4 – MINKULT.

I

Rain and storm are beating violently against the windows when Petworth comes to consciousness again, to find himself in his great bed, in his great bedroom, in the middle of Slaka. Now his programme will begin, and a day of formal meetings and duties lies before him – a purpose that gets him from his bed, into the bathroom, and then to the window to throw open the curtains and look out on the new world beyond. The view is strange; three men on a hydraulic platform are swaying in the air a few yards away from him, staring at him in his undershorts. Below, the square, so quiet last night, is busy again, a crowded place, filled with moving umbrellas, raincoated walkers, wet-topped pink trams. The hydraulic platform rises in the air from a dull grey truck; the three men are man-handling a great neon-sign saying SCH’VEPPII, which last night had stood on the building in the corner, and are lowering it to the ground on ropes. Petworth takes his grey suit from his blue suitcase, and retires to the bathroom to put it on; clad in formality, he goes out into the corridor, where a new young floormaid sits at the desk, and descends to the lobby to find breakfast.

It is not an easy task. Breakfast is served, not in the great dining room, but in a small room at the back of the hotel, where many besuited men, as neat as himself, sit reading newspapers and awaiting service. ‘Is nicht schnell here, nicht schnell,’ says the bald man, reading an East German newspaper, whose table he joins, none being empty, ‘This is why they haf bad economy.’ Petworth picks up the menu, a well-thumbed card written in several languages, and offering rich fare: sausidge and pig-bacon, sheese and eggi. A waiter comes at last, with a laden tray for the bald man; Petworth determines to set to work on the new tongue. ‘Pumpi, vurtsi, urti, kaf’ifii,’ he says to the waiter. ‘Moy,’ says the waiter, picking up the menu, shaking his head, and bearing it away. He comes back again a moment later, bearing a new menu. Petworth looks at it in mystery, for its offerings are much the same as the last. ‘Ranugu up pumpu? Ku up kaf’ufou?’ asks the waiter, taking out his pad. ‘They make a small linguistic revolution here,’ says the bald German, leaning forward, ‘They change a little all the grammatiks. This alzo is vy they are nicht schnell.’ ‘Ah,’ says Petworth, reading the new menu, ‘Pumpu, verstu, irtu, kaf’ufuu.’ ‘Slubab,’ says the waiter. ‘Now the old words are to be no more used,’ says the bald German. Petworth looks around. At the next table a man reads the red-masted party newspaper, P’rtyuu Pupulatuuu, which has the headline Untensu Actuvu. ‘I see,’ he says. ‘It is a very important political matter,’ says the bald man, ‘Even Wanko may be replaced.’ The important political matter evidently delays things greatly; it is not until just before nine o’clock, the hour at which Petworth should be meeting Marisja Lubijova in the lobby, that his breakfast arrives. There is just time to gulp a little of the large bowl of irtu, snatch a few bites of the vertsu, drink down the pumpu, and sip a little of the hot acorn-flavoured kaf’ufuu, before he rushes out to the crowded hall, where a new group of Ivanovas mills round the desk marked R’GYSTRAYUU. In a plastic transparent raincoat over her long grey coat, and shaking a folded umbrella, Marisja Lubijova is already there.

‘So, you are come, Comrade Petwurt,’ she says briskly, ‘And you have put on your nice suit for our official day. But don’t you think you need perhaps a coat for the rain?’ ‘I haven’t had time to go and get it,’ he says, ‘They were very slow with breakfast.’ ‘Of course, you are not now in America,’ says Lubijova, looking at her watch, ‘And do not be long, already we are late for our sightseeings. Did you remember to call your wife?’ ‘She wasn’t there,’ says Petworth. ‘So I suppose I must make a new arrangement,’ says Lubijova, ‘You go, I will do it. And did you get your passport?’ ‘I asked for it last night,’ says Petworth, ‘It wasn’t ready.’ Lubijova looks at him crossly: ‘Oh, Petwurt, can’t you do just one thing? Now you are not a person, is that what you want? Do you like it that you don’t exist? That I can’t take you to the Mun’stratuu?’ ‘I’ll go and ask for it now,’ says Petworth. ‘Go upstairs now, bring your coat,’ says Lubijova, ‘They will give it to me, don’t you think so? I think you don’t try very hard. Here you must fight a bit. Go, be quick.’ Petworth goes up to his room, to see from the window that the men on the hydraulic platform are raising up a new sign saying SCH’VUPPUU to replace the old sign saying SCH’VEPPII; when he comes down again to the lobby in his raincoat, Lubijova is standing outside the elevator doors, waving his passport aloft. ‘Of course it comes if you make it,’ she says, ‘She gives it to me. Also I have arranged a new telephone call. It is for six o’clock, after your programme today is finished. Now, do we go and do it? Or perhaps first I must button up your coat for you? Petwurt, Petwurt.’

It is a chilly Lubijova who walks ahead of him out of the lobby and into the square, where a heavy nineteenth-century bourgeois realist rain is washing down the high-gabled buildings and teeming over the moving street-crowds and the clanging trams. A squad of men in oilskins are digging up the cobble-stones between the tram-tracks; Lubijova walks through them. ‘This way, please,’ she says sharply, ‘See how the men are working. Always we are improving our city. Always the work goes on. Look where you go, you are not from the farm, I think. First I take you to a very special place. Usually for foreigners it is forbidden, but you have a special permission, you are an official visitor.’ Walking ahead, Lubijova dives suddenly into a dirty-windowed eating place, where many wet people eat hot dogs in standing position. ‘Not here, we go to the back,’ she says, leading the way to the door of an elevator, where an old lady in a chair sells tickets. The elevator is crowded, the ascent long; suddenly the doors open, and Petworth finds himself, in the driving rain and the whistling wind, on a very wet roof, with a short wire fence around it, high above the city, which is visible below, moving remotely about its business. ‘You see, this is our skyscraper,’ says Lubijova, ‘Of course you must not photograph. Now from here is a very good view, but we cannot really see it. I hope you do not suffer the vertige. Now, please, look on this side. Over there the power station, do you see it, through the mist, it is more than sufficient for our needs. Near there the cathedral, but it is not visible. Well, it does not matter, it is not so interesting. Now we go this side, and here you see the old town. You can see the bridge Anniversary May 15, and the festung and the capella. At night you can go there and see a sound and a light. Is that how you say it in English?’

‘Well,’ says Petworth, ‘A son et lumière.’ ‘Oh, what an interesting language you have, no wonder nobody understands it,’ says Lubijova, ‘I think you have a very strange language and are a very strange people. Some of them cannot even get back a passport.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ says Petworth. ‘Now come to this side,’ says Lubijova, ‘There, with the trees, the Park of Brotherhood and Friendship with the Russian peoples. The people of Slaka love very much to walk there and enjoy the scents, especially when it does not rain. Near there, do you see a building with a red star on top? This is our Party Headquarters, a very fine building, and behind there is our best open space, the Plazscu P’rtyuu.’ ‘There’s been a change in the language?’ asks Petworth. ‘Some radical elements have pressured our government to make certain changes,’ says Lubijova, ‘They ask for a linguistic liberalization, but I do not think it is very important. So there you see it, from the best view our very beautiful city. I hope you impress. On a nice day you would stay here a long time and take much pleasure, but today it is not perhaps so nice, so I think we go down again.’ On the long elevator ride down, Lubijova stands away from him in the further side of the lift; out in the open air again, she walks several steps in front of him. They take the narrow old street where Marx and Engels, Lenin, Brezhnev and Wanko bounce furiously on their wires in the driving rain; they pass by the colonnade of the Military Academy, under which disconsolate soldiers stand with portfolios under their arms; they walk beside the Palace of Culture, covered in ivy, out of which, from some basement, there comes the unexpected sound of jazz.

