5 – CD/GB.

I

The clocks on the nearby government buildings, the chimes in the belfries round about, are all ringing seven as Petworth descends the rough stairs to the cellar bar of the Hotel Slaka, looking for Mr Steadiman. His hair is wet from his hasty shower, his head heavy from the day’s hospitality; he knows himself for a man of sorrows, who, in one day, has met and found, loved and lost. Raising the curtain to the Barr’uu Tzigane, he expects the gloomy cavern to match his mood. But something has changed in the underground place; yesterday’s drabness has turned into something almost resembling joy. Behind the caravan bar is a laughing gipsy barman, while the whores who sit, teasing and giggling, in a line along the bar in front of him, drinking specialist drinks, are brighter, more glittering, and far more numerous. They all turn to look through silver eye make-up at Petworth as he comes in; in the lap of one, a new one, with hennaed red hair and a golden dress, a small beribboned lapdog barks brightly at his entrance. At the red-checked tables there is much busyness and noise; laughter and jollity sound as Zaïrean timber talks to Ukrainian grain, Indian cloth to Polish leather. Bright-sad music is in the smoky air; among the tables, with their gleaming table lamps, two small gipsies in frilly sleeves pass, fiddling furiously. It is a frivolous place, almost too frivolous for a man not hunting frivolity. But diplomatic matters attend him, the duties of his visit; he steps inside and walks slowly among the tables, staring from side to side, looking for the Second Secretary from the British Embassy.

Evidently the task will not be easy. Mr Steadiman, to identify himself, has promised to wear a suit; but a suit is precisely what all the many single men who sit at the tables – staring, waiting, looking at the girls, gazing dubiously down into small drinks – have elected, on this evening, to wear. Steadiman, no doubt, has no desire to draw special attention to himself; and yet, as Petworth looks carefully around, going from table to table, it seems to him that none of the men who sit there quite looks like a British Second Secretary. This suited man wears a black plastic hat; that one smokes a plastic-ended cigar. This one works steadfastly on notes, a pocket calculator clicking away in his hand; that one has his big bullet head thrust deep down into the pages of P’rtyuu Populatuuu. That one is Chinese; these two are black Africans. Steadiman, presumably, has not arrived, or obscured himself so well that he will make himself known. A table comes vacant in one of the dark alcoves; Petworth sits down at it, facing the curtained doorway. After a moment, looking rather surly, a red-checked waitress halts beside him; Petworth orders a Sch’veppuu. He sits, and looks carefully round the room; only the pretty whores at the bar look back at him, and one, the new one with the henna hair and the lapdog, mouths a kiss at him; Petworth ignores it. The gipsies play, the men at their tables sit and work, from time to time the door curtain rises and a man comes in – a turbanned man, a black man, a bespectacled man, a man in a see-through fold-up raincoat – but none of them look like a Steadiman. Meanwhile, his drink, like Steadiman himself, fails to come. Staring at the whores, jogging their pretty legs, in silver boots and high-heeled shoes, up and down, Petworth broods on blonde hair, a batik dress, a brief happy tram-ride, a bleak separation, on the sadness and solitude behind the public spaces of society and exchange.

The clocks on the nearby government buildings, on the belfries around, chime seven-thirty, and still Steadiman has not come. Petworth is just thinking of returning to his room, or of attempting a taxi, when the door curtain lifts once more. A man stands there, looking expectantly round the noisy room: a tall man, fresh-faced, forty-ish, thin, wearing a suit, carrying a rolled umbrella. He steps into the room, looking – carefully at the whores along the bar, evidently seeking someone; and Petworth knows that this man has been somewhere in his story before. The man steps onward, between the tables, and Petworth suddenly recalls where he has seen this face, this suit, this umbrella, this look; this is the man who jostled him in the entrance to the arrivals hall at Slaka airport, as Lubijova led him toward his taxi; this is the umbrella that waved after the taxi, when, looking back, Petworth saw Professor Rum, Katya Princip, and a third figure, a man with a sack, this man, chasing his arrival. The man is now moving from table to table, a crisp, confident expression on his face, speaking to the people sitting there: the man with the black plastic hat, the man with the plastic-ended cigar. His quest is clearly unsuccessful; he turns now to the man with the pocket calculator, then the man behind P’rtyuu Populatuuu. Petworth now realizes suddenly that it is he who is being looked for; at the same time he understands at once who his follower is. He rises from his seat and goes toward the man, who, an expression of waning confidence on his features, is now approaching the solitary Chinese. ‘Excuse me,’ Petworth says, coming up to the man, who, rejected by the Chinese, has now turned to the two black Africans, ‘Would you happen to be Mr Steadiman?’

‘Aaaarrggghhh,’ says the man, turning; the two gipsies now come on either side of him, and begin bowing their fiddles at him in musical frenzy. ‘Not today, thank you,’ says the man to the gipsies, ‘Who are you?’ ‘My name’s Petworth,’ says Petworth, ‘I thought you might be looking for me.’ ‘Pet Pet Petworth?’ says the man, his fresh features taking on an expression of cunning, ‘And you’re looking for a chap called Ster Ster Steadiman?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘You’re alone?’ asks the man. ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And no one followed you here?’ asks the man. ‘Only you,’ says Petworth. ‘And you think I might be this chap whatsisname you’re looking for?’ says the man, who has a public-school English accent. ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Look, do let’s sit down,’ says the man. ‘I’ve already got a table,’ says Petworth. ‘Where is it?’ asks the man. ‘Over there in the alcove,’ says Petworth. ‘Show me,’ says the man, ‘Is this it?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Very good, old chap,’ says the man, after a moment, sitting down, ‘Do take a pew.’ ‘Thank you,’ says Petworth. The man looks around, and then lifts up the table-lamp and looks curiously underneath it. ‘We should be alright here,’ he says, ‘Do you have a pass pass passport?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘May I see it?’ says the man lifting up the table cloth and looking underneath it. ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Aaarrggghh,’ says the man, taking the passport, and looking at it, ‘Very good. And what was the name of the contact you were looking for?’ ‘Steadiman,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, believe it or not,’ says the man, ‘That’s me, actually. Yes, I’m St St Steadiman. Well well welcome to Slaka.’ ‘Thank you,’ says Petworth. ‘Clever of you to spot me,’ says Steadiman, ‘I like to keep a low pro pro profile. I suppose it was the suit.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth.

And indeed, close to, it is clear that this suit is not like other suits; the other male garments here and there about the room are only pale approximations to the suit Steadiman wears, which is suit itself. It is pin-striped, its lapels handstitched and exact; the jacket falls open to reveal a neat waistcoat, the bottom button left statutorily undone; the finely creased trousers drape carefully over clocked silk socks and finely cleaned shoes. The shirt underneath is wide-striped, and bespeaks an address in Jermyn Street; on the collar is a scatter of blood spots, that necessary testament to fine wet shaving. The tie is an English tie, indicating its character as a badge of membership, of some club or regiment or school, without uttering the vulgarity of being actually recognizable. And the face above, staring frankly at Petworth, and then with suspicious cunning round the rest of the room, well, that is clearly made from British genes; fine, long-chinned, it has that hopeful, boyish expression, touched with a small adult pain, that makes all Englishmen feel they have once sobbed collectively together in the dorm of some universal prep school after lights out, even if, like Petworth, they never went to one. Yes, Steadiman is, quite certainly and unmistakably, Steadiman, the Second Secretary at the Embassy. ‘Awfully sorry,’ he says ‘Multos apologiosas about being late. I had to go out to the air and pick up the dip, out to the airport and pick up the diplomatic pouch. Of course the Heathrow flight was three hours late again. I wonder if those chaps who are always on strike ever think they might be putting our international relations in utter jep jep jeopardy. I think it’s time for drinkies.’

Steadiman suddenly raises his right arm high in the air, and leaves it there. ‘Were you out at the airport yesterday?’ asks Petworth. ‘Ah,’ says Steadiman, ‘Aaarrgghh. Why do you ask? Think you spotted me there, do you?’ ‘I did actually, yes,’ says Petworth, ‘I saw you waving after my taxi.’ ‘Oh, did you?’ says Steadiman, looking a little crestfallen, ‘Yes, I had to go to the air and pick up the dip, so I thought I’d do a little careful checking to make sure you’d made a safe land land landfall. We like to keep an eye on our high-level visitors, you know; but their Min Min Ministraty doesn’t like us po po poaching on their pa pa patch. Naturally one’s a little discreet.’ ‘Naturally,’ says Petworth. ‘But they are looking after you nicely?’ asks Steadiman, ‘Giving you a goo goo good time?’ ‘Very good,’ says Petworth. ‘And did they give you an official lunch today?’ asks Steadiman. ‘They did,’ says Petworth. ‘Tell me,’ says Steadiman, looking carefully round the room, ‘Who was the host? Was it the min the min the Min . . .’ ‘No, it wasn’t the Minister,’ says Petworth, ‘It was a man called Tankic.’ ‘Ah, yes, Tankic,’ says Steadiman, ‘My wife’s met him. Bald, humorous sort of chap.’ ‘That’s it,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, well, they gave you their number three,’ says Steadiman, ‘Not bad. Very clever operator, Tankic. Big in the party, they say, and undoubtedly destined for high high higher things. Ruthless as hell, of course. As they put it here, he’d sell his mother to the butcher to improve the food production target. Where did he take you?’ ‘The Restaurant Propp,’ says Petworth. ‘Really?’ says Steadiman, ‘Very good. They’re treating you well. I wonder what they’re up to. What happened to our drink?’ ‘I ordered one three-quarters of an hour ago,’ says Petworth, ‘It never came.’ ‘Oh, they’ll come for me,’ says Steadiman, confidently, clicking the fingers on his raised right arm, ‘Over here, my dear. Two thirsty gentlemen waiting.’ Evidently the confidence is justified; the red-checked waitress, smiling pleasantly, comes over to the table. ‘See what I mean?’ says Steadiman, beaming up at her cherubically, a faint babyfuzz on his cheekbones, ‘They always come, I don’t know why. Hello, my dear. Now then, what would you say to a nice cock a nice cock . . .?’ ‘Not a cocktail for me, thanks,’ says Petworth. ‘Something a bit softer, then?’ asks Steadiman, continuing to beam up at the waitress. ‘I’d just like the Sch’veppuu I ordered earlier,’ says Petworth.

