Authors: Malcolm Bradbury
Several passers-by – a soldier in khaki, three old women in headscarves – inspect them curiously as they pick themselves up off the ground in the street where, high above, Marx and
Lenin, Lenin and Marx, creak on their wires. ‘This way,’ says Steadiman, erecting his umbrella, and striding out confidently, his fresh face shining, ‘Yes, you know, I quite enjoy
having some cul cul cultural work to do. After spending most of my time looking after Brits in prison. I don’t get much on the cul cul culture side. We get the odd writer out, poets mostly.
One hand up skirts and the other on the bott bott bottle. Not always the best of visitors, one usually ends up collecting them quite pissed from dubious apartments all over the city. I much prefer
your sko sko scholars, definitely a better class of person. Ah, look, here’s my car. You see I fly the flag.’ Like Steadiman himself, standing there in his suit, the car that rests
under the leaking linden trees in a dog-fouled corner of the square evokes an immediate shock of recognition; Petworth knows that it too has been in his story before. Inspected closely, the dark
brown Ford Cortina that rests listlessly half on the road and half over the pavement presents a somewhat defeated appearance. Mud covers its body, tree-squit covers its roof; its tyres seem
unequally inflated, and there is something astigmatically wrong about the gaze of its headlights, while the exhaust hangs loosely down into the road next to the diplomatic plates. ‘Remember,
bugged,’ says Steadiman, pointing at it, and then approaching it cautiously, as if it were mined, ‘Don’t say anything till I switch on the radio.’ Putting down his umbrella,
Steadiman unlocks the driver’s door, and gets in; a moment later, a hundred military voices begin to sing an anthem through the speakers, and he beckons Petworth in.
‘Yes, drove it all the way out from London,’ says Steadiman, switching on the headlights, one of which illuminates the trees above them, the other the ground beneath, ‘The
moment we crossed the frun frun frontier the headlights fell out. Plop into the road. And there isn’t a screw screw screwdriver in Slaka to fit them. But sell sell Sellotape’s all
right, except when it rains.’ The rain lashes the windscreen; Steadiman starts with a jerk, and the car bumps down onto the cobbles of the street. A pink tram clangs at them: ‘Away we
go,’ says Steadiman, ‘Just a twenty-minute drive. We all have to live out in the dip dip diplomatic quarter, where they can keep their eyes on us.’ ‘There’s someone in
the road,’ says Petworth, as a dark figure appears briefly in front of them, and then leaps desperately for the curb. ‘Look, would you mind belting up?’ says Steadiman, turning
toward him, ‘It’s illegal to travel in a car without a belt. I’m not surprised. The pedestrians have no traffic sense, and they have the most ridiculous rules.’ ‘Have
they?’ asks Petworth. ‘Yes, like having to stop for cars coming in from the right,’ Steadiman says, failing to stop for a car coming in from the right, which honks at him,
‘And they’re rude. No wonder so many of our chaps end up in prison. Got the hang of the city yet?’ ‘A little,’ says Petworth. ‘I’ll just point out a few of
the more obvious landmarks. That,’ says Steadiman, pointing to the Sportsdrome, ‘is Party Headquarters, and that’ he adds, pointing to the Military Academy ‘is the State
Publishing House. It’s not really a diff diff difficult city to get hold of. I say, that’s funny, isn’t it? They’ve put a bar bar barrier up right across the
road.’
And their tentative headlights have indeed managed to illuminate a red and white pole that is set firmly across their path. Beside the pole are set two military boxes; from each comes a khaki
soldier, bearing a Kalashnikov automatic sub-machine gun. Vast arc-lights suddenly come on, and there is shouting: ‘I don’t think we can go this way,’ says Steadiman. Beyond the
pole, Petworth can see a vast area of public space, with swinging banners and a white
pavé
, and many official buildings: ‘It’s Plazscu P’rtyuu,’ Petworth says,
‘I believe it’s closed to traffic.’ ‘Is it?’ says Steadiman, ‘That means we’re a bit off course.’ The two soldiers stand on either side of the car,
pointing their guns in the windows: ‘Pardonnez moi,’ shouts Steadiman through the window, putting the vehicle into reverse. It goes backward at high speed, hitting a bollard and,
apparently, a pedestrian who has been walking behind them, for a high-ranking officer carrying a portfolio begins to hammer violently with his fists on the roof. ‘Sorry,’ says
Steadiman, out of the window, ‘These people simply have no idea how to cross a road.’ The soldiers are shouting; Steadiman drives off, burning tyre; ‘If you go left here,
you’ll come out onto the main boulevard,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes, I was explaining the city to you. That’s the Sportsdrome over there,’ says Steadiman, pointing to
the Party Headquarters, and, pointing to the Palace of Culture ‘that’s the pal pal Palace of cul cul Culture. Is this a red light or a green one?’ ‘A red one,’ says
Petworth, holding onto his seat. ‘Ah, is it?’ says Steadiman, ‘Aaarrgghhh. Well, this is the right road, we’ll soon be home. Actually my wife’s absolutely dying to
meet you.’ ‘It’s nice of you to have me,’ says Petworth.
