Rates of Exchange (39 page)

In the dark auditorium, heads all round them have turned to stare. Two bassoonists rise to peer critically over the top of the orchestra pit at them. ‘I think we’re disturbing
everybody,’ murmurs Petworth. ‘Comrade Plitplov, I think they will stop this oper if you are not more quiet,’ says Lubijova. ‘It is you,’ hisses Plitplov. ‘Well,
we don’t talk,’ says Lubijova, ‘I explain you all in the interlude, Comrade Petwurt.’ ‘In the interval,’ whispers Plitplov from the rear. ‘I am
interpreter, I am right,’ whispers Lubijova, firmly, ‘See, again arises the curtain. Now we will be quiet and perhaps you will make the sense for yourself. Look, the cave of the
magician.’ ‘The shop of the apothek,’ hisses Plitplov, before he subsides in the row behind. Left to his own resources, Petworth stares up at the great stage, where the voices
sound and the complex musical codes continue to unwind. One thing is clear: whatever the
miseen- scène
, during that brief dropping of the curtain, much has changed in the imaginary
world of artifice that is being composed and constructed just above his head. Perhaps much stage-time has passed, or everyone has died, or turned into something quite different, for the mind and
senses are evidently being taken toward a new landscape of deceit and desire. Continuities may exist; the boy who was previously dressed as a robber could well be the same boy who is now dressed as
a girl, though this could be an error; the coquette-ish maid in the dirndl who formerly carried her pot of poison might well be the girl now dressed as a cavalry officer, with moustaches, though
this could be an optical illusion. Sexual arrangements are clearly other than they were. The boy-girl with the plum in her breast has either made a rapid recovery, or died, along with everyone
else, but her erotic attention is now devoted to the magician or apothek, whom Petworth had previously understood to be her father. Meanwhile the boy dressed as a girl is being wooed by the young
wife, or mistress, or perhaps assistant, of the magician, or perhaps apothek, though whether because she has unmasked his disguise, or because her tastes are oblique, or because she is a man who
thinks he is a woman, is hard to surmise.

Shards and fragments, chaos and Babel; Petworth sits in his plush seat in the great auditorium, where from the circle of boxes the audience in their costumes of bland civility stare down onto
the stage, and looks at the spectacle. Above him the faces move, painted and prettified, the cosmetics and the false beards gleam, the cadenced words, in the language he still does not know, spill
out in their mysterious series, high sound that flows out erotically over him, as if his body is being washed in a shower of noise. The operatic confusion seems entirely in tune with that
tumultuous exhaustion, that waning of utterance, that fading of self into contingent event that comes over a man in the midst of a difficult journey. Yet the mind, even when worn, still seeks
order; lost in the garden of forking paths, where the narratives divide and multiply, he struggles to find a law of series, a system of signification, discover a story. But the author of what is
being enacted in front of him seems to have little regard for the normal laws of probability, the familiar rules of genre and expectation. It is no longer clear to him who desires whom, nor which
of any two partners is of which sex, nor, if he or she is, whether he or she will remain so. Identities have no proper barriers; people seem facets of each other. A singer appears who does not
sing. The magician, or perhaps apothek, has big shoulders and many gold teeth; his wife, mistress, or assistant, has a fine neck and a mole above her right breast. Only impersonation seems true,
the charade itself, the falsehood that is being created, the codes that proliferate and turn into counter-code. His mind drifts, dislodges, seems to find a room somewhere else in the big dark city
he knows he is in, a room where water pours over him, and his body is being warmly touched.

His body is being warmly touched: ‘Do you like it, do you like?’ a voice asks, while someone shakes at his arm and tugs his hand. He opens his eyes; he is in the great baroque
auditorium, with the lights ablaze. The orchestra has left the pit, the curtain is down, the stacks of boxes high above him are emptying of the party officials, the generals, the
décolletée ladies. ‘I hope you like it, they make it very well, I think,’ says Lubijova, her hand on his arm, ‘Of course, that poor boy, for him it is very
difficult. He asks himself, is that man a woman, or the woman a man? And if there is this confusion, how many more? No wonder he is puzzled, and cannot believe his eyes or his senses.’
‘Quite,’ says Petworth. ‘But in the ending all comes clear, if not in the way those people intend,’ says Lubijova, ‘Well, for an oper, such confusions are essential.
Always an oper is a little bit erotical. Now, do you like to go in the foyer and make a promenade?’ ‘Do I?’ asks Petworth, looking around. ‘Yes, you do,’ says
Lubijova, firmly, pulling her stole around her, and rising, ‘That is what we always like to do at the interlude.’ ‘Perhaps you like to visit also the men’s room,’ says
Plitplov, solicitously, from the row behind, ‘The next act is very long, and I will come with you.’ ‘Don’t you like to take a drink that is a bit like champagne?’ asks
Lubijova, leading the way toward the aisle, ‘Or if you like it, a pancake that is often very good? And perhaps also you will see your nice lady in red who likes to look out for you.’
‘I don’t think she was looking for me,’ says Petworth, struggling along behind. ‘Of course for you,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you think we do not know what is your
favourite interest?’