‘Ah,’ says Steadiman, ‘Aaarrggghhh. The Sch’veppy you ordered earlier. Let me just explain that to her. Heh, froliki . . .’ ‘Da?’ says the waitress, attentive. ‘Mi amicatog,’ says Steadiman. ‘Ah, do, tou amucutak,’ says the waitress, encouragingly. ‘Da, mi amicatog op darigayet ei Sch’veppy,’ says Steadiman. ‘Da, durg’atap oc Sch’veppuu,’ says the waitress. ‘That’s it, well, if you could just bring it,’ says Steadiman. ‘Ah, da, da,’ says the waitress. ‘I think she’s got it,’ says Steadiman, ‘Ec op ig ei ginnitoniki, da?’ ‘Da,’ says the girl, ‘Oc gunnutonukku.’ ‘That’s it,’ says Steadiman, ‘Ec froliki, metto pikani, da?’ ‘Mettu pekanu,’ says the girl. ‘Nice girl,’ says Steadiman, looking after her appreciatively as she goes away, ‘Good bust good bust good bustling manner. Of course she’s flat she’s flat she’s flattered if you try to speak the lingo. The trouble is they’re changing it, you’ve probably heard. Hence the small diff diff difficulties.’ ‘Yes, I gathered that,’ says Petworth. ‘I find that typically foreign,’ says Steadiman, ‘It’s just like the French parking system. You learn to park on one side of the street and then, just because it’s the ver ver vernal equinox or something, they switch it over to the other.’ ‘Well, there have been languages that changed with the seasons,’ says Petworth, ‘And others that changed according to sex.’ ‘Acc acc according to sex?’ says Steadiman. ‘Where men and women have different words for the same things,’ says Petworth. ‘Ridiculous,’ says Steadiman, ‘Of course, you’re a bit of an expert on these things, I believe. Isn’t lin lin lingo your line?’ ‘Linguistics, yes,’ says Petworth. ‘I suppose you know lots of languages,’ says Steadiman, ‘Shouldn’t bother too much with this one, though. You’re only here for two weeks, and you’ll never need to use it again. I’ve been here three years, and only just mastered it. Then they change it. Thank God for Eng Eng English, at least that stays the same.’

‘Well, not exactly,’ says Petworth, ‘Actually it’s changing quite rapidly.’ ‘Not in Sevenoaks,’ says Steadiman, adjusting his tie, ‘In any case, this change is quite diff diff different, purely political.’ ‘Really,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Steadiman, ‘It’s a bunch of lib lib liberals and diss diss dissidents putting pressure on the regime. So they’ve given ground on the easiest thing, the lan lan language.’ ‘Hardly the easiest thing,’ says Petworth, ‘Change the language and you change everything.’ ‘Oh, they know what they’re doing,’ says Steadiman, ‘They draw the radicals out of the woodwork, then put them away and everything goes back to normal. It’ll all be the same again in a couple of months, you’ll see. One ought to sympathize, but one’s quite grateful really. Change plays hell with dip dip diplomacy. Anyway, un un understand and be un un un understood, that’s always been my motto.’ ‘So it won’t come to anything,’ says Petworth. ‘It’s a hard regime,’ says Steadiman, ‘But they do know how to run a country. Ah, here come our drinks. I told you she’d look after us.’ And the red-checked waitress is standing smiling above them, putting their two drinks onto the table, along with a bowl of cocktail delicacies. ‘Slibob, my dear,’ says Steadiman, beaming and putting some money in a dish, ‘Por vo.’ ‘Slubob,’ says the waitress, putting the money away, and smiling at Steadiman. ‘Nice people here,’ says Steadiman, watching her leave, ‘Healthy and charming. And the chaps here have the most marvellous nuts.’ ‘Do they?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Steadiman, holding out the bowl of cocktail bits, ‘Try some. They’re a local speciality.’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth, ‘Thank you.’ ‘And they’ve certainly put you in an ex ex excellent ho ho hotel,’ says Steadiman, looking appreciatively round the bar, ‘Couldn’t have done better.’ ‘Yes, it’s quite pleasant,’ says Petworth.

‘Well, first-rate, I’d say,’ says Steadiman, looking around again, ‘You can always tell a good ho ho hotel here by the quality of the tarts. You ought to see the old bags at the Orbis, where we put our visitors. Tell me, what do they charge here?’ ‘I don’t really know,’ says Petworth, ‘The Mun’stratuu’s paying the bill.’ ‘Not the room, the hew hew whores,’ says Steadiman, ‘How much are they?’ ‘I haven’t asked,’ says Petworth, ‘I’m only here two weeks.’ ‘No need,’ says Steadiman, looking at the exotic row of girls by the caravan bar, swinging their legs languorously, ‘You can always tell by their feet.’ ‘Their feet?’ asks Petworth. ‘They always chalk their price on the so so soles of their shoes,’ says Steadiman, ‘Have a look.’ Petworth looks at the swinging legs along the bar, and sees that Marx was right; beneath each leathered shining superstructure there is an economic infra-structure, for each decorated boot, each shining fashion shoe, bears a waving chalked hieroglyph. ‘I didn’t bring my specs,’ says Steadiman, ‘But take for instance the blonde in the middle, the one with the enormous nip enormous nip enormous nip of whisky. How much is she?’ ‘It looks like forty,’ says Petworth, looking. The girl smiles; ‘Forty, really, amazing,’ says Steadiman. ‘Unless it’s her shoe size,’ says Petworth. ‘No, that’s her price,’ says Steadiman, ‘Very good for a girl like that, in a place like this. Think what you’d pay in Chelsea.’ ‘Really, is it?’ asks Petworth, ‘I wouldn’t know. No one’s told me the rate of exchange.’ ‘Ah, the cambio,’ says Steadiman, ‘The wechsel. No one’s explained it to you?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, well,’ says Steadiman, ‘You have to understand you have now entered a loo entered a loo entered a lunatic economy. For all their socialist rationalization, they’ve ended up with about five different rates of exchange.’ ‘Five?’ asks Petworth.

‘It’s utter chaos,’ says Steadiman, sipping his drink, ‘One never knows the value of anything. There’s a dip dip diplomatic rate, the one we get, the worst, of course. Then there’s a bis bis business rate, a congress rate, and a tourist rate. Then there’s the unofficial rate, that’s these chaps who stop you on the street and ask to buy your trousers. They’ll offer you up to twenty times more than the banks. Strictly illegal, of course, mustn’t touch it with a bar bar barge-pole.’ ‘It sounds very confusing,’ says Petworth. ‘It is,’ says Steadiman sourly, staring across at the girls along the bar, ‘What it means is you could be paying anything between the price of a round of drinks and the cost of a three-piece suite for exactly the same ba ba bang. You can get anything you like for a few dollars. Of course, these girls, mustn’t touch them with a bar bar bargepole. You know they make their money by whip whip whipping.’ ‘Do they?’ says Petworth. ‘Whip whip whipping straight round to the security police with any information they can get. Or they arrange for fo fo photographs to be taken, to go into the file until they prove useful. We call it the turn of the screw.’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth, looking at the teasing, tossing, multivalent girls, who are looking across at them. ‘Fraid so,’ says Steadiman, looking gloomily down into his drink, ‘Actually, the answer, as so often, is to turn to private enterprise. Plenty of it about, they’re a prac prac practical people, the Slakans. Or you could try the girls in some of the smaller nightclubs downtown.’ ‘Well, I’m not anxious,’ says Petworth. ‘But even that’s risky. They tell me some of those strip strip strippers have the rank of colonel in the army.’

The girls at the bar have all turned round now, and are staring at them with interest; Steadiman, raising his glass, regards them morosely. ‘I’m afraid cha cha chastity’s the only sensible answer,’ he says, ‘If you can manage it. Of course, you’re only here two weeks. I’ve been here for three years. You know, it’s funny. Before you’re po po posted, the effo the effo give you a brief brief briefing, very detailed and explicit. Microphones and moles, unreliable staff and drugged cigarettes. And they show you these films, all very frank, of dips being comped, diplomats being compromised by beautiful women, sitting up there on the bed, naked except for a gold chain round the waist. For the first year here, you’re ter ter terribly cautious. You stay out of shady corners, you won’t get into a car without the company of a chap chap chaperone. In the second year you relax a bit, and, by God, nothing happens. By the third year, you’re wondering when the devil it’s going to be your turn. You go to the embassy parties, all the French and the Swedes and the Americans and the Ger Ger Germans, and wonder which lucky sod is getting it. And why no one’s after you. Is your info info information so worthless? Are you going to the wrong parties? Have you got bad breath? Doesn’t Britain count any more?’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth. ‘Well,’ says Steadiman, putting some money in the saucer on the table, ‘I suppose we’d better wend our way. We have some people coming in. And my wife has just been die die dying all day to meet you.’ Picking up his umbrella, Steadiman rises, fine in his suit; the whores at the bar watch and giggle; Steadiman casts them a sad glance, and leads the way, through the curtain, up the stairs, out of the lobby, into the night-time square outside.

In the square, blank and empty of most of its people, a sharp fine rain falls over them, blown by an iced wind straight from the Urals. ‘Ah, nice night,’ says Steadiman, erecting his umbrella and looking around, ‘Thought it might be nice to take a stroll. I’ve parked my car several streets away. Share my um.’ Steadiman raises his umbrella over them both, and seizes Petworth firmly by the arm. The icy wind digs deep into his lungs; Marx and Lenin, Lenin and Marx, creak noisily over them as they turn down the narrow street leading out of the square. ‘Yes, I think we just go down here,’ says Steadiman, glancing behind him, and then steering Petworth down a blank-looking alley. ‘It doesn’t seem to go anywhere,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Steadiman. ‘It looks like a dead end,’ says Petworth, as they reach, indeed, a dead end, blocked by a small, closed shop, with one tin of beets in the window, and a small sign over the doorway, which flashes and says PLUC. ‘Now if you’d just mind stepping into this door door doorway,’ says Steadiman, suddenly taking Petworth by the arm and pulling him into the shuttered entrance of the shop. ‘Why?’ asks Petworth. ‘We can’t be seen,’ says Steadiman, folding up his umbrella and clutching Petworth by the arm, ‘Now, I’d like you to show me your it.’ ‘My it?’ asks Petworth. ‘Your it, your it, you must have an it,’ says Steadiman, ‘The Ministraty must have given you one, well, I’d like to see it.’ ‘The it?’ says Petworth, ‘Do you mean my itinerary?’ ‘That’s it,’ says Steadiman. ‘Very well,’ says Petworth, proferring the grey sheet of paper; Steadiman unfolds it and, like one trying to read a novel with the aid of the Eddystone lighthouse, he holds it out under the flashing neon sign.

‘Why are you doing this?’ asks Petworth. ‘Entirely in your own in in interest, old chap,’ says Steadiman, ‘It’s my job to keep an eye on you over the next two weeks, and their Ministraty plays its cards very close to its chest. I’ll soon take it in, if this light would just stop flashing, I’m blessed with a fo fo photographic memory.’ ‘It says I’m going to Glit, Nogod and Provd,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh,’ says Steadiman, ‘Does it? Very interesting. You know western dip dip diplomats aren’t allowed in Nogod and Provd?’ ‘Really,’ says Petworth. ‘You are making a report when you get home?’ asks Steadiman. ‘On academic matters, yes,’ says Petworth. ‘That would include soldiers in classrooms, tanks in quads, that sort of thing?’ asks Steadiman. ‘If it affected the teaching of linguistics,’ says Petworth. ‘Ex ex excellent,’ says Steadiman, ‘Provd especially is a centre of linguistic unrest. So if they should shut the place down . . .’ ‘Of course I’d mention it,’ says Petworth, ‘Hardly worth sending visiting lecturers there, is it?’ ‘Splendid,’ says Steadiman, ‘Perhaps we’d better retrace our steps. Could look odd if anyone saw us like this. My car’s by the hotel. Excuse the little ruse, but I wanted a chat. And in this country the street’s the only place where you can hold a rat hold a rat hold a rational conversation.’ ‘I suppose so,’ says Petworth. ‘Car’s dangerous, of course,’ says Steadiman, ‘At least, it has to go in every two weeks for what they call an off off official service, so I assume there’s a bug in it. And of course they have devices in the apartment, and the embassy. We really should be talking in the middle of a newly ploughed field, but that can be a bit difficult in the mid mid middle of a city.’