They turn down another street, a street of a few small shops. Most of these stores seem curiously turned in on themselves, concealing rather than revealing the goods they offer to sell. Shops at home insist on display, but these do not; they secrete this and that, showing small stacks of one thing, or a single object: light fittings, bottles of soft drink, flowers, tins of beet, a hint of meat, a notional vegetable or two. ‘I hope you look,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘We know your press tells always we have very bad food shortage. Well, now you can see there is plenty of everything. Oh, look, here is a line, a queue, do you call it? I suppose you think it is for food. Do you like to join it and see?’ The long line of people stands in the rain: ‘Do you see how they all excite, to go into this shop?’ asks Mari, ‘Do you know why, you don’t guess? Well, it is because our people are all very good readers, and today come out the new editions, and also in the new language. I hope your people wait so long in the rain, just to buy books!’ ‘I don’t think so,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course, your newspapers tell we do not like to respect at all our writers,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘Well, now you can go home to tell them they are wrong. Oh, look, now we go in. Can you wait me, please look around, I like to buy something.’ He watches Lubijova push through the jostle of people toward the counter; he turns to look at the shelf upon shelf of books, the millions of infolded words, all written in the language he does not know. Some are titled in the Cyrillic alphabet, some in the Latin, but the alphabet does not matter, for the codes will not yield, the signs refuse to become meaning.

The raincoats of the shoppers steam in the greater warmth; an assistant with a great ladder pushes Petworth aside, to climb to a distant top shelf. Petworth inspects more titles; from above, a book disturbed by the assistant tumbles down onto his head and cracks open, as if that might be a route to contact. ‘Comrade Petwurt, here, come,’ calls Lubijova, standing at the counter in her plastic coat, ‘This is one of our new books, just out today. Do you like perhaps the cover?’ Petworth takes the book, in a green paper wrapper, illustrated with a line drawing of an expressionist dark castle, which is seen through a rough shattered mirror; he looks at the title, which is Nodu Hug, and the name of the author, Katya Princip. He flicks the pages, the blocks of mysterious words, the units of meaning, the paragraphs, the chapters, the claim on time, the appeal to imagination. ‘You know we have here a very good Writers’ Union and even in the world some of our people are very famous,’ says Lubijova, ‘Well, here is a book by one of the best, it is Katya Princip. Of course not everyone likes her books, some people say she is not correct.’ ‘Not correct?’ asks Petworth, ‘Why?’ ‘Not correct because she diverts from the socialist realism, which we like, and goes to the fantastic. But she has a good imagination and often we like the fantastic here in my country, so many people appreciate her works very much. Also she writes a very strange kind of story, how can I tell you? It is like the stories we tell to children, with in it dreams, and staircases that go to nowhere, and castles, perhaps; but really those stories are not for the children at all, they are for us. No, I do not explain you very well, but please take it. I have bought for you this book.’

‘For me?’ says Petworth, picking up the green book, and ruffling again through the pages, ‘That’s very kind. But there is just one problem, I can’t read it. I think you should keep it for yourself.’ Lubijova, in her plastic coat, stares at him severely: ‘Petwurt, really, do you like to annoy me again?’ she says, ‘Is this what you do always with a present that is for you? Of course I know you cannot read it, you have to have a guide. But, you see, Petwurt, perhaps you don’t know it, but I am really a little bit psychic. Do you believe in that, I hope you do? And, do you know, I have an instinct; it tells me that when you go away from Slaka you will understand that book, just a bit. Also we have two weeks together, I can explain you some of it. Of course I don’t read it yet myself, but I can tell you it is, what do you say, a folk-story, and some of it happens in a big forest and near a castle. Nodu Hug, the title, that means not to be afraid. Anyway, Petwurt, there is another reason why you must have it. I cannot tell it to you yet, but you will see.’ ‘Then I’ll take it,’ says Petworth, ‘Thank you very much, Mari.’ ‘And don’t you realize something else,’ says Lubijova, laughing at him, seizing his arm, taking him toward the entrance to the store, ‘That I have forgiven you your passport? Well, we cannot let all those bureaucrats upset us, I think we like to be comrades. Now, how much time have we more, an hour, almost, right, we do something else that is very nice. Turn your coat, we go round that corner, round another, and then do you know what we do? We stand again in a line; poor Petwurt, it is all lines for you today. But that line is very different and quite interesting. Now, put please the book inside your pocket, I don’t want it wetted by that rain. And turn your coat, now we go.’

They go, round the corner, round another; and then, suddenly, Petworth finds himself standing on the edge of a great central square. The square glistens, vast, in the rain; there is a wide vista down to a large monument, where tangled bronze soldiers and workers collaborate in some interlocking enterprise; round the monument are stalls, the stalls of many flower sellers. People crowd round the stalls and wander the square, robed black Africans, a group of Arabs in burnouses, a gaggle of Ivanovas led by a blue Cosmoplot guide holding up high a beflowered umbrella; but the square still looks empty, so large are its spaces, so big its surrounding buildings, which are square, and white, and colonnaded. ‘This place, do you know it, I hope you do,’ says Lubijova, ‘Oh, don’t you, Petwurt, really? Of course it is Plazscu P’rtyuu, where is our government, and where our people like to come to make their celebrations. Can you imagine how many peoples can pass here, with their banners? Well, you do not need to imagine, because you will see it all of course on National Culture day.’ And Petworth sees that, into the steps of the buildings, great reviewing stands have been built, covered in red bunting. Indeed red is the colour of many things: of the long banners that blow out from the poles that stand high over the square, of the carnations that the flower-sellers are selling from their stalls round the monument, of the trim round the great photographs that, four storeys high, hang from the fac¸ades and stare down at them as they walk the clean white stone pavement, photographs in the style of grand or epic realism. An engrandized Marx stares across the square towards a superhuman Lenin; Brezhnev and Wanko enfold together in a vast embrace.

‘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.’

But now the stiff-necked driver turns the wheel, and they leave the boulevard, turning up a narrow, rising street, lined with high old houses, toward the ancient part of the town. ‘Here now old Slaka,’ says Lubijova, ‘Notice please the buildings of Baroque and Renaissance. Now you see how Slaka is so fine.’ ‘You come before?’ asks the tight-dressed lady, wriggling against him. ‘No, my first visit,’ says Petworth. ‘A church and a rectorate,’ says Lubijova. ‘Many pretty girls,’ says the lady. ‘Oh, don’t look at those, please,’ says Tankic, laughing, ‘Think of production.’ ‘Now the festung, builded by Bishop Vlam,’ says Lubijova, ‘Where is made the sound and the light.’ ‘Vlam, very successful,’ says Tankic, ‘Much power, many ladies. But no more, under socialism.’ ‘Oh, no?’ cries the tightdressed lady, ‘I think so!’ ‘A famous old square,’ says Lubijova. The car stops in the famous old square, which is filled with trees, and lies under the crenellated wall of the castle; there is a vista down across the river, to gardens and white-painted, creeper-clad houses on the further bank. ‘Here very nice restaurant,’ says Tankic, pointing to an old timber-framed building in the corner, with tables outside it, now wet with rain, ‘No gipsy, no violin, only talk, very good.’ The driver opens the rear door of the big Volga, and they step out into the square. Elevating a large flowery umbrella, the tight-dressed lady puts her arm through Petworth’s, and leads him under the trees toward the restaurant; heavy drops of rain explode on the thin fabric over them. ‘Please,’ says Tankic, ushering him through a door where a sign says PECTOPAH PO, ‘Nice, yes? Many official come here.’

