Rates of Exchange (14 page)

‘The rain affects our production, but is still a record,’ says Lubijova, pointing out of the window. ‘Her name is Lottie, I think,’ says Plitplov, chuckling
reminiscently, and beginning to stuff his curved pipe with garbage, ‘Always I found her the most amusing company.’ The driver is overtaking again; stones explode in the wheel arches,
dust rises, headlamps flash, horns blare, Petworth bounces, up and down, up and down, his head hitting the roof. ‘Isn’t he driving rather fast?’ he asks, shutting his eyes.
‘Here we like in cars to go with a little adventure,’ says Plitplov. ‘Also it is good, because we are late at the airport,’ says Lubijova. ‘It is a very boring
airport,’ says Plitplov, ‘Not as in the West.’ ‘I do not think it boring,’ says Lubijova, ‘I found a seat and read almost one hundred pages of Hemingway. Comrade
Petwurt, please. Your eyes are shut and here is coming Slaka, don’t you like to see it?’ Petworth opens his eyes: the sun’s glare has died, the grey trucks have all disappeared,
the road in front has widened out and is busy. To the left the big power station stands up, with its vast metal chimneys; webs of power line thread away from it in every direction across glinting
marshes. There are low factories at the roadside, surrounded by high fences and barred gates, each one having a board outside with a list of figures on it, topped with hammer and sickle. ‘Our
state industrial enterprises’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you see their remarkable figures of production?’ ‘Really, Hemingway,’ says Plitplov, leaning across Petworth, and
chuckling quietly, ‘My dear young lady, do you really like to read him?’ Now, beyond the factories, huge blocks of prefabricated apartment buildings, thirty or forty storeys high, rise
up above scoured and naked earth. ‘Here they build a great and startling project,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you surprise I like Hemingway? Perhaps you think he is decadent.’

Petworth looks out at the apartments, which look duller from the ground than from the air. Dust blows between the blocks; there is the Eastern European spectacle of much vacant open space. Few
cars are parked here, few people walk, no children play; no shops are visible, and on the ends of the apartments are great maps of the complex for the guidance of the residents. ‘No, he is a
fine writer, and his style good,’ says Plitplov, grinning round his pipe, ‘But I do not think he is very tolerant of women.’ Behind the apartments the river has overspilled its
banks; amid the marshland is a large brick building, resembling a sombre domed warehouse. ‘The river, it is the Niyt,’ says Lubijova, ‘And also there the cathedral of Valdopin,
not very interesting. Well, I am not professor, but I think he makes his women very well.’ Now the taxi races at speed down a long tree-lined boulevard, with tram-tracks running down the
centre, and on either side old, dirty-faced apartment blocks in the familiar Continental style, from which balustraded balconies stick out, like Victorian corseted breasts. ‘Don’t you
observe his suspicion of female treacheries?’ asks Plitplov, puffing at his pipe, ‘Don’t you notice his hairy-chested hero?’ ‘The old part of Slaka, really not the
best,’ says Lubijova, ‘You can see here there were many fightings, where our people made a heroic stand of 1944. Well, perhaps I do not know so much about these things, but I think
Hemingway would like very much to be a woman.’ Petworth peers out at the bullet-pitted stucco, broken balconies, eyeless fac¸ades, mostly unrestored. ‘You are talking of
Hemingway?’ cries Plitplov, leaning across Petworth in excitement, ‘The author of
Whom the Bell Tolls For
and
Men With No Women?
Don’t you observe his cult of the
masculine? The buildings break, a view appears, of the wide river, crossed by a long suspension bridge, hung by wires from a gantry to one side only, and beyond it a craggy outcrop, where there are
spires, old roofs, the crenellated mass of a castle. ‘Now the Bridge of Anniversary May 15,’ says Lubijova, ‘Also the castle of Vlam, from century eighteen, I hope you try hard to
go there. Perhaps his works have only subjective ethical realizations, but I think he well understands the plight of the modern woman.’

They have crossed the great bridge, entered the heart of the city. ‘His women are stony bitches, and the men must resist their destructive tendencies,’ says Plitplov. There is a
park, and greenery. ‘To the right, the state operhaus,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you know, you will go there in your programme. You are wrong. His women are of a new kind, and he
understands them well.’ Outside the state opera house, a heavy building of ornate nineteenth-century splendour, built in the Germanic style, large posters announce the performance of a work
called
Vedontakal Vrop
. The boulevard leads on into the city; on central tracks a bright pink tram, towing a trailer, both vehicles ancient, survivors of more than one war and revolution,
rattles along. The taxi driver speeds to pass, on the inside, the tram, tight-packed with people, some riding on its wooden steps or clutching onto its ornate ironwork. On the forehead of the tram,
a sign says
VIPNU
; enthroned in the prow, ringing her bell violently at the taxi, is a hard-bosomed, uniformed young woman. The tyres skid on the cobbles; the taxi sways.
‘Well, we do not lack an expert,’ says Plitplov, puffing up thick smoke, ‘Let us ask Dr Petworth for his opinion.’ ‘The statue of our great revolutionary poet of 1848,
Hrovdat,’ says Lubijova, ‘There you see him on the horse he falls from when he recites his great poem in the battle. Beyond, you do not see it very well, the university, where teaches
Dr Plitplov, I think.’ ‘Well, Dr Petworth, you do not speak,’ says Plitplov, ‘Perhaps you like to be diplomatic? But give us please your serious critical assessment. Do you
say Hemingway really likes to be a woman?’