‘What about my hotel room?’ asks Petworth, ‘Will that be bugged?’ ‘Oh, I should think so, in a hotel of that standard,’ says Steadiman, ‘Of course one just can’t take it too seriously. You know the story about the dip dip diplomat in Moscow who searched his hotel room and found a small metal plate under the carpet?’ ‘No, what happened?’ asks Petworth. ‘He took out his penknife and unscrewed it,’ says Steadiman, ‘And the chandelier fell down in the ballroom underneath. One just has to live with it. Otherwise in in intelligent conversation would become im im impossible.’ ‘This isn’t the way we came,’ says Petworth. ‘One just tries to live a normal life,’ says Steadiman, ‘But it’s bound to have some si si psychological effect. I find the worst thing is not being able to quarrel with one’s wife. Sir sir surveillance are always looking for signs of marital disharmony. It’s very hard, Budgie and I are very fond of a qua qua quarrel.’ ‘We’re going a different way,’ says Petworth. ‘Sometimes we take a weekend in the West, book a hotel room, and just go at it ham ham hammer and tongs. We come back quite refreshed. That’s odd. This isn’t the way we came.’ ‘No,’ says Petworth, stopping in front of the high blank wall that stands in front of them, ‘That was my impression.’ ‘Never mind, small city, easy to get the hang of,’ says Steadiman, hooking the handle of his umbrella over the top of the wall, and using it to climb up it, ‘If we can just get over here we’re back in the main street. Give me a push up, will you?’ ‘There you go,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes,’ says Steadiman, standing up on top of the wall, and looking all round, ‘We’re right by the hotel. My car’s just over there, actually. Grab hold of the end of my um and I’ll haul you up. How’s that? All right?’ ‘Fine,’ says Petworth, as he heaves himself onto the top of the wall with his elbows. ‘Good, ready to jump?’ says Steadiman, holding his umbrella in the air, ‘One doesn’t want to attract too much attention.’

Several passers-by – a soldier in khaki, three old women in headscarves – inspect them curiously as they pick themselves up off the ground in the street where, high above, Marx and Lenin, Lenin and Marx, creak on their wires. ‘This way,’ says Steadiman, erecting his umbrella, and striding out confidently, his fresh face shining, ‘Yes, you know, I quite enjoy having some cul cul cultural work to do. After spending most of my time looking after Brits in prison. I don’t get much on the cul cul culture side. We get the odd writer out, poets mostly. One hand up skirts and the other on the bott bott bottle. Not always the best of visitors, one usually ends up collecting them quite pissed from dubious apartments all over the city. I much prefer your sko sko scholars, definitely a better class of person. Ah, look, here’s my car. You see I fly the flag.’ Like Steadiman himself, standing there in his suit, the car that rests under the leaking linden trees in a dog-fouled corner of the square evokes an immediate shock of recognition; Petworth knows that it too has been in his story before. Inspected closely, the dark brown Ford Cortina that rests listlessly half on the road and half over the pavement presents a somewhat defeated appearance. Mud covers its body, tree-squit covers its roof; its tyres seem unequally inflated, and there is something astigmatically wrong about the gaze of its headlights, while the exhaust hangs loosely down into the road next to the diplomatic plates. ‘Remember, bugged,’ says Steadiman, pointing at it, and then approaching it cautiously, as if it were mined, ‘Don’t say anything till I switch on the radio.’ Putting down his umbrella, Steadiman unlocks the driver’s door, and gets in; a moment later, a hundred military voices begin to sing an anthem through the speakers, and he beckons Petworth in.

‘Yes, drove it all the way out from London,’ says Steadiman, switching on the headlights, one of which illuminates the trees above them, the other the ground beneath, ‘The moment we crossed the frun frun frontier the headlights fell out. Plop into the road. And there isn’t a screw screw screwdriver in Slaka to fit them. But sell sell Sellotape’s all right, except when it rains.’ The rain lashes the windscreen; Steadiman starts with a jerk, and the car bumps down onto the cobbles of the street. A pink tram clangs at them: ‘Away we go,’ says Steadiman, ‘Just a twenty-minute drive. We all have to live out in the dip dip diplomatic quarter, where they can keep their eyes on us.’ ‘There’s someone in the road,’ says Petworth, as a dark figure appears briefly in front of them, and then leaps desperately for the curb. ‘Look, would you mind belting up?’ says Steadiman, turning toward him, ‘It’s illegal to travel in a car without a belt. I’m not surprised. The pedestrians have no traffic sense, and they have the most ridiculous rules.’ ‘Have they?’ asks Petworth. ‘Yes, like having to stop for cars coming in from the right,’ Steadiman says, failing to stop for a car coming in from the right, which honks at him, ‘And they’re rude. No wonder so many of our chaps end up in prison. Got the hang of the city yet?’ ‘A little,’ says Petworth. ‘I’ll just point out a few of the more obvious landmarks. That,’ says Steadiman, pointing to the Sportsdrome, ‘is Party Headquarters, and that’ he adds, pointing to the Military Academy ‘is the State Publishing House. It’s not really a diff diff difficult city to get hold of. I say, that’s funny, isn’t it? They’ve put a bar bar barrier up right across the road.’

And their tentative headlights have indeed managed to illuminate a red and white pole that is set firmly across their path. Beside the pole are set two military boxes; from each comes a khaki soldier, bearing a Kalashnikov automatic sub-machine gun. Vast arc-lights suddenly come on, and there is shouting: ‘I don’t think we can go this way,’ says Steadiman. Beyond the pole, Petworth can see a vast area of public space, with swinging banners and a white pavé, and many official buildings: ‘It’s Plazscu P’rtyuu,’ Petworth says, ‘I believe it’s closed to traffic.’ ‘Is it?’ says Steadiman, ‘That means we’re a bit off course.’ The two soldiers stand on either side of the car, pointing their guns in the windows: ‘Pardonnez moi,’ shouts Steadiman through the window, putting the vehicle into reverse. It goes backward at high speed, hitting a bollard and, apparently, a pedestrian who has been walking behind them, for a high-ranking officer carrying a portfolio begins to hammer violently with his fists on the roof. ‘Sorry,’ says Steadiman, out of the window, ‘These people simply have no idea how to cross a road.’ The soldiers are shouting; Steadiman drives off, burning tyre; ‘If you go left here, you’ll come out onto the main boulevard,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes, I was explaining the city to you. That’s the Sportsdrome over there,’ says Steadiman, pointing to the Party Headquarters, and, pointing to the Palace of Culture ‘that’s the pal pal Palace of cul cul Culture. Is this a red light or a green one?’ ‘A red one,’ says Petworth, holding onto his seat. ‘Ah, is it?’ says Steadiman, ‘Aaarrgghhh. Well, this is the right road, we’ll soon be home. Actually my wife’s absolutely dying to meet you.’ ‘It’s nice of you to have me,’ says Petworth.

In the car, the military music booms; in front of the shops on the main boulevard, the glistening umbrellas go; a bleak line waits outside a cinema, to see a film called Yips. Pink trams clatter past, carrying home the workers from the factories, and the tired HOGPo men, finished with their day’s work with the nation’s biggest employers. ‘Nice to have a cul cul cultural visitor again,’ says Steadiman, driving down the middle of the street, his wheels apparently caught in the tramtracks, ‘Actually you probably don’t realize this, but I’m responsible for all the traffic accidents here.’ ‘So I believe,’ says Petworth. ‘Tell me,’ says Steadiman, ‘Tell me, you should know, what’s a good book to take to an Englishman in prison? I thought pru pru Proust. Long, isn’t it?’ ‘It rather depends on the man’s tastes,’ says Petworth, ‘Does he like experimental modernism?’ ‘I’m not sure,’ says Steadiman, ‘He’s a lo lo lorry driver.’ ‘Probably not Proust,’ says Petworth, ‘Perhaps The Forsyte Saga.’ The urban centre has fallen behind them, the trams have gone; they are ascending a hill between residential houses. ‘Nice quiet part of town this,’ says Steadiman, gesturing vaguely beyond the dirty windscreen, ‘How about a game of Scrabble?’ ‘What, now?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course not now,’ says Steadiman, ‘I’m driving now. No, I meant for the chap in jail.’ ‘It takes two to play Scrabble,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes,’ says Steadiman, after a moment’s thought, ‘I suppose that does rather rue rue rule it out. Ran over a peasant, you know.’ ‘You did?’ asks Petworth. ‘No, of course not,’ says Steadiman, ‘He did. That’s why they put him in jail. Funny lot, these peasants here. If they see a large mechanical object coming fast toward them, their nat nat natural instinct is to walk straight in front of it. Actually the nat nat natural instinct of all the drivers here is to speed up and get them. But fo fo foreigners aren’t allowed to play. Well, here we are, old chap. Home. That’s our apartment block, over there.’

They have stopped; to one side is a dark park, spreading off into grotesque shadows; across the street is a row of solid grey apartments, with ornate torsos supporting the balconies. Bullet holes have added new navels to old; a small white box with a soldier sitting in it stands outside every entrance. ‘Dip dip diplomatic protection,’ says Steadiman, ‘Now just hang on one minute.’ Steadiman gets out of the car and goes in front of it; his face peers in at Petworth as he reaches out over the windows and detaches the windscreen wipers. When he comes back to open the passenger door, the two wiper arms are sticking from the top pocket of his suit, and waving in front of his face. ‘We always remove them here,’ he says, raising his umbrella and ushering Petworth across the street, ‘Of course off off officially there’s no crime, under so so socialism. On the other hand, people do frequently appropriate the goods of others for their own use. Quite why they go for why why wipers I can’t imagine, since most of them can’t afford cars. Wave to the soldier.’ The soldier in the white box peers out at them as Steadiman pushes open the glass and iron entrance to the building; inside it is quite dark. ‘One moment while I find the light,’ Steadiman says, still holding his umbrella aloft, and pressing a switch that illuminates a cavernous hallway with raw old walls and, in the centre, an ancient caged elevator, ‘Now, quick, rush for the lift. I’m afraid this is one of those timed lights that only lasts for a moment and then—’ Utter darkness falls: ‘Feel your way in,’ says Steadiman in the blackness, ‘Another light comes on when we shut the door.’ The light in the cage comes on, illuminating a dirty floor, and walls covered with graffiti; slowly, the lift begins to ascend the windy shaft.