In the car, the military music booms; in front of the shops on the main boulevard, the glistening umbrellas go; a bleak line waits outside a cinema, to see a film called
Yips
. Pink trams
clatter past, carrying home the workers from the factories, and the tired HOGPo men, finished with their day’s work with the nation’s biggest employers. ‘Nice to have a cul cul
cultural visitor again,’ says Steadiman, driving down the middle of the street, his wheels apparently caught in the tramtracks, ‘Actually you probably don’t realize this, but
I’m responsible for all the traffic accidents here.’ ‘So I believe,’ says Petworth. ‘Tell me,’ says Steadiman, ‘Tell me, you should know, what’s a
good book to take to an Englishman in prison? I thought pru pru Proust. Long, isn’t it?’ ‘It rather depends on the man’s tastes,’ says Petworth, ‘Does he like
experimental modernism?’ ‘I’m not sure,’ says Steadiman, ‘He’s a lo lo lorry driver.’ ‘Probably not Proust,’ says Petworth, ‘Perhaps
The Forsyte Saga
.’ The urban centre has fallen behind them, the trams have gone; they are ascending a hill between residential houses. ‘Nice quiet part of town this,’ says
Steadiman, gesturing vaguely beyond the dirty windscreen, ‘How about a game of Scrabble?’ ‘What, now?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course not now,’ says Steadiman,
‘I’m driving now. No, I meant for the chap in jail.’ ‘It takes two to play Scrabble,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes,’ says Steadiman, after a moment’s thought,
‘I suppose that does rather rue rue rule it out. Ran over a peasant, you know.’ ‘You did?’ asks Petworth. ‘No, of course not,’ says Steadiman, ‘He did.
That’s why they put him in jail. Funny lot, these peasants here. If they see a large mechanical object coming fast toward them, their nat nat natural instinct is to walk straight in front of
it. Actually the nat nat natural instinct of all the drivers here is to speed up and get them. But fo fo foreigners aren’t allowed to play. Well, here we are, old chap. Home. That’s our
apartment block, over there.’
They have stopped; to one side is a dark park, spreading off into grotesque shadows; across the street is a row of solid grey apartments, with ornate torsos supporting the balconies. Bullet
holes have added new navels to old; a small white box with a soldier sitting in it stands outside every entrance. ‘Dip dip diplomatic protection,’ says Steadiman, ‘Now just hang
on one minute.’ Steadiman gets out of the car and goes in front of it; his face peers in at Petworth as he reaches out over the windows and detaches the windscreen wipers. When he comes back
to open the passenger door, the two wiper arms are sticking from the top pocket of his suit, and waving in front of his face. ‘We always remove them here,’ he says, raising his umbrella
and ushering Petworth across the street, ‘Of course off off officially there’s no crime, under so so socialism. On the other hand, people do frequently appropriate the goods of others
for their own use. Quite why they go for why why wipers I can’t imagine, since most of them can’t afford cars. Wave to the soldier.’ The soldier in the white box peers out at them
as Steadiman pushes open the glass and iron entrance to the building; inside it is quite dark. ‘One moment while I find the light,’ Steadiman says, still holding his umbrella aloft, and
pressing a switch that illuminates a cavernous hallway with raw old walls and, in the centre, an ancient caged elevator, ‘Now, quick, rush for the lift. I’m afraid this is one of those
timed lights that only lasts for a moment and then—’ Utter darkness falls: ‘Feel your way in,’ says Steadiman in the blackness, ‘Another light comes on when we shut
the door.’ The light in the cage comes on, illuminating a dirty floor, and walls covered with graffiti; slowly, the lift begins to ascend the windy shaft.
‘Oh,’ says Steadiman, as, midway between floors, the lift halts suddenly, and the light goes out, ‘This sometimes happens. All we have to do is reel reel relax until someone
comes and lets us out. Usually it’s not long.’ In the shaft, a gale howls, blowing the stale smell of past meals at them; a child screams somewhere behind unseen closed doors. In the
darkness, picquant with aftershave, Steadiman begins to discuss the earlier novels of Margaret Drabble. A long time passes, and then footsteps sound somewhere in the unlit, hollow stairwell.
‘Slibob, cam’radakii,’ Steadiman calls out, ‘Pongi! Pongi!’ This has effect, for two eyes may just be seen, peering down at them from an invisible landing; there is
the sound of a button being pressed and pressed again. The light begins to flicker, the lift to strain and jerk; unsteadily it rises, to halt just below the level of a landing. ‘There we are.
Now then, we can either stay here and see if it makes it to the top,’ says Steadman, ‘Or walk up in the dark.’ ‘I’d rather walk,’ says Petworth. ‘Why
not?’ says Steadiman, opening the gates of the cage, ‘Can you see in the dark?’ ‘Few people can,’ says Petworth. ‘Just follow the sound of my foot foot
footsteps, then,’ says Steadiman, ‘I’m used to all this.’
