Rates of Exchange (48 page)

Petworth walks toward the altar, looking for the person he has not at all forgotten, the person who makes all other faces somehow look like hers. There are alcoves near the altar, one of them
holding a glinting silver tomb; in the half-dark someone comes out of one, toward him. ‘Oh, are you here, my good old friend?’ says a familiar voice; Petworth stares at Dr Plitplov,
with his sharp black eyes, his natty shirt, his elegant little handbag, ‘And you have turned back to Slaka safely, I am very glad. You have made your tour in some awkward days, but I hope it
did not spoil it at all.’ ‘Not at all,’ says Petworth. ‘And now you look at our cathedral,’ says Plitplov, ‘Do you like it? I do not much, myself. Always I
remember how the priests took from the peasants all their money, in those past times. Of course sometimes they have made something very fine of it. I hope you notice this tomb, Saint Valdopin, he
was a very famous saint of us.’ ‘Saint of ours,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, ‘Always I get so excited when I see my good old friend. Do you like
to walk? Or perhaps you are meeting someone?’ ‘Well, no,’ says Petworth. ‘No, you don’t?’ asks Plitplov, ‘And your lady-guide is not with you? That is very
unusual.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘But there are certain businesses we must always do on our own,’ says Plitplov, ‘You are sure you don’t meet someone?
Perhaps a lady? Always you are lucky with the ladies.’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course you are right to be very cautious,’ says Plitplov, ‘I told you this: in my
country always one must be an artist of relations. Well, at last you seem to learn quite well your lesson. But I am your good old friend, I know your wife, you know that you can trust me, I think.
I know you mean to meet here a certain lady writer.’

‘Really, do you?’ says Petworth, walking away. ‘My dear friend, please, I do not mean to make you embarrassment,’ says Plitplov, coming after him, ‘Understand me,
please, I also know that lady. You know what is go-between, she sends me with a message. She cannot come now, there is a difficulty, a small confusion. Her life is not so easy now as before, I
think you know why, I believe you had a finger in that pie?’ ‘You’ve seen her,’ says Petworth. ‘You rang on the telephone,’ says Plitplov, ‘That was to my
apartment. Sometimes she is there. She asks me to tell that she is very sorry and that she likes to see you, very much. She regrets that you do not meet again before you leave Slaka, it is
tomorrow, I think?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘But she likes to send you a present,’ says Plitplov, ‘Do you like to walk outside, on that terrace? Perhaps it is the
smoke of all these candles, but I feel again a little headache.’ They go out of the porch and onto a paved terrace; side by side, mosquitoes buzzing by their ears, they stare down into the
marshy waters of the river below them. ‘A present?’ asks Petworth. ‘A very nice present,’ says Plitplov, ‘Her new book. And she tells that if you read it you will find
the end of the story of Stupid.’ Petworth stares down at the turgid waters below; ‘But I can’t read it,’ he says after a moment, ‘I haven’t learned the
language.’ ‘I think you will read it,’ says Plitplov, ‘I think you read French.’ ‘It’s in French?’ asks Petworth. ‘No, it is not yet in
French,’ says Plitplov, ‘But there is someone in Paris, a good old friend. He likes to translate that book, and publish it there. You understand that since certain difficulties, I think
you know them, you had a finger in that pie, she cannot publish that book here. Of course it is not so easy to get it out of the country.’

‘I see,’ says Petworth, ‘You want me to take this typescript out of the country.’ ‘I believe you have a book by this writer before,’ says Plitplov,
‘Well, it is just another. No one will stop you, you carry papers all the time, you are a lecturer. And the next weekend you can take it to that person in Paris.’ ‘I’m not
going to Paris next weekend,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, I think so,’ says Plitplov, ‘I have telephoned your wife, your Lottie. She asks why you do not call, and sends you her
love. We have made some arrangements and she likes to be in Paris. Of course she thinks I will be there also but that will not be possible. There is a café, the Rotonde, that person will
meet you there. I hope you don’t mind, you know how I like to make plans for you. Already I begin to arrange your tour next year in my country.’ ‘My tour?’ asks Petworth.
‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, ‘You still have those lectures to make at Nogod and Provd. Everyone likes you to come because you make such good talks. And you know I have a string or
so I can pull.’ ‘I don’t think I want to make another tour here,’ says Petworth. ‘My dear good friend,’ says Plitplov, ‘Do you know how you get a good
apartment here, I will tell you. You must make some bribes in hard currency. Otherwise you wait for five years.’ ‘What has that to do with it?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of
course,’ says Plitplov, ‘By this time there will be many francs in Paris, of the book. You change those francs into dollar, bring here all those dollar when you make your next tour, and
there is a very nice apartment.’ ‘And who is this very nice apartment for?’ asks Petworth. ‘That lady writer, who sends you her present, and cares for you so much,’
says Plitplov, ‘And also perhaps her very good friend.’

