Authors: Malcolm Bradbury
‘Well, it is not so good a speech,’ says Katya Princip, squeezing his arm as he sits down, ‘I am ignorant about your milk production much as I was before. But I like very much
your toast. You see, I can drink it.’ ‘Comrade Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, leaning over the table, ‘You did not leave time for me to interpret you. Also you make yokes, and
those are not so easy.’ ‘Really, no need to translate,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Everyone understands enough, except Professor Rum, and I think he has heard speeches before. Oh,
look, here is Professor Rum, he likes to say something to you, what do you like to say, Professor Rum?’ ‘This is naughty lady,’ says Tankic, grinning at Petworth across the table.
‘Oh, he asks about the politics of your speech,’ explains Katya Princip, ‘He likes to know whether in our language revolution here you are supporting the forces of stability, or
of reform.’ ‘I know nothing about the situation,’ says Petworth, ‘There were no politics.’ ‘I told him that already,’ says Katya Princip, ‘He
doesn’t understand it. Well, I think while you are here you will learn some. We make here a fine change.’ ‘A very bad change,’ says Tankic. ‘Oh, dear, I am
sorry,’ says Princip, ‘Already you learn there is more than one opinion in this world. Well, I am bad, I talk too much. But then you know our saying? The more talk, the more
country.’ And there is more talk; the chatter flows round the table, and the glasses fill and refill. Across from Petworth, Tankic is rising again, and tapping his glass:
‘Cam’radayet,’ he says. ‘Says he understands our excellent visitor likes yokes,’ explains Lubijova, ‘He is pleased, because also in Slaka we like yokes very
much.’ ‘Of course,’ whispers Princip to Petworth, ‘Many of them are in office.’ ‘He tells our visitor, you will go on your tour to Glit, so here a yoke of Glit,
where the yokes are about peasants. One day a man meets on the road a Glit peasant who is crying over the corpus of his dead donkey. “I am sorry is dead your mule,” says the man.
“It is much worse than you think,” says the peasant, “He was not an ordinary mule. Since a week, he had learned to live without eating.” So he makes another toast: to all
here, who have not learned to live without eating. Also to the beautiful ladies, this time sincerely.’ ‘And to the politicians, who find for us all our food,’ says Princip,
raising her glass, ‘May their efforts one day be rewarded.’
And then the waiter comes, and pours a rich red soup into their dishes: ‘I hope you like,
kapus’nuc
,’ says Vera. ‘Soup of the cabbage,’ says Lubijova.
‘We call it, Comrade Cabbage,’ says Tankic. ‘Because it is red,’ says Princip. Wine is poured into their glasses: ‘It is very typical,’ says Vera, ‘We call
it pfin.’ ‘They say we export always the best wine, and keep the worse,’ says Lubijova, ‘Now you see it is not true.’ ‘No, we drink the best, and the people
drink the worse,’ says Katya Princip, ‘So works the planned economy.’ ‘Our state vineyards, cooperative, very advanced,’ says Tankic, across the table. ‘Once
they were nunneries,’ says Vera. ‘I think monasteries,’ says Lubijova. ‘From the klosters,’ says Tankic. ‘Where live the religious,’ says Vera. ‘If a
monk, always a bottle,’ says Tankic, ‘Now no more, under socialism.’ ‘No, now if an apparatchik, always a bottle,’ says Princip. ‘Nothing wrong with a bottle, I
hope?’ says Tankic. ‘Of course, I also like,’ says Princip, ‘Mais plus c¸a change, plus c’est la même chose.’ A certain sharpness is in the air;
Petworth, drinking soup, attempts diplomacy, as he likes to. ‘So you speak French too,’ he says, ‘How many languages?’ ‘Oh, my dear,’ says Princip, turning to
him, and reaching out to ruffle the hairs on the back of his neck, ‘When I am with you, then I speak everything.’ ‘Our writers, very good translators,’ says Tankic.
