Rates of Exchange (45 page)

‘I was looking for somewhere to smoke, actually,’ says Petworth, ‘There doesn’t seem to be anywhere on this train.’ ‘No, is not permitted, in such a public
place,’ says Plitplov, puffing at his pipe, ‘But of course in my country many things are possible, if you know a someone. And this gentleman my friend here, I am sorry, he does not
speak English, he knows well the crew of this train. He likes to make a lot of travels. Well, sit down, please, make a smoke, it is all right. Also we drink some very fine brandy. Please
won’t you take some? It is not too early in the day for you?’ The attendant, prescient, has already appeared, with a clean new glass; Plitplov fills it from a very large bottle that
sits on the table in front of him. ‘Well, I think we drink to a very fine coincidence,’ says Plitplov, raising his glass, ‘Here I am going to make some businesses in Nogod, I
think you go there too; and on the train who I meet except my very good friend! And your lectures in Glit, tell me? I hope they went very nicely?’ ‘I think they were all right,’
says Petworth, drinking, ‘You didn’t happen to be there, did you? I thought I saw you.’ ‘In Glit?’ cries Plitplov, laughing, ‘At your lectures? I don’t
think so. Oh, my friend, I know in our academical life, lectures are most important, and of course I would like to be there. But really life is more than some lectures. How I wish I could hear you
at Nogod, always you are quite fascinating, as I remember of Cambridge. But no, I must make a congress there. You know perhaps Nogod is a famous place to make a very good congress. But your nice
guide, you have not lost your nice lady guide?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘She’s further down the train.’ ‘How well that lady looks after you,’ says
Plitplov, ‘Please, some more in your glass.’ ‘Only a little,’ says Petworth, ‘Too much.’ ‘I don’t think,’ says Plitplov, ‘In my country
your too much is only a little. Drink it please, it is a special brandy that is kept on this train only for certain people. It is good I am one of them.’

From time to time the train stops; the stations have no names and the train halts at nowhere. People with big suitcases get off, get on; the landscape as they move begins to flatten gradually.
‘And your tour, you like it?’ asks Plitplov, ‘You are pleased to come?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Then you are grateful to me?’ asks Plitplov,
‘You know I had a hand in the pie. Really I am sorry we do not make a bigger time together, but we all have our businesses, and we do not agree on all things, like Hemingway. Oh, you are
wrong there, you cannot be right all the time. How was your strip?’ ‘My strip?’ asks Petworth. ‘Your strip after the opera,’ says Plitplov, ‘You know I did not
come because I had headache.’ ‘Not terribly enjoyable,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, of course, these things, for tourists only,’ says Plitplov, ‘There are better
things I can show you. But there is always your nice lady guide, she doesn’t like it. In Nogod, where do you stay? What is your hotel?’ ‘I don’t know,’ says Petworth.
‘Well, really there is only one, the Universe,’ says Plitplov, ‘I stay there also. Let us take together a little dinner. This gentleman my friend knows very well Nogod. He can
meet you some ladies, find you some dancings, if those are your pleasures. I know you like to make nice time.’ ‘I shall be busy giving lectures,’ says Petworth. ‘Perhaps you
will,’ says Plitplov, ‘Perhaps you will not.’ ‘I don’t understand,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, it is nothing,’ says Plitplov, ‘But here in my country
we are having some little troubles, not very much. But it is the language reform, so a lecture on language could be even a provocation. But don’t think of it, I am wrong to mention. Of course
you will give your lectures, I wish I could hear them.’

The landscape flattens further; beyond the windows show the shores of a large lake. ‘Perhaps you should find now your guide,’ says Plitplov, ‘In Nogod there are three stations,
none of them with names. Take care, my friend, and I will find you. Is not such a big place. I may be a little elusive, but yes, we will make together a little dinner. Is it agreed?’
‘If we can arrange it,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, ‘You know I like to make plans for you, plans of many kinds.’ Petworth walks shakily down the
shaking train, down the wide corridors, through the wooden doors. Marisja Lubijova sits reading in her spectacles: ‘You are gone a long time,’ she says, setting aside her book,
‘Oh, comrade Petwurt, what are you doing? I let you go for a moment, and now you are smelling of drink.’ ‘I met someone, guess who?’ says Petworth. ‘I don’t want
to play game with you,’ says Marisja, staring at him, ‘Who is on the train?’ ‘Dr Plitplov,’ says Petworth. ‘Really, your good old friend?’ says Mari
Lubijova, ‘And he goes to Nogod?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Why does he follow you?’ asks Marisja. ‘I don’t think he does follow me,’ says
Petworth, ‘Our paths just keep crossing.’ ‘Petwurt, I think you are a very simple man, really you do not know anything about life, how to live it. Of course your paths cross. That
is because he likes to follow you. But what is his reason? What does he want from you?’ ‘Nothing, as far as I know,’ says Petworth, breathing brandy fumes. ‘Oh, yes, he does
all this for nothing,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘What does he know about you? How does he know you so well? And your marriage?’ ‘He just came to that course in
Cambridge,’ says Petworth. ‘That is all?’ asks Marisja, ‘I don’t think so. You know, I cannot even imagine him as student. That man, he likes to think he was borned
knowing everything. Well, Petwurt, take up please your baggages. Look, we are nearly here.’

