in your programme?’
‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Really?’ asks Lubijova, ‘And you don’t wish another day of quiet to yourself? You don’t like to ask for some more pleasures, as some
fishing? Perhaps you do not like this oper,
Vedontakal Vrop
? It is sung only in our language and takes five hours. Perhaps you have some criticisms of our procedures?’
‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Then I expect you have many questions?’ says Lubijova. ‘Well, not really,’ says Petworth. ‘Comrade Petwurt,’ says Lubijova,
looking at him crossly, ‘Do you really pay attention? I think all the time you are looking at those lovely ladies. You know you must do all these things? Then why aren’t you difficult,
like all the others?’ ‘Well, I’m happy,’ says Petworth, ‘I like being organized. I’m pleased my days are full. I like not being on my own. It’s all very
satisfactory.’ ‘And so you accept it?’ asks Lubijova. ‘I look forward to it,’ says Petworth. ‘It is good, I also,’ says Lubijova, ‘You know I shall
go to all of these places with you! Or perhaps you object?’ ‘No, I’m pleased,’ says Petworth. ‘It is as well,’ says Lubijova, ‘To go without a guide is not
permitted. You know, for me it will be very interesting. So, do we finish our business? Do you like now to order a drink?’
With much prompting, Petworth orders two drinks from the red-checked waitress; she brings them, along with a small saucer with the bill. Lubijava picks up the bill: ‘Did you invite
me?’ she asks, holding it up to Petworth, ‘Do you like to pay?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Petworth, ‘But I haven’t any money.’ ‘Of course,’ says
Lubijova, ‘That is because you do not make your business properly, you forget something. Now you see why you need so much a guide. Here is some money for you, in this envelope. I wait you to
ask for it. No, Petwurt, please, please, don’t put it in your pocket. Count it now, and sign me you receive it.’ So, onto the tablecloth, Petworth pours the money from the envelope:
there is a stout wad of paper vloskan decorated with images of muscular men wielding sledgehammers, and yet more muscular women tending vast machines; there is a jingling handful of silver and
copper bittiin. ‘Is it enough? Do you manage?’ asks Lubijova, ‘You know your hotels are paid already.’ ‘I expect so,’ says Petworth, ‘Of course I
don’t know the rate of exchange.’ ‘All right Petwurt, look, I explain you,’ says Lubijova, ‘This little one is one bittii, with it you can have one box of matches, or
a nice postcard. Here the blue one, one vloska, with that you may take twenty times the tram, or buy eight kilo of tomatoes, or six loaves of bread, or perhaps a book. Now show me how you pay this
bill. Oh, Petwurt, fifty vloskan for two drinks? No, just put there two of the blue ones. Also a small silver one for the girl. It is not permitted here to tip, but they are angry if you do not.
And now, do you sign this paper for your money? Oh, what a nice silver pen, I hope you look after it. Nobody steals in my country, but often such things disappear. So, now we really finish our
business. Put please away the money, in your pocket, good boy. And I take off my glasses. Has he gone now, that one?’ Petworth peers into the next alcove, and sees it is vacant, except for an
empty glass and a full ashtray: ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Do you think your good friend follows us?’ asks Lubijova, ‘Perhaps he is mad, that man.’ ‘Was it really
him?’ asks Petworth.
‘I don’t know, but now I think we make one more toast,’ says Lubijova, her glasses off, smiling at him, ‘Comrade Petwurt: to a good journey between us, amity and
concord.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘A good journey together.’ ‘And even if you do not think it, because of that airport, you will find I am very good guide. Perhaps
a little bit strict with you; but really, Petwurt, I think you are someone who needs a guide. What do you do now? I think you must eat. In Slaka are many good restaurant, but on a first night it is
best to stay at the hotel. There is a place upstairs, the best to eat is ducks. The word for this is
crak’akii
, just like a duck makes. Can you say it?’
‘Crak’akii,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, you are quite good,’ says Lubijova, ‘Now you must improve. Only he who speaks survives. I hope you will. Well, now is late, do
we go?’ They walk out, past the caravan bar, where the barman glowers and one of the blondes turns to give Petworth a bright smile. They climb the stairs to the lobby, busy with new
travellers: a crowd of turbanned Sikhs talks to the lacquered-haired girl at the desk. ‘Remember, Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, halting to button her coat, ‘Go to that bitch there in
two hour, and make sure she gives back to you your passport. At eleven, please ring your Lottie, and give the love of Plitplov. And now can I leave you? Do you remember all these things?’