And it is pleasant indeed in the Restaurant Propp; there are wine barrels in the corners, old swords on the wall, and a great vine grows through and over the diners who sit there at white-clothed tables, served by waiters in black waistcoats and white aprons. Some open-mouthed carp, four silver trout, gape at them from a bubbling fishtank. ‘Not here, more,’ says Tankic, leading the way toward a curtained alcove; when the curtain is drawn there is a small room, a table set for six, a waiting waiter, and two other waiters too, the early guests, standing there, holding small drinks. One is a small middleaged man, in a neat dark suit and a white shirt, who wears his topcoat hung over his shoulders; he stares at Petworth, who stares back. ‘Lyft’drumu!’ cries the man, ‘Flughavn!’ ‘Feder! Stylo!’ says Petworth. ‘Scrypt’stuku!’ says the man, laughing. ‘You meet before?’ asks Lubijova. ‘It’s the man from the airport who borrowed my pen!’ says Petworth. ‘And Plitplov thinks he steals it?’ says Lubijova. ‘Oh, yes, Plitplov, you know him?’ asks the other guest, a fine, handsome lady, who wears a loose batik dress, cream sheepskin waistcoat, high gloveleather brown boots, and has white sunglasses pushed up into her blonde hair, ‘That silly man who writes those essays in the newspaper?’ ‘Trollop,’ says the middle-aged man. ‘Yes, he writes on Trollope,’ says Petworth. ‘It is awful,’ says the lady. ‘Weren’t you at the airport too?’ asks Petworth, looking at her. ‘Oh, did you notice me?’ asks the lady, who looks like a very elegant shepherd, ‘You know your silver pen was for me? Well, it is a magical thing, to lend a pen.’ ‘Our writer Katya Princip, our Academician, Professor Rum,’ says Tankic, ‘Meet please our English guest of honour, Dr Petworth.’

III

And so it is that Petworth comes to the Restaurant Propp beneath the castle in Slaka, residence once of Bishop-Krakator ‘Wencher’ Vlam (1678–1738, if my hastily scribbled notes are correct), and meets there the brilliant, batik-clad magical realist novelist Katya Princip, who takes him familiarly by the arm, leads him out of the group, and moves him toward the corner of the room. ‘Come now and talk to me,’ she says, ‘Not about that Plitplov, you don’t know him, do you; no, please, explain me something. Why am I here? Why do I get invite to an official lunch?’ ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea,’ says Petworth, ‘Of course I’m delighted you did.’ ‘I am not invite before,’ says Katya Princip, ‘You know, I am not so well, with this regime. Usually it is only the reliable ones, like Professor Rum, who come to such things. So of course I wonder, have I done something bad, and don’t know it? Is my new book so terrible? Do they think I am good?’ ‘Your new book,’ says Petworth, ‘I have it.’ ‘Oh, really?’ cries Katya Princip, staring at him with grey eyes, ‘Then perhaps that is it. Perhaps you are famous admirer of my writings? Perhaps I am chosen just for you? But you have our language? It is not translated in English.’ ‘I don’t yet,’ says Petworth, ‘I mean to try.’ ‘Yes, I see,’ says Katya Princip, ‘You don’t be my admirer yet, but one day you will be. Now I understand everything. You see, nothing in this world is accident. Especially here in Slaka.’ ‘Could you sign it for me?’ asks Petworth. ‘If you have a pen,’ says Katya Princip, ‘But of course you have a pen.’ ‘Oh, she signs your book?’ says Lubijova, coming up. ‘Oh, don’t you know, this is my admirer,’ says Katya Princip, ‘That is why I am here.’ ‘Comrade Tankic likes you to come to the table,’ says Lubijova. ‘Oh, we are naughty, we talk too much,’ says Princip, ‘Everyone thinks we are rude. Well, I leave you now, I hope we meet again.’ ‘She’s very nice,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, perhaps you must be a little cautious with this lady,’ says Mari Lubijova, leading him over to the table, ‘Sometimes she makes a little trouble, and not everyone likes her work.’ ‘Here, Comrade Petworth, between our fine Slakan roses,’ says Tankic, gesturing him to the seat facing him; Petworth sits down.

‘Oh, you sit with me, is nice,’ says the tight-dressed lady, giggling, placed to Petworth’s left. ‘Oh, we meet again, what a surprise, how good,’ says Katya Princip, coming to Petworth’s right. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know your name,’ says Petworth, to the tight-dressed lady. ‘Oh, it is Vera,’ says the lady, ‘It means truth.’ ‘No, it means faith,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Pravda means truth. Oh, Mr Petwit, you must be very important man. Look, they draw the curtain to hide you. I expect you are at least a Shah or a Minister.’ ‘Expert,’ says Tankic, pointing at Petworth with his fork. ‘Oh, expert,’ says Princip, ‘And what do you expert? I am sorry I do not know.’ ‘The teaching of English,’ says Petworth, ‘That’s all.’ ‘Really, well, you must show us your skill on Professor Rum,’ says Katya Princip, ‘His English is terrible. We like it perfect by the end of the meal.’ ‘Yes, my English, poco, I am all mistake,’ says Professor Rum, who has tucked his napkin into the neck of his white shirt. ‘Don’t mind, Comrade Rum,’ says Katya Princip, ‘We will translate you. If we like what you say. My English, not so little, not so big, just middle. You are lucky Mr Petwit, you speak a language everyone understand. Except for Professor Rum.’ ‘Not everyone,’ says Petworth. ‘But think of us!’ says Katya Princip, ‘We are just a little country, a tiny flyshit on the great map of the world. And we speak just a silly little language, and no one understands. Not even us.’ ‘He tries to learn it,’ says Lubijova, who sits opposite Vera, ‘He likes to read your book.’ ‘Oh, don’t bother,’ says Princip, ‘My book is so good you can understand it in any language. And now we make a language reform, so what you learn this week is no good next.’ ‘Now we must change all our signs, it is very bad,’ says Vera. ‘No, very good,’ says Katya Princip.

