Rates of Exchange (35 page)

‘So you went there?’ asks Petworth. ‘Yes, I have been, I know where you come from,’ says Princip, ‘It is not easy to get travels, you know that. But I am a writer,
that gives sometimes certain privileges. Also there were other reasons.’ ‘What were they?’ asks Petworth. ‘Well, you see,’ says Princip, smiling at him, ‘One of
my husbands was high once in the Party. He was even for a little while minister. Of course then it was very easy to get travels. You see, here in Slaka, always there must be someone who can help. A
person with a power who can pull for you some strings. We learn to live in this way. And if you have a nice body also, this is help. You make some love the way you join the Party. If you do it the
right way, you get a nice reward for it. A very good meal at a restaurant, a place at the opera, a ticket to make travels. An apartment with a nice viewing, a place on a list. You become clever to
do all these things very carefully. That is the way you get somewhere. Perhaps you think it is bad. Perhaps you think your life is not like that.’ ‘I suppose I do,’ says Petworth.
‘Oh, do you?’ says Princip, ‘Well, perhaps you are simple. Don’t you think that is your nice illusion? Don’t you think everywhere all life is an exchange? What makes
your people marry? What makes them choose their friends? Why do they say what they say, think what they think? And their desire, how do they make their desire? We have nice words, love, and
friendship, and faith. But don’t you think there is, what do you say, a calculus? Perhaps what we do in Slaka is not so strange. Your coffee, you don’t like?’ ‘Yes,
it’s very good,’ says Petworth, ‘So that was one of your husbands. Have you had many?’

‘Oh, not so many,’ says Princip, laughing, ‘I just had four. Some people like to collect the stamps or some china. Now you get idea what I have liked to collect.’
‘And now?’ asks Petworth. ‘A husband, now?’ asks Princip, ‘Oh, no, I don’t, now. Now I am lonely in quite a different way. And what about you, Petwit. How many
wives do you have had?’ ‘Me?’ asks Petworth, ‘Oh, just one, actually.’ ‘Only a one?’ cries Princip, ‘Really that is not very much at all, almost
none. I think perhaps you are not very ambitious. And this one, you had her a long time?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And she likes you?’ asks Princip. ‘Well,’
says Petworth, ‘A little.’ ‘Oh, not enough!’ cries Princip, ‘Do you tell me she does not care for you so much?’ ‘That’s my impression,’ says
Petworth. ‘She likes some other?’ asks Princip. ‘I don’t know,’ says Petworth, ‘She seems quite fond of her dentist.’ ‘And you think he fills some
more cavities too?’ asks Princip, ‘Well, perhaps you are not so nice to her. If you are lonely, perhaps she is lonely too. Don’t you think it?’ ‘I think probably she
is,’ says Petworth, seeing the view down the garden. ‘And she is warm, she is good at the bed?’ asks Princip. ‘Not very,’ says Petworth. ‘Really, my dear,’
says Princip, ‘This does not sound at all right. My husbands are always very good in that. Very bad in other things, but in that always very good. And what do you do? Do you take many
lovers?’ ‘Not really,’ says Petworth. ‘I do not understand you,’ says Princip, ‘Perhaps you mean you like to, but do not have the courage. Well, if you do not,
that confirms me. You are not a character in the world historical sense.’

‘You think I should?’ asks Petworth. ‘It is not for me to advise you,’ says Princip, ‘But I think you must have a will and a desire. Otherwise you are empty.’
‘Well, in my country there is a saying,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Princip, ‘If a country, always a saying. What is yours?’ ‘A man needs a good
woman,’ says Petworth, ‘And when he’s found her he needs a bad one too.’ ‘My dear, I do not know if I like this,’ says Princip, ‘Do you like to tell me I
am a bad woman?’ ‘No, I didn’t mean that at all,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, continue, please,’ says Princip, ‘You tell me you hope I will be your bad woman. You
like to make me a little insult. Perhaps in your country you make a compliment, but it is not, here.’ ‘You’ve misunderstood,’ says Petworth. ‘I don’t think
so,’ says Princip, ‘My English is not so good, but I am not foolish. You see, here in my country we like to be a little bit admired. Even though feminist attitudes are very important,
we like to think we make a little respect.’ ‘I admire you greatly,’ says Petworth. ‘That is different,’ says Princip, ‘Now you have convinced me. Remember, I am
not your bad witch, I am your good one.’ ‘I know,’ says Petworth. ‘You see what I have done,’ says Princip, ‘I have changed for you the weather. I have made you
disappear. I have brought you to my room. And now you do not know what I will do with you. Do you like that cake? Perhaps it makes you feel sleepy.’ ‘Not really,’ says Petworth.
‘I think so,’ says Princip, ‘Don’t you know you are careless? In a fairy story, you do not eat a cake. Or talk at all to the people with the red hairs. Or open a locked
door, or go inside a room that is forbidden. If you do, things will change for you, and perhaps it will not always be nice.’ ‘Well, I know,’ says Petworth, ‘But that’s
in a fairy story.’ ‘And you are not in one,’ says Princip, ‘No, you are not. And the cake is just a terrible cake and I do not even make it, just a shop. But I think you are
tired, because you have been busy. Do you like to take now a shower?’ ‘I’d rather talk,’ says Petworth. ‘No, I think you must relax,’ says Princip,
‘Beside, I arrange it for you, while I make the coffee. There is a nice bathplace just behind the kitchen. You find there towel, hanging at the door. The soap is scented and very nice. It is
all ready, please go now.’

