Rates of Exchange (16 page)

Petworth washes, soaplessly, for this is one of those European nations that thinks it unwise to risk giving soap to people; then he goes back into the great bedroom, where bright flashes from
the gantries of trams keep lighting up the dark ceiling. The spaces of hotel rooms bring out trouble and unease, there is trouble now in his mind. He is no longer lost, but found; he has two
guides, but each warns him against the other. Removing his pyjamas from his blue suitcase, and placing them on the treble bed, he tries to remember Cambridge, and summer school, to recall some
occasion, some opportunity of an occasion, for real intimacy between Plitplov, that beaming bird-like man, and his dark wife; but memory fills only with lectures given or listened to, college
lunches, small wine parties in tutors’ rooms, a short trip in a punt, a longer visit to a pub, and nothing more. Replacing his travel-stained shirt with a new one, he thinks of Lubijova,
severe but gay, tense but laughing, waiting downstairs for him now in her mohair hat, helping but enquiring, protecting but probing, watching his luggage and his contacts; they report to theirs,
and ours to ours. Picking up his briefcase, laden with Chomsky and Chatman, Lyons and Fowler, and putting it away in the back of the wardrobe, the door of which will not shut, he tries to think of
the strange purposes for which he, or perhaps even another Petworth, bald and bespectacled, from another university, in another subject, might have been brought here; no sense comes to his head.
The mirrors glint, in a place where mirrors are dangerous. Plitplov leaves the taxi, Lubijova checks his messages. The lights flicker, as if weary of their business; Petworth looks round the room
and recognizes in it, for all its space and grandeur, a true hotel room, a fitting landscape for solitude and misery, an appropriate outward architecture for the psychic world within.

Petworth goes over to the window and looks out, to glimpse the city to which he has committed himself; a trapped bee buzzes fitfully between the double panes. Below is the square, paved with
cobbles, and quiet, save for the sound of the pink trams that grind from track to track and halt to let a few overcoated travellers on and off. Over where the sign says
PECTOPAH
, a few empty tables with their umbrellas downfolded stand on the pavement. A man stands selling balloons, which bob above his head, to two small children; another offers
newspapers and magazines from a makeshift wooden stall on bicycle wheels, though no one stops to buy. A number of crop-headed soldiers from the Military Academy, holding their portfolios, talk to a
group of girls in cotton dresses and dark jackets, in an age-old fashion. Across the square are high houses with pointed, twisting gables; around their bottoms are a few dull shop fac¸ades,
with small lighted signs that say
LITTI
and
FILIATAYII
. Beyond, on the skyline, a few domed knobs in the eastern taste stand out, perhaps the tops of
the governmental buildings close by. The blue daylight is shading off to black, and a dusty wind blows through the square, stirring the gravel. Down a street to one side, Marx and Lenin, Brezhnev
and Grigoric and Wanko, solemn-faced and replete with historical understanding, bounce in the breeze. Now the balloon man is pulling down his balloons and going home; the newspaper seller covers
his newspapers with a plastic sheet, folds his stall so that it magically becomes a bicycle, and wheels it away. Petworth turns too, picking up his key, and going through the anteroom and out into
the corridor.

This, too, has grown gloomy since he left it. Bleak yellow wall lights illuminate it thinly; the plastic flowers stand grimly in their stone bowls. Petworth struggles with his key to lock the
door; the elderly floormaid, as if expecting him, stands in her white pinafore a few feet away. She watches him as he goes to press the button for the elevator, as he steps into the mirrored box to
make his descent. The buttons are mysterious, but he presses one near the bottom; he descends, stops, and the doors open, just a little, to give a second’s glimpse of a great room where some
dance is in progress, men in military uniform dancing with girls in lurex dresses. Then they close, descent occurs, they open again: to reveal the familiar lobby, where the bald porter stands,
smoking a cigarette, the sign saying
LITTI
flashes, Arabs in burnouses crowd round the reception desk. Big ferns stand in pots; small men sit in red plasticated armchairs,
reading
P’rtyii Populatiii
. In one of the red armchairs is a grey shoulderbag, and a copy of Hemingway’s
Men Without Women
; but Marisja Lubijova is visible nowhere,
nowhere at all. Petworth sits down in the adjoining chair; the man in the next chair along drops his newspaper. ‘You are English, I think, it is the shoes,’ says the man, ‘I have
doctoral qualifications, and perfect taste. If antiques interest you, I know some good ones, for dollars or pounds.’ A big-hatted man in a raincoat sits down in the next chair along.
‘No, thank you,’ says Petworth. ‘My tram,’ says the man with perfect taste, getting up. Behind the long registration desk, a door marked
DIRIG
’
AYII
opens, and a girl in a mohair hat comes out.

