Authors: Malcolm Bradbury
‘And now do we all eat together?’ says Plitplov, ‘I think you all follow me.’ ‘But I think there is a nice restaurant just this way,’ says Lubijova, leaving
the side of the umbrella-ed Mr Steadiman. ‘Oh, but please, this is my university,’ says Plitplov, ‘I know there is better a Balkan one this way. I go to it often.’
‘Oh, that one,’ says Lubijova, ‘But it is spicy, and often there is no food.’ ‘I know a nice one in the town,’ says Steadiman, ‘I believe they take
American Express.’ ‘Well, all depends on what people like to eat,’ says Lubijova, ‘Comrade Petwurt, what do you like? The spicy or the plain?’ ‘The fishes or the
meats?’ asks Plitplov. ‘The typisch or the modern?’ asks Lubijova. ‘All of them have no food,’ murmurs Princip, ‘Well, it is always so. In Slaka people will talk
so long about where to have food they never eat any.’ ‘The place in town is awe awe awfully good,’ says Steadiman, ‘Not sure how to get there from here, though.’
‘The one that way is better,’ says Plitplov. ‘The other that way is cheaper,’ says Lubijova. And so, in front of the colonnade of the university, the group falls into one of
those huddles of indecisiveness that such groups are prone to, when no one quite wants to defer to, but neither to offend, anyone else, and no one can quite go anywhere. Petworth stands, and a hand
slips through his arm: ‘While they talk, I just take you to see the statue of Hrovdat,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Don’t you think you must see it?’ ‘He has seen it
from the tram,’ says Lubijova, turning. ‘Then I think he sees it properly,’ says Katya Princip, ‘You will take ten minutes to make your mind. I like to explain to him our
national tradition of poetry. Don’t you think you must know more about our writers?’
‘Well, yes, I do,’ says Petworth. ‘So we are back in a minute,’ says Princip, leading Petworth across the busy road. The statue stands up, a man in metal on horseback,
romantically falling while his flag still stays aloft. ‘So, you see him, Hrovdat,’ says Princip, ‘This was a very good man and he did brave things and believed very much in
liberty. And so we still like him and his poems are remembered, and we can speak them from our hearts. It is nice to be a writer like that, to have a little courage. Now, do you have a little
courage, Petwit? Do you jump with me on this tram?’ ‘On the tram?’ asks Petworth. ‘I think fate smiles on us,’ says Princip, ‘Quick now, while they don’t
look this way.’ ‘I don’t think it’s a very good idea,’ says Petworth, ‘They’re all waiting for us, they’ll all . . .’ But his considerate
thoughts are evidently too late; Princip has him by the hand, is tugging him along, is standing on the steps of the old metal tram and drawing him up after her. Across the street he sees Lubijova
staring as he is dragged up into the huddle of passengers; a metal shutter closes behind him, and the tram begins to rattle off. He is in a press of bodies, but through the rough glass of the
window he can see, across the street, the uncertain huddle of prospective diners break open, line the roadside, stare after the rattling vehicle. Plitplov and Lubijova stand still; Steadiman, with
characteristic courage, lifts his umbrella and, waving it, begins to run down the middle of the street, after the tram. ‘They saw,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Princip,
laughing in front of him. ‘We can’t just disappear like this,’ he says. ‘Of course, my dear,’ says Princip, putting her arm through his, ‘I am your witch. I make
you disappear just when I like it, into the air, down a hole. Just like Stupid in my story.’
III
‘And here the place I want you to see,’ says Katya Princip, in her batik dress and white scarf, as they sit, a little later, in the quiet corner of a restaurant that
lies somewhere just beyond the end of the tram-route, with fields outside the windows, ‘It is very special to me, do you see why I like it? Once it was hunting lodge, for some imperial
princes. From here they took out their guns and went into that forest. Now still are cooked the wild things. Isn’t it better?’ Petworth looks round at the room they have much to
themselves. Only two other couples are here; they sit at a white-clothed table, near to a log fire, in a room of dark wood, with ornate carved beams and painted walls, where the horned fragmentary
skulls of many creatures, the sad severed heads of deer, the brute rooting faces of wild boar, stare down on them. ‘It’s delightful,’ says Petworth, ‘I just hope it
wasn’t a bad idea.’ ‘Oh, Petwit, please don’t worry,’ says Katya Princip, putting her hand on his, and looking at him with clear grey eyes, ‘Of course it was not
a sensible thing. But don’t you think we all need sometimes to do a foolishness? Tomorrow you go away, perhaps I don’t see you again, and I like to see you. That dinner is cancelled, I
think fate likes us to meet. And we are here together, we can be happy if we like. Now, my dear, look around you, please. Look through the window. The sun shines there, the rain has gone, it is
warm day, the fields and trees are very beautiful, don’t you say so? And now look please at me. We sit here, there is nice fire, we drink, our knees touch underneath, we look into the face of
one another, and perhaps I am a bit beautiful like those fields. Don’t you think we could be happy? Most of the time is sadness, happiness is only a little time. But don’t you think it
is good to take it?’ ‘Yes, I do,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, you do,’ says Princip, squeezing his hand, ‘Now I think we eat something.’