Then the waistcoated waiter leans across Petworth’s shoulder, and fills his glass with a clear spirituous liquid. ‘Rot’vitti?’ he asks. ‘Now you must not say rot’vitti, rot’vuttu,’ says Vera. ‘But in any case is not rot’vuttu,’ says Princip, ‘Is lubuduss, made of the squish of a plum.’ ‘I think kicrak,’ says Lubijova, ‘From the mush of a pear.’ ‘No, is plum,’ says Katya Princip, ‘I am writer, I know everything.’ ‘Oh, everything?’ says Vera. ‘Yes, everything,’ says Princip, ‘Example: I do not come before to official lunch, I am not such good citizen, but I know Comrade Tankic will rise now and tell of our great cultural achievements. And then, Comrade Petwurt, you will reply, and tell us of your milk production.’ ‘My milk production?’ says Petworth. ‘Of course, we concern very much,’ says Princip, ‘Why do you think we come so far, through Slaka in the rain?’ And the prophecy seems correct, for Tankic has risen already, and is tapping his glass with his knife; he begins a fluent, beaming speech. ‘Says Comrades,’ explains Lubijova, when he pauses, ‘I am pleased to represent here our Minister of Culture, who regrets he is elsewhere, to welcome our excellent visitor Comrade Petwurt.’ ‘Our Minister of Culture,’ Princip whispers in Petworth’s ear, ‘A soldier who has read a book. Better than the last one: a soldier who had not read a book.’ ‘Says we are proud to welcome you to our country of many achievements, economic and also cultural. Since the feudal and bourgeois times, we have made a great leap forward.’ ‘Who hasn’t?’ murmurs Princip. ‘Our peoples support the modernization programmes everywhere in train,’ says Lubijova, ‘The productions of our agro-industries rise thirty times since socialism. Per capita floor space is ten square metres.’ ‘Now we no longer sit on top of each other,’ whispers Princip. ‘Our National Academy of Arts and Sciences makes notable wissenschafts, represented by Professor Rum. Our Writers’ Union claims over a thousand fine members, represented here by Comrade Princip.’ ‘Your nice friend,’ whispers Princip. ‘Comrade Petwurt, you will see many great achievements in your tour,’ says Lubijova, ‘We hope you like them much and tell them in your country. You will see many beauties of our heritage, but let us make toast to the very best, we know you agree it. Welcome, and please drink to our finest treasure: the beautiful ladies, for the first time.’

Tankic sits down, grinning at Petworth. ‘A quite good speech, a very bad toast,’ says Katya Princip, ‘It is to me, so I cannot drink.’ ‘Comrade Petworth, is your turn,’ says Vera. ‘Please, your milk production,’ says Princip. ‘Oh, me?’ says Petworth, but hands from either side are pushing him erect; he finds himself looking round the table. ‘Friends,’ he says. ‘Comrades,’ says Princip. ‘Comrades,’ says Petworth. For some reason, the room seems to be swirling and creaking a little, and words, which are his business, will not come easily. But, words being his business, it occurs to him to comment, sociolinguistically, a word that, somehow, is not very easy to say today, on the great differences between the speechmaking habits of different nations: Germans will speak soulfully of Kant and Beethoven, Americans colloquially of space and territory, Norwegians poetically of mountains and fish, Russians proudly of industry and sport, while the British will speak only about their weather, and then to condemn it. An illustration comes to mind, perhaps not the best, Petworth realizes after a moment, as he reports a tale of what different women of different nations are supposed to say after love-making – ‘What, finished so soon?’ says the Frenchwoman, ‘My sadness has almost gone away,’ says the Scandinavian, ‘Great, what did you say your name was?’ says the American, ‘You have made a great contribution,’ says the Russian, ‘Okay, now let’s eat,’ says the German, and ‘Feeling better, darling?’ says the Englishwoman. No, it is not of the best; Lubijova, scribbling furious notes for her translation, stops, staring up at him over her glass; ‘It is yoke?’ asks Tankic, fuming to her. It seems wise to conclude the occasion, to raise the glass, to propose a toast, and what better than to language? ‘To language,’ he says, ‘The words that bring us all here, and bring us closer together.’

‘Well, it is not so good a speech,’ says Katya Princip, squeezing his arm as he sits down, ‘I am ignorant about your milk production much as I was before. But I like very much your toast. You see, I can drink it.’ ‘Comrade Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, leaning over the table, ‘You did not leave time for me to interpret you. Also you make yokes, and those are not so easy.’ ‘Really, no need to translate,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Everyone understands enough, except Professor Rum, and I think he has heard speeches before. Oh, look, here is Professor Rum, he likes to say something to you, what do you like to say, Professor Rum?’ ‘This is naughty lady,’ says Tankic, grinning at Petworth across the table. ‘Oh, he asks about the politics of your speech,’ explains Katya Princip, ‘He likes to know whether in our language revolution here you are supporting the forces of stability, or of reform.’ ‘I know nothing about the situation,’ says Petworth, ‘There were no politics.’ ‘I told him that already,’ says Katya Princip, ‘He doesn’t understand it. Well, I think while you are here you will learn some. We make here a fine change.’ ‘A very bad change,’ says Tankic. ‘Oh, dear, I am sorry,’ says Princip, ‘Already you learn there is more than one opinion in this world. Well, I am bad, I talk too much. But then you know our saying? The more talk, the more country.’ And there is more talk; the chatter flows round the table, and the glasses fill and refill. Across from Petworth, Tankic is rising again, and tapping his glass: ‘Cam’radayet,’ he says. ‘Says he understands our excellent visitor likes yokes,’ explains Lubijova, ‘He is pleased, because also in Slaka we like yokes very much.’ ‘Of course,’ whispers Princip to Petworth, ‘Many of them are in office.’ ‘He tells our visitor, you will go on your tour to Glit, so here a yoke of Glit, where the yokes are about peasants. One day a man meets on the road a Glit peasant who is crying over the corpus of his dead donkey. “I am sorry is dead your mule,” says the man. “It is much worse than you think,” says the peasant, “He was not an ordinary mule. Since a week, he had learned to live without eating.” So he makes another toast: to all here, who have not learned to live without eating. Also to the beautiful ladies, this time sincerely.’ ‘And to the politicians, who find for us all our food,’ says Princip, raising her glass, ‘May their efforts one day be rewarded.’

And then the waiter comes, and pours a rich red soup into their dishes: ‘I hope you like, kapus’nuc,’ says Vera. ‘Soup of the cabbage,’ says Lubijova. ‘We call it, Comrade Cabbage,’ says Tankic. ‘Because it is red,’ says Princip. Wine is poured into their glasses: ‘It is very typical,’ says Vera, ‘We call it pfin.’ ‘They say we export always the best wine, and keep the worse,’ says Lubijova, ‘Now you see it is not true.’ ‘No, we drink the best, and the people drink the worse,’ says Katya Princip, ‘So works the planned economy.’ ‘Our state vineyards, cooperative, very advanced,’ says Tankic, across the table. ‘Once they were nunneries,’ says Vera. ‘I think monasteries,’ says Lubijova. ‘From the klosters,’ says Tankic. ‘Where live the religious,’ says Vera. ‘If a monk, always a bottle,’ says Tankic, ‘Now no more, under socialism.’ ‘No, now if an apparatchik, always a bottle,’ says Princip. ‘Nothing wrong with a bottle, I hope?’ says Tankic. ‘Of course, I also like,’ says Princip, ‘Mais plus c¸a change, plus c’est la même chose.’ A certain sharpness is in the air; Petworth, drinking soup, attempts diplomacy, as he likes to. ‘So you speak French too,’ he says, ‘How many languages?’ ‘Oh, my dear,’ says Princip, turning to him, and reaching out to ruffle the hairs on the back of his neck, ‘When I am with you, then I speak everything.’ ‘Our writers, very good translators,’ says Tankic. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Princip, ‘As you hear in the speech, we have many writers here. They work for the state and the future, especially of course the state. For this is needed many skills. Example: sometimes I am a writer, sometimes I drive a tram.’ ‘Really?’ says Petworth, ‘That’s amazing.’ ‘Yes,’ says Princip, ‘Here, if they do not like what you write, they let you drive a tram. But never, I notice, the other way round.’ ‘We have very good Writers’ Union,’ says Tankic. ‘And always they will look after you very well,’ says Princip, ‘And make sure that you do not write things that are silly and not correct. And if you do, well, they are very kind, and you can go to a dacha on Lake Katuruu. And there all the best writers will come, and sleep with you, and tell you how to write in a way that is correct. Oh, look, Professor Rum says something else, what is, Professor Rum?’ ‘A very naughty lady,’ says Tankic, his eyes rather less twinkling. ‘Oh, he tells that Maxim Gorky founded modern writing,’ says Princip, ‘Then he died, and that was great mistake. Do you agree?’

