Rates of Exchange (30 page)

‘It doesn’t seem a terribly good idea,’ says Petworth.

‘You’re worried about Felix?’ asks Budgie, ‘Felix and I have an arrangement. He lets me get away with murder.’ ‘It’s not really that,’ says
Petworth. ‘You’re worried I don’t have protection,’ says Budgie, ‘Believe me, I don’t just have protection, I have diplomatic immunity.’ ‘No,
it’s not that,’ says Petworth. ‘You have other interests,’ says Budgie, ‘That does not concern me in the slightest.’ ‘It seems rather dangerous,’
says Petworth.‘Of course, it’s dangerous,’ says Budgie, ‘But England expects, my dear. One is not a guest of honour for nothing.’ ‘I’ll call for a
taxi,’ says Petworth. ‘You will not call for a taxi,’ says Budgie, ‘You’ll stay here and fly the flag. I’m just going out to put on a little music, you did say
you liked Wagner, didn’t you? You look like a man of taste. I imagine you have quite an eye for specialist lingerie. Let me show you some.’ Petworth stands in the kitchen: a booming
noise begins in the back of the apartment as the noises of Wagner, that metaphysical romper, sounds on the record player, and on, doubtless, the tapes and the film, the screens and the consoles,
that whirl and flicker in some technologized office nearby, where the HOGPo men sit, reducing Petworth, that virtuous subject, into sign or object, transient image. Luckily there is just time to
finish the saucepan before, along the corridor, he hears the bedroom door open.

IV

‘Actually,’ says Steadiman, as he drives the brown Ford Cortina back through the urban darkness toward the centre and the Hotel Slaka, ‘I’m afraid
it’s terribly easy to get the wrong impression of Budgie. She finds life here rather diff diff difficult, and she reacts to it. Also, you know, she has an aristocratic background, her father
was a duke, actually, and she expects service from everyone. I think she rather expected it from you.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, through his split lip, ‘I see what you
mean.’ ‘People often get a wrong impression of dip dip diplomatic life,’ Steadiman explains in the dark, ‘It can be awe awe awfully confining. That’s what she revolts
against. Besides, she’s always liked to extra-mural a bit, I understand that. And if we were in Paris, or Athens, or Washington, I can’t say I’d terribly mind. That’s the
trouble with Slaka, it’s rather diff diff different. I do hope that wrist isn’t sprained.’ ‘Oh, no,’ says Petworth, ‘I don’t think so, just bruised.’
‘Yes, well, terr terr terribly sorry,’ says Steadiman, ‘One hardly wants to wound one’s most distinguished visitors. I must be a bit bit fit fit fitter than I thaw thaw
thought. Yes, Budgie’s really a sort of tease, you know. I think what she enjoys best is just tan tan tantalizing all these little secret police squits who spend all their working hours
listening in on us, beastly, isn’t it? I suppose she just doesn’t like to think how unutterably boring their nasty little lives must be, so she tries to brighten them up a bit. At
least, that’s how I explain her conduct. So there’s nothing sort of personal about you.’ ‘Oh, isn’t there?’ says Petworth, holding his wrist, ‘Well, yes, I
see.’ ‘I’m awe awe awfully sorry about the suit,’ says Steadiman, driving into the rain, ‘I hope you’ve brought another one. Never mind, there should be a sort
of tailor person somewhere in the hotel.’ ‘I expect so,’ says Petworth, ‘It’s just a little hard to explain.’ ‘Tell them it was a football match,’
says Steadiman, ‘Nowadays I find that more or less explains everything.’