‘Oh, Comrade Petwurt,’ says Marisja Lubijova, walking brightly toward him, ‘Only a moment ago you are gone, and now you are come again. How please is your room, do you find it
comfortable?’ ‘Fine, almost too grand,’ says Petworth. ‘I told you, you are very important visitor,’ says Lubijova, ‘This is our best hotel, right next to the
government places; all the high offficials come here and make their business and their pleasures. Petwurt, Petwurt, I have been trying to arrange your phone-call. Really they are such bureaucrats.
I have to book a time and you can only call at that time. I have told them eleven o’clock tonight, is that good, is that all right for you?’ ‘Very good,’ says Petworth.
‘Well, now, shall we be like the party officials, and make our business?’ asks Lubijova, lifting up Hemingway and sitting down herself. The big-hatted man in the raincoat stands up,
moves one chair nearer, and sits down again. ‘Why don’t we do it in the bar, over a drink?’ asks Petworth, ‘I see there’s one in the hotel.’ ‘Oh, you see
that, do you?’ says Lubijova, ‘I think you check all the important things. So, you like to drink and make business at the same time.’ ‘Unless you have to go quickly,’
says Petworth. ‘Petwurt, in my country, here we always put our work before our homes,’ says Lubijova, ‘That is why we make such a good economical progress. You are my work, if you
must go there to the bar, then I must go there also.’ ‘We don’t have to,’ says Petworth. ‘Comrade Petwurt, don’t you think I am teasing you, just a
little?’ asks Lubijova, getting up and seizing him by the arm, ‘Do you like a bar with some gipsies? It’s over here, down the steps. And who did you talk to when I was in
Dirig’ayii? Did you find a friend?’

III

So Petworth and his guide go down the steps, beneath the hotel, and into a dark, dank, barrel-roofed area which once must have been cellars. But, like so many cellars in the
modern world, this has been transmuted into a place of delights. A narrow stone passageway is lit with dim red lights; it leads to a low doorway, a heavy curtain, a hat-check girl, a scrolled
ironwork sign saying
Barr’ii Tzigane
, and, through the curtain, the bar itself, which has been done out in gipsy style. On the rough whitewashed walls, murals depict the joyous
footloose life of the wanderer, the fiddling Romany, the happy piping shepherd. In round-roofed alcoves are small red tables with small red-checked tablecloths; on them stand small red table lamps
with small red-checked shades. The waitresses who pass about serving the clientele wear small, red-checked dresses; the clientele itself is on the sombre side, consisting almost entirely of
besuited gentlemen, some drinking alone, some in large male groups of the commercial kind; evidently this is where Rumanian oil drinks with Russian grain, Albanian olives with Vietnamese rice. Half
of a gipsy caravan has been inserted into one wall, to form a bar where, in bright Romany costume, a very gloomy barman stands, slowly shaking drinks. It is on the high stools in front of him that
there is one touch of joy; here is sitting a bright row of girls, in colourful dresses and silvery eye make-up, drinking, giggling, and swinging their long legs.

‘Well, it is very typical,’ says Lubijova, as they sit down together in one of the alcoves, ‘Of course such places are a little bit touristic, and the drinks are expensive. But
perhaps that is quite interesting for you, because you are a foreigner. Also here it is possible to get all your favourite Western drinks. What do you like? Perhaps a ginnitoniki or a bols?’
‘No, I think something local,’ says Petworth, lighting a cigarette, ‘I like to try the local things.’ ‘Yes, also you like to smoke, I see,’ says Lubijova,
loosening her long grey coat, to reveal a long grey dress, ‘I wonder what else you like to do before you leave my country? First you make embraces, then you want to drink, now you smoke. I
wonder: do you mean to be trouble to me?’ ‘I don’t think so,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, it is good you wish a Slakan drink,’ says Lubijova, ‘Perhaps it means
already you are liking it here. I hope so. Well, tell me, what do you wish better? A peach brandy, we call it
rot’vitti
, or a wodka?’ ‘I’ve tried the
rot’vitti
,’ says Petworth, ‘So I think the vodka.’ ‘Oh, of course,’ cries Lubijova, ‘You have been here already a whole four hour, of course you
have tried
rot’vitti
. Well, wodka, tell me, what do you wish better? Wodka simple or wodka scented? Scented comes from a bottle with a long herb inside it, do you never try it? Then I
get that for you. I am sorry, there is no music for you, what a pity. Often there is tzigane music, but even our gipsies like to make a little rest for Sunday. It is not too dull for you?’
‘Oh, no,’ says Petworth, looking round, at the men in their suits, looking contemplatively down into their drinks, the commercial groups chattering, the glowering barman, the girls
along the barstools.

