Authors: Malcolm Bradbury
The gates of the lift come to, the coin goes in, the cage goes down. He hurries through the empty lobby and into the darkening street. To his left, the black car still stands; he goes to the
right, coming to a busy street along which pink trams clatter. In one hand he carries the tattered folder holding his tattered lecture, in the other the bouncing single flower. The street is busy,
and the crowd comes toward him in bewildering profusion, faces too many to meet, shawled women, men in fur hats, young people in jeans, soldiers in khaki. There is a strain in his senses, a mild
disorder in his body, a faint pain in his side, like the pain, perhaps, of existence itself, a feeling made half of pleasure and half of guilt. There is a throb in his groin, and in his mind a
sense of a destination with a duty in it, though he cannot remember quite what it is. His breath pants; white-walled buildings rise on either side, and down the side streets domes glisten and
glint. On the high government blocks, not very far away, the clocks begin to strike, like the rasp of a telephone; the notes in the air sound six, and he remembers what he is half-remembering, what
he is halfstriving for, that just at this time he should be at the hotel, calling his distant dark wife. The roof of the hotel shows over the buildings in front of him; he begins, now, to run
toward it, the flower bobbing in his hand. The big square shows up in front of him; the flashing sign says
SCH
’
VEPPUU
. The square opens up, but
the massed crowds that move toward the pink trams stopped in the centre obstruct. He pushes through, running dangerously in front of traffic; a pink tram clangs furiously at him. Breathing hard, he
reaches the glass doors of the hotel.
On the other side of the glass, as he pushes at it, one of the dark whores, in a long velvet dress, looks out, smiles at him, inspects the flower he carries. ‘Change money,’ murmurs
a voice in the crowds just inside, as he hurries in, stumbling over the luggage of a new bus-party which has just arrived and stands all round the desk. ‘Pervert!’ shouts a voice from
somewhere in the crowd, ‘Pervert!’ The lacquered-haired Cosmoplot girl stands in her blue uniform behind the desk marked
R
’
GUSTRAYUU
, looking at him and angrily tapping her watch. ‘My call to England,’ says Petworth, pushing up to the desk. ‘Don’t you see this time?’ says the
girl, pointing at the big clock on the wall between Marx and Lenin, ‘You are late five minutes.’ ‘I was delayed,’ says Petworth, ‘There’s a lot of traffic.
Can’t you put me through?’ The girl turns, and looks at a man in a dark suit, standing in a doorway marked
DURUG
’
AYUU
; the man
shakes his head. ‘It is cancel,’ says the girl, ‘You must be here right time.’ ‘Can I call later?’ asks Petworth, holding the wilting flower.
‘Tomorrow,’ says the girl. ‘I leave Slaka tomorrow,’ says Petworth. ‘Then you see why is bad to be late,’ says the girl, ‘Do you like key?’
‘Please,’ says Petworth. ‘Ident’ayuu,’ says the girl. Taking the key, going to the lift, Petworth sees the man in the dark suit watching him. In the lift, his image
shows in the mirrors, a man carrying a flower; in his mind there arises the guilty image of his dark wife, yet the face is imperfect and not quite right, for it has the grey eyes of Katya Princip.
He goes along the corridor past the floormaid; he unlocks the door to his big and empty room.
II
‘Oh Petwurt, Petwurt, that is nice,’ says Marisja Lubijova, in a fine blue knitted dress, with a white lace stole over it, when he meets her in the lobby at seven,
‘You have brought me one flower. Look, I put it in my dress. It is just right to visit an oper.’ ‘I thought it would suit the occasion,’ says Petworth. ‘Also I think
it means you feel a little ashame, I hope so,’ says Lubijova, ‘This thing you do at lunch-time.’ ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ says Petworth, ‘A small
confusion.’ ‘Really you are very naughty,’ says Lubijova, ‘Your friends arrange you a lunch where you are guest of honour, and then you do not come. Of course everyone is
very embarrass. They do not know what to tell each other. And your official from London, where you go last night and do not tell me, he thinks a very bad thing has happened to you. He thinks he
will go to the police, or call London, do you like to start a world war between our powers, Petwurt?’ ‘No, not really,’ says Petworth. ‘It is happy Dr Plitplov thinks it is
a small
affaire du coeur
,’ says Lubijova, ‘But you must tell your Mr Steadiman what has happened to you.’ ‘Can I call him?’ asks Petworth. ‘I think he
goes also to the oper,’ says Lubijova, ‘Yes, you are very naughty, but you have brought me a flower, and you look very sorry, and we go to make a nice evening. So I will not be so cross
with you. But look at you, please. We go to oper, where everyone dresses in the best, and you don’t even put on your nice suit. Don’t you like to go back and change yourself? We have
time for it.’ ‘My suit?’ says Petworth, thinking of it, ripped open at the flies by Budgie Steadiman, ‘I’m afraid it needs pressing.’ ‘Very well,’
says Lubijova, stiffly, ‘Come then in your bad clothes. Let us find a taxi. Or perhaps you feel better in a tram.’
