Rates of Exchange (27 page)

Budgie Steadiman’s loose muu-muu dress seems to be growing progressively looser; she smiles at Petworth warmly. ‘Well, tell me what you think of Slaka,’ she says, ‘Tell
me what you have made of it.’ ‘It seems very pleasant,’ says Petworth. ‘Slaka, city of art and music, bugs and spies,’ says Budgie, ‘I suppose discretion has
been urged on you? You’ve been warned that walls have ears, windows have eyes, that the maid flashes signals to the security police with her stockings?’ ‘So I gather,’ says
Petworth. ‘Yes, the golden rule of Slaka is, whatever you do, do it out of sight. And what do you like to do, Mr Petworth, what are your sports?’ ‘No sports, really,’ says
Petworth. ‘Oh, do be frank,’ says Budgie, putting her hand on his, ‘I am. You may have noticed I lack what’s called a discreet temperament. I am one of those in whom the
heart leads the head. Really I’m not a Slaka sort of person at all.’ ‘It must be difficult,’ says Petworth. ‘Felix, dear, Magda can do drinks,’ calls Budgie
Steadiman over her shoulder, ‘Why don’t you have a quick shower and wash off the beastly grime of the day? I can entertain Mr Petworth. Yes, Mr Petworth, yes, a difficult life. How
shrewd you are, I can see you’re simpatico. I am, as I say, a feckless, wild, windswept spirit. Imagine, then, someone like me, shut up in Slaka, watched and inspected, photographed and
recorded, like a Julie Christie with political significance. The voyeur in me responds, the hungry, struggling soul resists.’ ‘It must be very trying,’ says Petworth.
‘Trying is hardly the word,’ says Budgie, ‘I lead a tragically confined existence, Mr Petworth. I am in effect a prisoner here.’ ‘Oh, surely not,’ says
Petworth.

‘Indeed, Mr Petworth,’ says Budgie, seizing him firmly by the femur, ‘Police cars follow me to the tennis club. Agents pursue me to the butcher-shop. Microphones are trained on
me now. When we make love, we have to play Wagner, and I doubt if he is enough. Tell me, are you fond of Wagner at all, Mr Petworth?’ ‘Yes, very fond,’ says Petworth. ‘I
knew it,’ says Budgie, ‘You like a little Wagner, do you? Well, perhaps if our evening goes well, I shall play you some. Opera, opera, Mr Petworth, that is very much to my taste. People
travelling round masked in coaches, singing away, I’ve always felt I belonged in that world. That is how I see myself. Dancing in gauzy veils with men of destiny. You see how I aspire. And
what about you, Mr Petworth? Are you a man of destiny?’ ‘I hardly think so,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, I think so,’ says Budgie, ‘Governments have chosen you,
you’re a man of affairs, of secrets. Perhaps there is a power in you you do not even know you possess. I believe there is a power in most of us we never fully tap, don’t you?’
‘I suppose so,’ says Petworth, as a hand gently feels the hair on the back of his neck. ‘Please, don’t think so humbly of yourself,’ says Budgie, ‘I never have.
You have a very nice neck. A dull thought, I’m afraid, but sexual attraction is always expressed as cliché.’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ says Petworth, looking round, ‘Felix
is having his shower,’ says Budgie, ‘We are quite alone, except for the policemen. And think how dull life would be for them if one didn’t light the occasional flame. One feels
almost a duty to be a little interesting.’ ‘I’m sure you are,’ says Petworth.