‘Oh,’ says Steadiman, as, midway between floors, the lift halts suddenly, and the light goes out, ‘This sometimes happens. All we have to do is reel reel relax until someone comes and lets us out. Usually it’s not long.’ In the shaft, a gale howls, blowing the stale smell of past meals at them; a child screams somewhere behind unseen closed doors. In the darkness, picquant with aftershave, Steadiman begins to discuss the earlier novels of Margaret Drabble. A long time passes, and then footsteps sound somewhere in the unlit, hollow stairwell. ‘Slibob, cam’radakii,’ Steadiman calls out, ‘Pongi! Pongi!’ This has effect, for two eyes may just be seen, peering down at them from an invisible landing; there is the sound of a button being pressed and pressed again. The light begins to flicker, the lift to strain and jerk; unsteadily it rises, to halt just below the level of a landing. ‘There we are. Now then, we can either stay here and see if it makes it to the top,’ says Steadman, ‘Or walk up in the dark.’ ‘I’d rather walk,’ says Petworth. ‘Why not?’ says Steadiman, opening the gates of the cage, ‘Can you see in the dark?’ ‘Few people can,’ says Petworth. ‘Just follow the sound of my foot foot footsteps, then,’ says Steadiman, ‘I’m used to all this.’

So, in total darkness, stumbling, tripping, going endlessly round and round, Petworth begins to climb, in ascending gyres, the spiral of the great stairwell, as it twists and turns, onward and upward, much like life itself. The smell of foreign foods, the quack of incomprehensible radios, comes from unseen doors; the walls are rough and damp; the footsteps of his guide patter somewhere ahead, until, suddenly, they stop, and Petworth walks into a mass, big, black, hard-soft. It is Steadiman’s back. ‘Almost there,’ says the back, ‘I just stopped to war war warn you of one thing before we go into the apartment. It’s bugged, you know.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘There’s also Magda, the maid,’ says Steadiman, ‘We have to hire her from the dip dip diplomatic servants’ office. She says she doesn’t speak English, but that’s bound to mean she does. And of course she whips whips . . .’ A door in front of them opens suddenly, casting bright light over their huddled figures; in the doorway a great dour maid, in black dress, white apron, white gloves, stares chastisingly down on them. Her hair is tugged back in a bun from her great face; one arm is bent, as if already awaiting the receipt of coats. ‘Ah,’ says Steadiman, handing her his umbrella and the windscreen wipers, ‘Slibob, Magda.’ ‘Slubob,’ says Petworth, handing her his coat; Magda grunts and stares at him suspiciously. Beyond Magda is light and a high flutter of sound, the light laughter of amused people, the sound of a party; blinking in the light, Petworth calls up his small talk, his working chatter of Derrida and Saussure, of Hobson’s Choice and Sod’s Law.

There, beyond, is a spacious diplomatic apartment, decorated, as diplomatic apartments so often are, with the relics of many previous postings. Iranian saddlebags, Mexican dance-masks, African rugs hang on the walls; the room is filled with chairs from Sweden, or Denmark, or Habitat, Indian coffee tables, Kurdish camel-drivers’ trunks. Table-lamps are lit; there is a great window opening up, as diplomatic apartments so often do, onto a fine view of the dark park, and, beyond it, the city with its flashing spurts of neon. But in the room the professors do not come and go, talking of T. S. Eliot; indeed it is almost empty. It is from a small black box on an Indian coffee-table that the party chatter comes: ‘Cass cass cassette,’ says Steadiman. But there is a fine-looking hostess standing there, in something ethnic; indeed she too, as diplomatic wives so often are, is decorated with the relics of many previous postings. Arab filigree earrings hang from her ears, Navajo pawn bracelets from her wrists; she wears a wrap-around Hawaiian muu-mau. She steps forward, tall, stately, dark, fragrant with Ma Griffe; she seizes Petworth by his hand, and holds it. ‘You must be Mr Petworth,’ she cries, ‘Do come in. I can’t tell you how nice it is to have a new face. Yours, of course, not mine. I’ve had this one for years.’ ‘Good evening,’ says Petworth. ‘Hello, hello,’ says the lady, ‘Oh, my dear, I can’t tell you how one yearns for a visitor, the sight of someone even remotely interesting. And you are remotely interesting, aren’t you? You look like a nice, healthy, vigorous sort of person to me. ‘This is my wife Budge Budge Budgie,’ says Steadiman, giving the lady a small peck, ‘I think I told you she’s been dying all day to meet you.’

II

‘Yes, I have, I have, my dear Mr Petworth,’ says Budgie Steadiman, putting her arm through Petworth’s and leading him toward a settee, ‘And now come and tell me what you think of Slaka.’ ‘What time are we expecting the other guests, darling?’ asks Steadiman, standing in the corner. ‘Eight-thirty,’ says Budgie, ‘You know I wanted a little time to myself with Mr Petworth. You see, Mr Petworth, I wanted to find out if you were as charming as I’d hoped.’ ‘I’m afraid it’s not very likely,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, are you modest?’ asks Budgie Steadiman, ‘Please, first impressions are quite in your favour. Now, come and sit down here with me on the sofa, and we’ll go on to second ones. Felix will get you a drink.’ ‘Perhaps you’d care for a pee,’ says Steadiman, ‘Care for a pee a peach brandy?’ ‘It’s not to be missed,’ says Budgie. ‘I seem to have had rather a lot of that today,’ says Petworth, ‘They entertained me to an official lunch.’ ‘Oh, those things,’ says Budgie, ‘Sudden death.’ ‘Well, how about a sort of piss a sort of Piesporter?’ asks Steadiman, who has opened the Kurdish camel-driver’s trunks, to display an exotic quantity of diplomatic liquor. ‘It’s a nice dry white wine they make here,’ says Budgie, ‘I do recommend it for loosening the inhibitions.’ ‘Very well, I’ll try that,’ says Petworth. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ says Steadiman, holding up a bottle, ‘I’ll just have to go to the kitchen and ask Magda for a screw.’ ‘Of course, you do that, darling,’ says Budgie Steadiman, throwing out her hand in a careless gesture, so that it lands by some chance on Petworth’s knee, ‘And meanwhile dear Mr Petworth can tell me everything there is to know about his fascinating day.’ ‘It wasn’t enormously fascinating,’ says Petworth, ‘I had a very large lunch and I saw Grigoric’s tomb.’ ‘Well, of course,’ says Budgie, ‘They always do. I’m afraid I never did understand the pleasure it’s supposed to give. But then I never liked Madame Tussaud’s either.’

Budgie Steadiman’s loose muu-muu dress seems to be growing progressively looser; she smiles at Petworth warmly. ‘Well, tell me what you think of Slaka,’ she says, ‘Tell me what you have made of it.’ ‘It seems very pleasant,’ says Petworth. ‘Slaka, city of art and music, bugs and spies,’ says Budgie, ‘I suppose discretion has been urged on you? You’ve been warned that walls have ears, windows have eyes, that the maid flashes signals to the security police with her stockings?’ ‘So I gather,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, the golden rule of Slaka is, whatever you do, do it out of sight. And what do you like to do, Mr Petworth, what are your sports?’ ‘No sports, really,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, do be frank,’ says Budgie, putting her hand on his, ‘I am. You may have noticed I lack what’s called a discreet temperament. I am one of those in whom the heart leads the head. Really I’m not a Slaka sort of person at all.’ ‘It must be difficult,’ says Petworth. ‘Felix, dear, Magda can do drinks,’ calls Budgie Steadiman over her shoulder, ‘Why don’t you have a quick shower and wash off the beastly grime of the day? I can entertain Mr Petworth. Yes, Mr Petworth, yes, a difficult life. How shrewd you are, I can see you’re simpatico. I am, as I say, a feckless, wild, windswept spirit. Imagine, then, someone like me, shut up in Slaka, watched and inspected, photographed and recorded, like a Julie Christie with political significance. The voyeur in me responds, the hungry, struggling soul resists.’ ‘It must be very trying,’ says Petworth. ‘Trying is hardly the word,’ says Budgie, ‘I lead a tragically confined existence, Mr Petworth. I am in effect a prisoner here.’ ‘Oh, surely not,’ says Petworth.

‘Indeed, Mr Petworth,’ says Budgie, seizing him firmly by the femur, ‘Police cars follow me to the tennis club. Agents pursue me to the butcher-shop. Microphones are trained on me now. When we make love, we have to play Wagner, and I doubt if he is enough. Tell me, are you fond of Wagner at all, Mr Petworth?’ ‘Yes, very fond,’ says Petworth. ‘I knew it,’ says Budgie, ‘You like a little Wagner, do you? Well, perhaps if our evening goes well, I shall play you some. Opera, opera, Mr Petworth, that is very much to my taste. People travelling round masked in coaches, singing away, I’ve always felt I belonged in that world. That is how I see myself. Dancing in gauzy veils with men of destiny. You see how I aspire. And what about you, Mr Petworth? Are you a man of destiny?’ ‘I hardly think so,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, I think so,’ says Budgie, ‘Governments have chosen you, you’re a man of affairs, of secrets. Perhaps there is a power in you you do not even know you possess. I believe there is a power in most of us we never fully tap, don’t you?’ ‘I suppose so,’ says Petworth, as a hand gently feels the hair on the back of his neck. ‘Please, don’t think so humbly of yourself,’ says Budgie, ‘I never have. You have a very nice neck. A dull thought, I’m afraid, but sexual attraction is always expressed as cliché.’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ says Petworth, looking round, ‘Felix is having his shower,’ says Budgie, ‘We are quite alone, except for the policemen. And think how dull life would be for them if one didn’t light the occasional flame. One feels almost a duty to be a little interesting.’ ‘I’m sure you are,’ says Petworth.

‘Indeed, I am,’ says Budgie Steadiman, staring at him, ‘Do you know how long I have been here? Three years, three imprisoned years. As you might gather, this is not a posting I desired, not at all. I’ve always seen myself in one of the world’s great cities. Dancing, laughing, wearing a diamond in my navel. Do you know what they say? That if Felix hadn’t stammered, we’d have had Tokyo?’ ‘I’m sure there are worse postings than Slaka,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Budgie, ‘Perhaps an oil rig in the North Sea? Assistant Language Officer, Accounts, Bangladesh? Yes, they always say there’s someone worse off than you are, but I’ve never found it a great consolation.’ ‘But Slaka must have its compensations,’ says Petworth. ‘What do they call you?’ asks Budgie, ‘What is your first name?’ ‘Angus,’ says Petworth. ‘Really, like the steak?’ says Budgie, ‘Well, Angus, I don’t think you quite understand what I’m telling you, as one kindred soul to another. I’m telling you, Angus, I am a lonely woman, a very lonely woman.’ ‘Yes, I understand,’ says Petworth. ‘And I think I understand you,’ says Budgie, putting her hand into Petworth’s trouser pocket, ‘Do you know how I see you? As a man disappointed in love. You have that gloomy, self-engrossed look, am I right? Have I struck the truth?’ Petworth recalls his day, sees the image of Katya Princip: ‘well,’ he says, ‘More or less.’ ‘How much we share in common,’ says Budgie, ‘Loneliness, and the need for reassurance. I have a migraine, Angus, would you mind stroking the back of my neck? No, not there, a little lower; don’t worry about the dress. Oh, Felix, I thought you’d gone to have a shower.’ ‘They’ve cut off the wart cut off the water again,’ says Steadiman, standing there in his fine suit, looking down on them. ‘I was just explaining to Angus what a confined life we lead,’says Budgie Steadiman.