‘Oh, yes,’ says Princip, ‘As you hear in the speech, we have many writers here. They work for the state and the future, especially of course the state. For this is needed many
skills. Example: sometimes I am a writer, sometimes I drive a tram.’ ‘Really?’ says Petworth, ‘That’s amazing.’ ‘Yes,’ says Princip, ‘Here, if
they do not like what you write, they let you drive a tram. But never, I notice, the other way round.’ ‘We have very good Writers’ Union,’ says Tankic. ‘And always
they will look after you very well,’ says Princip, ‘And make sure that you do not write things that are silly and not correct. And if you do, well, they are very kind, and you can go to
a dacha on Lake Katuruu. And there all the best writers will come, and sleep with you, and tell you how to write in a way that is correct. Oh, look, Professor Rum says something else, what is,
Professor Rum?’ ‘A very naughty lady,’ says Tankic, his eyes rather less twinkling. ‘Oh, he tells that Maxim Gorky founded modern writing,’ says Princip, ‘Then
he died, and that was great mistake. Do you agree?’
And so, in the Restaurant Propp, in the older part of Slaka, under Vlam’s great castle, the official meal of welcome unfolds. Certain bitternesses are in the air, trading uneasily through
Petworth’s head as he struggles to catch the prevailing discourse, the flow of interlingua, English as a Second Language for Social Occasions (ESLSO). A new course comes: ‘You know
this, ruspi?’ asks Vera, pointing with her knife. ‘I’m not sure, what is it?’ asks Petworth. ‘Ruspi is a swimmer,’ says Tankic. ‘Is a fish,’ says
Princip. ‘With two pencils in its nose,’ says Lubijova. ‘Two pencils?’ asks Petworth. ‘Yes, so,’ says Katya Princip, putting two fingers beneath her nose, and
jutting them out, ‘What do you call those pencils in English?’ ‘Feder?’ cries Professor Rum, ‘Stylo? Pen?’ ‘No, you do not at all understand, Comrade
Rum,’ says Princip impatiently, ‘And our guest is liking to tell us that language brings all together. But really it is like sex. You think it brings you together, but only it shows how
lonely you truly are.’ ‘Sex is not so lonely,’ says Vera. ‘Do you try at all our sex in Slaka?’ asks Katya Princip, ‘In Slaka, sex is just politics with the
clothes off.’ ‘Well, perhaps everywhere,’ says Petworth. ‘And do you try also our beer?’ asks Vera, ‘It is called, oluu.’ ‘Not yet,’ says
Petworth. ‘Well, he tries everything else,’ says Lubijova. ‘Professor Rum says, in England your ideas are bad, but your beer always very good,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Of
course here, you will find, it is entirely the opposite.’ ‘But he must try some,’ says Vera. ‘Of course,’ says Katya Princip, ‘I hope we are friends now, I take
you to a nice place afterward.’ ‘Well, he has a very full programme,’ says Lubijova, ‘Also perhaps he is very tired.’ ‘I think not too full, not too tired, to
drink one beer with me,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Of course he must go to the cafés where our most interesting people go. Then, my friend, you can try our beer and also our thinking.
Often the beer runs short, but the thinking, always in full production.’
The waiter comes again, taking away the fish course, and bringing instead a meat dish which bubbles away in strange sauces. ‘Lakuku,’ says Vera, pointing, ‘The veal of a cow
cooked as not in any other country.’ ‘The vegetable,’ says Lubijova, ‘A special grass that grows only under the sheeps on a mountain.’ Across the table Tankic is
rising, with a refilled glass: ‘Says he likes to make another toast,’ says Lubijova, ‘To the beautiful ladies, for the first time, this time very sincerely.’ ‘Really,
this man,’ says Katya Princip, ‘I think he does not like me to drink. Perhaps he knows that when I am drunk I talk only about my lovers.’ ‘What about your lovers?’