‘Well, very well,’ says Petworth, getting up from the sofa. ‘And take please your time, my dear,’ says Princip, smiling at him, ‘We are lucky, this is our
afternoon, you do not need to hurry. I can put away these plates and tidy for you my room, I did not expect such a visitor. Do you find it? You go through the kitchen and there is a little white
door.’ Petworth goes, through the kitchen, through the white door, into a small, tiled bathroom with bare pipes and a great green mirror. In the mirror his body glints as he undresses,
hanging his safari suit behind the door. A dull gloom goes with him, as he thinks of his confession, the admission of his wanting sexuality. He stands in the tub, turns the taps, feels the surge of
water come over him, cold first, and then turning to hot; he thinks of his dark wife, who dyes her hair, and paints dark paintings in the lumber room, and stays silent, a dull dark anima at the end
of a long tunnel. Like wasted words the water splashes over him; the heat grows, the mirror where his body shone fades and blurs. There is no shower curtain; the thick pipes roar; the flood washes
over his face. He turns his head away, to realize that, in the steamed room, a person is standing there. ‘Who is it?’ he asks. ‘You don’t mind I come in?’ says Katya
Princip, ‘You see after a cake, I like always to weigh, and my machine is here.’ ‘Please,’ says Petworth. ‘I hope the shower makes you fresh after your lecture?’
says Princip, a vague shape in the steam. ‘Yes, it does,’ says Petworth, naked and white. ‘Here is my machine,’ says Princip, ‘Now, do I get fatter? My weigh, fifty
five kilos, that is not so bad. My high, one meter sixty five, that does not change. Other traits, grey eyes, blonde hair, all as usual. Special marks, not any. Rate of pulsation, normal, except
when I look at you. You do not mind I look at you?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘The soap, do you like it?’ asks Princip, close to his side in the steam, ‘It is
special, a present from France.’ ‘It’s very nice,’ says Petworth. ‘And this water, it makes itself hot enough for you?’ ‘Yes, just right,’ says
Petworth. ‘Often it does not work so well,’ says Princip, ‘I just try it with my hand. You are my guest here, it is not right that you burn your shoulders. Oh, it is good today,
perhaps a little hot, you are sure it is not too much?’ ‘No, it’s just right,’ says Petworth, politely, standing there bedraggled in the steaming shower. ‘Oh, look at
you, my dear,’ says Princip, ‘Such a thin man, doesn’t it hurt to be so thin?’ ‘Not at all,’ says Petworth, ‘I’ve always been like this.’

‘Oh, you think I criticize the way you look, please, I do not,’ says Princip, ‘Really you look so nice there in the water, your wet body, very nice. But I hope you admit your
lecture was open to an ideological criticism?’ ‘Too pragmatic?’ asks Petworth. ‘Exactly,’ says Princip, ‘Do you like me to soap you, and we can talk also about
your deviations?’ ‘Well, yes,’ says Petworth, ‘It seems a good idea.’ ‘Perhaps it is easy if I come there in the tub with you,’ says Princip, ‘I do
not want to get wet with this dress, do you like it, I paid for it much money?’ ‘I love it,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, I am nice in it,’ says Princip, fading into the
steam, ‘But I am nice without it too. We must not be bound by fetishism of the commodities. I hang it up and come back to you.’ Without it, Princip emerges again from the steam, her
naked back a blur in the mirror. ‘Make please a room for me,’ says Princip, ‘It is not such a big tub. Yes, you are easily disproved. Stand still, please, I put this soap on you,
oh, what a soft skin. Yes, you see, my dear, in our histories, we both have an old grey man.’ ‘Do we?’ asks Petworth. ‘Is good? You like?’ asks Princip, ‘Oh,
yes, one is Marx, and the other Freud. Naturally my thinking has much of Marx. My husband the apparatchik, he talked to me much of Marx.’ ‘Does he have to be here?’ asks Petworth.
‘My husband is nowhere, Marx everywhere,’ says Princip, ‘Of course he is here. My dear, it is you should not be here. You know if I make you a guest in my apartment, if I give you
some terrible coffee and a nice shower, I should report this contact to the authorities? That is our law, of course I do not do it. Don’t you wash me now, I think you are very clean.’
‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘Certainly.’ ‘You do not know Marx, but I think you know Freud,’ says Princip, ‘Isn’t this water very nice?’

