Authors: Malcolm Bradbury
‘So, Comrade Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, coming back, ‘You ate and then you went to bed last night, did you? I don’t think so.’ ‘Pardon?’ says Petworth,
getting up. ‘They tell at the desk you came in at three in the morning,’ says Lubijova, ‘Your clothes are torn and you do not walk straight.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says
Petworth, ‘I did go for a walk.’ ‘Where do you walk, at this time?’ asks Lubijova, ‘Well, no matter, it is not my business. Your telephone is arranged: six
o’clock. They do not please that you do not come last night. Also the porters like to take a little sleep and not have to wait for the official guests who are here for a purpose. Now I think
we take the tram to the university. It is not far but perhaps too far to walk, especially if you do not have so much sleep. Your lecture, do you have it? I must check on everything. I try to be
good guide but you must help me. You were well when I find you at the airport. I hope when you turn back home to England and you are tired and your clothes are torn and your face is hurted and
there are perhaps other troubles as well they do not blame me because I do not watch after you. I try, Petwurt, I try.’ ‘You do,’ says Petworth, as they walk out of the door of
the hotel, ‘You’re a fine guide, really.’ ‘And I don’t like it you do not tell me the truth,’ says Lubijova, ‘I don’t know what to believe of you,
Petwurt, I don’t really. You understand I do not want you to have some troubles here. But I think you don’t know life here and its difficulties. I believe you don’t mean harm,
Comrade Petwurt, but you will find some. Petwurt, not on that tram, please, this one goes the wrong direction. Wait here with me and be good.’
They stand in the square, in the sunlight; the people move, and the newspaper man sells newspapers, the balloon man balloons. A tram comes with a sign on the front saying krep’atatok:
‘Now we go on,’ says Lubijova. They bounce, standing, as the tram rattles them through the city, along the fine wide boulevard, past the statue of Lip Hrovdat, who shines on his horse
in the brightening sun. ‘Here we get off for the university,’ says Lubijova, ‘Watch always for Hrovdat, then you tell you arrive.’ Young people with briefcases stream across
the crossing with them, toward a large classical facade of stained stone, where pigeons strut back and forth over the portico; more sober-looking young people sit taking the sun on the steps.
Caryatids support the roof of the entrance, statues of the muses; ‘They say they move when a virgin passes in,’ says Lubijova, ‘But you see they are quite still. Now we go along
many corridors here. You are lucky I know the way. That is because I made my studies in filologie here.’ ‘Is it a good department?’ asks Petworth, following Lubijova past a
porter’s box filled with many faces and up a wide dark staircase. ‘Of course,’ cries Lubijova, ‘You see what a good student they produce. The professor is Marcovic, very
old, very famous. Perhaps you will not meet him. Often he does not come because so many of the faculty work against him. Of course he himself worked against the professor before.’ They turn
into a long dark corridor where faint figures scurry past; posters flap on noticeboards on the wall. ‘Oh, look what these students do now,’ says Lubijova, ‘When I came, the
authorities would not permit.’ ‘What do they do?’ asks Petworth. ‘Here are posters to ask for more language reform,’ says Lubijova, ‘As if the party has not been
kind enough. They will not get a reform, they will get the police and some prison.’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth.
The corridor is dirty and has bare board floors; offices with glass doors stand open along it. ‘Now here Germanic languages and filologies,’ says Lubijova, ‘Of course it is
always hard to find somebody. They are all so busy working somewhere. Look, I try here.’ She knocks on a door and opens it; Petworth waits in the corridor, where a few students pass, looking
at him with suspicion. ‘Oh, is here, Prifessori Petworthi?’ cries a voice, and a sturdy short middle-aged lady emerges into the corridor, wearing heavy spectacles suspended around her
neck on a chain, as if otherwise someone might steal them, ‘Prifessori Petworthi, welcomi. I have been reading your booki, what an interesting thingi. Of course it is not my sorti of
worki.’ ‘No?’ says Petworth, ‘What’s your field?’ ‘Goldi and silveri imagery of the
Faerie Queeni
,’ says the lady, ‘I am afraidi
Professori Marcovic sends apologies, very sorry. He is not so well, is his stomachi. I step instead into the breachi, my name is Mrs Goko.’ ‘Delighted,’ says Petworth. ‘Come
pleasi into my office,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Here some coffee, and also some of my assistanti, waiting to meet you. All are doing most interesting scientific enterprisi, and they welcome
your criticisms and suggestions.’ Petworth steps out of the dark corridor into a dark room, shelved with old wooden shelves holding books, some in the Cyrillic alphabet, some in the Latin,
some even British paperbacks. In the middle is a desk, in the corner a coffee table, with a coffee machine on it, and some cups, and around it a worn settee and some easy, all too easy, chairs. On
the chairs sit three young ladies and one young man, who wears Tonton Macoute sunglasses, and a camera round his neck. The three young ladies rise civilly and look at Petworth with sceptical
curiosity; the young man takes the lens hood off the camera and takes a photograph. ‘Here has come Professori Petworthi,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Please sit down and take some coffee. We
have much timi and these ladies have many questions.’ Petworth sits down. The ladies look at him and ask no questions. The young man takes another photograph.