asks Vera, giggling. ‘Oh, do you like to know?’ asks Princip, ‘Well, I have had many lovely lovers, such nice lovers, because, you see, I love love.’ ‘You are
lucky,’ says Vera. ‘Not always,’ says Princip, ‘So, Mr Petwit, what do you do here? Do you make lectures?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘Tomorrow, at the
university.’ ‘Oh, I would like to come there,’ says Katya Princip. ‘It is for the students,’ says Lubijova. ‘See, she does not like me to come there,’ says
Princip, ‘Do you like me to come there?’ ‘I’d be delighted,’ says Petworth. ‘Then perhaps I do it,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Here we have a saying: a
good friend is someone who visits you when you are in prison. But a
really
good friend is someone who comes to hear your lectures. Well, I hope now I am your really good friend, so perhaps
you will see me there. But you must speak for me very slowly, if you do. I am not so good with the English. Do you do it?’ ‘Of course,’ says Petworth. ‘I like you,’
says Katya Princip, ‘Yes, I think perhaps you will see me there, listening to you.’
Across the table, Tankic is on his feet again, with a full glass: ‘Says, to the beautiful ladies, for the first time, this time truly and entirely sincerely.’ ‘How can we be
beautiful, if we cannot drink?’ asks Princip. ‘Of course,’ says Vera, ‘The more that drink the men, the more are the ladies beautiful.’ ‘Oh, Professor Rum likes
to ask you a question,’ says Princip, ‘He asks, where do you keep your dissident writers?’ ‘Comrade Tankic asks you something,’ says Lubijova, ‘He asks, how is
your British disease?’ ‘He wonders, do you keep them perhaps in a jail in Northern Ireland?’ ‘He asks about the economics of your liberal Lord Keynes, are they dead now in
your system?’ ‘Professor Rum says he has been often to London, on his scientific travels, and seen many beggars there, is that true?’ ‘Many beggars, where?’ asks
Petworth, eating his grass. ‘He tells they play for money in all the stations of the metro,’ says Katya Princip. ‘Oh, they’re not beggars,’ says Petworth,
‘They’re American tourists financing their vacations.’ ‘He does not believe you,’ says Princip, ‘He says this is what your press likes you to think, but is not
the reality. He says do you not think that here under Thatcher is marked the collapse of the capitalist system?’ ‘Soon you join us,’ says Comrade Tankic, leaning over the table,
laughing. ‘It’s in trouble,’ says Petworth, ‘But I don’t think it’s collapsing.’ ‘Oh, Mr Petwit, now you have upset Professor Rum!’ says Katya
Princip, ‘He thinks you deny the immanent reality of the historical process. He suspects you are a bourgeois relativist. I tell him it cannot possibly be true.’ ‘I’m afraid
I don’t know much about politics or economics,’ says Petworth, ‘It’s really not my field.’ ‘Oh, Mr Petwit, you don’t know politics, you don’t have
economics, how do you exist?’ cries Princip, ‘I’m afraid you are not a character in the world historical sense.’ ‘Your heart’s good, your system, bad,’
says Tankic, leaning across the table, laughing. ‘So who could put you in a story?’ says Princip, ‘Poor Petwit, I am sorry. For you there is no story at all.’
The curtains to the alcove are now thrown open, and through them comes the waiter; impressively, he is bearing high a vast white dessert, an elaborate concoction from which bright blue flames
are rising. ‘Oh, look,’ cries Vera, ‘It is
vish’nou
!’ ‘Oh, this is very nice,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you have in your country?’ ‘I
don’t think so,’ says Petworth, ‘What’s in it?’ ‘Outside is an ice cream, inside, nurdu,’ says Vera, ‘You know nurdu?’ ‘I can’t say
it in English,’ says Lubijova, ‘A very nice fruit that is not an orange.’ ‘And not a lemon,’ says Vera. ‘A melon?’ asks Petworth. ‘A little bit like,
but not really,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you know that name, Comrade Princip?’ ‘No, not the name,’ says Katya Princip, ‘But I know a story all about.’