The rain pours down in front of them; it is not, as it turns out, a good night in Slaka. ‘I really didn’t mean . . .’ murmurs Petworth. ‘No, no, of course you
didn’t,’ says Steadiman, ‘I do understand. You know the trouble with Budgie? She just doesn’t recognize the realities of the game she’s playing. And with half of
myself I don’t blame her. The only trouble is, that stuff is terr terr terribly terr terr terribly dangerous.’ ‘Is it?’ asks Petworth, nursing his wounded arm. ‘You
know dip dip diplomacy,’ says Steadiman, ‘Well, it’s like life, isn’t it? Everybody trading this for that. The trouble with these chaps here is they play some very nasty
games indeed. A dip dip diplomat is just a chap on the football field, trying to protect his own goal and hoping to score once in a while. But of course there are some corrupt types who try to get
at the players.’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth. ‘And this is what Budgie doesn’t understand,’ says Steadiman, ‘This stuff could be the end of my dip dip
diplomatic career.’ ‘Surely not,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Steadiman, ‘You see, it’s not what you do that’s important. It’s the way it
looks. When they write it down, or record it, or photograph it, or put it into the Smolensk com com computer, or wherever all this stuff is put together. Of course that’s how life is played
now, in front of the screens. Collate, file, store, re-arrange, produce at the opportune moment.’ ‘And with me too?’ asks Petworth. ‘Well, of course,’ says Steadiman,
‘You’ve travelled a lot, you have a position, you don’t seem very discreet, I should think they’ve got a hell of a lot on you by now, all there in the computer. Lip still
bleeding?’ ‘No, I think it’s all right now,’ says Petworth. ‘Please don’t think it was per per personal,’ says Steadiman.

Yes, it has been a difficult departure, from the diplomatic apartment, with its Danish chairs, its Kurdish trunks, its Afghan wall-rugs, somewhere five floors up over Slaka. Indeed the details,
still, are not quite clear in Petworth’s admittedly not quite clear head. ‘Don’t you love red lingerie?’ Budgie Steadiman, he recalls, has said, standing there in the
kitchen in some, of admirable quality, while the coffee maker bubbles and Tannhäuser rages somewhere nearby, ‘Actually I bought it in the Reeperbahn in Hamburg. Look what it does.’
‘Budgie, I really think it’s time Mr Petworth was returning to his ho ho hotel,’ Steadiman has then said, coming into the kitchen in his coat, dropping windscreen wipers on the
floor to grip Petworth rather firmly by one wrist, ‘He looks pretty tired and ready for bed.’ ‘Oh, he doesn’t want to go, Felix,’ Budgie has said, ‘Can’t
you see he’s sad and lonely? And I too am sad and lonely. I want him to try on uniforms. I want him to stay here with me.’ ‘Come on, Budgie, let go of him, there’s a go go
good girl,’ Steadiman has said, taking Petworth round the head in an expert arm-lock, ‘The ho ho hotel will probably alert the po po police if he’s not in his room tonight. We
don’t want him in trouble.’ ‘Loneliness and the need for reassurance,’ Budgie has said, holding fast to the waistband of Petworth’s trousers, ‘Don’t you
understand, Felix, that is the meaning of life.’ ‘Budgie does
not
understand the meaning of life,’ Steadiman has said, wrenching Petworth free with a ripping of material,
and dragging him into the living room, ‘She only thinks she does. Mr Petworth would like to go home.’ ‘He wants to spend the night with me,’ Budgie has said, falling sobbing
into a chair. ‘Don’t you, Angus?’ ‘Well, I do,’ Petworth has said, diplomatic in the diplomatic living room, ‘But I’d better go.’ ‘He’s a
very polite man and he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings,’ Steadiman has said, ‘But he’s go go going.’

