Authors: Malcolm Bradbury
‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘But what happened to the prince?’ ‘To Stupid?’ asks Princip, ‘Oh, now it is no matter. Don’t you find out what is your
dessert?’ ‘I’d also like to find out how the story ends,’ says Petworth. ‘But you know how it ends,’ says Princip. ‘That is the end, on your plate. I made
it to make you remember a name.’ ‘But now we all are thinking, what has happened to Stupid?’ says Vera. ‘Why? How does it matter?’ says Princip, ‘You know what
happens to Stupid, all stories are the same, you know the end already.’ ‘Please tell,’ says Vera. ‘Oh, of course the witch is a good witch, Stupid goes into the castle and
he kills the giant, the princess goes home with him, the king her father with the big red beard tells he is very sorry, and they marry and live happy ever after, under socialism, and make many
children who all work hard for the state.’ ‘But no more adventures for Stupid?’ asks Lubijova. ‘Of course some adventures, but the adventures are always the same, and they
do not change the story,’ says Princip, ‘What matters is: it is a useful story, Maxim Gorky would please. Petwit knows now what meal he eats, it is pumpkin,’ ‘We never heard
what the pumpkin did, in the story,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, so many questions, I wonder why?’ says Princip, ‘The pumpkin of course did what pumpkins like to do in the stories.
It turned to something else, perhaps a ladder, perhaps a coach. Perhaps someone climbed the ladder, perhaps someone rode the coach. But it is no matter. You are in Slaka, you make your meal, you
eat your fruit, and you know it is pumpkin.’ ‘You see now what kind of a book Comrade Princip likes to write,’ says Lubijova. ‘Not really,’ says Princip, ‘My
books are a bit magical also, but more complete. And I never tell them at official lunches. Of course, Mr Petwit, if one day our paths are crossing somewhere, if you come back again here to Slaka,
well, then I might really tell you what happened to that prince and that pumpkin. You see, what I tell now is not true. There were some more adventures. The witch was not such a good witch, the
giant did not die like that. The girl in the tower was not as she appeared, the king with the red beard was not such a good king. So, poor Stupid.’
‘And the pumpkin?’ asks Vera. ‘No, the pumpkin did not really turn into a ladder or a coach. Poor Stupid ate it, and came in the power of the witch, and some very strange
things happened to him.’ ‘Won’t you tell?’ asks Lubijova. ‘Please, it is late,’ says Princip, ‘Also I have talked so much to our guest that, don’t
you see, his vish’nou gets cold. Finish it quickly, please, Mr Petwit, or it is not nice.’ Tankic leans across the table and says something to Petworth, laughing. ‘Says a
bureaucrat always has a bureau, and he must go to his,’ says Lubijova, ‘He says he knows you are a good man because you like to drink with him. So he makes you one last toast. To good
tour, good lectures, good times and also one more thing. To the beautiful ladies, for the first time, this time completely and more than ever sincerely.’ The glasses go up again; Tankic
beams, half kind and half malicious. ‘So, Mr Petworth,’ says Tankic, putting on his shortie raincoat and his black Homburg hat, ‘Take care for bad witches.’ ‘I
will,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, Comrade Princip,’ says Vera, squeezing Petworth’s arm, ‘You didn’t ask your wish of him!’ ‘Oh, yes, my wish,’ says
Katya Princip, combing her hair at a mirror, ‘I had forgotten it. It was just a little wish and you probably do not have time for it. My wish was only, Mr Petwit, please come take walk with
me.’ ‘To the forest?’ says Vera. ‘Not the forest, I am not bad witch,’ says Katya Princip, laughing, ‘Just to a café. I want to show you our beer, our
thinking, and something else interesting. Do you have just a little time?’ ‘Comrade Lubijova can go with you,’ says Vera, ‘Then you do not get lost.’ ‘Do we do
it?’ asks Princip. There is a small pulsing in Petworth’s head, the effect of a long day of toasts. The lunch has been good, the company pleasing, and it seems too soon to end it.
‘Do you think so, Marisja?’ he asks. ‘If you want it,’ says Lubijova. ‘Good, we go,’ says Katya Princip, holding out Petworth’s coat to him, leading him
through the dining-room beyond, now quite empty except for the gaping fish, and out of the Restaurant Propp.