So, in total darkness, stumbling, tripping, going endlessly round and round, Petworth begins to climb, in ascending gyres, the spiral of the great stairwell, as it twists and turns, onward and
upward, much like life itself. The smell of foreign foods, the quack of incomprehensible radios, comes from unseen doors; the walls are rough and damp; the footsteps of his guide patter somewhere
ahead, until, suddenly, they stop, and Petworth walks into a mass, big, black, hard-soft. It is Steadiman’s back. ‘Almost there,’ says the back, ‘I just stopped to war war
warn you of one thing before we go into the apartment. It’s bugged, you know.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘There’s also Magda, the maid,’ says Steadiman,
‘We have to hire her from the dip dip diplomatic servants’ office. She says she doesn’t speak English, but that’s bound to mean she does. And of course she whips whips . .
.’ A door in front of them opens suddenly, casting bright light over their huddled figures; in the doorway a great dour maid, in black dress, white apron, white gloves, stares chastisingly
down on them. Her hair is tugged back in a bun from her great face; one arm is bent, as if already awaiting the receipt of coats. ‘Ah,’ says Steadiman, handing her his umbrella and the
windscreen wipers, ‘Slibob, Magda.’ ‘Slubob,’ says Petworth, handing her his coat; Magda grunts and stares at him suspiciously. Beyond Magda is light and a high flutter of
sound, the light laughter of amused people, the sound of a party; blinking in the light, Petworth calls up his small talk, his working chatter of Derrida and Saussure, of Hobson’s Choice and
Sod’s Law.
There, beyond, is a spacious diplomatic apartment, decorated, as diplomatic apartments so often are, with the relics of many previous postings. Iranian saddlebags, Mexican dance-masks, African
rugs hang on the walls; the room is filled with chairs from Sweden, or Denmark, or Habitat, Indian coffee tables, Kurdish camel-drivers’ trunks. Table-lamps are lit; there is a great window
opening up, as diplomatic apartments so often do, onto a fine view of the dark park, and, beyond it, the city with its flashing spurts of neon. But in the room the professors do not come and go,
talking of T. S. Eliot; indeed it is almost empty. It is from a small black box on an Indian coffee-table that the party chatter comes: ‘Cass cass cassette,’ says Steadiman. But there
is a fine-looking hostess standing there, in something ethnic; indeed she too, as diplomatic wives so often are, is decorated with the relics of many previous postings. Arab filigree earrings hang
from her ears, Navajo pawn bracelets from her wrists; she wears a wrap-around Hawaiian muu-mau. She steps forward, tall, stately, dark, fragrant with
Ma Griffe
; she seizes Petworth by his
hand, and holds it. ‘You must be Mr Petworth,’ she cries, ‘Do come in. I can’t tell you how nice it is to have a new face. Yours, of course, not mine. I’ve had this
one for years.’ ‘Good evening,’ says Petworth. ‘Hello, hello,’ says the lady, ‘Oh, my dear, I can’t tell you how one yearns for a visitor, the sight of
someone even remotely interesting. And you are remotely interesting, aren’t you? You look like a nice, healthy, vigorous sort of person to me. ‘This is my wife Budge Budge
Budgie,’ says Steadiman, giving the lady a small peck, ‘I think I told you she’s been dying all day to meet you.’
II
‘Yes, I have, I have, my dear Mr Petworth,’ says Budgie Steadiman, putting her arm through Petworth’s and leading him toward a settee, ‘And now come and
tell me what you think of Slaka.’ ‘What time are we expecting the other guests, darling?’ asks Steadiman, standing in the corner. ‘Eight-thirty,’ says Budgie,
‘You know I wanted a little time to myself with Mr Petworth. You see, Mr Petworth, I wanted to find out if you were as charming as I’d hoped.’ ‘I’m afraid it’s
not very likely,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, are you modest?’ asks Budgie Steadiman, ‘Please, first impressions are quite in your favour. Now, come and sit down here with me on the
sofa, and we’ll go on to second ones. Felix will get you a drink.’ ‘Perhaps you’d care for a pee,’ says Steadiman, ‘Care for a pee a peach brandy?’
‘It’s not to be missed,’ says Budgie. ‘I seem to have had rather a lot of that today,’ says Petworth, ‘They entertained me to an official lunch.’
‘Oh, those things,’ says Budgie, ‘Sudden death.’ ‘Well, how about a sort of piss a sort of Piesporter?’ asks Steadiman, who has opened the Kurdish
camel-driver’s trunks, to display an exotic quantity of diplomatic liquor. ‘It’s a nice dry white wine they make here,’ says Budgie, ‘I do recommend it for loosening
the inhibitions.’ ‘Very well, I’ll try that,’ says Petworth. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ says Steadiman, holding up a bottle, ‘I’ll just have to go to the
kitchen and ask Magda for a screw.’ ‘Of course, you do that, darling,’ says Budgie Steadiman, throwing out her hand in a careless gesture, so that it lands by some chance on
Petworth’s knee, ‘And meanwhile dear Mr Petworth can tell me everything there is to know about his fascinating day.’ ‘It wasn’t enormously fascinating,’ says
Petworth, ‘I had a very large lunch and I saw Grigoric’s tomb.’ ‘Well, of course,’ says Budgie, ‘They always do. I’m afraid I never did understand the
pleasure it’s supposed to give. But then I never liked Madame Tussaud’s either.’