Steadiman sits down in a Danish armchair opposite and looks at them: ‘It’s not so bad,’ he says, ‘One can hardly expect it to be as lively as Washington or Moscow.’ ‘Or Belgrade or Chittagong or Wagga Wagga,’ says Budgie. ‘I enjoy it,’ says Steadiman, ‘One doesn’t have to mind the earthquakes, and there are only certain days when you can get food, but there’s an excellent pee peach brandy, yes, I like it very much.’ ‘Beneath that boyish charm, Felix is dullingly sober,’ says Budgie, ‘Little wonder my mother, an intelligent woman, warned me not to marry. She said it could well inhibit the taste for wandering into other people’s bedrooms, and it has.’ ‘Yes, Budgie,’ says Steadiman, ‘Can you just try now? Magda’s coming in with the drinks.’ A moment later a large tray stands before Petworth’s face, on it two large fizzing gins and tonic, and a glass of white wine, equally large and equally fizzing. ‘Plis, comrade,’ says Magda, standing staring down at him, as if his face might be worth remembering. ‘Slubob,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, indeed,’ says Steadiman with great warmth, taking his drink, ‘We love it here. There are some nice resorts and some excellent . . .’ ‘Countryside,’ says Budgie. ‘I was going to say that,’ says Steadiman. ‘Marvellous lakes and beaches,’ says Budgie. ‘Splendid horseback riding,’ says Steadiman, ‘Large woods for sportsmen.’ ‘Magda’s supposed not to understand a thing,’ says Budgie, after her big black back has disappeared round a corner, ‘But she always starts dropping drinks when we complain about anything here. I suppose you’re awfully busy, Angus, I do wish we could take you to the lake. You can take all your clothes off there.’ ‘Budgie, you are really not supposed to take your clothes off at the lake,’ says Steadiman, ‘This is a very puritanical country. I’m sure it’s reported.’ ‘I don’t find them so puritanical,’ says Budgie, ‘Look at my tan, Angus. And just think, I’m like that all over underneath.’ ‘Very nice,’ says Petworth.

‘Budgie,’ says Steadiman, standing up, ‘You did actually invite some other guests, didn’t you?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Budgie, ‘But we did have quite a lot of refusals. There’s a party for the Sheikh and it’s the first night of the opera.’ ‘However, some people did consent to visit us?’ says Steadiman. ‘The Ambassador sent his apologies,’ says Budgie, ‘He very much wanted to meet you, but he doesn’t like to go out at night now. He says he’s being followed everywhere by a man with a raincoat and a cigar.’ ‘Very probably he is,’ says Steadiman. ‘Yes, but he thought that when he was still in the Ministry of Education in London,’ says Budgie. ‘What about the Wynn-Joneses?’ asks Steadiman, ‘He’s our first sec.’ ‘They’re awfully sorry, but they’re asked to the Sheikh’s reception,’ says Budgie. ‘And the Couttses?’ asks Steadiman, ‘He’s the thir thir third sec.’ ‘You know how they love music,’ says Budgie, ‘They’ve gone to this strange new opera.’ ‘So did anyone say yes?’ asks Steadiman, ‘I did send out the car all over the town with invitations.’ ‘Miss Peel and Mr Blenheim,’ says Budgie. ‘The confidential sec and the information officer,’ says Steadiman. ‘And then of course we invited a number of the locals.’ ‘The trouble is,’ says Steadiman, ‘one never knows whether any of them would take the risk of coming. They’re really supposed to report it. Or whether if they did the g g guard would let them in. It could be a small g g gathering.’ ‘But that’s awfully good for getting to know each other,’ says Budgie, ‘And then, of course, there’s the surprise.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Steadiman, ‘Yes.’ Even now, the doorbell rings, and Magda, who has evidently been hovering in an alcove just behind them, emerges in her white gloves and walks across the room to open it. ‘You see?’ says Budgie, squeezing Petworth’s hand quite tightly, ‘They’re all coming.’

There are murmurs at the door; someone hands in a coat and a pair of windscreen-wipers. Then the visitor stands in the doorway, in a dark suit, and under it a neat white roll-necked sweater, holding in one hand a male handbag, in the other a few red carnations. ‘Good evening,’ he says, his bird-like eyes gleaming, ‘Plitplov.’ ‘Flowers, how gallant, I love them,’ says Budgie Steadiman. ‘Oh, please, my dear Mrs Steadiman,’ says Plitplov, bending neatly and giving Budgie’s ringed fingers a fine kiss, ‘You are most charming to invite me. We have met a time or two before, I think. Here is the sad thing, I bring you an apology. Professor Marcovic likes to come, but he does not like to be photographed at the door. Of course you know I have taken a certain not small risk to come here.’ ‘Well done, old chap,’ says Steadiman, ‘Now come over and meet our guess guess guest of honour, Dr Petworth.’ ‘Oh, yes, your English visitor, Dr Petworth, I believe I have read some books of him,’ says Plitplov, standing at the doorway and looking around the room in all directions, as if any one of the people not standing there might be the distinguished visitor, ‘So despite the strikes in London he still manages to arrive?’ With some effort, Steadiman steers him face to face with Petworth; the dark eyes gleam. ‘Ah, then you are the well-known Dr Petworth,’ says Plitplov, ‘You see we have heard of you. My name is Plitplov. Please allow me to welcome you to Slaka.’ ‘Delighted to meet you,’ says Petworth. ‘You’ve not met before?’ asks Steadiman. ‘You have been in Slaka before, Dr Petworth?’ asks Plitplov, inspecting him up and down, ‘I don’t think so. No, then it cannot be possible. Tell me, please, is it true you make some lectures now in my country?’

‘I thought you already knew,’ says Steadiman, ‘He’s speaking to the universe speaking to the university tomorrow morning,’ says Steadiman. ‘Really, at what time?’ asks Plitplov, ‘How very interesting.’ ‘Eleven,’ says Petworth. ‘At eleven, what a pity,’ says Plitplov, taking out a small diary and opening it at what seems to be an entirely blank page, ‘There are many meetings and it will not be easy to be there. But you will accept me if I can change things? And understood also if I do not manage it? I expect you teach in a university, you know how busy is the life, I think.’ In her white gloves, Madga now appears before them all, offering a silver tray filled now with many drinks, enough for some much vaster scale of party. ‘I think I try something just a little Western,’ says Plitplov, bending over to inspect them very carefully, ‘Vusku, da?’ ‘Da, cam’radaki,’ says Magda. ‘I am told whisky is the drink of all Western intellectuals,’ says Plitplov, taking one, ‘Perhaps there is something in it that is very good for the brains. Therefore I need it very much. A toast to your tour here, please, Dr Petworth. I hope you go to many places.’ ‘A few,’ says Petworth, ‘Glit, Nogod, Provd.’ ‘All are good,’ says Plitplov. ‘I thought you might have had an organ organ organizing role in all this,’ says Steadiman. ‘Oh, I?’ cries Plitplov, with an air of great surprise, ‘No, of course it was Marcovic.’ ‘I’ve never actually met him,’ says Steadiman. ‘Perhaps you know him, Dr Petworth?’ asks Plitplov, ‘Perhaps you met him at a conference? Perhaps he is a dear old friend of yours? Perhaps he knows your wife, if you have one?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘I’ve never met him.’ ‘Well, he tells me he looks forward very much to meeting you and having good critical talks,’ says Plitplov, ‘I expect you know the fine book he makes on Defoe.’

‘You are actually at the universe university, aren’t you, Dr Plitplov?’ asks Steadiman. ‘The answer is a bit yes and a bit no,’ says Plitplov, ‘I have certain important connections there, but also I do other things. Of course our system is different from yours, and very boring to explain. In any case we now make certain reforms that make it not useful. What is your field, Dr Petworth? Some people say it is language. That must be a very interesting matter.’ ‘It is,’ says Petworth, ‘Particularly in Slaka at the moment.’ ‘Oh, you hear about our changes,’ says Plitplov, ‘Some of them are very good and some of them are very bad. My opinions are in the middle.’ Out in the hall, the doorbell rings. ‘Ah,’ says Budgie, squeezing Petworth’s hand again, ‘Someone else!’ Magda has appeared with great rapidity, and gone to the door; the Steadimen, a handsome couple, rise and follow. ‘Always with the pretty ladies,’ says Plitplov, turning his sharp dark eyes on Petworth, ‘I remember that. And this one likes you. But we must all be cautious. Everywhere are some ears.’ Meanwhile in the doorway two new guests are handing their coats to Magda. One of them is a lady peasant in a mittel-European dirndl, with a sharp face, bunned hair and a very English accent; the other is a greyheaded man with a silver moustache, a foulard neckerchief tucked into his shirt, white jacket and dark trousers. Some misfortune has evidently attended their arrival; tears course down the nose of the lady peasant. ‘Sorry we’re late,’ says the man, giving Budgie a small peck on the cheek, ‘A slight contretemps.’ ‘I’ve been stuck in your lift for half an hour,’ says the lady, ‘People kept passing but no one would answer. Luckily Mr Blenheim came by and, gallant man that he is, managed to get me out.’

‘Well, come on in and meet everyone,’ says Budgie. ‘Perhaps you were shouting,’ says Plitplov, graciously stepping forward. ‘Yes, I was bawling my head off, actually,’ says the lady. ‘I heard some shoutings when I came upstairs,’ says Plitplov, ‘But I thought to myself, perhaps this is a marriage, I do not interfere. In my country one always takes a care not to interfere.’ ‘So I’ve noticed,’ says the lady peasant. ‘But accept please my apologies,’ says Plitplov, taking the lady’s fingers and kissing them, ‘I am Plitplov.’ ‘This is Miss Peel and Mr Blenheim, both from the em em Embassy,’ says Steadiman.‘Wasn’t there a guest of honour or something?’ asks Miss Peel.‘Here he is, our darling Dr Petworth,’ says Budgie, plucking Petworth forward by the hand. ‘Ah, got here, good,’ says Miss Peel, ‘Enjoying it, hope so.’ ‘Hullo, old chap,’ says Mr Blenheim, ‘Welcome to the madhouse.’ ‘Now, how about the big event?’ asks Miss Peel, ‘Have they come? Did they arrive?’ ‘Yes,’ says Budgie, ‘But let’s keep it a secret.’ ‘Oh, marvellous,’ says Blenheim. ‘Oh, is there secret tonight?’ asks Plitplov, ‘Everywhere secrets.’ ‘An extremely nice secret,’ says Miss Peel.‘And do we perhaps find it out?’ asks Plitplov. ‘You do, later on,’ says Budgie, ‘Which is why I must just disappear for a minute. Please amuse yourselves. And keep yourself pure for me, Angus.’ ‘Another of Budgie’s marvellous evenings,’ says Miss Peel, ‘That’s how she lures us here.’ ‘And with Mr Petworth, of course,’ says Mr Blenheim. ‘Cam’radaket,’ says Magda, appearing with her tray. ‘Orange juice, please,’ says Miss Peel. ‘Da,’ says Magda, handing it to her. ‘Doesn’t she do marvellously, considering she can’t speak any English?’ says Miss Peel, turning to Petworth, ‘Well, isn’t it lucky you came tonight? You wouldn’t have wanted to miss one of Budgie’s secrets.’

