Rates of Exchange (20 page)

‘I hope you impress,’ says Mari Lubijova, taking his arm, ‘Now we walk and I show it all to you. Over here, the Praesidium, over there with on top the red star the Party
Headquarter. Over there, where the Japanese go, the Ministry of Strange Affairs, is that how you say?’ ‘The Foreign Ministry,’ says Petworth. ‘And over there,’ says
Lubijova, ‘where is celebrate the great brotherhood of Brezhnev and Wanko, the Ministry of State Security, that is very forbidden. Really, a lot of these areas are forbidden to foreigners, so
I think you don’t go there, Petwurt. Also forbidden here are the cars, that is nice, except of course for the cars of the party cadres. Do you see them, the big Russian Volgas with the
curtains in the back? Only the important people can ride in a car like that, I wonder if you will ride in one, Petwurt? Perhaps so, you are important person. And the stands for the parade, you will
go in one of those too, on our special day.’ Over the big buildings, the clocks begin to chime; they walk down the long square. ‘You do not see a Ministry of Culture, that is round a
corner,’ says Lubijova, ‘But do you see where we are going first? Where the line waits?’ And down at the bottom of the square there is indeed a long line of people –
schoolchildren with flags, peasants in dark clothes, Ivanovas with plastic over their blonde hair, Vietnamese women, wearing cadre jackets – snaking across the
pavé
, and
waiting, evidently, to enter a cube-like, modern, white stone building, also hung with bunting, with, standing round it, at every corner, and every entrance, stiff soldiers in shakos, a feather
sticking up from the top.

‘Now we join that line,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘I think you come under my umbrella, or you will catch some rheum. Don’t you see the soldiers, do you like their uniforms,
from our past days? They are a very special guard, but this is very special place. Now we must wait, twenty minutes, perhaps, half an hour, but you will see it is worth it. You will find out
something very interesting about our people. These peasants have saved many months to make their visit here. The children at school beg their teachers always to let them make this visit. Oh, what a
pity, we have forgotten something, really we should carry some flowers, we call them comrade carnation, well, never mind.’ The clocks on the big buildings chime again before they reach a
clefted entrance, guarded by two shako-ed soldiers. ‘Oh, that is nice, now we go in,’ says Lubijova, ‘Now we must be quiet, but you will see what you will see. Take care, it is
dark inside.’ They go, in the moving line of people, down the narrow space of a chilly stone passage, with a sickly scent in the air, until the light brightens, the line splits, and there is
an illuminated place with a central stone plinth. On the plinth, in a half coffin, lies the embalmed body of a dead man, dressed in modern clothes of a plain kind, sporting a big grey moustache.
Skilful lights cast from above make him seem larger than life-size; the waxified face has been cast in an expression half-compassionate, half-severe. Affairs of weight have creased his brow,
principle stares from his eyes. Evidently he is a man of history, since a scrolled document, a proclamation or treaty, lies on his chest; but he is also a man of the people, since a few
workers’ tools lie beside him, a hammer and saw, a sickle and file, and his hands are horny with use.

‘Of course it is tomb,’ says Lubijova, holding Petworth’s arm and whispering in his ear, ‘You know he is real, if dead? Do you know him from his photograph, it is
Grigoric our Liberator. Don’t they keep him very well? He looks just like himself!’ The people all round them have stopped and are dipping their knees, putting down their carnations on
the plinth; Grigoric’s eyes, meanwhile, stare at the ceiling, as if he has had a vision beyond himself. Indeed, looking up, one may see it painted there: a world where large muscled men dig
holes and raise buildings in energetic and momentous enterprise, where big-breasted women stack fruitful sheaves in ripe fields, and still hold onto their abundant babies. ‘We love him very
much, you see,’ whispers Lubijova, ‘He set us free to the Russians after the war, and planned our socialist economy. You see he was worker, his father made saddles for the horses in
Plit. But also he studied at Berlin and Muskva, and so we say he was intellectual as well. Then he was brave in our uprisings, so also a soldier. So we like him very much. Here we love our dead,
and we think they love us. Do you do the same for your great men?’ ‘No, we don’t,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, perhaps you don’t have any like that,’ says
Lubijova, as they move forward with the people through another narrow stone corridor, to where the light of day bursts, and they are out again in the wet and windswept square.