Princip waves to a waiter in a long white apron, who comes to the side of their table, holding his pad. ‘Now what do you like?’ asks Princip, holding the menu out to Petworth and
smiling at him, ‘Look, I explain you. Here is massalu, this is a fish just like a dentex. Here is valpuru, made of the brain of a little cow, very nice to eat. Natupashu, this is what a bull
has, and you too, I hope. What do you call, is it testicle?’ ‘Ah, yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Do you eat it?’ asks Princip, ‘It makes you love better, that is what we
say here. But perhaps you don’t need it, you look strong to me. I tell you what is best to eat here, the
wilde
, what do you say, the wild things. Here is lad’slatu, that is the
boar, they live in the forest not far away. This is what I have, do you eat it too?’ ‘Marvellous,’ says Petworth. ‘Not a testicle?’ asks Princip. ‘No,’
says Petworth. ‘This is right,’ says Princip, ‘Something wild, because we are a little wild. And some wine, don’t you say so. So we can drink to our foolishness?’
‘Please,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, that is good,’ says Princip, when the waiter has gone, ‘And now, Petwit, tell me something. When, please, do you make your next
appointment?’ ‘Tonight at seven,’ says Petworth, looking at his programme. ‘And this girl who looks to you, she comes then to your hotel?’ ‘Yes,’ says
Petworth. ‘Well, I will make some plans for you,’ says Princip, ‘Tell her you have been to see the city, to look at the castle. She will be suspicious, but you are a free man, I
think. And what you must do, you must take her a flower. Then she will think you are not so bad, everyone likes a flower.’ ‘I will,’ says Petworth. ‘And so you have all the
afternoon,’ says Princip, ‘It is the same with me. Well, we will enjoy it.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth.
‘Oh, look,’ says Princip, laughing, and taking his face in her hands, ‘Still a long face, down to here. My dear, I will explain you something. In my country, people do not like
to do a thing that is noticed. They like it to stay quiet, and they like quiet in others. Don’t surprise, don’t be excellent, it makes troubles. Well, your friend here is not like that.
I am just a little bit excellent, do you notice?’ ‘I do,’ says Petworth. ‘I have a good mind I like, and a good body I like, and I like to use them, to make display of them.
I do many things people tell are foolish, because, you see, my dear Petwit, if you do not do them, you are nothing, and you make everything else nothing. Of course I can be sensible, you saw it
yesterday, but sensible is nothing. Do you see why I came to your lecture?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘No, you do not see,’ says Princip, ‘Because I do not explain
it so well. I come there because I like you, do you see it, and if you like somebody it is nice to do something about it. I think you are looking at my charms.’ ‘I am, indeed,’
says Petworth. ‘Do you like them?’ asks Princip. ‘Very much indeed,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, do you, very much indeed,’ says Princip, laughing, ‘I do not mean
those charms, the charms here on my wrist. Do you see them? Always I wear them. They are magic, you know. This hanging here is a fish, well, a man can ride on the back of a fish, and go to another
world. Here a key, with a key all you must do is find the right door. A stone, well, give a stone and you get a story. And here is a heart, you know what you do with a heart. You think they are
nice?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, fingering the bracelet round Princip’s white wrist. ‘Well, my dear, I give you one,’ says Princip, ‘Let me think which one.
Not the heart, you have one already. Not a key, I need it. I think the stone, because I like you to have a story. Find a string, wait, I have one in my bag, and put it please round your neck. I
want to find it there when I meet you again. Oh, look, here is our drink. Now we can drink to foolishness.’