And so it is that Petworth now sits, with throbbing arm, hurt lip and torn trousers, the zip quite gone, in the brown Cortina as it drives speedily and erratically toward Slaka. Driving rain and
road mud smear over the windscreen, eliminating all visibility – for, in the rush of his departure, out of the flat, down, down, down the long staircase, into the car, Steadiman has failed to
bring the wipers with him. ‘Well, look, I do apologize,’ says Petworth. ‘Not at all, old chap,’ says Steadiman, ‘You gave her a good evening, che che cheered her up no
end. I should have warned you, really, she does that. I should apologize to you. I don’t usually use violence on my guests of honour.’ ‘It could be serious for you?’ asks
Petworth. ‘Oh, God, for heaven’s sake,’ says Steadiman, looking into the mirror, ‘There’s a tail on us.’ ‘Why?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, they follow
us everywhere,’ says Steadiman, ‘HOGPo is the biggest employer in the country. That’s how they manage to have no unemployment. Everyone’s followed by somebody else. I just
hope I don’t hit anyone. See anything ahead?’ ‘There’s someone now,’ cries Petworth, as a khaki figure leaps for the curb. ‘I hate to think what the sentence
would be, after all the stuff we’ve put away tonight,’ says Steadiman, ‘Pru pru Proust wouldn’t be half long enough.’ ‘I really shouldn’t have had so much
myself,’ says Petworth, ‘Two parties in one day.’ ‘Never mind, good fun, enjoyed it,’ says Steadiman, ‘Thank God, they’ve turned off.’ A sign on a
building in front of them flashes through the mud, saying
SCH
’
VEPPUU
. ‘This is your square, isn’t it?’ asks Steadiman, ‘Wang’likii? I’ll just park and make
sure you get in all right.’ It is lucky that Petworth has his topcoat to cover his one best suit, split now right down to the crotch; they walk together toward the entrance of the Hotel
Slaka. ‘Marvellous evening,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes,’ says Steadiman, ‘Let’s do it again. Call me when you get back to Slaka next week. I’d like to hear your
news. Oh, damn, look, the hotel’s all locked up.’

Peering through the glass doors of the hotel, they see it is dark, dark, dark in the lobby; but then it is late, late, perhaps three in the morning. One faint light shines over the registration
desk, but nobody in blue uniform sits at this hour beneath Marx and Wanko. ‘They seem to have lock lock locked you out,’ says Steadiman, ‘Can you see a bell?’
‘No,’ says Petworth, tapping on the glass door. No one walks, no trams grind, in the great square; the rain beats on the gravel. After a long wait, and much tapping, a door inside does
open, casting a beam of light; a limping figure comes toward the doors, looks out at them, and then turns away in a gesture of dismissal. ‘Don’t you have an ident’ayii?’
asks Steadiman. Petworth takes out his hotel passport, spreads it against the glass, and taps again. The doorman turns, puts on spectacles, stares; then, slowly and grudgingly, he takes out a key
and unlocks the door. ‘Give him a tip,’ says Steadiman, ‘And don’t forget. If you feel in need of a bit of ass, a bit of assistance call me, any time.’ ‘I will,
thank you very much,’ says Petworth, ‘It’s reassuring to have someone to turn to. Many thanks.’ He watches a moment through the glass as Steadiman walks off, in quite the
wrong direction from his car, while the aggrieved doorman inspects the ident’ayii. Petworth takes out a handful of vloskan; the doorman nods, stares, and then limps away to the desk, to come
back with Petworth’s key, and disappear inside his door.

The lobby is dark, but somewhere in the darkness there is a faint murmur: ‘Change money?’ says a voice. ‘Na,’ says Petworth, groping toward the elevator, to find it
switched off. Groping, he finds a back staircase, long and dark, like the staircase at Steadiman’s apartment, like life itself, in a sense; he ascends, up and round, round and up. In his
corridor, at her desk, under a little light, the floormaid sleeps, to wake in surprise as Petworth unlocks his door. Inside the great room the lamps are lit, the cracks in the ceiling wide, the
pyjamas spread. Loneliness and fear, guilt and betrayal, spread from the room into Petworth, from Petworth to the little house in Bradford, his old domestic space. In the great mirrored bathroom
Petworth takes off his torn and ruined trousers; under the duvet he tries to sleep. The voices begin to sound again: she is a very tough lady, chosen special for you; this is a forbidden area, you
do not go there; the witch was not a good witch; this is not the posting I would have desired. In the night there are dark and winding staircases, going up and down, round and up; a wind blows; a
car follows; a maid in gloves waits by a dead man’s tomb. Two men talk under a sign that flashes and says
PLUC
. A soldier with a gun appears and holds it toward a car. There is a glimpse of
Katya Princip, falling falling down a hole, to the middle of a forest, where people dance and gipsies play violins. There is a pain in the wrist, a taste of blood in the mouth, and around the wall
secrets hanging, like sausages, in strings.