IV
And now it is later, and the sun is going down, and a very good-humoured, very confused Petworth is walking through a vast busy market place. The rain still falls, the crowds
are wet, the people push; the stalls are lamp lit, and on them strange twisted vegetables, great beets and garlics, release a warm odour into the air. All round are high old gabled houses; by the
curbside, an organ-grinder in a bent old felt hat, and white moustache fringed with nicotine, turns a handle on a hurdygurdy where a wet, jacketed monkey chatters. Peasants with sere old faces move
by in shawls to keep off the rain; in the centre of the square is an ancient market hall, topped with a high ornate tower with on it a decorated old clock. ‘Isn’t it nice, don’t
you like it?’ asks Katya Princip, in her sheepskin waistcoat, holding his arm, ‘Really my favourite place in Slaka. Don’t you like the shapes of these vegetables? It is the
private produce those peasants grow in their yards, to make a little money.’ Ahead of them, Marisja Lubijova walks with Professor Rum, whose topcoat is back over his shoulders: ‘Which
café do you like?’ asks Lubijova, turning to stare back at them. ‘Oh, dear, she does not enjoy this,’ says Princip, ‘Café Grimm, on the other side. Yes, it is
nice, Mr Petwit. I hope it makes no trouble for you.’ ‘Trouble?’ asks Petworth, ‘Why?’ ‘I was wicked there, they do not ask me again, to an official
lunch,’ says Princip, ‘Of course they cannot blame you, but if you are clever, you should refuse to come with me.’ ‘But they wanted me to come,’ says Petworth.
‘Oh, yes?’ says Princip, laughing, ‘Didn’t you see their faces, Tankic and his mistress? This is why they sent your nice lady guide with you.’ ‘His
mistress?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course his mistress,’ says Princip, ‘Why else does she go to such a lunch? There is a saying here: in my country some people advance on their
knees, others on their backs. I think that is one that advances on her back.’ ‘This one, Grimm?’ asks Lubijova, turning, ‘Do we go inside?’ ‘No, we sit outside,
even though it rains,’ says Princip, ‘You see, we have a thing to show you, Mr Petwit.’
And now it is a little later still, and Petworth is sitting in a metal chair in the rain outside a café in the market place of Slaka. The metal chairs are all affixed to the ground,
arranged in straight rows, looking outward. The crowds press in front of them; they sit in their row, with Katya Princip to one side of Petworth, Marisja Lubijova to the other, and Professor Rum,
ruminative, beyond her on the end of the line. ‘You see, nobody serves us,’ says Lubijova, ‘They do not serve here because it rains.’ ‘Do you like to go inside and see
if they bring some beer to us?’ asks Princip. ‘All right, I do it,’ says Lubijova, going into the crowded inner café. ‘She does not please with you, that one,’
says Princip, ‘She sees you in bad company. She does not like to leave you.’ ‘She admires your novels,’ says Petworth, ‘She bought me your book.’ ‘Not all
who admire the novels admire the novelist,’ says Princip, ‘And not all who admire the novelist admire the novels. Let us ask Professor Rum.’ Princip moves to Petworth’s
other side, and begins a conversation; Petworth stares at the red banners that dangle over the square on high poles. ‘He explains he is of the party of socialist realism,’ says Princip,
‘He thinks he will not like my new book at all. In it no characters who are people. The central figure is a cake with two horns.’ Lubijova comes out of the interior of the café
and stands before Petworth: ‘I am sorry, it is no use,’ she says, ‘They have finished all their supply of beer.’ ‘Then we get something else,’ says Princip,
‘Tea with a tort. I go and arrange it.’ ‘Comrade Petwurt, take care please with this lady,’ says Marisja, sitting down beside him, ‘She does foolish things and she
gets you into trouble.’ ‘Realismus,’ says the Academician Rum, stirring from thought at the end of the row, ‘You tell?’ ‘He asks me to explain you that the
problem of realismus is to combinate the reality inherent in the historical process with the sufficient subjective perception, do you agree?’ ‘Well, yes,’ says Petworth.
‘And here we are,’ says Princip, returning with a tray on which stand four tall steaming glasses of water. In the water are small iron bombs, which emit a seeping brownness that
twists into strange hieroglyphs. ‘Now take your drink please and look at the market hall, up at the top, because it is almost time for this thing.’ And high up on the bell-tower,
something is indeed happening. Below the clock face, decorated with necromancer’s symbols, two wooden doors are opening, very jerkily. From inside the doors, on tracks, come two stiff wooden
peasants, each one carrying a cudgel. The peasants come forward, bow down to the crowd, then turn to face each other. They slide a little closer, and as they do so their cudgels rise into the air.
The clock above them begins to strike; at each clang of the bell, they belabour each other. ‘Do you count them,’ says Princip, ‘One, two, three, four, five, six.’ The crowds
have stopped, and everyone is looking up. Petworth then notices that affixed to the top of the tower are crowdcontrol television cameras, looking back down. ‘Don’t you please I bring
you?’ asks Katya Princip, ‘Now you see my wish. You see, I like things just a little bit magical. Perhaps you do too.’ ‘I do,’ says Petworth. ‘And every day at
six when the men come out I come here,’ says Princip, ‘So this is where everyone finds me. If you ever like to do it.’ ‘Oh, Petwurt, Petwurt,’ cries Lubijova,
‘Your wife!’ ‘My wife?’ cries Petworth. ‘On the telephone,’ says Lubijova, ‘I arranged you to call her from the hotel at six o’clock.’