‘Now our monument of solidarity with the Russian people,’ says Lubijova, gesturing to a vast mass of statuary in the centre of the boulevard: in a mixed mass of styles,
constructivist and abstract, realistic and epical, a big stone soldier holding aloft a rifle stands amidst a huddled mass of venerating stone women. ‘Well,’ says Petworth,
‘Obviously he did like to emphasize the masculine role, with all the bullfighting and big-game hunting.’ ‘We do not forget their help,’ says Lubijova. ‘On the other
hand, he had the instincts of a great writer,’ says Petworth, ‘And there’s something very androgynous about his work.’ ‘Yes, androgynous, what is that?’ asks
Plitplov. ‘Oh, you don’t know that word?’ asks Lubijova, ‘Well, it is not so common. It means when a man likes to be a woman.’ ‘It means thus?’ asks
Plitplov. ‘Well, it really means possessing male and female in one,’ says Petworth, ‘As so many writers do.’ ‘So you are agreeing with this person?’ asks
Plitplov, turning. ‘I understand both points,’ says Petworth. ‘I see, my friend,’ says Plitplov, ‘Well, I do not think this is a very solid critical assessment. Really
we had much better literary conversation when we are in Cambridge. You are much shrewder then.’ ‘Here almost the centrum,’ says Lubijova, ‘Don’t you like very much our
trees?’ But now Plitplov is leaning forward, and saying something to the driver; the tyres screech on the cobbles, and the taxi stops suddenly, producing much loud hooting from behind, and a
clanging of bells as the tram marked vipnu clatters past them the white-bloused driver gesticulating from the prow. Plitplov now sits there, his hands pressed to his head, his face in a grimace; he
turns one eye and looks at Petworth.

‘Excuse me, my friend,’ he says, ‘All of a sudden I am having a headache. Perhaps this loud music you like does not suit me. I think I make excuse and leave you.’
‘Really?’ says Petworth, ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘Well, you are nicely looked after, by this lady you like to agree with,’ says Plitplov, ‘She makes sure you
find your hotel. But for me it is better to rest. Also my wife is a very delicate person, who is very nervous that she does not see me for more than five hours, while I struggle to the airport to
make my duties to my good old friend.’ ‘But how will you get home?’ asks Petworth. ‘I think he manages,’ says Lubijova, unconcerned in her corner of the taxi.
‘My apartment is one block from here,’ says Plitplov, ‘It is lucky coincidence.’ ‘Yes, I should have a rest,’ says Petworth. ‘Please, my good friend, do
not worry,’ says Plitplov, stretching out an arm, ‘My pain is severe, but does not concern you. You are very important guest, with major tasks to perform.’ ‘Perhaps better
you come with us to that chemist shop,’ says Lubijova, ‘They will give you a mixture.’ ‘Those things are no use,’ says Plitplov, ‘Beside, I am strong and will be
better soon. So I leave you. Madame Lubijova, look please well after my friend. He is nice man, and really his lectures are sometimes quite good. Even if I do not agree at all his poor assessment
of Hemingway. Well, Dr Petworth, goodbye.’ Plitplov opens the door of the taxi, and gets out ‘Shall I see you again?’ Petworth asks as he stands above him on the curbside,
‘I do hope I haven’t . . .’ ‘As we say here, the days will tell what they will tell,’ says Plitplov, ‘But one day our paths could cross again, fate is like that.
Perhaps I come to one of your talks, unless I am too busy. Perhaps even you come to hear at the university my famous lecture; it is on the hairy-chested hero of Ernest Hemingway. Now please, put
inside your head, I shut this door. Oh, but one thing.’ ‘Yes?’ asks Petworth. ‘Remember, when you telephone to your nice wife, to Lottie,’ says Plitplov, ‘Give
her the love of Plitplov. Tell her you see me, and all is well. No need to mention that headache.’