‘Indeed, I am,’ says Budgie Steadiman, staring at him, ‘Do you know how long I have been here? Three years, three imprisoned years. As you might gather, this is not a posting I
desired, not at all. I’ve always seen myself in one of the world’s great cities. Dancing, laughing, wearing a diamond in my navel. Do you know what they say? That if Felix hadn’t
stammered, we’d have had Tokyo?’ ‘I’m sure there are worse postings than Slaka,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Budgie, ‘Perhaps an oil rig in the
North Sea? Assistant Language Officer, Accounts, Bangladesh? Yes, they always say there’s someone worse off than you are, but I’ve never found it a great consolation.’ ‘But
Slaka must have its compensations,’ says Petworth. ‘What do they call you?’ asks Budgie, ‘What is your first name?’ ‘Angus,’ says Petworth. ‘Really,
like the steak?’ says Budgie, ‘Well, Angus, I don’t think you quite understand what I’m telling you, as one kindred soul to another. I’m telling you, Angus, I am a
lonely woman, a very lonely woman.’ ‘Yes, I understand,’ says Petworth. ‘And I think I understand you,’ says Budgie, putting her hand into Petworth’s trouser
pocket, ‘Do you know how I see you? As a man disappointed in love. You have that gloomy, self-engrossed look, am I right? Have I struck the truth?’ Petworth recalls his day, sees the
image of Katya Princip: ‘well,’ he says, ‘More or less.’ ‘How much we share in common,’ says Budgie, ‘Loneliness, and the need for reassurance. I have a
migraine, Angus, would you mind stroking the back of my neck? No, not there, a little lower; don’t worry about the dress. Oh, Felix, I thought you’d gone to have a shower.’
‘They’ve cut off the wart cut off the water again,’ says Steadiman, standing there in his fine suit, looking down on them. ‘I was just explaining to Angus what a confined
life we lead,’says Budgie Steadiman.

Steadiman sits down in a Danish armchair opposite and looks at them: ‘It’s not so bad,’ he says, ‘One can hardly expect it to be as lively as Washington or Moscow.’
‘Or Belgrade or Chittagong or Wagga Wagga,’ says Budgie. ‘I enjoy it,’ says Steadiman, ‘One doesn’t have to mind the earthquakes, and there are only certain days
when you can get food, but there’s an excellent pee peach brandy, yes, I like it very much.’ ‘Beneath that boyish charm, Felix is dullingly sober,’ says Budgie,
‘Little wonder my mother, an intelligent woman, warned me not to marry. She said it could well inhibit the taste for wandering into other people’s bedrooms, and it has.’
‘Yes, Budgie,’ says Steadiman, ‘Can you just try now? Magda’s coming in with the drinks.’ A moment later a large tray stands before Petworth’s face, on it two
large fizzing gins and tonic, and a glass of white wine, equally large and equally fizzing. ‘Plis, comrade,’ says Magda, standing staring down at him, as if his face might be worth
remembering. ‘Slubob,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, indeed,’ says Steadiman with great warmth, taking his drink, ‘We love it here. There are some nice resorts and some
excellent . . .’ ‘Countryside,’ says Budgie. ‘I was going to say that,’ says Steadiman. ‘Marvellous lakes and beaches,’ says Budgie. ‘Splendid
horseback riding,’ says Steadiman, ‘Large woods for sportsmen.’ ‘Magda’s supposed not to understand a thing,’ says Budgie, after her big black back has
disappeared round a corner, ‘But she always starts dropping drinks when we complain about anything here. I suppose you’re awfully busy, Angus, I do wish we could take you to the lake.
You can take all your clothes off there.’ ‘Budgie, you are really not supposed to take your clothes off at the lake,’ says Steadiman, ‘This is a very puritanical country.
I’m sure it’s reported.’ ‘I don’t find them so puritanical,’ says Budgie, ‘Look at my tan, Angus. And just think, I’m like that all over
underneath.’ ‘Very nice,’ says Petworth.

‘Budgie,’ says Steadiman, standing up, ‘You did actually invite some other guests, didn’t you?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Budgie, ‘But we did have quite a
lot of refusals. There’s a party for the Sheikh and it’s the first night of the opera.’ ‘However, some people did consent to visit us?’ says Steadiman. ‘The
Ambassador sent his apologies,’ says Budgie, ‘He very much wanted to meet you, but he doesn’t like to go out at night now. He says he’s being followed everywhere by a man
with a raincoat and a cigar.’ ‘Very probably he is,’ says Steadiman. ‘Yes, but he thought that when he was still in the Ministry of Education in London,’ says Budgie.
‘What about the Wynn-Joneses?’ asks Steadiman, ‘He’s our first sec.’ ‘They’re awfully sorry, but they’re asked to the Sheikh’s
reception,’ says Budgie. ‘And the Couttses?’ asks Steadiman, ‘He’s the thir thir third sec.’ ‘You know how they love music,’ says Budgie,
‘They’ve gone to this strange new opera.’ ‘So did anyone say yes?’ asks Steadiman, ‘I did send out the car all over the town with invitations.’ ‘Miss
Peel and Mr Blenheim,’ says Budgie. ‘The confidential sec and the information officer,’ says Steadiman. ‘And then of course we invited a number of the locals.’
‘The trouble is,’ says Steadiman, ‘one never knows whether any of them would take the risk of coming. They’re really supposed to report it. Or whether if they did the g g
guard would let them in. It could be a small g g gathering.’ ‘But that’s awfully good for getting to know each other,’ says Budgie, ‘And then, of course, there’s
the surprise.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Steadiman, ‘Yes.’ Even now, the doorbell rings, and Magda, who has evidently been hovering in an alcove just behind them, emerges in her
white gloves and walks across the room to open it. ‘You see?’ says Budgie, squeezing Petworth’s hand quite tightly, ‘They’re all coming.’

