Rates of Exchange (21 page)

But now the stiff-necked driver turns the wheel, and they leave the boulevard, turning up a narrow, rising street, lined with high old houses, toward the ancient part of the town. ‘Here
now old Slaka,’ says Lubijova, ‘Notice please the buildings of Baroque and Renaissance. Now you see how Slaka is so fine.’ ‘You come before?’ asks the tight-dressed
lady, wriggling against him. ‘No, my first visit,’ says Petworth. ‘A church and a rectorate,’ says Lubijova. ‘Many pretty girls,’ says the lady. ‘Oh,
don’t look at those, please,’ says Tankic, laughing, ‘Think of production.’ ‘Now the festung, builded by Bishop Vlam,’ says Lubijova, ‘Where is made the
sound and the light.’ ‘Vlam, very successful,’ says Tankic, ‘Much power, many ladies. But no more, under socialism.’ ‘Oh, no?’ cries the tightdressed lady,
‘I think so!’ ‘A famous old square,’ says Lubijova. The car stops in the famous old square, which is filled with trees, and lies under the crenellated wall of the castle;
there is a vista down across the river, to gardens and white-painted, creeper-clad houses on the further bank. ‘Here very nice restaurant,’ says Tankic, pointing to an old timber-framed
building in the corner, with tables outside it, now wet with rain, ‘No gipsy, no violin, only talk, very good.’ The driver opens the rear door of the big Volga, and they step out into
the square. Elevating a large flowery umbrella, the tight-dressed lady puts her arm through Petworth’s, and leads him under the trees toward the restaurant; heavy drops of rain explode on the
thin fabric over them. ‘Please,’ says Tankic, ushering him through a door where a sign says
PECTOPAH
PO
, ‘Nice, yes? Many official come here.’

And it is pleasant indeed in the Restaurant Propp; there are wine barrels in the corners, old swords on the wall, and a great vine grows through and over the diners who sit there at
white-clothed tables, served by waiters in black waistcoats and white aprons. Some open-mouthed carp, four silver trout, gape at them from a bubbling fishtank. ‘Not here, more,’ says
Tankic, leading the way toward a curtained alcove; when the curtain is drawn there is a small room, a table set for six, a waiting waiter, and two other waiters too, the early guests, standing
there, holding small drinks. One is a small middleaged man, in a neat dark suit and a white shirt, who wears his topcoat hung over his shoulders; he stares at Petworth, who stares back.
‘Lyft’drumu!’ cries the man, ‘Flughavn!’ ‘Feder! Stylo!’ says Petworth. ‘Scrypt’stuku!’ says the man, laughing. ‘You meet
before?’ asks Lubijova. ‘It’s the man from the airport who borrowed my pen!’ says Petworth. ‘And Plitplov thinks he steals it?’ says Lubijova. ‘Oh, yes,
Plitplov, you know him?’ asks the other guest, a fine, handsome lady, who wears a loose batik dress, cream sheepskin waistcoat, high gloveleather brown boots, and has white sunglasses pushed
up into her blonde hair, ‘That silly man who writes those essays in the newspaper?’ ‘Trollop,’ says the middle-aged man. ‘Yes, he writes on Trollope,’ says
Petworth. ‘It is awful,’ says the lady. ‘Weren’t you at the airport too?’ asks Petworth, looking at her. ‘Oh, did you notice me?’ asks the lady, who looks
like a very elegant shepherd, ‘You know your silver pen was for me? Well, it is a magical thing, to lend a pen.’ ‘Our writer Katya Princip, our Academician, Professor Rum,’
says Tankic, ‘Meet please our English guest of honour, Dr Petworth.’