‘So, Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, stopping and looking at him gaily, ‘Did you like it? I think now you have had many pleasures. You have seen our city, and you have seen our great
leader. Of course there are many more sight-seeings you must do, but you have so many days. Now, what is time? Oh, we were long there, we must go straight away to the Mun’stratuu. Now, put on
please your very official behaviour, I hope you have some. Let me see you, your suit is nice, but your tie is not neat, put it up please. And now do you have your passport? I hope so, they do not
let you in there without it.’ Petworth feels in his pockets, grows desperate: ‘No, I don’t,’ he says. ‘Petwurt, no, is it gone?’ cries Lubijova, ‘I hope
you don’t think somebody steals it? In my country nobody steals.’ ‘It’s not there,’ says Petworth. ‘No,’ says Lubijova, laughing at him, ‘Petwurt, it
is here. I kept it all the time, just to be safe. Now, we are in a hurry. So do you run?’ She turns on her heel and begins to run, away from the scented tomb and across the wide space of the
paved square, beneath the flapping red banners. Her hat bounces, her bag swings; she stops, looks back at him, shouts ‘Come,’ and runs on again. In his best suit and raincoat, Petworth
clumsily lifts his feet and pursues his guide, running beneath the great buildings and the high photographs, toward his next appointment.

II

The Mun’stratuu Kulturu Komitet’uuu are not to be found in Plazscu P’rtyou; it lies, perhaps appropriately, just round the corner, in Stalungrydsumytu, a small
dark street with high old buildings. A khaki soldier sits outside it, in a box with a telephone in, and inspects their papers; a blue militiaman in a cage inspects them again, and points them up a
wooden staircase. ‘They know me here,’ says Lubijova, leading Petworth through a mess of dusty and ill-painted corridors, where men and women wander carrying files. Then she stops at a
door, on which there is a sign saying
UPRATTU L
.
TANKIC
, knocks, and goes inside. In the office there sits on a typist’s chair a full-bodied
young lady with auburn hair and a tight blue dress; she rests her elbows, as if exhausted, on an old black typewriter. ‘Prifussoru Pitworthu?’ she asks, getting up and going into an
inner room. ‘Vantu,’ shouts a male voice. ‘We go in,’ says Lubijova, leading him into a small room with many high cupboards, a big metal desk, and behind the desk a small
bald round man in a black suit, smoking a cigar with a plastic mouthpiece. The man rises, embraces Lubijova, and puts out his hand to Petworth. ‘My English, bad,’ he says, ‘But we
have beautiful interpreter. Very tough lady, picked special for you.’ ‘So I translate,’ says Lubijova. ‘Make us sound very good,’ says the bald man, who has a humorous
glint in his eye, ‘Please.’ He points to a set of plastic black armchairs surrounding a small coffee table; then, still standing by his desk, he begins a little speech.

‘Says you are here, says he is pleased,’ explains Lubijova, ‘Says his name is Tankic, he is high official here, Uprattu. Says the Minister of Culture wished himself to greet
you, but he must attend a meeting of the Praesidium on a certain matter. Says before he departs, the Minister has asked to him, Tankic, to convey warm amity and fraternal felicitations to your own
Minister of Culture and to all your government. Also he tells Tankic to make your visit very happy. Also he wishes you pleasant tour and hopes it brings friendships between our peoples. Now I think
you say something, Petwurt.’ ‘Please tell him how glad I am to be here, and how grateful I am for the excellent arrangements made for me. I look forward to my programme, and I know I
bring the good wishes of Her Majesty’s Government, who also wish this tour to be a great success.’ Tankic beams, nods, and lifts a book from his desk. ‘Says he wishes to present
you with a book describing our five-year-plan and the collective achievements of our people, signed by the Minister himself,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you have a book, Petwurt?’
‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Then thank him very nicely and I will translate,’ says Lubijova. This is done; Tankic beams, chuckles, nods his head, rubs his hands, and sits down
opposite Petworth, tapping him on the knee. ‘Asks how you like our Slakan rain,’ explains Lubijova, ‘Says we have imported it from Britain especially for you, in exchange for some
Slakan sunshine.’ Tankic nods his head very emphatically, and then laughs out loud; Petworth laughs too, and says: ‘Tell him that Britain has two exports we are only too glad to make.
Rain is one; I’m the other.’ When this is translated, Tankic laughs uproariously and hits Petworth on the knee. ‘Says you must find some more such exports,’ says Lubijova,
‘Then perhaps you would start to make a real economic progress.’