In the wide aisle, the people flow toward the exit; in her stole, Lubijova hurries in front. Following, Petworth stumbles, over, he finds, Plitplov, who has somehow managed to drop his programme
and has bent down to retrieve it. ‘My good friend,’ hisses Plitplov, rising suddenly, and clutching urgently at Petworth’s sleeve, ‘don’t you see now how foolish you
have been?’ ‘Foolish?’ asks Petworth, looking at him. ‘Please talk quietly, pretend you discuss the opera,’ says Plitplov, walking beside him, ‘Of course, you
have compromised everyone who is your friend. Now that one, your guide, knows everything. She sees right to your heart. Of course she knows what relations you have made this afternoon. And with
what a nice lady.’ ‘That was a private matter,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, my friend,’ says Plitplov, ‘Do you think you are in the Cambridge of Russell? What is a
private matter? You cause trouble for that lady, I think also for me. Do you see I cannot trust you any more? And so you think this work contains a problematic of identity? Of course, you are
right, with your sharp critical acumen. Ah, Miss Lubijova, I hope we don’t make you wait. We dispute a little this opera.’ ‘But you miss the promenade,’ says Lubijova,
leading them out into the foyer, ‘And I think that is really why people come to an oper. To see and to be seen. It is one of our events, don’t you like to join it?’ ‘My dear
lady,’ says Plitplov, bowing, ‘Clearly you are our guide.’ Petworth looks around; the foyer has been strangely transformed. Evidently many intervening doors have been thrown open,
to create a long curving corridor that leads, through plush passages, from one mirrored room to another, in a great circle round the entire building.

And round the opened-out concourse the people walk, in stately procession, some in one direction, some in the other: the party officials, the military figures, the décolletée
ladies. The clothes are fine, the dresses bright, the shirt fronts glow; they walk slowly, as if to some civil dance, the music from the opera still in their heads. Some carry glasses of sparkling
wine, others fine food on plates; the high-ranking officer walks by, on his arm the cleavaged lady, her hair in a bun, her body seemingly split bare and open down past the ribcage, and each of them
carries a large ice-cream, topped with artificial foam. ‘They say if you walk here at the oper you will soon see everyone in the world you know,’ says Lubijova, as they join the moving
slow circle, with Petworth to one side of her, Plitplov to the other. ‘Of course not everybody likes that,’ says Plitplov. ‘I think now you are learning our country very
well,’ says Lubijova, ‘You see our academical life, at close quarter. Our literary life, at very close quarter. And now our cultural life, which all support, the workers and their
wives.’ ‘Oh, these are the workers and their wives?’ asks Plitplov, chuckling. ‘Oh, who do you like to say they are?’ asks Lubijova. ‘Of course,’ says
Plitplov, smiling, ‘The apparatchiks and their mistresses. ‘Well, there are workers of the head and the hand,’ says Lubijova. ‘And some other parts of the body also,’
says Plitplov, ‘You know what we say, some advance on their knees, some on their backs. Well, I think it is not hard to recognize those who make a horizontal progress.’ ‘Ah, I
understand you,’ says Lubijova, ‘You like to say that the wives of our leaders are horizontals.’ ‘So you admit they are our leaders, not the workers,’ says Plitplov.
‘So you accuse our party officials of sexual crimes?’ says Lubijova.

‘Well, my good old friend,’ says Plitplov, suddenly putting out his hand to Petworth, ‘I hope you enjoy your last night in Slaka. I am afraid this occasion is not so pleasant
for me. I think I go now, so let us say farewell.’ ‘Oh, no, you don’t leave?’ cries Lubijova, smiling. ‘I expect my wife has a headache, and she does not see me all
day,’ says Plitplov, ‘Also you know I rose very early to complete my businesses, so I might hear a little piece of your lecture and make a lunch with you. It has not been a day of great
pleasures, but I try to do my duty. Still, I know now you have this guide who is watching you. I hope you will be careful in your journey through the forest.’ ‘I’m sorry to have
disappointed you,’ says Petworth, ‘But I hope we’ll meet when I come back to Slaka.’ ‘Oh, I don’t think it,’ says Plitplov, ‘I like to make many
affairs all over the country.’ ‘Comrade Petwurt also,’ says Lubijova. ‘So I say goodbye, my friend,’ says Plitplov, ‘Take please a very good care. You are not
always so sensible. And when you turn back to England, give please my love to your Lottie. You know I am fond of her. Tell her I am well, except for some headaches. Also that I succeed quite well,
despite some petty criticisms and enemies. Perhaps she gave you a message for me when you telephoned to her?’ ‘Well, no,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes your telephone call
tonight,’ says Lubijova, ‘It was successful? I hope you did not forget that important thing I have arranged for you?’ ‘No, I didn’t forget it,’ says Petworth,
‘I just wasn’t able to make it.’ ‘You don’t make it?’ asks Lubijova, stopping suddenly. ‘No, I reached the hotel desk just too late,’ says Petworth,
‘I was only a few seconds after six, but they wouldn’t let me call.’