III

And so there, in foreign parts, in distant Slaka, under another ideology, where the big maid is omnipresent and the walls undoubtedly have ears, the far-flung British exiles start their party. Wind and rain blow outside, and a big, almost green moon has been pasted, by whomever is responsible for providing such detail, over the dark roofs of Slaka; a dome and a tower or two stick up into its green orb. Below is the city, revealing itself in an occasional flash of COMFLUG and MUG, a place of watchers and listeners, threats and fears. The party, it is true, is sadly depleted, by the conflicting claims of the sheikh and the opera, and the silver tray the big maid holds out to them displays far more good things to drink than the small gathering they make can ever possibly consume. A certain civil caution hovers in the air, as you might expect when the nations meet across complicated political and social barriers; in any case conversation is never easy for the British, who are never keen to express themselves to strangers or, for that matter, anyone, even themselves. But a certain mood of relaxation now begins to emerge, as Steadiman, in his suit, goes over to the record player and puts something on, a nostalgic number called ‘Try a Little Tenderness,’ and people turn and talk to people. The tray of drinks comes back and forth, back and forth, and a small sociability begins to grow, a set of glimpses of a world somewhere that links them somehow all together. ‘See the test matches?’ asks Blenheim affably of Petworth, lighting up his pipe. ‘Oh, do you smoke one of these?’ cries Plitplov, taking out his vast carved smoking bowl, and waving it, ‘I also.’ ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow it,’ says Petworth. ‘Cricket? You talk perhaps of cricket, your national game? The men in the white clothes like doctors?’ asks Plitplov. ‘They say a man who is tired of cricket is tired of life,’ says Blenheim. ‘I don’t think Mr Petworth is tired of life,’ says Miss Peel. ‘Tired of, tired by,’ murmurs Plitplov. ‘No, I can take it and I can leave it alone,’ says Petworth. ‘I expect you know my friend Sir Laurence Olivier,’ says Miss Peel. ‘Not personally,’ says Petworth. ‘Then you don’t know him at all,’ cries Miss Peel. Made doubly ignorant, Petworth also knows, with a true British instinct, that he has also now been made welcome; in their own way, the British have begun to enjoy themselves.

Outside the treacherous dark city turns on itself; inside a certain version of the good life begins to flower. Now Miss Peel begins to talk about someone or other’s Papageno, and Steadiman chatters about Princess Margaret’s visit to some island somewhere or other to which he was at some time posted; Mr Blenheim talks of the All Blacks, and even Plitplov, refusing exclusion, becomes entertaining, magically producing nuts from his ears. ‘I hear all the plays in London now are about sex and have naked people in them,’ says Miss Peel, ‘It sounds dreadfully dull. I’ve never been fond of realism.’ ‘The work of your Edward Bond is very famous,’ says Plitplov.‘Who?’ asks Blenheim. ‘He writes Saved, also a Lear,’ says Plitplov. ‘Never heard of him,’ says Blenheim. ‘He’s rather of the left,’ says Miss Peel, ‘They rather fancy him here.’ ‘I think nobody in Britain wants to work now any more,’ says Plitplov, ‘They tell it is too boring for them. Here our people like very much to work. Often our workers ask the managers to do more work for no money because they are liking it so much.’ ‘Really?’ says Miss Peel, ‘Amazing.’ ‘You’ll gather our indus industrial reputation isn’t too high here just now,’ says Steadiman. ‘We’re not an easy race to explain to the world,’ says Blenheim, puffing comfortably on his pipe. ‘But perhaps this is your job?’ asks Plitplov, ‘Perhaps this is why your government is sending you here to Slaka?’ ‘Ah,’ says Blenheim, chuckling, ‘You’re asking me what I do. What’s my bag? It’s the diplomatic one, actually.’ ‘I think you like to be cautious,’ says Plitplov, ‘But doesn’t your economy collapse? Won’t you one day be socialist economy, like us?’ ‘I don’t think so,’ says Blenheim, ‘Not our cup of tea, really.’

‘Ah, here you are, all enjoying yourselves hugely,’ cries Budgie Steadiman, emerging in a small apron from the inner intestines of the apartment, ‘Our little sensation is going very well. Angus, give me a wee sip of your drinkie. I hope they’re all entertaining you. Has anyone bothered to show you our quite outstanding view?’ The outstanding view to which Budgie leads him is mostly of darkness, for Slaka at night is not as brightly lit as most Western cities. But the big moon glows, with a dome and a tower or two sticking up into its great orb; lights twinkle somewhere down below, and the red star flashes on the top of Party Headquarters. Down below in the street, under faint trees, a few, a very few, cars and a few muffled human figures move. ‘I never cooked terribly well,’ says Budgie, interlacing her fingers with Petworth’s, ‘We always used to advise our guests to eat first before they came to our dinner parties. But I’m quite a vigorous hostess. Of course I had an excellent upbringing. You don’t think I’m too grande dame for one of my tender years?’ ‘Not at all,’ says Petworth. ‘Bless you, Angus,’ says Budgie, ‘You know, I think we’re two of a kind. Two lonely, tense, star-crossed people. In this world, like knows like. I feel a curious deep intimacy growing up between us.’ ‘Cam’radaku,’ says a voice; the big bulk of Magda is somehow squeezing itself in between them. ‘Angus, excuse me,’ says Budgie, ‘I’m afraid I must try my pidgin. Da, Magda?’ ‘Squassu, squassu,’ says Magda. ‘I’m afraid that means our tête-à -tête must be deferred a little, not, I hope, for long,’ says Budgie, ‘Magda tells me the soup is ready. Attention, please, everybody. Magda bids us to the table!’

And so the small party moves, across from the Mexican masks and the Iranian donkey bags to the dining table just round the corner, set with silver from Paris and place mats from Korea. Before the settings stand little folded place cards, written in a foreign hand; to the right of the hostess is one that says ‘Doktor Pumwum.’ ‘Yes, come beside me,’ says Budgie, squeezing Petworth’s leg under the table, ‘And you’re on my other side, Dr Plitplov.’ ‘Do we get nearer now to the secret?’ asks Plitplov, sitting down and shaking out his napkin, ‘Is it perhaps a something to eat?’ ‘Cunning man,’ says Budgie, slapping his wrist, ‘Remember, pleasure deferred is pleasure increased. That has always been my motto, so long as I haven’t had to wait too long. As the great Mae West once said, I like a man who takes his time.’ ‘This is a philosopher?’ asks Plitplov. ‘No, she’s a film star, in our part of the world,’ says Budgie, ‘Have you been to our part of the world, Dr Plitplov? Have they let you out to take a look?’ ‘I have been several times,’ says Plitplov, ‘In London and some other cities. I have good recollections of Tottenham Court Road.’ ‘I’m not surprised,’ says Budgie, ‘How that imprints itself on the memory. They must think well of you here, if they let you out.’ ‘I have not committed bad offences,’ says Plitplov, ‘But of course we are quite liberal now, in many ways. You see how we invite here your fine speakers, like Dr Petworth.’ ‘A quite outstanding choice,’ says Budgie. ‘Of course, I think so,’ says Plitplov, ‘We expect to learn many fine things from him and improve our self-criticisms, Do you read perhaps his good books?’ ‘Well, no,’ says Budgie, ‘I think I’ll wait for the film.’

Magda appears, with a soup tureen and a ladle; Steadiman tours the table with a bottle of white wine. ‘And do you perhaps have some children?’ asks Plitplov. ‘We did have some somewhere, two or three,’ says Budgie, ‘Where are our children now, Felix?’ ‘Ow ow Oundle,’ says Steadiman, pouring wine. ‘Please?’ says Plitplov. ‘At an English public school,’ says Budgie, ‘Which of course means a private school. You probably know, the better class of Briton likes to send his children away to school until they’re old and intelligent enough to come home again. Then they’re too old and intelligent to want to. Angus, do you have children? Little Petworths crying in their cots?’ ‘No, I don’t,’ says Petworth. ‘But there is a Mrs Petworth, is there?’ asks Budgie, ‘Matrimony has not passed you by?’ ‘Yes, there is,’ says Petworth. ‘I hope she is very charming,’ says Plitplov. ‘Indeed,’ says Petworth. ‘Yet you didn’t bring her with you to Slaka,’ says Budgie, ‘Was that thoughtfulness or neglect?’ ‘She’s not entirely well,’ says Petworth. Plitplov looks across the table at him: ‘I hope you have telephoned her,’ he says. ‘Mr Plitplov, I seem to remember we sent you to the Cambridge summer school once,’ says Miss Peel, leaning along the table. ‘Who, I?’ cries Plitplov. ‘Do you know it at all, Mr Petworth?’ asks Miss Peel. ‘Yes, I do, actually,’ says Petworth, ‘I’ve given the odd lecture there.’ ‘We’ve managed to send a few people over on scholarships,’ says Miss Peel, ‘Rather difficult, the authorities always want to substitute others. It must have been three years ago when we sent you, Mr Plitplov.’ ‘To Cambridge?’ asks Plitplov. ‘Yes, to Cambridge,’ says Miss Peel.

Magda has come again, to collect up the soup plates; Steadiman has risen, to fill their glasses again. ‘It won’t be long now for the secret,’ cries Budgie, ‘Oxford was my university, I read history with A. J. P. Taylor. I was very famous there, for my breasts.’ ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, gallantly, ‘This is to be expected.’ ‘Alas, they’re not what they were,’ says Budgie, ‘Time and tide, wear and tear, take their toll even of the most perfect monuments.’ ‘Of course not, they are quite outstanding, one immediately remarks it,’ says Plitplov, ‘Don’t you say so, Dr Petworth?’ ‘You’re very kind,’ says Budgie, ‘Notable, perhaps, but not outstanding. Good but not excellent. Not of the first rank, but worthy of a visit.’ ‘So did you go to Cambridge?’ asks Miss Peel. ‘To beautiful Cambridge?’ says Plitplov, ‘perhaps I was there. But you understand my confusions. In my country, if you study English, you must study also the Russian. This is how we keep a balance. So now I am in Moscow, now perhaps in Cambridge. Here I read Gorky, there I read Trollope. Here I see Bolshoi, there I see Covent Garden. In Moscow I study the Marxist aesthetics, and in Cambridge, if it was Cambridge . . .’ ‘You study Marxist aesthetics also,’ says Budgie Steadiman. ‘And for the travelling scholar it is hard to keep such things apart, don’t you say so, Dr Petworth?’ says Plitplov. ‘It can all become a blur,’ says Petworth. ‘Cambridge and Moscow? Really?’ says Miss Peel, ‘I wouldn’t have thought they were terribly easy to confuse.’ ‘Of course one remembers certain differences,’ says Plitplov. ‘Like what?’ asks Mr Blenheim. ‘In Russia the smell is of food and cats,’ says Plitplov, ‘In England of drink and dogs.’ ‘I see you’re a man of subtle cultural discriminations,’ says Budgie. ‘Can I just be clear?’ says Miss Peel, ‘Did you or did you not go to Cambridge? I’m sure we sponsored you.’ ‘Then I am very grateful,’ says Plitplov. ‘Good,’ says Miss Peel, ‘Now then, Dr Petworth, when did you lecture there? Where you there three years ago?’