‘Foolishness,’ says Petworth, after the waiter has served them, raising his glass. ‘You see, the stone works already,’ says Princip, ‘Now do you have a story to
tell me?’ ‘I don’t think so,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, you are dull,’ says Princip, ‘Well, I am the story-teller, I tell you one. What do I pick? Oh, I know, an
old one, the man who goes to Glit.’ ‘Very appropriate,’ says Petworth. ‘Do you go there?’ asks Princip, ‘Well, this is a story from old times, about a traveller
from afar who made a journey in our country. He wanted to make his journey somewhere interesting, and on his way he met a man who told him that Glit was a place of good streets and beautiful women
and the finest things to buy. He went to Glit, but just as he could see the city, he met on the road with a marvellous thing. A young woman with fine eyes stood under a tree looking at him, and he
knew he was in love. The woman smiled and things happened, you know how it is, my dear. He spent some days with her in her little house, but after some days, well, the eyes did not seem quite so
beautiful and he did not think so much about love. He had waited too long in this place, passed all these nights, and it was time to make his journey again. So one morning when she goes off to the
market to buy food, he packs up his baggages and goes on to Glit. But as he travelled he thought all the time of the young woman, and he knew she had bewitched him and was trying to find a way to
see him again. But he must make the purpose of his journey, and he is a man, so it is not love. He entered the gate of Glit, it is still there, and saw a woman walking down the street toward him,
an old peasant carrying some sticks under her arm; her body is bent but her face is the face of the girl. He walks on through the streets, and all the women walking there, clean or dirty ones, old
or youngs, just the same. He looks through the windows; there are women sewing, women cooking, women in bathtubs, all the same face. Oh, see, he brings our food, wasn’t that quick?
Doesn’t it look nice?’
In a metal dish between them, a meal of meat and vegetables bubbles and seethes aromatically; the waiter fills their glasses with wine. ‘It looks very good,’ says Petworth.
‘Put your plate here,’ says Princip, ‘I serve you.’ ‘You will finish the story?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, my dear,’ says Princip, ‘If you like it.
In my country the women are quite feminist but with a nice man we still like to please. Well, my dear Mr Petwit, the man has business on his mind; he likes to buy a ring. He goes to the house of a
fine merchant of Glit and makes some good trade; for not so much money he gets a beautiful ring. The merchant is kind, and asks him to stay there the night. He calls his wife and asks her to take
the man to a beautiful room with bed. In the room the wife looks at him. It is the same face, the same body, surely the same person as the young woman by the road. The traveller tells that they
have met before. “No, we don’t meet,” says the wife, “But you must leave at once. I like you, and I know my husband means to kill you in this bed tonight, and take back his
ring.” The traveller looks round. The doors have no handles, the windows don’t open. “There is only one way to leave,” says the woman, “I am a witch. If you give me
one kiss, the doors will all spring open and you will be free.”The traveller makes the kiss, mmmmnn, the doors open, he takes his luggages and runs from Glit. He looks on the road for the
house he has been, but all he sees there is bundle of rags. After long travellings, he comes to his home and his wife. He gives her the ring, makes her the kiss, mmmmnn; and then he sees she has
the face of the lady of Glit. This is the story, do you like it?’ ‘Did you make it up?’ asks Petworth. ‘It is a very very old story,’ says Princip, ‘How could I
make it up? Of course it is very fantastical, not real at all, but you see I do not believe in reality.’
‘You don’t believe in it,’ says Petworth. ‘No, I have tried it and I do not believe it,’ says Princip, ‘Reality is what happens if you listen to other
people’s stories and not to your own. The stories become a country, the country becomes a prison, and the prison comes in your mind. And everywhere more of the same story: the people do not
steal, they make miracles of production, they all love Karl Marx. Soon it is the only story, and that is how comes reality. Well, I will tell you something, my dear, if you give me one kiss, even
if you don’t. I have only one I with a me in it, you the same. The world is in your own head, and they put it there, with a me and a you in it, so we can make our own stories. And this is how
I like to use my own head, which you see right in front of you, a nice one, I hope. Not to make some more reality for other people to live inside, but some space for my mind to grow. And now you
tell me, Comrade Petwit, that my position is not correct, it does not advance history and truth. And I tell you, my nice friend, that history and truth are your stories and not mine. And then you
tell me, well, you had better drive a tram. I can do it, too. Do you think I am a witch?’ ‘Perhaps,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course it is possible,’ says Princip, ‘In
my country we talk of rational projects and economic plannings, but really we are still peasants and magicians. Do I witch you a little bit?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, I
try,’ says Princip, ‘Now, do you like some coffee?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Then we ask for a taxi and we go and find some,’ says Princip, ‘I know a
place where it is better.’