Authors: Malcolm Bradbury
III
And so there, in foreign parts, in distant Slaka, under another ideology, where the big maid is omnipresent and the walls undoubtedly have ears, the far-flung British exiles
start their party. Wind and rain blow outside, and a big, almost green moon has been pasted, by whomever is responsible for providing such detail, over the dark roofs of Slaka; a dome and a tower
or two stick up into its green orb. Below is the city, revealing itself in an occasional flash of
COMFLUG
and
MUG
, a place of watchers and listeners, threats and fears. The party, it is true, is
sadly depleted, by the conflicting claims of the sheikh and the opera, and the silver tray the big maid holds out to them displays far more good things to drink than the small gathering they make
can ever possibly consume. A certain civil caution hovers in the air, as you might expect when the nations meet across complicated political and social barriers; in any case conversation is never
easy for the British, who are never keen to express themselves to strangers or, for that matter, anyone, even themselves. But a certain mood of relaxation now begins to emerge, as Steadiman, in his
suit, goes over to the record player and puts something on, a nostalgic number called ‘Try a Little Tenderness,’ and people turn and talk to people. The tray of drinks comes back and
forth, back and forth, and a small sociability begins to grow, a set of glimpses of a world somewhere that links them somehow all together. ‘See the test matches?’ asks Blenheim affably
of Petworth, lighting up his pipe. ‘Oh, do you smoke one of these?’ cries Plitplov, taking out his vast carved smoking bowl, and waving it, ‘I also.’ ‘I’m afraid
I don’t follow it,’ says Petworth. ‘Cricket? You talk perhaps of cricket, your national game? The men in the white clothes like doctors?’ asks Plitplov. ‘They say a
man who is tired of cricket is tired of life,’ says Blenheim. ‘I don’t think Mr Petworth is tired of life,’ says Miss Peel. ‘Tired of, tired by,’ murmurs
Plitplov. ‘No, I can take it and I can leave it alone,’ says Petworth. ‘I expect you know my friend Sir Laurence Olivier,’ says Miss Peel. ‘Not personally,’ says
Petworth. ‘Then you don’t know him at all,’ cries Miss Peel. Made doubly ignorant, Petworth also knows, with a true British instinct, that he has also now been made welcome; in
their own way, the British have begun to enjoy themselves.
Outside the treacherous dark city turns on itself; inside a certain version of the good life begins to flower. Now Miss Peel begins to talk about someone or other’s Papageno, and Steadiman
chatters about Princess Margaret’s visit to some island somewhere or other to which he was at some time posted; Mr Blenheim talks of the All Blacks, and even Plitplov, refusing exclusion,
becomes entertaining, magically producing nuts from his ears. ‘I hear all the plays in London now are about sex and have naked people in them,’ says Miss Peel, ‘It sounds
dreadfully dull. I’ve never been fond of realism.’ ‘The work of your Edward Bond is very famous,’ says Plitplov.‘Who?’ asks Blenheim. ‘He writes
Saved
, also a Lear,’ says Plitplov. ‘Never heard of him,’ says Blenheim. ‘He’s rather of the left,’ says Miss Peel, ‘They rather fancy him
here.’ ‘I think nobody in Britain wants to work now any more,’ says Plitplov, ‘They tell it is too boring for them. Here our people like very much to work. Often our workers
ask the managers to do more work for no money because they are liking it so much.’ ‘Really?’ says Miss Peel, ‘Amazing.’ ‘You’ll gather our indus industrial
reputation isn’t too high here just now,’ says Steadiman. ‘We’re not an easy race to explain to the world,’ says Blenheim, puffing comfortably on his pipe. ‘But
perhaps this is your job?’ asks Plitplov, ‘Perhaps this is why your government is sending you here to Slaka?’ ‘Ah,’ says Blenheim, chuckling, ‘You’re
asking me what I do. What’s my bag? It’s the diplomatic one, actually.’ ‘I think you like to be cautious,’ says Plitplov, ‘But doesn’t your economy
collapse? Won’t you one day be socialist economy, like us?’ ‘I don’t think so,’ says Blenheim, ‘Not our cup of tea, really.’
‘Ah, here you are, all enjoying yourselves hugely,’ cries Budgie Steadiman, emerging in a small apron from the inner intestines of the apartment, ‘Our little sensation is going
very well. Angus, give me a wee sip of your drinkie. I hope they’re all entertaining you. Has anyone bothered to show you our quite outstanding view?’ The outstanding view to which
Budgie leads him is mostly of darkness, for Slaka at night is not as brightly lit as most Western cities. But the big moon glows, with a dome and a tower or two sticking up into its great orb;
lights twinkle somewhere down below, and the red star flashes on the top of Party Headquarters. Down below in the street, under faint trees, a few, a very few, cars and a few muffled human figures
move. ‘I never cooked terribly well,’ says Budgie, interlacing her fingers with Petworth’s, ‘We always used to advise our guests to eat first before they came to our dinner
parties. But I’m quite a vigorous hostess. Of course I had an excellent upbringing. You don’t think I’m too grande dame for one of my tender years?’ ‘Not at
all,’ says Petworth. ‘Bless you, Angus,’ says Budgie, ‘You know, I think we’re two of a kind. Two lonely, tense, star-crossed people. In this world, like knows like. I
feel a curious deep intimacy growing up between us.’ ‘Cam’radaku,’ says a voice; the big bulk of Magda is somehow squeezing itself in between them. ‘Angus, excuse
me,’ says Budgie, ‘I’m afraid I must try my pidgin. Da, Magda?’ ‘Squassu, squassu,’ says Magda. ‘I’m afraid that means our tête-à
-tête must be deferred a little, not, I hope, for long,’ says Budgie, ‘Magda tells me the soup is ready. Attention, please, everybody. Magda bids us to the table!’