‘First the coffee, you do not mind it strongi?’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Also a little rot’vuttu, to make it go downi?’ ‘Well, just a little,’ says Petworth.
‘Of coursi,’ says the lady, ‘Is that just nicei?’ ‘Fine,’ says Petworth. ‘These are my brightest assistants,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘As you see, three
of them are ladies, and that one is a mani. In my country, no discrimination for sexi, yet still the ladies study the languages and filologies and the menis the heavy thingis, like to build
bridges, although a lady can plan a bridgi just like a mani. Of course you interest in such sociological thingis. Please say now your namies to Professori Petworthi, so he knows you all.’
‘Miss Bancic,’ says one. ‘Miss Chervovna,’ says the next. ‘Miss Mamorian,’ says the next. ‘Picnic,’ says the man, looking at him through his dark
sunglasses. ‘Now tell Professori Petworthi what you make your theses on and explain your enterprises. Please be as critical as you wanti, here we are always critical of our praxis and try to
make our thinking always correcti.’ ‘I work on anarchistic nihilism of the proletarian novel of A. Sillitoe,’ says Miss Bancic, ‘I investigate his quasi-radical critique and
his modus of realismus.’ ‘This should be interesting to Professori Petworthi,’ says Mrs Goko. ‘It is,’ says Petworth, ‘Tell me . . .’ ‘I work on the
anarchistic nihilism of the drames of J. Orton,’ says Miss Chemovna, ‘I use a new concept of tragi-comedy and investigate his corruption-image.’ ‘That should interesti you
very much, Professori Petworthi,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘It does,’ says Petworth, ‘Fascinating.’ ‘I compare the political poem of William Woolworth and Hrovdat,’
says Miss Mamorian.
‘Of whom?’ asks Petworth. ‘Yes,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Please be as critical as you liki.’ ‘Hrovdat,’ says Miss Mamorian. ‘Our national
poeti,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Has translated Byroni and Shakespeari, was friend of Kossuthi.’ ‘You saw his statue when you came,’ says Lubijova. ‘Yes,’ says
Petworth, ‘But who was the English poet?’ ‘Woolworth, author of
Prelude
,’ says Miss Mamorian. ‘I think you mean William Wordsworth,’ says Petworth.
‘Our visitor’s criticism is correcti,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Woolworthi is name of department storyi.’ ‘This is correct?’ asks Miss Mamorian. ‘Our
visitor’s criticism is righti,’ says Mrs Goko firmly, ‘And we must learn to put it into practicei.’ ‘And Mr Picnic, what are you working on?’ asks Petworth, as
Miss Mamorian gulps and begins, very quietly, to cry. ‘I think you are bourgeois ideologue,’ says Mr Picnic, ‘Why do you come here to our country? How are you sent?’
‘Professor Petworthi is guesti of the Ministrat’uu Kulturu Komutetuu,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘His visiti is approved by the Minister.’ ‘Who asks you?’ says
Picnic, ‘Someone here on this fakultetuu?’ ‘I think it is time for your lectori,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Because of Professor Marcovic’s little sickness, I am agreed to
introducei you.’ ‘I like answer please,’ says Picnic, ‘Is this invitation arranged by a person of this fakultetuu?’ ‘I don’t think so, Mr Picnic,’
says Petworth, ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘Marcovic?’ asks Picnic, ‘You know Marcovic?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘You don’t know who supports your
visit?’ asks Picnic, ‘Varada? Plitplov?’ ‘I thinki we go now, to the lectori, where our studenti are waiting,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘The session is of two houri, you
know the continental fashioni, with perhaps a fifteen minuti breaki for the lavatory or for smokings in the middle. You accept to take questions?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Petworth.
‘Then we hear your lectori and see if we want it,’ says Mrs Goko, as Mr Picnic takes another photograph.
They walk in a crowd along the dark corridor, which has statues in gloomy niches, and many cigarette ends on the floor. ‘The Presidenti of the University hoped formally to greeti
you,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Unfortunately he is not so welli also, in his chesti. He asked me to sendi to you his welcomes and his sentiments of scholarly amity and concordi.’
‘Thank you,’ says Petworth, ‘I should like to send him mine.’ ‘Our studenti are of excellenti standard but perhaps you should speak just a little slowly,’ says
Mrs Goko, ‘Also you do not mind if we maki tape-recording, only for educational purposes?’ ‘Not at all,’ says Petworth. ‘And do you have some special needi?’
asks Mrs Goko, ‘For a screeni or a big sticki?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. A few students stand huddled round an open doorway out of which comes a buzz of noise.