III

And so it is that Petworth comes to the Restaurant Propp beneath the castle in Slaka, residence once of Bishop-Krakator ‘Wencher’ Vlam (1678–1738, if my
hastily scribbled notes are correct), and meets there the brilliant, batik-clad magical realist novelist Katya Princip, who takes him familiarly by the arm, leads him out of the group, and moves
him toward the corner of the room. ‘Come now and talk to me,’ she says, ‘Not about that Plitplov, you don’t know him, do you; no, please, explain me something. Why am I
here? Why do I get invite to an official lunch?’ ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea,’ says Petworth, ‘Of course I’m delighted you did.’ ‘I am not invite
before,’ says Katya Princip, ‘You know, I am not so well, with this regime. Usually it is only the reliable ones, like Professor Rum, who come to such things. So of course I wonder,
have I done something bad, and don’t know it? Is my new book so terrible? Do they think I am good?’ ‘Your new book,’ says Petworth, ‘I have it.’ ‘Oh,
really?’ cries Katya Princip, staring at him with grey eyes, ‘Then perhaps that is it. Perhaps you are famous admirer of my writings? Perhaps I am chosen just for you? But you have our
language? It is not translated in English.’ ‘I don’t yet,’ says Petworth, ‘I mean to try.’ ‘Yes, I see,’ says Katya Princip, ‘You don’t
be my admirer yet, but one day you will be. Now I understand everything. You see, nothing in this world is accident. Especially here in Slaka.’ ‘Could you sign it for me?’ asks
Petworth. ‘If you have a pen,’ says Katya Princip, ‘But of course you have a pen.’ ‘Oh, she signs your book?’ says Lubijova, coming up. ‘Oh, don’t
you know, this is my admirer,’ says Katya Princip, ‘That is why I am here.’ ‘Comrade Tankic likes you to come to the table,’ says Lubijova. ‘Oh, we are naughty,
we talk too much,’ says Princip, ‘Everyone thinks we are rude. Well, I leave you now, I hope we meet again.’ ‘She’s very nice,’ says Petworth. ‘Well,
perhaps you must be a little cautious with this lady,’ says Mari Lubijova, leading him over to the table, ‘Sometimes she makes a little trouble, and not everyone likes her work.’
‘Here, Comrade Petworth, between our fine Slakan roses,’ says Tankic, gesturing him to the seat facing him; Petworth sits down.

‘Oh, you sit with me, is nice,’ says the tight-dressed lady, giggling, placed to Petworth’s left. ‘Oh, we meet again, what a surprise, how good,’ says Katya
Princip, coming to Petworth’s right. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know your name,’ says Petworth, to the tight-dressed lady. ‘Oh, it is Vera,’ says the lady,
‘It means truth.’ ‘No, it means faith,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Pravda means truth. Oh, Mr Petwit, you must be very important man. Look, they draw the curtain to hide
you. I expect you are at least a Shah or a Minister.’ ‘Expert,’ says Tankic, pointing at Petworth with his fork. ‘Oh, expert,’ says Princip, ‘And what do you
expert? I am sorry I do not know.’ ‘The teaching of English,’ says Petworth, ‘That’s all.’ ‘Really, well, you must show us your skill on Professor
Rum,’ says Katya Princip, ‘His English is terrible. We like it perfect by the end of the meal.’ ‘Yes, my English, poco, I am all mistake,’ says Professor Rum, who has
tucked his napkin into the neck of his white shirt. ‘Don’t mind, Comrade Rum,’ says Katya Princip, ‘We will translate you. If we like what you say. My English, not so
little, not so big, just middle. You are lucky Mr Petwit, you speak a language everyone understand. Except for Professor Rum.’ ‘Not everyone,’ says Petworth. ‘But think of
us!’ says Katya Princip, ‘We are just a little country, a tiny flyshit on the great map of the world. And we speak just a silly little language, and no one understands. Not even
us.’ ‘He tries to learn it,’ says Lubijova, who sits opposite Vera, ‘He likes to read your book.’ ‘Oh, don’t bother,’ says Princip, ‘My book is
so good you can understand it in any language. And now we make a language reform, so what you learn this week is no good next.’ ‘Now we must change all our signs, it is very bad,’
says Vera. ‘No, very good,’ says Katya Princip.