Petworth stares down at the stagnant water below him; he says, after a moment, ‘And you are that very good friend?’ Plitplov stares down at the water too; he says, after a moment,
‘Perhaps we all have a secret. Sometimes it is a sausage, sometimes it is more.’ ‘And you’ve been that good friend for quite a long time?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of
course in my country, people need a friend,’ says Plitplov, ‘I have made some books, I write in the newspaper, my criticisms are well respected, even on Hemingway. It is not so easy to
survive here if people do not help each other. I am sorry you did not meet my wife. She is a very dull person. She does not even make a very good dinner. I think you would understand it, but
perhaps you do. You know very well these things yourself. Really I think we know each other very well, now. I am very glad you came, and I enjoy well your lectures. Sometimes your theories are not
correct, but you make up for it with good examples. Well, of course, I will say farewell to you at the airport. The package will be small and it will go well into your briefcase. If they ask you at
the
donay’ii
, tell them you must have picked it up by accident in a confusion at a conference. And I think it is always a pleasure to go to Paris, perhaps like a little
honeymoon.’ ‘And why should I do this?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course there are ways of embarrassing everyone,’ says Plitplov, ‘You have not been so discreet on your
tour. Really it would not be hard to make some difficulties for you. Perhaps you would have to stay here a long time in our country, not in the best conditions. But I do not make those reasons to
you, because you know there is another.’ ‘Do I?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, that lady writer, she likes me a little, and I am useful. Soon Professor Rum will not be doing so well,
there is a new regime, so it is good to have a friend who is all right, with Tankic and some others. These are our necessities, you know it. But for you there is a different feeling, I don’t
know why, of course I am jealous. She tells she has to see you again: that is why she sends her book, it is the book of you both together. You will see she dedicates to you. She says: here you will
see, you are in one story. Also she asks me to say to you one more thing: I mean to give you a better sense of existence. Do you think you know what that means?’

‘Yes,’ says Petworth, turning away from the parapet. ‘And so I find you at the airport?’ asks Plitplov, ‘I must know you really mean it. You know you will do
something very good.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, perhaps I will be a bit elusive there, you may not see me,’ says Plitplov, ‘Now, how our exchange is done,
what you must do. Take in there your bags, put them down by the stall that is marked Cosmoplot. It is in the centre, you do not miss. Do not lock please your briefcase. Leave it there, ask to go
for a cup of coffee, there is a place. Wait a few minute, then remember you have left it, and go back. That is all, and you do it?’ ‘Yes,’says Petworth. ‘I am so pleased to
see you again, my good old friend,’ says Plitplov, shaking his hand, ‘And you have made very good visit. I do not ashame I pulled those string for you. Well, my friend, I think perhaps
here is our farewell. I don’t think I will talk to you tomorrow, though I wish your flight well. I hope you will remember always your visit very nicely, I hope you think once more about the
work of Hemingway, I hope you give to your nice Lottie my love and wishes to meet again. Most, I cannot tell you how much I wait your next visit here. And not I only, you know that other one waits
longingly for you.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘So, do you go back now to your hotel?’ asks Plitplov briskly, ‘It is the tram marked Wang’liki over there, but
first you must buy ticket at the Litti.’ ‘I know,’ says Petworth. As he gets on the tram, Petworth looks across to the Cathedral of Saint Valdopin; Plitplov, with his bright,
bird-like look, is standing on the steps. But when, a moment later, he looks through the glass, he has gone, quite suddenly, as he once did before.