‘Just a moment, just a moment!’ cries Budgie, ‘Here comes the secret! The sensation of the evening!’ In her big black dress, Magda is now advancing on them from the kitchen; high in her hands she holds a large silver covered dish. ‘It is here, in here, your secret?’ asks Plitplov, staring at it curiously. ‘Put it down on the table, Magda,’ says Budgie, ‘Thank you very much. Well, shall we ask our honoured guest if he’d unveil it? I’m a great believer in putting our visitors to good use. If you please, Angus.’ As the faces round the table watch, Petworth reaches and lifts the cover of the dish: to disclose, beneath it, a quantity of meaty, brown, skin-covered objects, not unlike cooked turds, assembled in neat rows. ‘Oh, don’t they look marvellous,’ cries Miss Peel. ‘Bella, multa bella,’ cries Mr Blenheim. Only Plitplov looks sceptical; he leans forward a little, to inspect. ‘Do you know them?’ asks Budgie. ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, unbelieving, ‘This is a sausage.’ ‘Yes, but a British sausage,’ says Budgie. ‘A Marks and Spencer sausage,’ says Miss Peel. ‘The secret is a sausage?’ says Plitplov. ‘You must have gone to an enormous amount of trouble,’ says Miss Peel. ‘Actually,’ says Budgie, ‘they came over yesterday in the diplomatic bag. They must have been on the same plane as you, Angus.’ ‘Let’s empty our glug glug glasses,’ says Felix Steadiman, ‘I think we really ought to switch to the red.’ ‘This party is all for a sausage?’ asks Plitplov. ‘The party is to celebrate Angus’s arrival,’ says Budgie, squeezing Petworth’s leg under the table, ‘But we wanted to give everyone a treat.’ ‘I will tell you a secret myself,’ says Plitplov, ‘Even in Slaka, where we are so backward, we have invented the sausage.’ ‘Ah, but not like these sausages,’ says Miss Peel.

So, as the big orb of the moon shines curiously in through the window, and in the Slakan night the signs saying MUG and COMFLUG flash furiously on and off, the British exiles raise their knives and forks and devote themselves to the delicacy. The sausages are served, as well they might be, with an attempt at mashed potatoes, a bottle of red tomato sauce, and a red wine that Steadiman takes round the table, saying: ‘They have some quite out outstanding wines here you can’t get at home. Unfortunately this isn’t one of them.’ The candlelight flickers; only Plitplov appears bemused. ‘How do I explain such a people to my students?’ he says, ‘In the middle of history, in these strange times, when everywhere there are diplomatical dangers, you come all here to celebrate the sausage. Is this what is called phlegm?’ ‘Just tell them the British know how to make a good sausage,’ says Blenheim. ‘I’m afraid it’s not such a treat for you, Angus,’ says Budgie, ‘You probably have them all the time,’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘But they are quite delicious.’ ‘Always he is diplomatic,’ says Plitplov, ‘This was noticed, even in . . .’ ‘In Cambridge?’ asks Miss Peel, ‘You did meet there?’ ‘These things are very hard to know,’ says Plitplov, ‘So many lectures, so many faces. How do you recall?’ ‘What about you, Dr Petworth?’ asks Miss Peel, ‘Do you recall Dr Plitplov?’ ‘We may have talked once, in a public house,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, I don’t think it,’ says Plitplov, ‘I do not like to go into those places.’ ‘What did you lecture on, Dr Petworth?’ asks Miss Peel. ‘I believe it was on Chomskyan linguistics,’ says Petworth, ‘A rather specialist affair.’ ‘It doesn’t ring any bells, Dr Plitplov?’ asks Miss Peel, ‘The lecture made no imprint on you at all?’

‘I think I do now recall it,’ says Plitplov, ‘An excellent piece, now I remember. Such a strange coincidence, that our paths cross again.’ ‘Yes, isn’t it,’ says Miss Peel. ‘Of course you will not at all remember me,’ says Plitplov, ‘I was just one of so many listening to your words with admiration.’ ‘I believe I do, actually,’ says Petworth, ‘Weren’t you working on Trollope?’ ‘Oh, my small chef d’oeuvre,’ says Plitplov, ‘Do you recollect it?’ ‘Trollope,’ says Budgie, ‘Wasn’t he some kind of postman?’ ‘Your great novelist,’ says Plitplov, ‘More famous than a sausage.’ ‘I think you know each other perfectly well,’ says Miss Peel, ‘I don’t see any need for concealment.’ ‘Well,’ says Plitplov, as if stirred to act, suddenly looking at Petworth with his bird-like eyes, ‘Perhaps I do not wish to embarrass your guest.’ ‘How could you possibly embarrass him?’ asks Budgie, ‘He doesn’t look at all embarrassed.’ ‘Oh, I think we don’t discuss such a thing,’ says Plitplov, ‘In front of the nice people enjoying their sausages. I think you make a saying in your country: let the sleeping dogs lie?’ ‘I can’t imagine what you’re talking about,’ says Petworth. ‘It is just I recall a little problem between us that has made me very discreet.’ ‘How utterly fascinating,’ says Budgie, ‘What little problem?’ ‘No, I go too far,’ says Plitplov, ‘Really I should not mention it. Your wife would not please with me.’ ‘My wife?’ says Petworth.‘Her name is Lottie,’ says Plitplov. ‘I know her name is Lottie,’ says Petworth. ‘A very amusing lady,’ says Plitplov, ‘She smokes the little cigars. She came to Cambridge and we made some very good walks together, also sometimes the shoppings. Well, on these occasions sometimes certain confidences are made that should not be repeated. Now you see why I make a little concealment.’

‘You went for walks with my wife?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, you do not know this?’ asks Plitplov, ‘I am wrong to mention it, then. Really I do not mean it. But so many glasses of whisky, and now this nice sausage, I am not so cautious as I should be.’ ‘This is fascinating,’ says Budgie. ‘What kind of confidences?’ asks Petworth. ‘I think I displayed her just a friendship that was necessary,’ says Plitplov, ‘Often the ladies need a person to talk to about their troubles.’ ‘This is true,’ says Budgie. ‘What troubles?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, you are angry, please do not blame me,’ says Plitplov, ‘You see how hard I try to conceal what has happened there from these people. You know I am your good friend. Only if your wife is still with you, and you are happy again, please to remember I had just a little finger in that pie.’ ‘She wanted to leave him?’ asks Budgie, ‘Oh, Angus, now we begin to see the secret of your gloom.’ ‘This is nonsense,’ says Petworth. ‘She did not ever explain you?’ asks Plitplov, ‘Well, it is natural. We cannot always tell our distresses to those who come closest to them. That is why a stranger is sometimes a good friend. Such a person may see what the involved ones do not: that a person is sad, feels a neglect, has a distress.’ ‘And you performed this generous service for my wife?’ asks Petworth. ‘I was there when a certain help was needed,’ says Plitplov, ‘You must remember, you are a famous scholar, everyone is admiring you. You are giving notable lectures on the Chomskyan linguistics and all are spellbound. But for her life is not the same. She comes, but no one regards her. She walks alone in the streets. There are fulfilments she does not enjoy. It is natural she talks to someone who can listen, even if that is a stranger from a faraway country where you cannot get even an English sausage.’

‘I recognize all those feelings,’ says Budgie Steadiman.‘What exactly did you do with my wife?’ asks Petworth.‘Please, it was just a little friendship,’ says Plitplov, ‘All the time I am speaking very well of you. I tell her a fine scholar is a very valuable man, who needs very special understandings. I point out to her the high spots of your work. Not every woman appreciates these achievements. I explain of course you are attractive to other women, of course your students fall a little sometimes in love with you, and you are flattered. But this does not mean always that love is ended. Now you understand perhaps why I am curious about her condition. When one has been of such an assistance, one feels a devotion. Of course my respect is for both of you. You know you helped me very well with my book. I have made due acknowledgement in the preface, which I will like to show you. But now you see why I do not like to mention such acquaintances. It is better if such things are just a little secret. Like a sausage.’ ‘I think in matters of sex discretion is sometimes advisable,’ says Budgie Steadiman, ‘I’m afraid we live in an age of excessive sexual confession. There are people nowadays who only go to bed with you to tell you long stories about all the other people they’ve had, who, and when, and how often, where and why and which way up. Personally I find it quite distasteful. One gets quite enough of that sort of thing at the hairdresser.’ ‘Please, Dr Petworth, remember,’ says Plitplov, his eyes glinting sharply across the table, ‘I am always your good friend. I like to make a nice toast to you for your tour, and hope it will be always a success. Also I try to get to your lecture, because I hope our paths cross somewhere again.’ ‘How very nice,’ says Budgie.

But now Magda is with them again, putting on the table a cakey, flakey dessert. ‘Perhaps you could tell Dr Petworth a bit about these places he will visit,’ says Felix Steadiman from the other end of the table. ‘I will make some advices if I can,’ says Plitplov, ‘But of course I do not know the places you visit.’ ‘Glit, Nogod and Provd,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, really?’ says Plitplov, ‘Well, these are cities out in the country. You will have nice times there, I know.’ ‘But what are they like?’ asks Steadiman. ‘They are towns, like all towns,’ says Plitplov, ‘I do not know them so well. But I think you have a guideinterpreter. She of course will tell you where you are. You know: in my country we have a saying.’ ‘I bet you do,’ says Mr Blenheim. ‘You cannot build a city with words only,’ says Plitplov, ‘Also: the future will come, whether we speak of it or not. I am afraid my poor words would spoil these places for you.’ ‘But who will he meet?’ asks Budgie. ‘In Glit is Professor Vlic,’ says Plitplov, ‘He has good assistants who will ask advanced Marxist questions. In Nogod, not so good perhaps, the professor is a lady, Personip. In Provd is not university, so I think you attend congress, perhaps in a place that was once hunting lodge for the emperors. But I think you can explain all this, Mr Steadiman.’ ‘Well, no,’ says Steadiman, ‘These places are in the yellow areas.’ ‘What is yellow areas?’ asks Plitplov ‘The areas marked yellow on the diplomatic map,’ says Steadiman, ‘Where we’re not allowed to go.’ Plitplov’s face whitens:‘Then you should not ask me,’ he says, ‘Now I am indiscreet again. Tonight I say too many things.’

And Madga stands over them, taking away the last plates; under the table, Petworth feels Budgie Steadiman’s hands playing rhythmically across his knees. Across the table is the sharp, glinting face of Plitplov, half malicious, half worried. The troubling conversation runs through his mind, fuddled and gloomy with the day’s drink. Down vague, complicated passages, he tries to think back to his wife, that dark anima; sitting at a table with candles in Slaka, he tries to recover Cambridge, the brown river, the punts, the greenfly, but it seems very far away. The glinting face opposite him looks across, in an expression that could be apologetic, or victorious; he has a moment’s glimpse of that face as it comes, late one night, to the room he and his wife have shared somewhere high in the Cambridge college, bearing, civilly, some carved wooden object, which may have been an egg-holder or a pipestand, doubtless carved by some peasant in these Slakan woods, and talking on into the night long after Petworth has retired exhausted to sleep. But is there more? He remembers the long hours in which his wife wandered, tries to recall whether Plitplov was present or absent at those same times; it is too far away. He looks around at the table of exiles, and wonders why he is here; he recalls a domestic conversation: ‘He asked me if you had great sexual energy; I told him so so.’ A sense of being implicated, complicated, in someone else’s plots comes over him, but he is too tired to understand them, too will-less, too lonely, too personless, not enough the noun, too much the object. ‘Some brandy,’ says Steadiman, coming up with a bottle. ‘No, thank you,’ says Petworth, putting a debilitated hand over his glass. ‘I see you make an excellent choice among our spiritous liquors,’ says Plitplov, smiling, ‘Just a small. But you enjoy it, I think, your diplomatic life here?’