Sunday seems in the soul. The girls, at least, are exotic: two are blonde, with bouffant hair, low white blouses, tight black skirts and high boots with decorated tops; the other three are
raven-haired, and have great dark eyes shining through silver make-up, tight velvet dresses, net stockings, and high-heeled shoes. Their laughter trills; they glance all round the room; they swing
their long legs. ‘And vodka for you?’ asks Petworth. ‘No, I think for me, just a
Sch’veppii
,’ says Lubijova, ‘Sometimes I like to take those strong
drinks. But tonight we must make our business together, so I think I mind my head. Beside, some of the other guides might see me drinking strong drink with my official visitor.’ ‘What
about those girls there?’ asks Petworth, pointing to the girls at the bar, ‘Are they guides too?’ A sudden sharp slap falls across Petworth’s wrist: ‘Oh, Petwurt,
Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, laughing at him, ‘Really, do you think I am one of those? Don’t you really know that kind? Those are the lovely ladies.’ ‘Ah, I see,’
says Petworth. ‘Guides in a way,’ says Lubijova, ‘Of course really they are not permitted. But this is good hotel, and many foreign visitors arrive here, and they have not their
wives, and we do not want life to be too dull for them. Oh, here is our waitress. Perhaps you like to make the order? I think so, I believe you speak very well our language.’ ‘No, not
at all,’ says Petworth. ‘And yet you are linguist?’ says Lubijova, ‘Well, I do it this time, you next, so listen how to say it. Vidki fran’tiska, da, ei
sch’veppii, froliki, slibob.’ ‘Ah, da,’ says the red-checked waitress. ‘There, it is not so complicate,’ says Lubijova, ‘All you must know is the nouns end
in “i,” or sometimes two or three, but with many exceptions. We have one spoken language and one book language. Really there are only three cases, but sometimes seven. Mostly it is
inflected, but also sometimes not. It is different from country to town, also from region to region, because of our confused history. Vocabulary is a little bit Latin, a little bit German, a little
bit Finn. So really it is quite simple, I think you will speak it very well, soon.’

‘I doubt it,’ says Petworth. ‘Then perhaps you need your guide,’ says Lubijova, smiling at him, ‘And I will take you to nice places. Don’t I bring you here to
see the lovely ladies? Which do you wish better, the fairs or the darks?’ ‘I hadn’t thought,’ says Petworth, looking over at the bar. ‘No, please tell me,’ says
Lubijova, ‘I like to find out all your tastes.’ ‘Well, the dark ones, I suppose,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes, you like the arabesques?’ cries Lubijova, ‘That
shows you are not an Ivanov, they like better always the fairs. Well, you know, I am a little bit arabesque myself, did you notice? Dark is typical here. It is from Turkish times, when many
atrocities against us were committed.’ ‘And the blondes, are they typical too?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Lubijova, ‘Typical of a bottle. Some things are
not what they seem, even in my country. Oh, look, she brings us our drinks. Now, please, Comrade Petwurt, do not drink it. I like to teach you a little lesson. You do not mind if I am your
teacher?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Good,’ says Lubijova, ‘Now, when we take drink in my country we like to make toast also.’ ‘Toast?’ asks
Petworth. ‘With the glass,’ says Lubijava, ‘Mine is Sch’veppii, that is not right, but I will show you. Please do just as I do. First the glass, it goes in the air so. Now
the eyes, look at me, straight, serious, no, it is not right, you are laughing. Be very sincere, have a good feeling, I like you. Now, back with your head, back more, the drink goes straight there
to the throat. Oh, no, the choking at the end is not at all correct. The rest very good. But I think you try once more. Are you ready?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth.

‘So now, very serious, please, my dear,’ says Lubijova, ‘Lift the glass, make the stare. See how I think of you: I like you, you are fine, I want you for my bed. Now drink,
straight to the throat. Yes, that is very good, Comrade Petwurt. Your selfcriticism is excellent, that time perfect. And now I think we are very good friends, don’t you say?’ ‘I
think so,’ says Petworth. ‘And also now I know some things about you, like a friend,’ says Lubijova, ‘You drink, you smoke, you like darks. Well, of course, you said your
Lottie is a dark. And your marriage is not so easy for you. And you like to go to Cambridge, and meet a certain good old friend. And you like to make some travels.’ ‘Yes,’ says
Petworth. ‘And perhaps all is not so well with you in your relations,’ says Lubijova, ‘Well, that is like here, we are fond of our families, we like to be close. But our marriage,
not so good. I do not think our men like really the ladies. Of course they like to bed, but for other things they like better to be with men. Well, our apartments are small, and there is not so
much time when people are together, but perhaps they do not really like us. For you perhaps it is different.’ ‘Perhaps a little,’ says Petworth. ‘Do not move quickly,’
says Lubijova, dropping her voice suddenly, ‘But please take a small look in the next alcove. Do you see some trousers? Did you ever see some like that before?’ Petworth turns slowly;
at the bend of the alcove, a leg is swinging in and out of view. It is a leg in black trousers with chalk white stripes; a male handbag lies on the end of the table. ‘Perhaps,’ says
Petworth. Lubijova reaches into her shoulderbag, and takes out a spectacle case, from which comes a pair of redframed spectacles; large, they cover the top part of her face. ‘Comrade
Petwurt,’ she says, looking over them severely, ‘I think we must make our business. Here, please, inspect your programme.’