And so, in the Restaurant Propp, in the older part of Slaka, under Vlam’s great castle, the official meal of welcome unfolds. Certain bitternesses are in the air, trading uneasily through Petworth’s head as he struggles to catch the prevailing discourse, the flow of interlingua, English as a Second Language for Social Occasions (ESLSO). A new course comes: ‘You know this, ruspi?’ asks Vera, pointing with her knife. ‘I’m not sure, what is it?’ asks Petworth. ‘Ruspi is a swimmer,’ says Tankic. ‘Is a fish,’ says Princip. ‘With two pencils in its nose,’ says Lubijova. ‘Two pencils?’ asks Petworth. ‘Yes, so,’ says Katya Princip, putting two fingers beneath her nose, and jutting them out, ‘What do you call those pencils in English?’ ‘Feder?’ cries Professor Rum, ‘Stylo? Pen?’ ‘No, you do not at all understand, Comrade Rum,’ says Princip impatiently, ‘And our guest is liking to tell us that language brings all together. But really it is like sex. You think it brings you together, but only it shows how lonely you truly are.’ ‘Sex is not so lonely,’ says Vera. ‘Do you try at all our sex in Slaka?’ asks Katya Princip, ‘In Slaka, sex is just politics with the clothes off.’ ‘Well, perhaps everywhere,’ says Petworth. ‘And do you try also our beer?’ asks Vera, ‘It is called, oluu.’ ‘Not yet,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, he tries everything else,’ says Lubijova. ‘Professor Rum says, in England your ideas are bad, but your beer always very good,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Of course here, you will find, it is entirely the opposite.’ ‘But he must try some,’ says Vera. ‘Of course,’ says Katya Princip, ‘I hope we are friends now, I take you to a nice place afterward.’ ‘Well, he has a very full programme,’ says Lubijova, ‘Also perhaps he is very tired.’ ‘I think not too full, not too tired, to drink one beer with me,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Of course he must go to the cafés where our most interesting people go. Then, my friend, you can try our beer and also our thinking. Often the beer runs short, but the thinking, always in full production.’

The waiter comes again, taking away the fish course, and bringing instead a meat dish which bubbles away in strange sauces. ‘Lakuku,’ says Vera, pointing, ‘The veal of a cow cooked as not in any other country.’ ‘The vegetable,’ says Lubijova, ‘A special grass that grows only under the sheeps on a mountain.’ Across the table Tankic is rising, with a refilled glass: ‘Says he likes to make another toast,’ says Lubijova, ‘To the beautiful ladies, for the first time, this time very sincerely.’ ‘Really, this man,’ says Katya Princip, ‘I think he does not like me to drink. Perhaps he knows that when I am drunk I talk only about my lovers.’ ‘What about your lovers?’ asks Vera, giggling. ‘Oh, do you like to know?’ asks Princip, ‘Well, I have had many lovely lovers, such nice lovers, because, you see, I love love.’ ‘You are lucky,’ says Vera. ‘Not always,’ says Princip, ‘So, Mr Petwit, what do you do here? Do you make lectures?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘Tomorrow, at the university.’ ‘Oh, I would like to come there,’ says Katya Princip. ‘It is for the students,’ says Lubijova. ‘See, she does not like me to come there,’ says Princip, ‘Do you like me to come there?’ ‘I’d be delighted,’ says Petworth. ‘Then perhaps I do it,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Here we have a saying: a good friend is someone who visits you when you are in prison. But a really good friend is someone who comes to hear your lectures. Well, I hope now I am your really good friend, so perhaps you will see me there. But you must speak for me very slowly, if you do. I am not so good with the English. Do you do it?’ ‘Of course,’ says Petworth. ‘I like you,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Yes, I think perhaps you will see me there, listening to you.’

Across the table, Tankic is on his feet again, with a full glass: ‘Says, to the beautiful ladies, for the first time, this time truly and entirely sincerely.’ ‘How can we be beautiful, if we cannot drink?’ asks Princip. ‘Of course,’ says Vera, ‘The more that drink the men, the more are the ladies beautiful.’ ‘Oh, Professor Rum likes to ask you a question,’ says Princip, ‘He asks, where do you keep your dissident writers?’ ‘Comrade Tankic asks you something,’ says Lubijova, ‘He asks, how is your British disease?’ ‘He wonders, do you keep them perhaps in a jail in Northern Ireland?’ ‘He asks about the economics of your liberal Lord Keynes, are they dead now in your system?’ ‘Professor Rum says he has been often to London, on his scientific travels, and seen many beggars there, is that true?’ ‘Many beggars, where?’ asks Petworth, eating his grass. ‘He tells they play for money in all the stations of the metro,’ says Katya Princip. ‘Oh, they’re not beggars,’ says Petworth, ‘They’re American tourists financing their vacations.’ ‘He does not believe you,’ says Princip, ‘He says this is what your press likes you to think, but is not the reality. He says do you not think that here under Thatcher is marked the collapse of the capitalist system?’ ‘Soon you join us,’ says Comrade Tankic, leaning over the table, laughing. ‘It’s in trouble,’ says Petworth, ‘But I don’t think it’s collapsing.’ ‘Oh, Mr Petwit, now you have upset Professor Rum!’ says Katya Princip, ‘He thinks you deny the immanent reality of the historical process. He suspects you are a bourgeois relativist. I tell him it cannot possibly be true.’ ‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about politics or economics,’ says Petworth, ‘It’s really not my field.’ ‘Oh, Mr Petwit, you don’t know politics, you don’t have economics, how do you exist?’ cries Princip, ‘I’m afraid you are not a character in the world historical sense.’ ‘Your heart’s good, your system, bad,’ says Tankic, leaning across the table, laughing. ‘So who could put you in a story?’ says Princip, ‘Poor Petwit, I am sorry. For you there is no story at all.’

The curtains to the alcove are now thrown open, and through them comes the waiter; impressively, he is bearing high a vast white dessert, an elaborate concoction from which bright blue flames are rising. ‘Oh, look,’ cries Vera, ‘It is vish’nou!’ ‘Oh, this is very nice,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you have in your country?’ ‘I don’t think so,’ says Petworth, ‘What’s in it?’ ‘Outside is an ice cream, inside, nurdu,’ says Vera, ‘You know nurdu?’ ‘I can’t say it in English,’ says Lubijova, ‘A very nice fruit that is not an orange.’ ‘And not a lemon,’ says Vera. ‘A melon?’ asks Petworth. ‘A little bit like, but not really,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you know that name, Comrade Princip?’ ‘No, not the name,’ says Katya Princip, ‘But I know a story all about.’ ‘Oh, tell us,’ says Vera. ‘It is a bit long,’ says Princip, ‘Do you really like to hear it, Mr Petwit?’ ‘Of course,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, really for a story you should give me a precious stone, but I don’t think you have one,’ says Princip, ‘Perhaps if I tell it you give me one little wish instead. Do you agree?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘So, once upon a certain time, and you know all stories start so, there was a king who had three sons, and the youngest is called Stupid,’ says Katya Princip. ‘That is his name?’ asks Vera, ‘Stupid?’ ‘In your story call him what you like,’ says Princip firmly, ‘but in mine he is called Stupid. And one day the king tells Stupid he must travel to another land and make a peace with the king of it, because these two kings have fighted each other. Fighted?’ ‘Fought,’ says Petworth. ‘Good, you help,’ says Princip, ‘So Stupid goes to that other court, and there he sees the king’s daughter, a very beautiful princess, and you know what happens, because it always does. Stupid falls there in love.’ ‘That is why he is called Stupid?’ asks Vera. ‘He is called Stupid because I like to call him Stupid,’ says Princip, ‘Do I go on?’