In the great mirrored corridor, under the gleaming chandeliers, Lubijova stands and stares at Petworth. The promenading circle behind them, halted in its passage, backs up; somewhere a glass is
dropped. ‘Oh, really, yes, what a pity,’ cries Lubijova, angrily, ‘How my nose bleeds for you. Yes, it is very difficult to leave a lecture at noon and be at a hotel desk by
six.’ ‘So you don’t speak to your Lottie?’ asks Plitplov. ‘You go off all afternoon with your lady writer, and then you are late to call your wife?’ says
Lubijova, ‘And what does she think now? Don’t you wonder it?’ Their movement arrested, the promenaders behind are forming a curious circle around the quarrel: the party officials
in their evening dress, the generals and the air-force marshals, the Vietnamese ambassador, perhaps, in his denim workclothes, with his retinue, the Russian ambassadress, perhaps, in her tiara,
with hers. ‘I’ll call her tomorrow,’ says Petworth, ‘I don’t think she’ll worry.’ ‘You do not call her tomorrow,’ says Lubijova,
‘Tomorrow you go to Glit, very early. And from there a call to the West takes perhaps one week. Also don’t think I try to arrange it. I have tried for you, Petwurt, and I see what you
do.’ Troubled, disoriented, Petworth stares round the curious grotesque circle of official faces, and it even seems that there are some he recognizes. But if this confusion, how many more; he
cannot believe his eyes or his senses. The chandeliers are bright, and even the ceiling is mirrored; up there is Petworth, standing on his head. Looking up, Petworth suddenly sees himself enfolded
by the redness of a dress; then lips are descending on his face, a kiss is planted on his cheek. ‘Angus darling, how wonderful,’ says Budgie Steadiman, fine in a long velvet dress and
cloak, with a tiara, ‘Aren’t you enjoying the opera? And don’t you wish I was in it?’

‘Oh, Budgie,’ says Petworth. ‘Petwurt, Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, ‘Not another one. I think you are impossible.’ ‘Who’s your nice little
friend?’ asks Budgie, ‘You must meet mine.’ A small, round, bald man in a worn dinner jacket, holding a cigar, steps forward: ‘Hey, Professorim Petwort and guide,’ he
says, ‘Still very tough lady, hah, I think so.’ ‘Good evening, Mr Tankic,’ says Petworth. ‘Felix is engaged tonight,’ says Budgie, ‘And, yearning for
opera, I succumbed to the attentions of another.’ Tankic grins mischievously, and raises his cigar in salutation: ‘You keep secret?’ he says, ‘A little assignation.’
‘And dear Mr Plitplov,’ says Budgie, ‘My second favourite dinner guest.’ ‘Oh, do we meet somewhere before?’ asks Plitplov, slinking obscurely toward the safety
of the crowd. ‘Only at my drunken table last night,’ says Budgie, ‘Strange how one always meets the people one knows at an opera.’ ‘Who is this?’ whispers
Lubijova, ‘Who is your friend?’ ‘It’s awfully rude to whisper,’ says Budgie Steadiman, ‘Come into our box. We’re drinking champagne.’ I do not think
we are expected,’ says Lubijova. ‘In official box, all are expected,’ says Tankic, lifting a velvet curtain, to reveal the dark red gloom of the space inside, and the bright
lights of the auditorium gleaming beyond. ‘And then we’re going on to a strip club,’ says Budgie, ‘You really must come, Angus. I should love to take you there and strip
you. Oh, do meet the rest of my party.’ In the darkness of the box, on red plush chairs, two people are sitting, a couple, holding hands. ‘Oh, well, it is the feder man,’ says
Professor Rom Rum, rising from the darkness and smiling, smart in a tailed evening suit, ‘You enjoy the piece?’ ‘And you must meet . . .’ says Budgie. ‘I have,’
says Petworth, staring at the other chair, in which sits, not in batik but in a low-cut black gauzed dress, the blonde magical realist novelist Katya Princip.