‘Oh, do you have a wife?’ asks Princip, ‘You don’t have a ring.’ ‘His wife waits a call from him,’ says Lubijova, ‘Well, now it is too late. Now we
make all the arrangements over again, oh, Petwurt, Petwurt, and they will not be pleased with you.’ ‘Six o’clock?’ says Petworth, ‘But we’ve only just finished
lunch.’ ‘It was a long, long lunch,’ says Lubijova, ‘And don’t forget, tomorrow you must make a conference at the university. I think he goes to his hotel.’
‘I think so too,’ says Petworth, dimly recalling another social engagement, which it might not be entirely wise to talk about.
‘Come, I take you,’ says Lubijova, standing up in front of him. ‘Which hotel?’ asks Princip. ‘Slaka, in Wang’luku,’ says Lubijova. ‘My dear, let
me take him, I go by there,’ says Princip, ‘My apartment is right by that corner. I go there anyway.’ ‘I think I come too,’ says Marisja Lubijova. ‘Really, no
need,’ says Princip, ‘He does not have to have always two beautiful ladies.’ ‘Do you know your arrangements, Comrade Petwurt?’ asks Lubijova anxiously, ‘Do you
remember your programme? I shall come to the same place in the hotel, the same time. But will you have eaten your breakfast?’ ‘I can manage,’ says Petworth. ‘Well,’
says Lubijova, doubtfully, ‘Perhaps.’ ‘Of course,’ says Princip, seizing Petworth’s arm. Professor Rum rises, adjusts his topcoat, and puts out his hand to Petworth.
‘He says he is pleased to meet you and he looks forward to hearing you when you make conference,’ says Lubijova, ‘Even though he does not understand English and he thinks you are
a pragmatist.’ ‘Then I’ll see you tomorrow,’ says Petworth to Lubijova, ‘And thank you so much for the tour and the book.’ ‘The book, perhaps it was not
such a good idea,’ says Lubijova, ‘But I wanted to make you nice present.’ ‘You did,’ says Petworth. ‘We go this way, to the tram,’ says Princip, ‘Do
you go yet on a tram?’ ‘Not yet,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, Petwurt, Petwurt,’ cries Lubijova, hurrying after them as they walk, ‘Your passport, I think you take it.
Remember, you do not exist without it. Yes, I see you tomorrow.’ ‘Oh, she is cross, that one,’ says Princip, looking after her as she goes off through the market in her mohair
hat, ‘Or perhaps it is jealous, you know she likes you. Yes, of course. You are not so macho as our men, and that makes you attractive. Why do you think I like so much to go with you?’
‘I’m pleased you do,’ says Petworth, as they cross the market, past the sere-faced peasants standing behind the stalls, the flowers, the twisted vegetables. ‘Now here we
wait the tram,’ says Princip, ‘Oh, hold please my arm, I think you took too many toasts. And when that tram comes, push, push, push. We are not so polite here, like the
British.’
They stand in the crowd until the high-prowed pink tram comes; the sign on its front, over the uniformed woman driver, says
WANG
’
LUKU
. ‘Push, push, go inside, I have two
tickets,’ says Princip, ‘If you do it well, you get seat, and one beside for me.’ He does it well, and finds two seats; the tram grinds off. ‘So, Mr Petwit, I am glad you
are my admirer,’ says Katya Princip, sitting down beside him, ‘You know I am a little bit yours, too. Yes, I think I come to your lecture tomorrow. If you speak it very slowly.’
‘I will,’ says Petworth. ‘Isn’t it nice, on a tram?’ says Princip, putting her arm through his, ‘I told you, once I drove one. When I could not write.’
‘But you can write now,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, I have some protection,’ says Princip, ‘It is best always to have some protection. But I am not reliable, you know. I
have friends in America who make to me some telephone calls. I go abroad perhaps too many times, and meet wrong people. I am not polite to those apparatchiks. So often they like to watch me. That
is why I am not such good friend for you, really. And you not a very good friend for me. That is a pity.’ ‘A great pity,’ says Petworth, staring down as they rattle over the
Bridge of Anniversary May 15. ‘Oh, look, look, we go over the river,’ says Princip, ‘Do you see all those fishermen down there, fishing even in the rain? Do you know how we call
them? We say they are the men from HOGPo.’ ‘Why?’ asks Petworth. ‘There are so many fish down there,’ says Princip, ‘Someone has to find out what they are
thinking. And so, Mr Petwit, you have a wife. Is she a nice one?’ ‘A good woman,’ says Petworth. ‘That is what we say,’ says Princip, ‘Every man needs a good
woman, and when he has found her he needs a bad woman also. Well, you are nice, Mr Petwit, you drink too much and smoke too much and you are not character in the world historical sense, and all
that makes you attractive. But perhaps I don’t after all come to your lecture. We are both really not cautious enough, and here this is dangerous.’ ‘You think we shouldn’t
meet again,’ says Petworth. ‘What would we do it for?’ asks Princip, ‘So I can tell you the real story of Stupid?’