As they sit in the orange taxi, driving off through the evening streets of Slaka, Lubijova turns toward him. ‘So, Comrade Petwurt,’ she says, ‘You went away with your lady
writer. Did you make a nice afternoon?’ ‘Oh, very pleasant,’ says Petworth. ‘Perhaps you go somewhere quite interesting,’ says Lubijova. ‘Oh, Miss Princip wanted
to take me to see the castle,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, really, that is nice,’ says Lubijova, ‘The castle of Vlam?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And you like
it, it is good?’ asks Lubijova. ‘Yes, very fine,’ says Petworth. ‘I am glad you impress,’ says Lubijova, ‘The castle is closed for some weeks, for a
restauration. That is why I do not take you there already myself. But of course your friend is a very famous writer, who has important contacts. I expect she has used her privileges so that you can
go inside.’ ‘I expect so,’ says Petworth, feeling uneasy. ‘And do you see in there the tomb of Vlam?’ asks Lubijova. ‘The tomb of Vlam,’ says Petworth.
‘In the baroque style,’ says Lubijova, ‘All over it the cupids.’ ‘Ah, yes,’ says Petworth, ‘It’s very good.’ ‘Oh, really, you think
so?’ says Lubijova, ‘I did not know there was one. I have just myself invented it. Don’t you think I would make a nice lady writer too?’ ‘Well, yes,’ says
Petworth. ‘I wonder what you really do,’ says Lubijova. ‘We just looked around,’ says Petworth. ‘Petwurt, Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, ‘You are such a trouble
to me. You lie to me about last night, now you lie to me about today. I don’t know about you, Petwurt. I don’t know why you are here, but I know I must think of you in a new way. You
are not a good visitor. And don’t you know I might be in some troubles if you do bad things here?’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Petworth, ‘But it’s all quite harmless.’ ‘Is it?’ asks Lubijova, looking at him, ‘Perhaps you are quite clever or really
quite simple. How do I know? But if you are simple you are not in a simple world. Don’t you remember, when I bring you to your hotel from the airport, I told you something? That here in my
country it is always good to be cautious? Don’t you listen to what I say? Don’t you think? And I am your poor guide who is responsible. Well, perhaps I will trust you a little bit. I
don’t know why, perhaps I like you. In any case, we go away tomorrow away from Slaka. Perhaps you will make a new start.’ ‘I’ll try,’ says Petworth. ‘You
try,’ says Lubijova, ‘Well, we shall see. But let us in any case enjoy our evening. It ought to be our nice time. You do not mind to sit for five hours for an oper in another
language?’ ‘Aren’t all operas in another language?’ asks Petworth. ‘Yes, well, tonight you have interpreter,’ says Lubijova, slipping her arm in his, ‘And
it is very good oper, by one of the great musicians of my country. For a long time this work was lost but then under socialism it was discovered again. Many have seen it as the prefigure of many
other great oper works, like the Figaro Wedding of Mozart or the Seville Haircutting Man of Rossini. Now it re-lives, and everyone is very excited, including many foreign peoples. Here come all our
workers, and also the important visitors. Even the naughty ones, like you, Comrade Petwurt. I wonder what you are really doing, all that aftenoon, my bad friend, with your little lady
writer?’ ‘Really, just a little tourism,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes, do you?’ cries Lubijova, taking the fleshy part of his arm between her fingers, and squeezing it,
‘Well, perhaps I must not ask you to describe the places where you make this tour. Perhaps they are not so polite. Perhaps you embarrass if you tell them?’ ‘Not at all,’
says Petworth, ‘I just don’t know where we went. I’m a stranger.’ ‘Not so strange, any more,’ says Lubijova, ‘On your neck, isn’t it a
bite?’