And so the small party moves, across from the Mexican masks and the Iranian donkey bags to the dining table just round the corner, set with silver from Paris and place mats from Korea. Before
the settings stand little folded place cards, written in a foreign hand; to the right of the hostess is one that says ‘Doktor Pumwum.’ ‘Yes, come beside me,’ says Budgie,
squeezing Petworth’s leg under the table, ‘And you’re on my other side, Dr Plitplov.’ ‘Do we get nearer now to the secret?’ asks Plitplov, sitting down and
shaking out his napkin, ‘Is it perhaps a something to eat?’ ‘Cunning man,’ says Budgie, slapping his wrist, ‘Remember, pleasure deferred is pleasure increased. That
has always been my motto, so long as I haven’t had to wait too long. As the great Mae West once said, I like a man who takes his time.’ ‘This is a philosopher?’ asks
Plitplov. ‘No, she’s a film star, in our part of the world,’ says Budgie, ‘Have you been to our part of the world, Dr Plitplov? Have they let you out to take a look?’
‘I have been several times,’ says Plitplov, ‘In London and some other cities. I have good recollections of Tottenham Court Road.’ ‘I’m not surprised,’ says
Budgie, ‘How that imprints itself on the memory. They must think well of you here, if they let you out.’ ‘I have not committed bad offences,’ says Plitplov, ‘But of
course we are quite liberal now, in many ways. You see how we invite here your fine speakers, like Dr Petworth.’ ‘A quite outstanding choice,’ says Budgie. ‘Of course, I
think so,’ says Plitplov, ‘We expect to learn many fine things from him and improve our self-criticisms, Do you read perhaps his good books?’ ‘Well, no,’ says Budgie,
‘I think I’ll wait for the film.’
Magda appears, with a soup tureen and a ladle; Steadiman tours the table with a bottle of white wine. ‘And do you perhaps have some children?’ asks Plitplov. ‘We did have some
somewhere, two or three,’ says Budgie, ‘Where are our children now, Felix?’ ‘Ow ow Oundle,’ says Steadiman, pouring wine. ‘Please?’ says Plitplov.
‘At an English public school,’ says Budgie, ‘Which of course means a private school. You probably know, the better class of Briton likes to send his children away to school until
they’re old and intelligent enough to come home again. Then they’re too old and intelligent to want to. Angus, do you have children? Little Petworths crying in their cots?’
‘No, I don’t,’ says Petworth. ‘But there is a Mrs Petworth, is there?’ asks Budgie, ‘Matrimony has not passed you by?’ ‘Yes, there is,’ says
Petworth. ‘I hope she is very charming,’ says Plitplov. ‘Indeed,’ says Petworth. ‘Yet you didn’t bring her with you to Slaka,’ says Budgie, ‘Was that
thoughtfulness or neglect?’ ‘She’s not entirely well,’ says Petworth. Plitplov looks across the table at him: ‘I hope you have telephoned her,’ he says.
‘Mr Plitplov, I seem to remember we sent you to the Cambridge summer school once,’ says Miss Peel, leaning along the table. ‘Who, I?’ cries Plitplov. ‘Do you know it
at all, Mr Petworth?’ asks Miss Peel. ‘Yes, I do, actually,’ says Petworth, ‘I’ve given the odd lecture there.’ ‘We’ve managed to send a few people
over on scholarships,’ says Miss Peel, ‘Rather difficult, the authorities always want to substitute others. It must have been three years ago when we sent you, Mr Plitplov.’
‘To Cambridge?’ asks Plitplov. ‘Yes, to Cambridge,’ says Miss Peel.
Magda has come again, to collect up the soup plates; Steadiman has risen, to fill their glasses again. ‘It won’t be long now for the secret,’ cries Budgie, ‘Oxford was my
university, I read history with A. J. P. Taylor. I was very famous there, for my breasts.’ ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, gallantly, ‘This is to be expected.’