The tight-dressed lady now stands over them, beaming and giggling. ‘Take some coffee, Prifusorru?’ she asks. Tankic says something: ‘Asks if you think his secretary speaks the
good English,’ explains Lubijova, ‘She has typed your programme. If you say yes, says perhaps he pays her more money.’ The secretary blushes red; ‘She deserves a rise
immediately,’ says Petworth. Tankic laughs and slaps Petworth’s knee again. ‘Says definitely you are a friend of the people,’ says Lubijova, ‘Always wanting to improve
their economical conditions.’ ‘You like such coffee?’ asks the secretary, pouring a rich syrupy liquid from a copper receptacle into the small cup in front of Petworth. ‘Ah,
Turkish, excellent,’ says Petworth. ‘Na, na, na, na,’ says Tankic, shaking a finger. ‘Says we do not call coffee after our oppressors,’ says Lubijova, ‘Here we
call it comrade coffee.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ says Petworth. ‘Asks, your programme, do you like it, or do you ask many changes? He says his secretary can go to the typewriter
and change it, instead of standing there looking at your handsome face.’ ‘It’s fine,’ says Petworth. ‘Explains he has worked very hard on it, because officials must
always have much paperwork to do,’ says Lubijova, ‘Otherwise they might do something important.’ Tankic laughs, and Petworth laughs; then Tankic points at Lubijova, who goes red.
‘Asks if you are pleased with the guide he has provided you, to take care all your wants.’ Tankic leans forward and taps Lubijova on the knee: ‘Says of course these are official
wants only.’ ‘Real tough lady,’ says Tankic in English, laughing. ‘Tell him I like the tough ones,’ says Petworth. ‘Says good,’says Lubijova, ‘Says
he thinks you are the sort of man who will drink a little brandy with him.’

The tight-dressed lady goes to one of the cupboards and produces a bottle and four glasses; Tankic says something which makes her laugh very loudly. ‘Says he does not smoke, drink, gamble
with cards or play at all with women, except when you come,’ says Lubijova, ‘This is why he hopes you come very often.’ The lady puts the glasses on the table; Tankic takes the
bottle and begins to fill the glasses with a bright clear liquid. ‘Says it is special from a farm he knows,’ says Lubijova, ‘Now he makes a toast. Remember with the eyes, Petwurt,
I taught you. Says: a toast to many more toasts together.’ Petworth, raising his glass, tries to remember Lubijova’s lesson: ‘Na, na, na,’ says Tankic. ‘Oh,
Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, ‘He says you do it wrong. Says in our country when we do a thing, we always follow afterwards a criticism session, so we can do things better. He remarks you
let the brandy touch the tongue and the throat, which wastes much time that could be devoted to the good of the people. Now he regrets he must fill your glass again, to see if you make
improvement.’ And over the next half hour, in the office of the Uprattu Tankic, Petworth improves and improves. There is much laughter in the room; Tankic chuckles and grins; other heads from
other offices peer in. Then Tankic rises and claps Petworth on the arm: ‘Says he must take you to another place, to give you some lessons in Slakan food,’ explains Lubijova, ‘It
is an official lunch given in your honour, he hopes you accept.’ ‘Delighted,’ says Petworth, rising, a little uncertainly, from the black plastic chair. Tankic puts on a belted
black overcoat, and a black Homburg hat; then he leads the way into the corridor, shouting boisterously at functionaries sitting at their desks behind half-open doors.

Down the stairs and out into the street they go, past the militiaman in the cage, the soldier in the box. In front of the building, a crop-headed driver in a grey shirt and black trousers stands
in the rain, holding open the door of a large Russian Volga, a great black car with a toothy front grille. ‘Oh, Petwurt, you go in one after all,’ cries Lubijova, from the front seat,
turning round to look at where Petworth sits in the middle again, between the tightly dressed lady and Tankic. ‘Where are the curtains?’ asks Petworth, looking round. Tankic laughs and
claps Petworth boisterously on the shoulder. ‘Says do you think he would let you ride with his beautiful secretary in a car with curtains?’ explains Lubijova. The secretary wriggles and
laughs too, a rich perfume spilling from between her breasts. ‘Tells the people who wait at the restaurant to meet you. Professor Rom Rum, of the National Academy of Arts and Sciences, who
makes an important research into literary science from a hermeneutic viewpoint. Perhaps already you know him by his work?’ ‘I’m afraid not,’ says Petworth. ‘And
someone you know already, Katya Princip.’ ‘I know her?’ asks Petworth. ‘Petwurt, Petwurt, you are terrible, sometimes you make me annoy. Don’t you remember please that
book I just gave to you?’ ‘Yes, of course,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, dear, you are terrible,’ cries Tankic, mimicking, laughing, ‘Very tough lady, this, ha? Like a
wife. I pick her special for you.’ ‘Sometimes he is very bad,’ says Lubijova. ‘But I also think quite nice,’ says the lady in the tight dress, smiling at him. The car
is passing along the modern boulevard, past
MUG
and
WICWOK
; Petworth suddenly notices that, lined up along the curbsides, there are thick rows of
children, waving small green flags at them as they pass. He points them out to Tankic, who laughs. ‘Says not for you,’ explains Lubijova, ‘A sheikh of Arabia comes here today.
Says when you bring us something useful, not culture but oil, you also can have the children with little flags.’