That night, in the hotel, Petworth eats a solitary meal in the great dining-room, where the sad singer sings again, songs of love, songs of betrayal; he sits and thinks of obscure processes,
strange machinations, stories perhaps of love, perhaps of betrayal, in which he has some unexpected part. He does not know whether these stories started before he arrived, or because he arrived.
The singer tosses her hair, the gipsies fiddle, in the city of flowers and song, chaos and confession; Petworth goes down into the cellar bar, where the silvery whores laugh, and look at him. Late
that night, he wakes up; he is sweating, and in a state of high anxiety. He exists, he does not. Darkness fills the room he is in; he is not quite sure what room it is, where he is. A tram clatters
somewhere; he is in the dark, and under the dialectic. The duvet has come off him and his naked legs are out in cold air. The duvet is piled beside him, tugged over someone who lies there, her back
against him, warm. His hand is evidently trapped under her shoulders, the circulation fading, pain in his fingers; his heart beats furiously. Troubled, curious, he senses the shape of the flesh
beside him: the skin in its long planes, hollowed here, puffed there, the outward spill of the breasts, the pucker of the nipples, the inward tug of the navel, the fuzz at the groin, the intricate
vaginal crease. He is afraid he has done wrong, he feels guilt. And someone watches the wrong, requires a confession and an expiation. He switches on the great brass bedside lamp; the duvet is
crumpled beside him; there is no one there. Light flashes on the ceiling, with its romping cupids, its great crack; he puts off the lamp, covers himself, struggles for sleep.

III

And now it is morning again, and Petworth sits for the last time in a red plastic chair in the lobby of the Hotel Slaka, his luggage – the blue suitcase, the battered
briefcase, but no longer the Heathrow bag – round about his feet. He has taken breakfast, the familiar breakfast that bears no relation to the menu, the old food-stained menu he had seen on
his very first day. A weak sun shines across the square outside, with its grinding trams, and looks into the great dusty hallway. In the hallway, his guide, Marisja Lubijova, stands at the desk,
talking to the Cosmoplot girl with the splayed lacquered hair, under the photographs showing portraits of Lenin, Grigoric and Vulcani. ‘Oh, they are such bureaucrats,’ Marisja cries,
hurrying over to him, ‘They say you have burned a hole in the bedspread at Glit. Of course I have fixed it, I tell them the Min’stratii will pay it. And now do you have everything, all
your presents, your souvenirs? You are ready to go?’ An orange taxi is already waiting beyond the glass doors; they get into it, and drive out through the busy square.
C
OPT
, says a sign, and
PECTOPAH
; in the little side street, down toward Plazsci P’rtyii, the
faces of the men of history hang, with the wind taking them; so that now it is Marx high and Lenin low, now Engels up and Kruschev down, now Grigoric above and Vulcani below, and now it is the
opposite. In the corner of the taxi, Lubijova sits, twisting the strap of her shoulderbag. ‘Well, my dear Comrade Petwurt, you know I shall miss you?’ she says, ‘In my country we
have a saying; I am always telling you our sayings. We say, if you come to Slaka once, always you come again. And I think it is a little bit possible, don’t you?’ ‘Yes,’
says Petworth, ‘I think it is quite possible.’

‘Well, that is good, I think it means you liked our country,’ says Lubijova, taking out a notebook and scribbling in it, ‘And, look, if I give you an address, do you try and
see me? Perhaps I will not be there, but you can try. Or perhaps I might even be your guide again, if you make an official tour. I hope you do, next time a proper one. This one was really a little
unusual.’ ‘There were just a few small confusions,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, I am sorry about my confusions,’ says Lubijova, ‘But I hope you think I was always good
guide, you know I tried it. And I think you always needed one.’ ‘I think everyone needs one,’ says Petworth, ‘You were a very good guide.’ ‘And do you remember
what we nearly did at Glit, and did not?’ asks Lubijova, ‘I remember it.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And now you go home to your wife, is it Lottie?’ asks
Lubijova, ‘The one who smokes the small cigars, the friend of Plitplov.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, that will be nice for you,’ says Marisja Lubijova,
‘But I don’t think you will tell her all that happens to you, not this time.’ ‘No, I don’t think so,’ says Petworth. ‘No,’ says Marisja, ‘You
will have to make up a story. But then you have learned some things about stories. You still have that book I gave you? You know, written by that one? Do you think now you will try to read
it?’ ‘Perhaps,’ says Petworth. ‘Really you have not learned much of our language,’ says Marisja. ‘Well, enough to have an idea,’ says Petworth. ‘And
your diseases have all gone away? Your mouth is all better?’ asks Marisja. ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. The long straight road now stretches ahead toward the airport, with the power
station and the cathedral to the right. ‘Oh, what a pity, you did not go to the cathedral,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘But is good to keep one thing for another time.’
‘Yes, it is,’ says Petworth. ‘And I think you will come,’ says Marisja, ‘You know I am a little bit psychic.’