6 – LECT.

I

Petworth wakes in the morning, under the great duvet, in the great room, to find himself in a world that has changed its weather. A bright sun glints through the cracks in the
dusty curtains; a warm wind dries off the gravel under the people and the trams in the Plazscu Wang’luku, down below his window; flashes of sunny light twist and turn the knobs and domes of
the great government buildings. No one is taking down the sign saying
SCH
’
VEPPUU
, and in the breakfast room the menu is the same as
yesterday’s, and so, despite the fact that he makes a quite different order, is the breakfast. In the lobby, at the appointed time, it is a more summery Marisja Lubijova who stands there; she
wears a flowered dress and a tam o’shanter hat that falls to one side over her dark hair and tense white face. Only her manner does not fit the illuminated brightness; it contains –
Petworth has every reason to expect it – a note of saddened rebuke. A man, he knows, in a difficult world, a place of false leads and harmful traps, doors that will not open and toilets that
will not flush, needs a guide, severe yet competent, warning yet enlarging, to bring shape to the shapeless, names to the unnamed, definition to the undefined. Yes, a bruised man, he is pleased to
see her, neat in the lobby; but evidently she is less pleased to see him. ‘Oh, today you are on time,’ she says abruptly, ‘You amaze, Comrade Petwurt. Your breakfast, did you eat
it?’ ‘I did,’ says Petworth. ‘And your evening, you enjoy it?’ ‘It was very quiet,’ says Petworth, ‘I just ate and went to bed.’ ‘All by
yourself?’ asks Lubijova, ‘You didn’t do it with a lady writer?’ ‘Oh, no,’ says Petworth, ‘She just left me here and went home. I don’t suppose I
shall see her again.’ ‘Of course,’ says Lubijova, ‘She comes today to your lecture,’ ‘Well, no,’ says Petworth, ‘She changed her mind.’

‘Oh, poor Comrade Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, looking brighter, ‘What a shame for you. I have good intuitions, I am a little bit psychic, I think yesterday you were very pleased
with Comrade Princip. Oh, Petwurt, look at you, you spent a quiet evening, I don’t think so. You have bruised all your face, at the mouth.’ ‘Ah,’ says Petworth, ‘Ah.
Yes, I walked into a door I didn’t see.’ ‘At the hotel?’ cries Lubijova, ‘You should complain to them. It hurts? A doctor comes here, I think we go to the desk and ask
he looks at you.’ ‘Oh, no,’ says Petworth, ‘It’s just a small bruise.’ ‘A door in your room?’ asks Lubijova, ‘You don’t go out and make
some fights?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, Petwurt, I don’t know if I believe you,’ says Lubijova, ‘You have met a lady writer and now you tell me some
stories. Do you think you can lecture very well, your mouth is important.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And your telephone to your wife, did you lose it?’ asks Lubijova.
‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘You see, you drink so much, and you must go somewhere with a lady writer,’ says Lubijova, ‘Then you cannot do the things you must do. Always you
are a trouble, hah? Well, I go to the desk and arrange again. When do we fix it? In the morning you make lecture, you have free afternoon, and then tonight we go, do you remember it, to the oper,
that will be very nice. Do we say before the oper?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘That’s fine.’ ‘Sit down please and I fix,’ says Lubijova, ‘Then it
is time to go to the university.’ Petworth sits down in one of the red plasticated armchairs; along the row, the big-hatted man who sat here two days ago, still wearing his raincoat despite
the shining sun, looks up. Petworth glances rapidly through the text of his lecture, on ‘The English Language as a Medium of International Communication,’ to ensure that all the pages
survive; they do, in all the novel neatness imposed on them by the lady in
DONAY
’
II
, so long, it seems, ago.