Then the waistcoated waiter leans across Petworth’s shoulder, and fills his glass with a clear spirituous liquid. ‘Rot’vitti?’ he asks. ‘Now you must not say
rot’vitti, rot’vuttu,’ says Vera. ‘But in any case is not rot’vuttu,’ says Princip, ‘Is lubuduss, made of the squish of a plum.’ ‘I think
kicrak,’ says Lubijova, ‘From the mush of a pear.’ ‘No, is plum,’ says Katya Princip, ‘I am writer, I know everything.’ ‘Oh, everything?’ says
Vera. ‘Yes, everything,’ says Princip, ‘Example: I do not come before to official lunch, I am not such good citizen, but I know Comrade Tankic will rise now and tell of our great
cultural achievements. And then, Comrade Petwurt, you will reply, and tell us of your milk production.’ ‘My milk production?’ says Petworth. ‘Of course, we concern very
much,’ says Princip, ‘Why do you think we come so far, through Slaka in the rain?’ And the prophecy seems correct, for Tankic has risen already, and is tapping his glass with his
knife; he begins a fluent, beaming speech. ‘Says Comrades,’ explains Lubijova, when he pauses, ‘I am pleased to represent here our Minister of Culture, who regrets he is
elsewhere, to welcome our excellent visitor Comrade Petwurt.’ ‘Our Minister of Culture,’ Princip whispers in Petworth’s ear, ‘A soldier who has read a book. Better
than the last one: a soldier who had not read a book.’ ‘Says we are proud to welcome you to our country of many achievements, economic and also cultural. Since the feudal and bourgeois
times, we have made a great leap forward.’ ‘Who hasn’t?’ murmurs Princip. ‘Our peoples support the modernization programmes everywhere in train,’ says Lubijova,
‘The productions of our agro-industries rise thirty times since socialism. Per capita floor space is ten square metres.’ ‘Now we no longer sit on top of each other,’
whispers Princip. ‘Our National Academy of Arts and Sciences makes notable wissenschafts, represented by Professor Rum. Our Writers’ Union claims over a thousand fine members,
represented here by Comrade Princip.’ ‘Your nice friend,’ whispers Princip. ‘Comrade Petwurt, you will see many great achievements in your tour,’ says Lubijova,
‘We hope you like them much and tell them in your country. You will see many beauties of our heritage, but let us make toast to the very best, we know you agree it. Welcome, and please drink
to our finest treasure: the beautiful ladies, for the first time.’

Tankic sits down, grinning at Petworth. ‘A quite good speech, a very bad toast,’ says Katya Princip, ‘It is to me, so I cannot drink.’ ‘Comrade Petworth, is your
turn,’ says Vera. ‘Please, your milk production,’ says Princip. ‘Oh, me?’ says Petworth, but hands from either side are pushing him erect; he finds himself looking
round the table. ‘Friends,’ he says. ‘Comrades,’ says Princip. ‘Comrades,’ says Petworth. For some reason, the room seems to be swirling and creaking a little,
and words, which are his business, will not come easily. But, words being his business, it occurs to him to comment, sociolinguistically, a word that, somehow, is not very easy to say today, on the
great differences between the speechmaking habits of different nations: Germans will speak soulfully of Kant and Beethoven, Americans colloquially of space and territory, Norwegians poetically of
mountains and fish, Russians proudly of industry and sport, while the British will speak only about their weather, and then to condemn it. An illustration comes to mind, perhaps not the best,
Petworth realizes after a moment, as he reports a tale of what different women of different nations are supposed to say after love-making – ‘What, finished so soon?’ says the
Frenchwoman, ‘My sadness has almost gone away,’ says the Scandinavian, ‘Great, what did you say your name was?’ says the American, ‘You have made a great
contribution,’ says the Russian, ‘Okay, now let’s eat,’ says the German, and ‘Feeling better, darling?’ says the Englishwoman. No, it is not of the best;
Lubijova, scribbling furious notes for her translation, stops, staring up at him over her glass; ‘It is yoke?’ asks Tankic, fuming to her. It seems wise to conclude the occasion, to
raise the glass, to propose a toast, and what better than to language? ‘To language,’ he says, ‘The words that bring us all here, and bring us closer together.’