Plitplov slams the door; the taxi jerks forward; Petworth, face to the glass, stares out at Plitplov as he stands at the roadside, putting, in a final gesture, one forefinger to his nose. Then
there is a screech as the taxi, moving out into the traffic stream, narrowly misses a brown Ford Cortina, passing them at speed; when he looks back through the rear window, the pavement where
Plitplov had stood is quite empty, as if he has departed in some great magical leap. ‘Now the new part of the city,’ says Lubijova, in a tone of improved good humour, ‘Here do you
see our new shopping and commerce street, all the world knows about it. Who can wonder many congresses like to come here?’ ‘Quite,’ says Petworth, staring down a great wide
central boulevard built in the style of international modernism, ‘Do you think I offended him?’ In the violet dusk, the showpiece buildings line the great street, in glass and steel;
there are office blocks and stores, goods in half-lit windows, high flashing neon signs saying
WICWOK
and
JUGGI JUGGI
,
MUG
and
COMFLUG
. ‘I thinks he likes it very well, to get a free taxi right next to his apartment,’ says Lubijova, ‘Our department store, mug, you must buy some
glass there. Also the foreign currency store Wicwok.’ Many pink trams fill the boulevard; traffic lights flash; a few passers-by with overcoats on walk by the stores in the darkening and now
windy evening. ‘I shouldn’t have said that about Hemingway,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Lubijova, laughing, ‘You were very good. He thinks he is famous
critic, always writing in the newspaper. And his bad lecture on Hemingway, I heard it twenty times when I was student. That is why I teased him. Look, here the Sportsdrome, of Olympical standard.
It holds ten thousand spectator all at one time.’ ‘So you do know him?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Lubijova, ‘He knows me well. He gives the examen on my
thesis.’

Over the wide boulevard, great flagpoles project; onto them men on hydraulic platforms, elevated over grey trucks, are hanging great banners. ‘Look, do you see, they put out the nice
flags?’ cries Lubijova, ‘Do you know why? Don’t you guess?’ ‘A parade?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, Petwurt, you are clever,’ says Lubijova, ‘Now I
know why we ask you. Yes, soon it is our Day of National Culture, when our writers and painters and teachers march the streets. Of course you will spectate it, it is on your programme.’
‘When do I see my programme?’ asks Petworth. ‘Later, at the hotel,’ says Lubijova, ‘And so this Plitplov, he is your good old friend? Perhaps you know all about
him?’ ‘No, not at all,’ says Petworth, ‘He’s just a chance acquaintance.’ ‘Here we turn to the old part of the city, all the buildings in the older
style,’ says Lubijova, ‘There a museum of old pianos, there the state theatre, there the Russian Embassy. But he tells he knows you very well.’ ‘He doesn’t,’
says Petworth. ‘Well, perhaps he likes to make himself more famous, by knowing you,’ says Lubijova, ‘And now you disappoint him, how very sad. Oh, look, those up there, do you
know them?’ The taxi is now moving down a narrow street, with high, creeper-clad public buildings hemming in each side; above the street there hang, many times life-size, great stylized
photo-portraits of the faces of several solemn men. Depicted in the mode of heroic realism, the faces wear beards, moustaches, expressions of moral seriousness, the conviction of being characters
in the world historical sense. ‘Marx, Lenin, Brezhnev,’ says Petworth. ‘Please,
Comrade
Marx,
Comrade
Lenin,
Comrade
Brezhnev,’ says Lubijova
rebukingly, ‘Also Comrade Grigoric, our great liberator, and Comrade Wanko, president of the praesidium of the party. But he seems to know very well your wife.’

Petworth stares up at the solemn photographs, flapping above: ‘As far as I know, he’s only met her once,’ he says, ‘In a pub in Cambridge.’ ‘Oh, beautiful
Cambridge,’ says Lubijova, ‘Of it he has the most happy memories. Of course, he would love it. He likes history so much he wants it all for himself. But why does he say that? He is not
a foolish man.’ ‘I can’t imagine,’ says Petworth. ‘Over there the puppet theatre, there the Military Academy,’ says Lubijova, ‘And your wife, Comrade
Petwurt, do you know her very well?’ ‘We’ve been married thirteen years,’ says Petworth, looking out at a large building, with a colonnaded entrance, on the steps of which
many crop-headed young soldiers in uniform sit, smoking, holding portfolios under their arms. ‘Well, that is long?’ says Lubijova, ‘But people are secrets to each other. In my
country, men and women do not get on so well. Of course our divorces are liberal and marriage is not so important a thing any more. Is it so in your country?’ ‘A bit like that,’
says Petworth. ‘Perhaps that is why you like to travel to Slaka,’ says Lubijova, ‘You have some wishes you cannot make real at home, so you go to somewhere and hope they will
happen. Often I feel so. Look, here, the square where is your hotel. It is Plazsci Wang’liki, remember it, please, because you will need to find it again. I hope you like it?’
‘Yes,’ says Petworth, looking out; the square has high old buildings round it; a café with tables sits on a corner; signs flash, saying
PECTOPAH
, and
C
OPT
, and
SCH
’
VEPPII
, and
HOTEL
SLAKA
. There is a gravelled area in the middle, with shade trees; under it there is a stopping and meeting place for the pink trams.