The taxi has stopped; the high, well-lit dome of the opera house is above them, and bright lights illuminate the great windows. Outside, on the gaunt pavement, a great crowd mills, as
fine-looking couples descend in large numbers from orange taxis or big black Volgas and cross from the curb toward the great marbled entrance. ‘I hope you make it your mind to escort me
nicely, Comrade Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, ‘Here at the oper we like always to make a very good style. Please put my shawl nicely round my shoulders, I think you know how to be a
gentleman. Now do you have some vloskan to pay this taxi? I think he likes very much to be paid.’ ‘Yes, of course,’ says Petworth, reaching down into the pocket of his worn
trousers. On the pavement, Lubijova, in her stole, the flower in the bosom of her dress, tucks her arm through his as they walk to the entrance. Big posters show singers in false beards, with their
mouths wide open;
Vedontakal Vrop
, say the inscribed words. A few, but just a very few, of the universal armed men stand by the glass doors as they sweep with the press into the lobby, part
of a great tidal drift of human motion. Inside, from the glinting chandeliers, a thousand lights shine; Petworth feels tired, very tired, and his body, from the exertions of the day, has a certain
pained fragility to it, while his mind runs troubled about what Lubijova has found out about him. But the city of betrayals and disappearances, watchers and listeners, seems curiously behind him as
they pass, in the crowd, through the lobby and up a great curved stone staircase, where the walllights glint and glisten, and so, too, do the necklaces and tiaras and fur-wraps of the handsome
ladies who stand in line at the mirrored cloakrooms, waiting to de-cloak.
‘Well, do you impress?’ asks Lubijova, as they stand in the great plush foyer. ‘Splendid,’ says Petworth, standing in his old clothes, as the ladies in front of him
expose black dresses and décolletage, and the men stand neat as penguins in their dinner jackets and evening dress. ‘Yes, you surprise,’ says Lubijova, laughing, ‘Of course
we are a music-loving nation, and since socialism the loving has much increased. The tickets are sent to the factories for the best workers and they come with a great pleasure, as you see. Of
course they do not explain you these things in the newspapers of your West. You think we are just some factories and food shortage; we know what you say about us. Well, now you know it is
different. Now you see we make really a very nice life.’ ‘These are workers?’ asks Petworth. ‘Yes, you see our people like to make good display,’ says Lubijova,
‘Only you, Petwurt, not in the best, look at you.’ ‘I didn’t know it would be such a gala occasion,’ says Petworth, seeing himself, in his sagging safari jacket,
reflected back from the mirrored walls. ‘Well, we know you are foreigner, a bit strange really,’ says Lubijova, ‘So perhaps we all make a little excuse for you.’ A
high-ranking soldier passes them by, chest heavy with ribbons; on his arm is a tall fine woman, her cleavage so complete it displays the navel and almost visits the crotch. ‘They’re
hardly all workers,’ says Petworth. ‘Perhaps some are party officials,’ says Lubijova, ‘You like them to have a relax after all their hard work, I hope?’ ‘You
realize this whole derned thing could be in some foreign language?’ says a middle-aged lady, wearing a diamanté-ed trouser suit, in the accents of Texas, to Petworth’s side.
‘Yeah, well, just listen to the music,’ says her escort, a middle-aged man in bright tartan trousers. ‘Also people from everywhere in the world,’ says Lubijova, ‘They
travel many miles to hear our arts.’
The engulfing human motion continues, as the people press through the plush-walled foyer, which curves in a circle around the central auditorium. Perfume wafts from bosoms; faces appear and
disappear; the heat of humanity grows. ‘I think perhaps you wait for me here,’ says Lubijova, ‘I go to collect our tickets, also to find a programme that is English. Always they
make one for our special guests from abroad. Now, you don’t go away? You only wait here? If some pretty lady comes, you don’t leave with her?’ ‘No, I’ll wait
here,’ says Petworth. ‘All right, I trust you,’ says Lubijova, leaving, ‘Perhaps I am mad.’ In her white stole, she moves off with the crowd; Petworth stands,
reflected in mirrors, lighting a cigarette. The press continues; bright couples slide through velvet curtains into boxes, offering him brief glimpses of the great lighted auditorium within. Led by
an official guide, the Vietnamese ladies from the hotel swarm by; they have set aside their dark blue work suits, and are clad now in fine silk cheong-sams. The bodily strangeness that has been
overwhelming Petworth for most of the day becomes a physical unease; like water down a drain, the self he thought within him seems to be draining out. The lights glitter; the mirrors glint.
‘Isn’t it Dr Petworth? Isn’t it my good old friend?’ says a voice; in a dinner jacket worn with a fine white sweater, Plitplov has somehow emerged from the crowd and stands
in front of him, his birdlike eyes looking hard at him, ‘You are well? You are safe? No bad thing has happened to you?’ ‘Oh, you’re here,’ says Petworth. ‘Of
course, everyone comes here,’ says Plitplov, ‘Well, all day I am making a worry for you.’ ‘There was no need,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov,
‘In my country, when someone is lost, all the friends grow upset and wonder if a bad thing has happened. Of course, there is usually a simple explanation. I expect you have one.’