‘Of course,’ says Petworth, ‘And what happens tomorrow?’
‘Oh, Comrade Petwurt, already you are a problem to me,’ says Lubijova, looking at him, ‘Did you read at all your programme? Does any of that stay in your head?’
‘Travelling abroad is confusing,’ says Petworth. ‘Especially I think to you,’ says Lubijova, ‘So, I come at nine, to this place. I take you to the Min’stratii,
where is an official welcome. Put on your nice suit, if you have one. Remember to take first your breakfast, or must I come here to help you with that too? Drink your milk up, eat nicely your egg,
Comrade Petwurt?’ ‘No, I’ll manage,’ says Petworth. ‘I know I am mad to leave you,’ says Lubijova, shaking her head, ‘But you are not all my life, you must
live sometimes on your own. Or, if you don’t like it, you can go back to those lovely ladies.’ ‘Well, no, I think it’s best to be cautious,’ says Petworth, putting his
finger to his nose. ‘Yes, I think so,’ says Lubijova, laughing, ‘I ask in the morning whether you have been good.’ Then she turns and goes out past the doorman, out into the
dark square, where the signs flash. Petworth watches a moment, as a lighted pink tram turns the corner; in her long grey coat, she runs towards it, and jumps aboard, going to whatever kind of life
she lives in the dark city. The tram’s tail-light fades, and Petworth turns too, following through the lobby the signs that lead him toward the Restaurant Slaka.
IV
It is over an hour later, and Petworth still sits in the vast, chandeliered dining-room of the hotel, awaiting, as he has long awaited, the meal he has once ordered. It is a
grand room, with some sixty tables, each spread with white tablecloths, which cast up a damp smell of recent laundering in the water of some brackish river. The tables are laid, creating an
atmosphere of vast vacancy, for all but six of them are empty. Nonetheless the maître, in the way of maîtres, has chosen to seat Petworth in a dark corner, under a noisy air vent, and
next to the smells of the kitchen. The doors from the kitchen open frequently, to let out black-suited waiters who carry peppermills ceremonially about the great room, carefully avoiding all
contact with the diners. ‘Crak’akii,’ Petworth has said, some time ago, to one of these, as he passed incautiously close to the table. ‘Negativo,’ the waiter has said,
stopping, shaking his head, and removing most of the cutlery from the table. ‘Na?’ Petworth has said. ‘Na,’ the waiter has said, ‘Kurbii churba, sarkii banatu.
Da?’ ‘Da,’ Petworth has said. ‘Tinkii?’ the waiter has said. ‘Tinkii?’ Petworth has asked. ‘Da, tinkii,’ the waiter has said, pointing to
Petworth’s glass, ‘Pfin op olii?’ ‘Well,’ Petworth has said, ‘Pfin.’ ‘Da, pfin,’ the waiter has said, raising his peppermill and entering the
kitchen. He has not, since then, appeared again, though others have, carefully curving their paths away from his table. The cloth on the table in front of him steams faintly; on it is a small stand
holding the flags of twenty nations, none of them his own. The door to the kitchen now opens, and the waiter appears, comes over to his table, takes away the flags, and disappears again.
Petworth sits, waiting, as travellers do: waiting for wonders to happen, drinks to come, adventures to occur, the surprising lover that comes from nowhere, the dark coach that suddenly stops to
pick one up, those things that travel always seems to promise and never seems to give. The table is vacant in front of him; opposite is a single empty chair. In the middle of the room is a small
podium; on it has appeared the typical orchestra, five frilly-sleeved gipsies who have been trilling violins without enthusiasm, occasionally looking at their watches. Now, as he waits, they are
joined by someone, evidently the folkloric songeress, a lady with a curve of hair from a fifties film that falls down tantalizingly over one eye. She has very red lips; she wears a frilly wide
ballgown, cut down to the bosom, which lays bare the stately square shoulders of some other, older era. Taking the microphone, her lips in a sulky pout, she begins to sing, some dark and ancient
ballad. She half-weeps, half-chants, dipping her knees, tossing her hair; her breasts enlarge with breathed-in air, and then subside. The performance is imperfect, the gestures are clumsy, but the
song she sings is of vacancy and emptiness, and there is vacancy and emptiness in Petworth, too, as he sits there, a personless person. There are few to hear, but he hears, admitting that, on a
dull Sunday night, in a distant foreign city, when one is alone beneath new stars and a different ideology, in an empty grand duckless restaurant, there is something finally very convincing about a
songeress who sings of pain and agony, lovelessness and betrayal and neglect. She looks at him, and their eyes meet; the black-suited waiter appears from the kitchen, bearing a filled plate, and a
bottle of red pfin.