‘Oh, tell us,’ says Vera. ‘It is a bit long,’ says Princip, ‘Do you really like to hear it, Mr Petwit?’ ‘Of course,’ says Petworth. ‘Well,
really for a story you should give me a precious stone, but I don’t think you have one,’ says Princip, ‘Perhaps if I tell it you give me one little wish instead. Do you
agree?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘So, once upon a certain time, and you know all stories start so, there was a king who had three sons, and the youngest is called
Stupid,’ says Katya Princip. ‘That is his name?’ asks Vera, ‘Stupid?’ ‘In your story call him what you like,’ says Princip firmly, ‘but in mine he is
called Stupid. And one day the king tells Stupid he must travel to another land and make a peace with the king of it, because these two kings have fighted each other. Fighted?’
‘Fought,’ says Petworth. ‘Good, you help,’ says Princip, ‘So Stupid goes to that other court, and there he sees the king’s daughter, a very beautiful princess,
and you know what happens, because it always does. Stupid falls there in love.’ ‘That is why he is called Stupid?’ asks Vera. ‘He is called Stupid because I like to call him
Stupid,’ says Princip, ‘Do I go on?’
‘Please,’ says Petworth. ‘Her father the king, a rough man with a big red beard, tells: Stupid, no, you cannot marry her, because already she is promised to marry another else,
so go away. Well, of course, poor Stupid, he is sad, a long, long face right down to here. And he walks out into the forest and there he meets an old woman who is special, she is a makku, we say,
do you know?’ ‘A witch,’ says Petworth. ‘That is the word, a witch,’ says Princip, ‘Perhaps you know this story already?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth.
‘Well, of course you know some like it,’ says Princip, ‘But perhaps not my special story of poor Stupid. So, that witch tells to Stupid, please, come walk with me in the forest.
Well, he goes, the branches catch at his hairs, the animals make howl, he does not know where he goes, you know how it is in forests. And then suddenly they are both falling, down a dark, dark
hole, a long far way. And then, bouff!, they are at the bottom, with sore behinds. And there in front is a new land, with great trees and sunshine and gardens, and on top of a hill a castle, with
some high towers. Well, Stupid looks up at the castle and there, in the very highest window, on highest tower, he thinks he sees, looking out, his very beautiful princess. In the sky is the shining
sun, in front of them some water. Some frogs sit there on the water-plants, and the witch, who can talk to them, asks them all about that castle. And they tell, be careful, it belongs to a great
big bad man, bigger than anybody, what do you call him?’ ‘A giant?’ asks Petworth.
‘You are very good, really you should tell this story, it is a giant,’ says Katya Princip, patting his arm, ‘A giant who every day takes a prisoner, a very beautiful girl, and
he kills her at night when goes down the sun. Well, Stupid does not like this news, and sees also that the sun begins to go down, down, down behind the trees. And so of course he approaches to the
castle and tries to go in there, to rescue his princess. But the gate is shut, and on every window are many bars. He looks up again at the sun, it slips nearer and nearer the ground. He looks up at
the high window, and there, beside the lady, who cries, he sees that, what do you call, giant, and there in his hand is a big axe that is made specially just for great giants like him. The girl
leans, and tries to shout, but over her face the giant puts his big hand, and he laughs down the tower at Stupid. Well, Stupid shakes at the gate, he pushes at the windows, what would you do, but
he finds no ways to get inside. What can he do next?’ ‘He could ask for help the witch,’ says Vera. ‘My dear, you are right,’ says Princip, ‘He turns to that
witch, a good witch, a bad witch, he does not know. He does not know anything, he is Stupid. So the witch tells again, come, walk with me, and she takes him to a beautiful garden next the castle,
in it many trees and plants. The sun is going now, the castle rises high, and no way at all to go in. But the witch takes Stupid over to a big round fruit that is on the ground. The sun has made it
a bright yellow, and inside is fat and good to eat, how do you call it, Petwit?’ ‘A marrow,’ says Petworth. ‘No, not marrow, but like,’ says Princip, ‘Inside is
more sweet. A fruit that is in all the stories.’ ‘Yes, of course,’ says Petworth, ‘A pumpkin.’ ‘That is it, pumpkin,’ says Katya Princip, ‘And now
you know what vish’nou is made of. Now you know what you eat. Try it and tell me you like it.’