‘Pleasi,’ says Mrs Goko, ushering him in through the door. He is in a large raked auditorium in which, in stacks, students in considerable numbers sit. They rise to their feet as the
party comes in; ‘Thank you, sitti,’ says Mrs Goko. The students resume their seats and a familiar form of coma, leaning hands on elbows or whispering to each other from behind
notebooks. There is a podium with a very high desk on it, and behind the desk chairs for two. ‘Now, pleasi, I introduce you, but one question. I note you were borni in the twentieth century
but what is the datei?’ ‘1941,’ says Petworth. ‘A year of destiny, I thinki,’ says Mrs Goko. ‘I’ve always thought so,’ says Petworth. ‘On the
deski a glass of water,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘All is welli?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. Mrs Goko then rises and goes to the high podium, cranes over the top of it so that her
head is just visible, and begins to speak, while Mr Picnic, in the doorway, takes a photograph of the audience.
‘Cam’radakuu,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘It is a greati pleasurum to introduct our guesti Professori Petworthi. Doctora Petworthi is lecturi of sociologyii at the Universitet of
Watermuthi.’ ‘No, no,’ says Petworth, leaning forward in his chair. ‘He is authori of monographic achievementis to the number of seven, inclusive of An Introducti to
Sociologyii, Problumi in Sociologyii, Sociological Methodi, and so forthi.’ ‘I’m sorry for interrupting,’ says Petworth, ‘But a confusion has occurred. I’m not
that Doctor Petworth.’ ‘You are not Prifessori Petworthi?’ cries Mrs Goko, fuming at the podium. ‘I am,’ says Petworth, ‘But I’m a different Professor
Petworth.’ ‘You are looked up in
Whosi Whosi
,’ says Mrs Goko. ‘I’m not in
Who’s Who
,’ says Petworth, ‘That’s another Professor
Petworth in another university. He’s a sociologist. I’m a linguist.’ ‘Don’t you give lectori on prublumi of English sociologyii?’ asks Mrs Goko.
‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘On the English Language as a Medium of International Communication.’ ‘But that was the approved lectori, approved by the rectori,’ says Mrs
Goko, ‘It is not permitted to give it on something else. I must cancel, tell them all to go away.’ ‘Mrs Goko, in the approved programme he is giving lecture on the English
language,’ says Marisja Lubijova from the front row, ‘That is on the programme of the Mun’stratuu.’ ‘But he must give the lectori approved by the rectori,’ says
Mrs Goko, ‘I think he should give the lecture approved by the Mun’stratuu,’ says Marisja Lubijova. The two hundred or so students sitting in the room stare, delighted, like all
students everywhere, by confusion; Petworth stares back at them, red in the face, like all lecturers everywhere, when, as is so frequent, lectures do not go as they are meant to. ‘I think we
take a break for fifteen minuti,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Please to come back here and don’t go awayii.’
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ says Petworth when they all huddle, a moment later, in the corridor, ‘It is easy to confuse the two of us. I sometimes get his letters by mistake. I
bet he never gets mine.’ ‘It is not your fault,’ says Marisja Lubijova, reaching in her shoulderbag and producing a file, ‘See here, please, here is written the programme of
Petwurt, all quite clear.’ ‘The Mun’stratuu has changed the programme approved by the rectori,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘We have applicated for this subjecti. Is this man a
qualified scholari?’ ‘Isn’t Mr Plitplov here?’ asks Petworth, ‘He’s met me before.’ Picnic, who has been taking photographs, comes nearer. ‘Dr
Plitplov is not so welli also, in the head,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Well, I think I must telephone now the Mun’stratuu for confirmation and also the rectori so I am not to blami.’
Mrs Goko bustles off, to her office. ‘Petwurt, you don’t embarrass,’ says Lubijova, ‘These people have made their own mistake and must take a responsibility.’
‘How is this mistake occurring?’ asks Picnic, approaching, from behind his sunglasses. ‘Obviously this man is an agent,’ murmurs Lubijova to Petworth, ‘They are in all
universities. Do not tell him so much.’ ‘Do you have ident’ayuu?’ asks Picnic, ‘And Plitplov, you are friend of Plitplov?’ ‘The Mun’stratuu of course
has checked all ident’ayuu,’ says Lubijova, ‘You must look somewhere else for the cause of this error.’ ‘So, very welli,’ says Mrs Goko, coming back, her face
looking white, ‘You are righti, there is an error. But now I do not know how to introduct him. Also some of these studentis are studentis of sociologyii. Their English is not so goodi. You
must tell one sentence at a timi, and I do translati. Now we go back.’