‘Please,’ says Petworth. ‘Her father the king, a rough man with a big red beard, tells: Stupid, no, you cannot marry her, because already she is promised to marry another else, so go away. Well, of course, poor Stupid, he is sad, a long, long face right down to here. And he walks out into the forest and there he meets an old woman who is special, she is a makku, we say, do you know?’ ‘A witch,’ says Petworth. ‘That is the word, a witch,’ says Princip, ‘Perhaps you know this story already?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, of course you know some like it,’ says Princip, ‘But perhaps not my special story of poor Stupid. So, that witch tells to Stupid, please, come walk with me in the forest. Well, he goes, the branches catch at his hairs, the animals make howl, he does not know where he goes, you know how it is in forests. And then suddenly they are both falling, down a dark, dark hole, a long far way. And then, bouff!, they are at the bottom, with sore behinds. And there in front is a new land, with great trees and sunshine and gardens, and on top of a hill a castle, with some high towers. Well, Stupid looks up at the castle and there, in the very highest window, on highest tower, he thinks he sees, looking out, his very beautiful princess. In the sky is the shining sun, in front of them some water. Some frogs sit there on the water-plants, and the witch, who can talk to them, asks them all about that castle. And they tell, be careful, it belongs to a great big bad man, bigger than anybody, what do you call him?’ ‘A giant?’ asks Petworth.

‘You are very good, really you should tell this story, it is a giant,’ says Katya Princip, patting his arm, ‘A giant who every day takes a prisoner, a very beautiful girl, and he kills her at night when goes down the sun. Well, Stupid does not like this news, and sees also that the sun begins to go down, down, down behind the trees. And so of course he approaches to the castle and tries to go in there, to rescue his princess. But the gate is shut, and on every window are many bars. He looks up again at the sun, it slips nearer and nearer the ground. He looks up at the high window, and there, beside the lady, who cries, he sees that, what do you call, giant, and there in his hand is a big axe that is made specially just for great giants like him. The girl leans, and tries to shout, but over her face the giant puts his big hand, and he laughs down the tower at Stupid. Well, Stupid shakes at the gate, he pushes at the windows, what would you do, but he finds no ways to get inside. What can he do next?’ ‘He could ask for help the witch,’ says Vera. ‘My dear, you are right,’ says Princip, ‘He turns to that witch, a good witch, a bad witch, he does not know. He does not know anything, he is Stupid. So the witch tells again, come, walk with me, and she takes him to a beautiful garden next the castle, in it many trees and plants. The sun is going now, the castle rises high, and no way at all to go in. But the witch takes Stupid over to a big round fruit that is on the ground. The sun has made it a bright yellow, and inside is fat and good to eat, how do you call it, Petwit?’ ‘A marrow,’ says Petworth. ‘No, not marrow, but like,’ says Princip, ‘Inside is more sweet. A fruit that is in all the stories.’ ‘Yes, of course,’ says Petworth, ‘A pumpkin.’ ‘That is it, pumpkin,’ says Katya Princip, ‘And now you know what vish’nou is made of. Now you know what you eat. Try it and tell me you like it.’

‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘But what happened to the prince?’ ‘To Stupid?’ asks Princip, ‘Oh, now it is no matter. Don’t you find out what is your dessert?’ ‘I’d also like to find out how the story ends,’ says Petworth. ‘But you know how it ends,’ says Princip. ‘That is the end, on your plate. I made it to make you remember a name.’ ‘But now we all are thinking, what has happened to Stupid?’ says Vera. ‘Why? How does it matter?’ says Princip, ‘You know what happens to Stupid, all stories are the same, you know the end already.’ ‘Please tell,’ says Vera. ‘Oh, of course the witch is a good witch, Stupid goes into the castle and he kills the giant, the princess goes home with him, the king her father with the big red beard tells he is very sorry, and they marry and live happy ever after, under socialism, and make many children who all work hard for the state.’ ‘But no more adventures for Stupid?’ asks Lubijova. ‘Of course some adventures, but the adventures are always the same, and they do not change the story,’ says Princip, ‘What matters is: it is a useful story, Maxim Gorky would please. Petwit knows now what meal he eats, it is pumpkin,’ ‘We never heard what the pumpkin did, in the story,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, so many questions, I wonder why?’ says Princip, ‘The pumpkin of course did what pumpkins like to do in the stories. It turned to something else, perhaps a ladder, perhaps a coach. Perhaps someone climbed the ladder, perhaps someone rode the coach. But it is no matter. You are in Slaka, you make your meal, you eat your fruit, and you know it is pumpkin.’ ‘You see now what kind of a book Comrade Princip likes to write,’ says Lubijova. ‘Not really,’ says Princip, ‘My books are a bit magical also, but more complete. And I never tell them at official lunches. Of course, Mr Petwit, if one day our paths are crossing somewhere, if you come back again here to Slaka, well, then I might really tell you what happened to that prince and that pumpkin. You see, what I tell now is not true. There were some more adventures. The witch was not such a good witch, the giant did not die like that. The girl in the tower was not as she appeared, the king with the red beard was not such a good king. So, poor Stupid.’

‘And the pumpkin?’ asks Vera. ‘No, the pumpkin did not really turn into a ladder or a coach. Poor Stupid ate it, and came in the power of the witch, and some very strange things happened to him.’ ‘Won’t you tell?’ asks Lubijova. ‘Please, it is late,’ says Princip, ‘Also I have talked so much to our guest that, don’t you see, his vish’nou gets cold. Finish it quickly, please, Mr Petwit, or it is not nice.’ Tankic leans across the table and says something to Petworth, laughing. ‘Says a bureaucrat always has a bureau, and he must go to his,’ says Lubijova, ‘He says he knows you are a good man because you like to drink with him. So he makes you one last toast. To good tour, good lectures, good times and also one more thing. To the beautiful ladies, for the first time, this time completely and more than ever sincerely.’ The glasses go up again; Tankic beams, half kind and half malicious. ‘So, Mr Petworth,’ says Tankic, putting on his shortie raincoat and his black Homburg hat, ‘Take care for bad witches.’ ‘I will,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, Comrade Princip,’ says Vera, squeezing Petworth’s arm, ‘You didn’t ask your wish of him!’ ‘Oh, yes, my wish,’ says Katya Princip, combing her hair at a mirror, ‘I had forgotten it. It was just a little wish and you probably do not have time for it. My wish was only, Mr Petwit, please come take walk with me.’ ‘To the forest?’ says Vera. ‘Not the forest, I am not bad witch,’ says Katya Princip, laughing, ‘Just to a café. I want to show you our beer, our thinking, and something else interesting. Do you have just a little time?’ ‘Comrade Lubijova can go with you,’ says Vera, ‘Then you do not get lost.’ ‘Do we do it?’ asks Princip. There is a small pulsing in Petworth’s head, the effect of a long day of toasts. The lunch has been good, the company pleasing, and it seems too soon to end it. ‘Do you think so, Marisja?’ he asks. ‘If you want it,’ says Lubijova. ‘Good, we go,’ says Katya Princip, holding out Petworth’s coat to him, leading him through the dining-room beyond, now quite empty except for the gaping fish, and out of the Restaurant Propp.