‘Alas, they’re not what they were,’ says Budgie, ‘Time and tide, wear and tear, take their toll even of the most perfect monuments.’ ‘Of course not, they are
quite outstanding, one immediately remarks it,’ says Plitplov, ‘Don’t you say so, Dr Petworth?’ ‘You’re very kind,’ says Budgie, ‘Notable, perhaps,
but not outstanding. Good but not excellent. Not of the first rank, but worthy of a visit.’ ‘So did you go to Cambridge?’ asks Miss Peel. ‘To beautiful Cambridge?’
says Plitplov, ‘perhaps I was there. But you understand my confusions. In my country, if you study English, you must study also the Russian. This is how we keep a balance. So now I am in
Moscow, now perhaps in Cambridge. Here I read Gorky, there I read Trollope. Here I see Bolshoi, there I see Covent Garden. In Moscow I study the Marxist aesthetics, and in Cambridge, if it was
Cambridge . . .’ ‘You study Marxist aesthetics also,’ says Budgie Steadiman. ‘And for the travelling scholar it is hard to keep such things apart, don’t you say so, Dr
Petworth?’ says Plitplov. ‘It can all become a blur,’ says Petworth. ‘Cambridge and Moscow? Really?’ says Miss Peel, ‘I wouldn’t have thought they were
terribly easy to confuse.’ ‘Of course one remembers certain differences,’ says Plitplov. ‘Like what?’ asks Mr Blenheim. ‘In Russia the smell is of food and
cats,’ says Plitplov, ‘In England of drink and dogs.’ ‘I see you’re a man of subtle cultural discriminations,’ says Budgie. ‘Can I just be clear?’
says Miss Peel, ‘Did you or did you not go to Cambridge? I’m sure we sponsored you.’ ‘Then I am very grateful,’ says Plitplov. ‘Good,’ says Miss Peel,
‘Now then, Dr Petworth, when did you lecture there? Where you there three years ago?’
‘Just a moment, just a moment!’ cries Budgie, ‘Here comes the secret! The sensation of the evening!’ In her big black dress, Magda is now advancing on them from the
kitchen; high in her hands she holds a large silver covered dish. ‘It is here, in here, your secret?’ asks Plitplov, staring at it curiously. ‘Put it down on the table,
Magda,’ says Budgie, ‘Thank you very much. Well, shall we ask our honoured guest if he’d unveil it? I’m a great believer in putting our visitors to good use. If you please,
Angus.’ As the faces round the table watch, Petworth reaches and lifts the cover of the dish: to disclose, beneath it, a quantity of meaty, brown, skin-covered objects, not unlike cooked
turds, assembled in neat rows. ‘Oh, don’t they look marvellous,’ cries Miss Peel. ‘Bella, multa bella,’ cries Mr Blenheim. Only Plitplov looks sceptical; he leans
forward a little, to inspect. ‘Do you know them?’ asks Budgie. ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, unbelieving, ‘This is a sausage.’ ‘Yes, but a
British
sausage,’ says Budgie. ‘A Marks and Spencer sausage,’ says Miss Peel. ‘The secret is a sausage?’ says Plitplov. ‘You must have gone to an enormous amount of
trouble,’ says Miss Peel. ‘Actually,’ says Budgie, ‘they came over yesterday in the diplomatic bag. They must have been on the same plane as you, Angus.’
‘Let’s empty our glug glug glasses,’ says Felix Steadiman, ‘I think we really ought to switch to the red.’ ‘This party is all for a sausage?’ asks
Plitplov. ‘The party is to celebrate Angus’s arrival,’ says Budgie, squeezing Petworth’s leg under the table, ‘But we wanted to give everyone a treat.’ ‘I
will tell you a secret myself,’ says Plitplov, ‘Even in Slaka, where we are so backward, we have invented the sausage.’ ‘Ah, but not like these sausages,’ says Miss
Peel.
So, as the big orb of the moon shines curiously in through the window, and in the Slakan night the signs saying
MUG
and
COMFLUG
flash furiously on
and off, the British exiles raise their knives and forks and devote themselves to the delicacy. The sausages are served, as well they might be, with an attempt at mashed potatoes, a bottle of red
tomato sauce, and a red wine that Steadiman takes round the table, saying: ‘They have some quite out outstanding wines here you can’t get at home. Unfortunately this isn’t one of
them.’ The candlelight flickers; only Plitplov appears bemused. ‘How do I explain such a people to my students?’ he says, ‘In the middle of history, in these strange times,
when everywhere there are diplomatical dangers, you come all here to celebrate the sausage. Is this what is called phlegm?’ ‘Just tell them the British know how to make a good
sausage,’ says Blenheim. ‘I’m afraid it’s not such a treat for you, Angus,’ says Budgie, ‘You probably have them all the time,’ ‘Yes,’ says
Petworth, ‘But they are quite delicious.’ ‘Always he is diplomatic,’ says Plitplov, ‘This was noticed, even in . . .’ ‘In Cambridge?’ asks Miss Peel,
‘You did meet there?’ ‘These things are very hard to know,’ says Plitplov, ‘So many lectures, so many faces. How do you recall?’ ‘What about you, Dr
Petworth?’ asks Miss Peel, ‘Do you recall Dr Plitplov?’ ‘We may have talked once, in a public house,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, I don’t think it,’ says
Plitplov, ‘I do not like to go into those places.’ ‘What did you lecture on, Dr Petworth?’ asks Miss Peel. ‘I believe it was on Chomskyan linguistics,’ says
Petworth, ‘A rather specialist affair.’ ‘It doesn’t ring any bells, Dr Plitplov?’ asks Miss Peel, ‘The lecture made no imprint on you at all?’