There are murmurs at the door; someone hands in a coat and a pair of windscreen-wipers. Then the visitor stands in the doorway, in a dark suit, and under it a neat white roll-necked sweater,
holding in one hand a male handbag, in the other a few red carnations. ‘Good evening,’ he says, his bird-like eyes gleaming, ‘Plitplov.’ ‘Flowers, how gallant, I love
them,’ says Budgie Steadiman. ‘Oh, please, my dear Mrs Steadiman,’ says Plitplov, bending neatly and giving Budgie’s ringed fingers a fine kiss, ‘You are most charming
to invite me. We have met a time or two before, I think. Here is the sad thing, I bring you an apology. Professor Marcovic likes to come, but he does not like to be photographed at the door. Of
course you know I have taken a certain not small risk to come here.’ ‘Well done, old chap,’ says Steadiman, ‘Now come over and meet our guess guess guest of honour, Dr
Petworth.’ ‘Oh, yes, your English visitor, Dr Petworth, I believe I have read some books of him,’ says Plitplov, standing at the doorway and looking around the room in all
directions, as if any one of the people not standing there might be the distinguished visitor, ‘So despite the strikes in London he still manages to arrive?’ With some effort, Steadiman
steers him face to face with Petworth; the dark eyes gleam. ‘Ah, then you are the well-known Dr Petworth,’ says Plitplov, ‘You see we have heard of you. My name is Plitplov.
Please allow me to welcome you to Slaka.’ ‘Delighted to meet you,’ says Petworth. ‘You’ve not met before?’ asks Steadiman. ‘You have been in Slaka before,
Dr Petworth?’ asks Plitplov, inspecting him up and down, ‘I don’t think so. No, then it cannot be possible. Tell me, please, is it true you make some lectures now in my
country?’

‘I thought you already knew,’ says Steadiman, ‘He’s speaking to the universe speaking to the university tomorrow morning,’ says Steadiman. ‘Really, at what
time?’ asks Plitplov, ‘How very interesting.’ ‘Eleven,’ says Petworth. ‘At eleven, what a pity,’ says Plitplov, taking out a small diary and opening it at
what seems to be an entirely blank page, ‘There are many meetings and it will not be easy to be there. But you will accept me if I can change things? And understood also if I do not manage
it? I expect you teach in a university, you know how busy is the life, I think.’ In her white gloves, Madga now appears before them all, offering a silver tray filled now with many drinks,
enough for some much vaster scale of party. ‘I think I try something just a little Western,’ says Plitplov, bending over to inspect them very carefully, ‘Vusku, da?’
‘Da, cam’radaki,’ says Magda. ‘I am told whisky is the drink of all Western intellectuals,’ says Plitplov, taking one, ‘Perhaps there is something in it that is
very good for the brains. Therefore I need it very much. A toast to your tour here, please, Dr Petworth. I hope you go to many places.’ ‘A few,’ says Petworth, ‘Glit, Nogod,
Provd.’ ‘All are good,’ says Plitplov. ‘I thought you might have had an organ organ organizing role in all this,’ says Steadiman. ‘Oh, I?’ cries Plitplov,
with an air of great surprise, ‘No, of course it was Marcovic.’ ‘I’ve never actually met him,’ says Steadiman. ‘Perhaps you know him, Dr Petworth?’ asks
Plitplov, ‘Perhaps you met him at a conference? Perhaps he is a dear old friend of yours? Perhaps he knows your wife, if you have one?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth,
‘I’ve never met him.’ ‘Well, he tells me he looks forward very much to meeting you and having good critical talks,’ says Plitplov, ‘I expect you know the fine
book he makes on Defoe.’