IV

And now it is later, and the sun is going down, and a very good-humoured, very confused Petworth is walking through a vast busy market place. The rain still falls, the crowds are wet, the people push; the stalls are lamp lit, and on them strange twisted vegetables, great beets and garlics, release a warm odour into the air. All round are high old gabled houses; by the curbside, an organ-grinder in a bent old felt hat, and white moustache fringed with nicotine, turns a handle on a hurdygurdy where a wet, jacketed monkey chatters. Peasants with sere old faces move by in shawls to keep off the rain; in the centre of the square is an ancient market hall, topped with a high ornate tower with on it a decorated old clock. ‘Isn’t it nice, don’t you like it?’ asks Katya Princip, in her sheepskin waistcoat, holding his arm, ‘Really my favourite place in Slaka. Don’t you like the shapes of these vegetables? It is the private produce those peasants grow in their yards, to make a little money.’ Ahead of them, Marisja Lubijova walks with Professor Rum, whose topcoat is back over his shoulders: ‘Which café do you like?’ asks Lubijova, turning to stare back at them. ‘Oh, dear, she does not enjoy this,’ says Princip, ‘Café Grimm, on the other side. Yes, it is nice, Mr Petwit. I hope it makes no trouble for you.’ ‘Trouble?’ asks Petworth, ‘Why?’ ‘I was wicked there, they do not ask me again, to an official lunch,’ says Princip, ‘Of course they cannot blame you, but if you are clever, you should refuse to come with me.’ ‘But they wanted me to come,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes?’ says Princip, laughing, ‘Didn’t you see their faces, Tankic and his mistress? This is why they sent your nice lady guide with you.’ ‘His mistress?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course his mistress,’ says Princip, ‘Why else does she go to such a lunch? There is a saying here: in my country some people advance on their knees, others on their backs. I think that is one that advances on her back.’ ‘This one, Grimm?’ asks Lubijova, turning, ‘Do we go inside?’ ‘No, we sit outside, even though it rains,’ says Princip, ‘You see, we have a thing to show you, Mr Petwit.’

And now it is a little later still, and Petworth is sitting in a metal chair in the rain outside a café in the market place of Slaka. The metal chairs are all affixed to the ground, arranged in straight rows, looking outward. The crowds press in front of them; they sit in their row, with Katya Princip to one side of Petworth, Marisja Lubijova to the other, and Professor Rum, ruminative, beyond her on the end of the line. ‘You see, nobody serves us,’ says Lubijova, ‘They do not serve here because it rains.’ ‘Do you like to go inside and see if they bring some beer to us?’ asks Princip. ‘All right, I do it,’ says Lubijova, going into the crowded inner café. ‘She does not please with you, that one,’ says Princip, ‘She sees you in bad company. She does not like to leave you.’ ‘She admires your novels,’ says Petworth, ‘She bought me your book.’ ‘Not all who admire the novels admire the novelist,’ says Princip, ‘And not all who admire the novelist admire the novels. Let us ask Professor Rum.’ Princip moves to Petworth’s other side, and begins a conversation; Petworth stares at the red banners that dangle over the square on high poles. ‘He explains he is of the party of socialist realism,’ says Princip, ‘He thinks he will not like my new book at all. In it no characters who are people. The central figure is a cake with two horns.’ Lubijova comes out of the interior of the café and stands before Petworth: ‘I am sorry, it is no use,’ she says, ‘They have finished all their supply of beer.’ ‘Then we get something else,’ says Princip, ‘Tea with a tort. I go and arrange it.’ ‘Comrade Petwurt, take care please with this lady,’ says Marisja, sitting down beside him, ‘She does foolish things and she gets you into trouble.’ ‘Realismus,’ says the Academician Rum, stirring from thought at the end of the row, ‘You tell?’ ‘He asks me to explain you that the problem of realismus is to combinate the reality inherent in the historical process with the sufficient subjective perception, do you agree?’ ‘Well, yes,’ says Petworth.

‘And here we are,’ says Princip, returning with a tray on which stand four tall steaming glasses of water. In the water are small iron bombs, which emit a seeping brownness that twists into strange hieroglyphs. ‘Now take your drink please and look at the market hall, up at the top, because it is almost time for this thing.’ And high up on the bell-tower, something is indeed happening. Below the clock face, decorated with necromancer’s symbols, two wooden doors are opening, very jerkily. From inside the doors, on tracks, come two stiff wooden peasants, each one carrying a cudgel. The peasants come forward, bow down to the crowd, then turn to face each other. They slide a little closer, and as they do so their cudgels rise into the air. The clock above them begins to strike; at each clang of the bell, they belabour each other. ‘Do you count them,’ says Princip, ‘One, two, three, four, five, six.’ The crowds have stopped, and everyone is looking up. Petworth then notices that affixed to the top of the tower are crowdcontrol television cameras, looking back down. ‘Don’t you please I bring you?’ asks Katya Princip, ‘Now you see my wish. You see, I like things just a little bit magical. Perhaps you do too.’ ‘I do,’ says Petworth. ‘And every day at six when the men come out I come here,’ says Princip, ‘So this is where everyone finds me. If you ever like to do it.’ ‘Oh, Petwurt, Petwurt,’ cries Lubijova, ‘Your wife!’ ‘My wife?’ cries Petworth. ‘On the telephone,’ says Lubijova, ‘I arranged you to call her from the hotel at six o’clock.’ ‘Oh, do you have a wife?’ asks Princip, ‘You don’t have a ring.’ ‘His wife waits a call from him,’ says Lubijova, ‘Well, now it is too late. Now we make all the arrangements over again, oh, Petwurt, Petwurt, and they will not be pleased with you.’ ‘Six o’clock?’ says Petworth, ‘But we’ve only just finished lunch.’ ‘It was a long, long lunch,’ says Lubijova, ‘And don’t forget, tomorrow you must make a conference at the university. I think he goes to his hotel.’ ‘I think so too,’ says Petworth, dimly recalling another social engagement, which it might not be entirely wise to talk about.