And beyond the windows there is an urban landscape, a blowing wind, washing hanging between tenements, a long black wall, an advertisement, very tattered, for
P’rtyuu Populatuuu
, a
heap of coal, a smell of oil fumes, a platform with people on it. They descend from the train; there is a high glass ceiling, a line of parcel trucks, a concourse, a number of people waiting
expectantly, a few armed men, a forecourt, a few orange taxis. Marisja Lubijova walks firmly to the head of the line and claims one; meanwhile Petworth notices, coming toward them with waves and
shouts, Plitplov and the man with the big black beard. ‘Quick please, inside,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘He does not come again in a taxi with us.’ They drive through the
town, which has a humid atmosphere and a somewhat Mediterranean feel. Unseen shouters shout in the streets, children run about, car horns hoot with abandon, behind half-screened open windows
unshaven men at desks answer telephones. The Hotel Universe is a high modern hotel by the lake, with a pool and a pier; there are display cases of souvenirs in the lobby and a blue Cosmoplot girl
behind the desk. ‘You stay at the Universe,’ says Marisja, conducting the formalities, ‘I must stay at the small annexe behind.’ Petworth’s hotel room is the universal
room, with bigger table lamps in it than has the rest of life, a small television set that will not switch on, and a card on the dressing table that says: ‘Please tickle one: 
 I like very much my stay; 
 it is all right; 
 I disappoint.’ The cafeteria where, a little later, they meet to take a little lunch is called a Butter’um, and is like a
hamburger joint, without hamburgers. ‘Why does he come?’ asks Marisja, over the salad, ‘Now I think our nice weekend will really not be so well.’ Through a glass wall they
can see into the lobby: in the lobby stands Plitplov, talking to the blackbearded man, and a man in a big felt hat, and someone who looks curiously like Professor Rom Rum. ‘We try not to
mind,’ says Marisja, ‘We try to enjoy ourselves. The Mun’stratuu has been very efficient, and many things have been arranged.’

And many have. Over the weekend, Petworth is taken to various spots round the lake, to sit in cafés drinking light beer; he is taken by coach to a monastery high up a hill, where a little
old moustached man issues him with very large felt slippers, which he wears to be shown, by a monk in a great vestment, an ancient hand-illustrated Bible in an alphabet that is now very little
used. ‘Those places,’ says Marisja afterward, wrinkling her nose, ‘How they love to sell their propagandas to the foolish people who think it is all so.’ He is taken to a
circus, the Kyrku Hyvardim, where he looks at the sad-faced lions, the romping monkeys, and feels curiously at home. He is taken to a state-run fish-farm, and given a lecture on rural reform; he is
taken to a cinema to watch films, filmed in the style of heavy photographic realism, evidently shot by big cameras that are not easy to move around, about heroes of labour, campaigns for teaching
things to deaf children, factories with steaming chimneys, and nuclear power stations. Occasionally Marisja Lubijova translates – ‘Katrina advances revolutionary ballet by her prize
posture,’ she explains – but most of it is floating images, as the heavy urgent commentaries go on in the language he still has not managed to learn. Plitplov is not to be seen, until
on Sunday night, after his guide has gone to her annexe behind the Universe, Petworth sees a sign saying
CONGRUSS
’
UM
. Two of the blue armed men guard an open door; through it Petworth can see
a big hall with a platform with many flags on it. Men sit on the platform and in front of them are signs with their names on. Photographers stand at the side of the hall and step forward now and
then, their cameras flashing. To the side of the stage, four translators sit in a box marked
DOL
’
METSCHUU
, their mouths moving rapidly. It seems to Petworth that one of the translators is
Plitplov. One of the blue armed men closes the door, and gestures Petworth away; he goes to the lift and back to his room, where the big table lamps and the small television set seem to look at
him, listen to him.

The weekend is over; in the morning it seems that the cycle will begin again. His lectures in a folder, he goes down to breakfast in the Butter’um; during the meal, of bad black coffee and
bread rolls, Marisja is called away to the telephone. ‘There is a small confusion,’ she says when she comes back, ‘Your tour will not be quite the same. I am afraid you miss your
last city. You do not go after it all to Provd. What a pity, you would like it. But there are some little troubles there that make it not a good idea. Also your lectures here, perhaps you do not
give them. Instead we take you to a nice state farm with tractors, you will have a very nice day. Also tomorrow we try to find you a ticket for a plane back to Slaka, so you have more time to go to
the Wicwok shop and find some nice souvenirs.’ ‘Is it to do with the language reform?’ asks Petworth. ‘Something like that,’ says Mari, ‘It is not very important
and it will all soon be solved. But what a pity for your tour. Now you will not be able to give your best lectures.’ It seems to Petworth that when they go out into the lobby there are rather
more of the blue armed militiamen than usual, and that, at the nice state farm with the tractors, as they trudge along furrows, Marisja Lubijova is whiter and more tense than he is used to. When
they get back to the hotel, the sign saying congruss’um has gone; after he goes to his room, the telephone rings. ‘You are alone?’ says a voice, ‘No person is with
you?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘Is that Plitplov?’ ‘Someone of that sort,’ says the voice, ‘You wonder about a dinner, you think you are
neglected.’ ‘I haven’t worried,’ says Petworth. ‘I think we make a raincheck, you understand this expression, it is American,’ says the voice, ‘I like to
take now the way back to Slaka. I have an anxious wife, very delicate, and she has not seen me for three days. Do you make your lectures?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, a
little word of advice from an old friend,’ says the voice, ‘I think you tell your nice lady guide you like to go back to Slaka too. It is not so hard to arrange. You are important
official visitor.’ ‘I fly back tomorrow,’ says Petworth. ‘Is good,’ says the voice, ‘I hope the planes go. Sleep very well, my friend.’