‘You are actually at the universe university, aren’t you, Dr Plitplov?’ asks Steadiman. ‘The answer is a bit yes and a bit no,’ says Plitplov, ‘I have certain
important connections there, but also I do other things. Of course our system is different from yours, and very boring to explain. In any case we now make certain reforms that make it not useful.
What is your field, Dr Petworth? Some people say it is language. That must be a very interesting matter.’ ‘It is,’ says Petworth, ‘Particularly in Slaka at the
moment.’ ‘Oh, you hear about our changes,’ says Plitplov, ‘Some of them are very good and some of them are very bad. My opinions are in the middle.’ Out in the hall,
the doorbell rings. ‘Ah,’ says Budgie, squeezing Petworth’s hand again, ‘Someone else!’ Magda has appeared with great rapidity, and gone to the door; the Steadimen, a
handsome couple, rise and follow. ‘Always with the pretty ladies,’ says Plitplov, turning his sharp dark eyes on Petworth, ‘I remember that. And this one likes you. But we must
all be cautious. Everywhere are some ears.’ Meanwhile in the doorway two new guests are handing their coats to Magda. One of them is a lady peasant in a mittel-European dirndl, with a sharp
face, bunned hair and a very English accent; the other is a greyheaded man with a silver moustache, a foulard neckerchief tucked into his shirt, white jacket and dark trousers. Some misfortune has
evidently attended their arrival; tears course down the nose of the lady peasant. ‘Sorry we’re late,’ says the man, giving Budgie a small peck on the cheek, ‘A slight
contretemps.’ ‘I’ve been stuck in your lift for half an hour,’ says the lady, ‘People kept passing but no one would answer. Luckily Mr Blenheim came by and, gallant
man that he is, managed to get me out.’

‘Well, come on in and meet everyone,’ says Budgie. ‘Perhaps you were shouting,’ says Plitplov, graciously stepping forward. ‘Yes, I was bawling my head off,
actually,’ says the lady. ‘I heard some shoutings when I came upstairs,’ says Plitplov, ‘But I thought to myself, perhaps this is a marriage, I do not interfere. In my
country one always takes a care not to interfere.’ ‘So I’ve noticed,’ says the lady peasant. ‘But accept please my apologies,’ says Plitplov, taking the
lady’s fingers and kissing them, ‘I am Plitplov.’ ‘This is Miss Peel and Mr Blenheim, both from the em em Embassy,’ says Steadiman.‘Wasn’t there a guest of
honour or something?’ asks Miss Peel.‘Here he is, our darling Dr Petworth,’ says Budgie, plucking Petworth forward by the hand. ‘Ah, got here, good,’ says Miss Peel,
‘Enjoying it, hope so.’ ‘Hullo, old chap,’ says Mr Blenheim, ‘Welcome to the madhouse.’ ‘Now, how about the big event?’ asks Miss Peel, ‘Have
they come? Did they arrive?’ ‘Yes,’ says Budgie, ‘But let’s keep it a secret.’ ‘Oh, marvellous,’ says Blenheim. ‘Oh, is there secret
tonight?’ asks Plitplov, ‘Everywhere secrets.’ ‘An extremely nice secret,’ says Miss Peel.‘And do we perhaps find it out?’ asks Plitplov. ‘You do,
later on,’ says Budgie, ‘Which is why I must just disappear for a minute. Please amuse yourselves. And keep yourself pure for me, Angus.’ ‘Another of Budgie’s
marvellous evenings,’ says Miss Peel, ‘That’s how she lures us here.’ ‘And with Mr Petworth, of course,’ says Mr Blenheim. ‘Cam’radaket,’ says
Magda, appearing with her tray. ‘Orange juice, please,’ says Miss Peel. ‘Da,’ says Magda, handing it to her. ‘Doesn’t she do marvellously, considering she
can’t speak any English?’ says Miss Peel, turning to Petworth, ‘Well, isn’t it lucky you came tonight? You wouldn’t have wanted to miss one of Budgie’s
secrets.’