Petworth starts to eat; the song goes on. The songeress looks over at him, and she sings, evidently, of the treachery that is in every fondness, the emptiness and brutality that hide in love,
the inevitability of the loneliness beyond affection; eating the kurbii churba, which could be hotter, but can reasonably be recommended, he listens and thinks of graffitistrewn London, of the long
flight, the dark labyrinths of arrival, the neglect in the lobby, the great spaces of his hotel bedroom. The plate empty, the waiter replaces it with another; the songeress replaces her song too,
singing now, it seems, of infidelities, the lies and deceits of love, the pains of selfexcoriation. Picking at the sarkii banatu, rich, but possibly over-spicy for the average Western palate,
sipping the pfin, which has a reasonable bouquet but is somewhat light on the tongue, he attends and thinks homeward, to his bleak wife, that dark anima, in her chair in the garden, and then of a
strange bird-like face, the face of Plitplov, a face that watches and spreads unease. ‘Kaf’ifii?’ asks the waiter, taking away his plate; ‘Da,’ says Petworth, his
linguistic confidence growing, ‘Da.’ On the podium, the folkloric songeress, with a very bright, brittle number, tossing her long skirt high up over frilly pants as she sings, her
sultry expression amended, concludes her act. At the table Petworth ends his with a cup of kaf’ifii which consists of heavy grounds sunk muddily down into blackened water, and should be
avoided by the visitor at all costs. The songeress throws her arms wide, dips, smiles, takes her applause, and disappears; Petworth claps, looks at his watch, sees that it is nearly eleven and time
for his telephone call home, signs, with his Parker ballpoint, the bill, and goes out into the lobby.
There is ill-lit gloom in the lobby, too, much changed since he left it. The lights are mostly doused, the crowds gone. ‘Change money?’ whispers a listless voice from behind a dark
pillar; in the red plastic chairs, just one man, big-hatted, in a grey raincoat, sits in the half-dark and stares out into the silent square beyond the windows. No trams move; the dark city moves
quietly in itself, a place of dangers and treacheries, courages and cowardices, deceits and late-night arrests. Under one small lamp, the lacquered-haired girl sits alone at the desk marked
R
’
GYSTRAYII
, reading a book; she does not look up as Petworth approaches. ‘Slibob, passipotti?’ says Petworth. ‘Ha?’
says the girl. ‘Petworth, passipotti,’ says Petworth. ‘Na,’ says the girl. ‘Na passipotti?’ asks Petworth, surprised. ‘Pervert, is still at police,’
says the girl. ‘When?’ asks Petworth. ‘In the morrow,’ says the girl, ‘Always in the morrow, your guide knows it.’ ‘She asked for it tonight,’ says
Petworth. ‘She likes to impress you,’ says the girl, ‘Our police, very thorough. You have key?’ ‘Da,’ says Petworth. ‘Go to your bed, come again in the
morrow,’ says the girl, turning over the pages of her book. The big-hatted man has turned around to stare at Petworth; he walks over to the vacant dark cavern of the elevator, and gets into
the gloomy mirrored interior. He presses the button, and the doors begin to close; then, suddenly, there is a commotion, a hand in the closing space, and the doors are tugged open again. Two people
stand there. One, in a shining gold dress, is one of the dark-haired whores from the Barr’ii Tzigane; she has white make-up painted round her dark eyes, and carries a jangling key. The other
is an armed man, not now armed, a soldier, in a high-necked uniform and black leather boots that come up to the knee, in cavalry fashion. The man’s hand is on the girl’s rump. The
couple get in, laughing and teasing; they press the button, and the lift begins to ascend.