‘Come, I take you,’ says Lubijova, standing up in front of him. ‘Which hotel?’ asks Princip. ‘Slaka, in Wang’luku,’ says Lubijova. ‘My dear, let me take him, I go by there,’ says Princip, ‘My apartment is right by that corner. I go there anyway.’ ‘I think I come too,’ says Marisja Lubijova. ‘Really, no need,’ says Princip, ‘He does not have to have always two beautiful ladies.’ ‘Do you know your arrangements, Comrade Petwurt?’ asks Lubijova anxiously, ‘Do you remember your programme? I shall come to the same place in the hotel, the same time. But will you have eaten your breakfast?’ ‘I can manage,’ says Petworth. ‘Well,’ says Lubijova, doubtfully, ‘Perhaps.’ ‘Of course,’ says Princip, seizing Petworth’s arm. Professor Rum rises, adjusts his topcoat, and puts out his hand to Petworth. ‘He says he is pleased to meet you and he looks forward to hearing you when you make conference,’ says Lubijova, ‘Even though he does not understand English and he thinks you are a pragmatist.’ ‘Then I’ll see you tomorrow,’ says Petworth to Lubijova, ‘And thank you so much for the tour and the book.’ ‘The book, perhaps it was not such a good idea,’ says Lubijova, ‘But I wanted to make you nice present.’ ‘You did,’ says Petworth. ‘We go this way, to the tram,’ says Princip, ‘Do you go yet on a tram?’ ‘Not yet,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, Petwurt, Petwurt,’ cries Lubijova, hurrying after them as they walk, ‘Your passport, I think you take it. Remember, you do not exist without it. Yes, I see you tomorrow.’ ‘Oh, she is cross, that one,’ says Princip, looking after her as she goes off through the market in her mohair hat, ‘Or perhaps it is jealous, you know she likes you. Yes, of course. You are not so macho as our men, and that makes you attractive. Why do you think I like so much to go with you?’ ‘I’m pleased you do,’ says Petworth, as they cross the market, past the sere-faced peasants standing behind the stalls, the flowers, the twisted vegetables. ‘Now here we wait the tram,’ says Princip, ‘Oh, hold please my arm, I think you took too many toasts. And when that tram comes, push, push, push. We are not so polite here, like the British.’

They stand in the crowd until the high-prowed pink tram comes; the sign on its front, over the uniformed woman driver, says WANG’LUKU. ‘Push, push, go inside, I have two tickets,’ says Princip, ‘If you do it well, you get seat, and one beside for me.’ He does it well, and finds two seats; the tram grinds off. ‘So, Mr Petwit, I am glad you are my admirer,’ says Katya Princip, sitting down beside him, ‘You know I am a little bit yours, too. Yes, I think I come to your lecture tomorrow. If you speak it very slowly.’ ‘I will,’ says Petworth. ‘Isn’t it nice, on a tram?’ says Princip, putting her arm through his, ‘I told you, once I drove one. When I could not write.’ ‘But you can write now,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, I have some protection,’ says Princip, ‘It is best always to have some protection. But I am not reliable, you know. I have friends in America who make to me some telephone calls. I go abroad perhaps too many times, and meet wrong people. I am not polite to those apparatchiks. So often they like to watch me. That is why I am not such good friend for you, really. And you not a very good friend for me. That is a pity.’ ‘A great pity,’ says Petworth, staring down as they rattle over the Bridge of Anniversary May 15. ‘Oh, look, look, we go over the river,’ says Princip, ‘Do you see all those fishermen down there, fishing even in the rain? Do you know how we call them? We say they are the men from HOGPo.’ ‘Why?’ asks Petworth. ‘There are so many fish down there,’ says Princip, ‘Someone has to find out what they are thinking. And so, Mr Petwit, you have a wife. Is she a nice one?’ ‘A good woman,’ says Petworth. ‘That is what we say,’ says Princip, ‘Every man needs a good woman, and when he has found her he needs a bad woman also. Well, you are nice, Mr Petwit, you drink too much and smoke too much and you are not character in the world historical sense, and all that makes you attractive. But perhaps I don’t after all come to your lecture. We are both really not cautious enough, and here this is dangerous.’ ‘You think we shouldn’t meet again,’ says Petworth. ‘What would we do it for?’ asks Princip, ‘So I can tell you the real story of Stupid?’

From a hazed memory, Petworth now remembers something. ‘When you were at the airport, with Professor Rum,’ he says. ‘Oh, the airport, where you saw me wave to you,’ says Princip, ‘I had come back from Provd, there was meeting of the Writers’ Union.’ ‘Who was the man, the other man, who waved after the taxi?’ ‘Oh, this man with the umbrella?’ asks Princip, ‘We did not know him. He was foreign, from somewhere else. He did not speak Slakan so well. You see, Mr Petwit, here there is so much following. You are a nice man, in a nice place we would like each other. But I don’t think so in Slaka. Look, we are almost at Wang’luku. Get up, comrade, push, push.’ Above the tram, Marx and Engels, Wanko and Grigoric, bob in the narrow street. Then they are in the square, busy tonight with people, crowded round the newspaper seller, buying from the man with the balloons. ‘So, I have brought you home,’ says Katya Princip, in her sheepskin waistcoat and batik dress, looking at him with grey-green sad eyes, ‘I have really liked to meet you. But I cannot be your good witch, I cannot be your bad witch, it would be so nice and very silly. Did you like to meet me?’ ‘Very much,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, if you don’t have me, you have my book,’ says Princip, ‘And if you open it very carefully, and learn the words very slowly, and look for the hidden places, the corners that are secret, then in a certain way you can have me. Perhaps, now you know me you will have me much more like that than if we decided to be silly and go and make some love. Do you know the title, what it means? It means not to be afraid.’ ‘Then perhaps we shouldn’t be,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, you like to like me, I like to like you,’ says Princip, ‘And in a nice world it would all be very nice. But it is not a nice world and everyone must take care for themselves. Now I think you go in your hotel.’

‘Then come in for a minute,’ says Petworth. ‘You don’t understand, they will take notice there, they watch everyone,’ says Princip, touching his lips with her finger, ‘Oh, Mr Petwit, I have told you. You are really not a character in the world historical sense. You come from a little island with water all round. When we were oppressed and occupied and when we fought and died, and there were mad mullahs and pogroms against the Jews, what did you have? Queen Victoria and industrial revolution and Alfred the Lord Tennyson. We sent Karl Marx to explain you everything, but you didn’t notice. What did you do with him, put him in Highgate cemetery, some would say the best place, I know. You never had history, just some customs. Now, go in there. Think of your nice Mrs Petwit, all the little Petwits if you have some. Perhaps in your room you make a little toast for me. To the beautiful lady, this time really meaning it. So, enjoy our country, please, and make a good lecture. I like to be there, but I will not, because I like you, I really like you.’ She stands looking at him, in her white dress and sheepskin coat; then she kisses his cheek, turns, and is gone into the crowd. Petworth turns too, stepping in through the glass doors, past the limping doormen. In the lobby, a crowd of oriental gentlemen stands round the desk; there is noise and emptiness, people and personlessness. He goes to the desk to change his identay’ii for his key; ‘Pervert, don’t you know what time is, six and a half,’ says the lacquered-haired girl, tapping her watch crossly, ‘Do you know you have missed your telephone? Well, is too late now.’ He goes up in the great lift, past the white floormaid, and into his dark room, that empty place for his filled spirit. Brandy tastes like nausea in his throat; an unfamiliar pulse beats at the back of his head; there is post-surgical pain in his feelings. He takes off his official suit, knowing that he has missed something, or that something is missing. Ten minutes later, naked in the vast bathroom, under the groaning, creaking shower, hard water hitting a head filled with the sediment of his governmental lunch, hand twisting taps that will not quite come to balance, so that now the water turns his white body scalding hot, now freezing cold, his face staring upward into the painful flood, while the split peach of his buttocks and the limp profitless dangle of his thighs flicker at him from the opposite, misting mirrored wall, a gloomy nude, his long day by no means over, he tries to call himself back to duty, sociability, affability, to find a face that will meet the face of Mr Steadiman.