‘Yes, I do,’ says Petworth, his hands moving over the soft contours of no-longer batik-clad magical realist novelist Katya Princip. ‘Marx explains the historical origins of
consciousness,’ she says, ‘Freud quite ignores this, neglecting the ideological foundations of the mind. Yet it must be admitted he made some essential discoveries. He knew that it is
nice to put a certain thing you have into a certain thing that is mine. For this he made a contribution to the progress of thought, don’t you say?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth.
‘So you are deviationist, but not entirely to be condemned,’ says Princip, ‘Both thoughtsystems have their deficiencies. Do you think it is possible to make a dialectical
synthesis? If we do it well, it might not produce a false consciousness. Do you like to try it? Oh, Petwit, look at you there, already I think you do. No, no, wait, my dear, my dear, I do not think
we succeed like this, do you? For some problems in philosophy, Plato shows it is best to think lying down. Don’t we go back there to my bed, isn’t it better, oh, what do you do to me
now, my dear, oh do you, oh do you really, oh isn’t it nice, perhaps I am wrong, perhaps we stay, isn’t it too wet, don’t we fall down, no, we don’t, I think we stay, yes,
we stay, yes, yes.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ says Petworth, an unattached signifier amid steam. ‘Da, da,’ says Princip, ‘Da, da, da, da.’ The water showers over them;
for a moment there are no words. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Princip, a little later, ‘This was a real contribution to thought. But now I bring you your nice towel and we dry. I think we go
back to my little room and consider again our positions. Oh, Petwit, you are lovely.’

‘I am sorry I do not have a nice little bedroom for you to lie in,’ says Princip, back in the sitting room, ‘Here for everyone only so many metres of space. I am lucky, I am
approved writer, I have certain privileges. But only so much space, others are not so lucky even. My sofa is my bed, I make magic and it changes. Look, I just press here and now you have a bed to
lie on. Lie, please, it is very comfortable. You must make strong again. Remember, you are only just started here. There are many more things for you to do in my country. Oh, our music has stopped.
Were we so long at the shower? Well, I put some more on before I come to you, what do you like better, the woods or the strings? Here is some army songs, I don’t think you like to hear that.
Here is Vivaldi, here Jana
ek? Do you like charming or sad? Of course, you told me your taste, it is Vivaldi for you. Now I come to you, my
dear. Are you warm? No, don’t move, I just like to kneel here and look down at you. So thin, really there is not much of you. Your nice wet hairs, a thin white chest, so neat the thigh, is
that what you call it, and what a good present for me in the middle. You know, you are just a little bit beautiful, Petwit. And me, do you like me? I am very good at the top, I think, but perhaps
too fat for you at the stomach. Here we think a fatness there is just a little erotic. That is our cultural characteristic, but not so much in the West. All the ladies flat like a table,
don’t forget I have been there. Well, in any case, my dear, my weigh goes down. So perhaps I please you more when we meet again, do you think? Do you believe it, we meet again? Or do you go
home away soon to your country and forget all about me? Yes, I think you do, it is natural.’

‘No,’ says Petworth, lying there on the sofa which has so magically become a bed, his head against books, looking up at Princip, big over him as she leans on one elbow to stare down
into his face. ‘Oh, listen, you are so sure,’ says Princip, ‘Well, I am not. There is a world out there, my dear Petwit, do you forget it? Of course we have made a very nice
exchange, each one gives the other something, all so simple. Oh, such nice touchings and chattings, but they do not last long, not like history. Sex is good, but is not information. Here, you see
me, I look at you, and what do I know? I know you have a sad wife, I think you are sad too, perhaps you have many problems. I know you are not character in the world historical sense, I try to make
you better, but I don’t think I do. You are confused, you are good person, you have a desire, or you would not come with me, you are a little bit in my heart. And you look at me, and what do
you know, I could be anyone, your good witch or your bad. You know I have had four husbands, and I have written a book you could not read. Now you know I have a body that you can read, it has been
your book and you have read it in a certain way, for the pleasure. Well, I hope it was a good pleasure, but did you learn much, do you think you will pass the examination? Well, perhaps it does not
matter. Often the best relations are between the peoples who do not know each other so well. Perhaps it is silly that people get to know each other very well, often it is nothing but
disappointment. Who is ever as interesting as ourselves? Who can love us enough to drive away all the lonely and the terror? And to be known, that is often dangerous, especially in my country. No,
I think I am a thing that happens to you once, in a foreign place, not a part of time, not a part of your true life.’