‘Talking of secrets,’ says Budgie Steadiman, putting her hand back on Petworth’s knee, ‘A story that illustrates the odd difficulties of the way we live here. About those yellow areas. You know whenever we leave Slaka, we’re checked to find out where we’re going. We have to report at the control points on every route out of the city. One Friday night we left in the car to go skiing for the weekend. The roads were dark, we had to go through the thick forest, and we must have missed our turn. We came to a small town and checked on the map, and it was in one of the yellow areas. Felix tried get the car turned round, but there was a dance going on in the street, and the dancers came all round us, gipsies playing their violins through the window, you know. We couldn’t move, so I made Felix get out and we joined in the dance.’ ‘I wanted to go, you remember,’ says Felix. ‘But I like dances,’ says Budgie, ‘You know I have a wild and foreign nature. Well, we danced, then we were taken to a house to get warm, and these peasants all started pouring brandy down us, and I sang some songs. Well, we went back to the car, and a huge tent had been built on top of it.’ ‘Who did it?’ asks Miss Peel. ‘The militia,’ says Budgie, ‘They weren’t allowed to move it, you see, because we had diplomatic plates, but they weren’t going to let us move it either.’ ‘So what did you do?’ asks Miss Peel. ‘Oh, we slept in it all night,’ says Budgie, ‘Then in the morning Felix said the only way to get out was to go to the militia and explain. Well, they held us there for two days. We asked them why; they said we had seen things we were not allowed to see. But, I said to the colonel at the barracks, all we saw was a dance. Yes, said the colonel, but to see it is not permitted. So I told him not to be silly and they put us in the car and we drove between two army trucks all the way back to Slaka. Then the Ambassador put on his raincoat and went and apologized and the incident was closed.’

‘But you should not go there,’ says Plitplov, ‘You should not know that place.’ ‘You mean it’s a secret dance?’ asks Budgie. ‘Your secret is a sausage,’ says Plitplov, ‘Why not ours a dance?’ ‘You know these things ex ex excite you, Budgie,’ says Steadiman at the other end of the table. ‘Excite me?’ cries Budgie, ‘Who knows what excites me? Who in thirty-five years has ever succeeded in unlocking that particular door?’ ‘I think it’s getting late,’ says Miss Peel. In a big black coat, carrying a plastic bag, Magda appears gloomily beside the table. ‘Yes, time to take Magda home,’ says Steadiman, rising, and going to look for his windscreen wipers. ‘Dr Plitplov,’ says Budgie, seizing her visitor by the arm, ‘Do you perhaps understand, just a little, why in this country, in this world, I feel a confined soul?’ ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, ‘But really you must not depress.’ ‘Depress?’ cries Budgie, ‘I think I’m awfully gay.’ ‘Time for bye-byes, I think,’ says Mr Blenheim, stretching his arms, ‘Look, I’ll see Miss Peel safely down the stairs and take her back to her apartment.’ ‘I think I make also a quiet excuse me,’ says Plitplov, ‘My wife probably has a headache. Also I have said perhaps some things I do not mean.’ ‘Not at all,’ says Budgie, ‘I thought you remarkably good value.’ ‘Yes, well, my friend,’ says Plitplov, rising and shaking hands with Petworth, ‘I hope so much we stay good colleagues. You know I do not like to distress you. But, as you say, a man has to keep his end up. I hope please one day you come for a dinner to me. Of course I cannot promise you such a sausage. And remember always, when you call your wife, to give her the love of Plitplov.’ ‘Going?’ asks Budgie, ‘Everyone going?’ ‘Mrs Steadiman,’ says Plitplov, kissing her hand, ‘A most interesting evening, and my compliments to your menu. You know I have taken many risks to come, and perhaps it was worth it.’ ‘I must get back too,’ says Petworth, ‘Can I call a taxi?’ ‘Of course I would take you,’ says Plitplov, ‘But I do not like to go in your direction.’

‘No, Angus, you stay here and help me with the washing up,’ says Budgie. ‘Oh, really, you should not do it,’ says Plitplov, putting on his coat, ‘You are the wife of a diplomat.’ ‘How nice of you to offer,’ says Budgie. ‘Oh, I do not offer, I am guest,’ says Plitplov, ‘But you have a maid to do it.’ ‘I like a maid to leave early,’ says Budgie, ‘A hostess needs a little privacy for her indiscretions. Angus, you’re not too proud to help me? And Felix will take you back when he returns from dropping Magda.’ ‘Bye, Mr Petworth,’ cries Miss Peel from the door, ‘Told you it would be a stunning evening.’ ‘Take care, old chap,’ cries Blenheim. Then Petworth looks round at a diplomatic room suddenly empty; drained glasses shine on the table, the Mexican dance-masks stare blankly off the wall. ‘Could you just take a few of those things into the kitchen?’ says Budgie, ‘I must just discard a few jewels and make myself more comfortable.’ In the kitchen, it seems churlish not to put on rubber gloves and wash a dish or two in the sink; it is in this domesticated condition that Budgie finds him when she comes in a few moments later, clad in a very diaphanous nightdress. ‘A sorry tale that funny little man tells,’ she says, ‘I hope it hasn’t distressed you.’ ‘I don’t understand what he’s up to,’ says Petworth, scouring a saucepan. ‘When two people are together in agony, Angus,’ says Budgie, drawing him away from the sink, ‘There is only one solution. You are not a young man, Angus. You have a certain sophistication and expertise. This is the centre of the house. I always think it’s harder for telescopic sights to see in here. Do you prefer the kitchen table or the floor?’

‘It doesn’t seem a terribly good idea,’ says Petworth.

‘You’re worried about Felix?’ asks Budgie, ‘Felix and I have an arrangement. He lets me get away with murder.’ ‘It’s not really that,’ says Petworth. ‘You’re worried I don’t have protection,’ says Budgie, ‘Believe me, I don’t just have protection, I have diplomatic immunity.’ ‘No, it’s not that,’ says Petworth. ‘You have other interests,’ says Budgie, ‘That does not concern me in the slightest.’ ‘It seems rather dangerous,’ says Petworth.‘Of course, it’s dangerous,’ says Budgie, ‘But England expects, my dear. One is not a guest of honour for nothing.’ ‘I’ll call for a taxi,’ says Petworth. ‘You will not call for a taxi,’ says Budgie, ‘You’ll stay here and fly the flag. I’m just going out to put on a little music, you did say you liked Wagner, didn’t you? You look like a man of taste. I imagine you have quite an eye for specialist lingerie. Let me show you some.’ Petworth stands in the kitchen: a booming noise begins in the back of the apartment as the noises of Wagner, that metaphysical romper, sounds on the record player, and on, doubtless, the tapes and the film, the screens and the consoles, that whirl and flicker in some technologized office nearby, where the HOGPo men sit, reducing Petworth, that virtuous subject, into sign or object, transient image. Luckily there is just time to finish the saucepan before, along the corridor, he hears the bedroom door open.

IV

‘Actually,’ says Steadiman, as he drives the brown Ford Cortina back through the urban darkness toward the centre and the Hotel Slaka, ‘I’m afraid it’s terribly easy to get the wrong impression of Budgie. She finds life here rather diff diff difficult, and she reacts to it. Also, you know, she has an aristocratic background, her father was a duke, actually, and she expects service from everyone. I think she rather expected it from you.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, through his split lip, ‘I see what you mean.’ ‘People often get a wrong impression of dip dip diplomatic life,’ Steadiman explains in the dark, ‘It can be awe awe awfully confining. That’s what she revolts against. Besides, she’s always liked to extra-mural a bit, I understand that. And if we were in Paris, or Athens, or Washington, I can’t say I’d terribly mind. That’s the trouble with Slaka, it’s rather diff diff different. I do hope that wrist isn’t sprained.’ ‘Oh, no,’ says Petworth, ‘I don’t think so, just bruised.’ ‘Yes, well, terr terr terribly sorry,’ says Steadiman, ‘One hardly wants to wound one’s most distinguished visitors. I must be a bit bit fit fit fitter than I thaw thaw thought. Yes, Budgie’s really a sort of tease, you know. I think what she enjoys best is just tan tan tantalizing all these little secret police squits who spend all their working hours listening in on us, beastly, isn’t it? I suppose she just doesn’t like to think how unutterably boring their nasty little lives must be, so she tries to brighten them up a bit. At least, that’s how I explain her conduct. So there’s nothing sort of personal about you.’ ‘Oh, isn’t there?’ says Petworth, holding his wrist, ‘Well, yes, I see.’ ‘I’m awe awe awfully sorry about the suit,’ says Steadiman, driving into the rain, ‘I hope you’ve brought another one. Never mind, there should be a sort of tailor person somewhere in the hotel.’ ‘I expect so,’ says Petworth, ‘It’s just a little hard to explain.’ ‘Tell them it was a football match,’ says Steadiman, ‘Nowadays I find that more or less explains everything.’

The rain pours down in front of them; it is not, as it turns out, a good night in Slaka. ‘I really didn’t mean . . .’ murmurs Petworth. ‘No, no, of course you didn’t,’ says Steadiman, ‘I do understand. You know the trouble with Budgie? She just doesn’t recognize the realities of the game she’s playing. And with half of myself I don’t blame her. The only trouble is, that stuff is terr terr terribly terr terr terribly dangerous.’ ‘Is it?’ asks Petworth, nursing his wounded arm. ‘You know dip dip diplomacy,’ says Steadiman, ‘Well, it’s like life, isn’t it? Everybody trading this for that. The trouble with these chaps here is they play some very nasty games indeed. A dip dip diplomat is just a chap on the football field, trying to protect his own goal and hoping to score once in a while. But of course there are some corrupt types who try to get at the players.’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth. ‘And this is what Budgie doesn’t understand,’ says Steadiman, ‘This stuff could be the end of my dip dip diplomatic career.’ ‘Surely not,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Steadiman, ‘You see, it’s not what you do that’s important. It’s the way it looks. When they write it down, or record it, or photograph it, or put it into the Smolensk com com computer, or wherever all this stuff is put together. Of course that’s how life is played now, in front of the screens. Collate, file, store, re-arrange, produce at the opportune moment.’ ‘And with me too?’ asks Petworth. ‘Well, of course,’ says Steadiman, ‘You’ve travelled a lot, you have a position, you don’t seem very discreet, I should think they’ve got a hell of a lot on you by now, all there in the computer. Lip still bleeding?’ ‘No, I think it’s all right now,’ says Petworth. ‘Please don’t think it was per per personal,’ says Steadiman.

Yes, it has been a difficult departure, from the diplomatic apartment, with its Danish chairs, its Kurdish trunks, its Afghan wall-rugs, somewhere five floors up over Slaka. Indeed the details, still, are not quite clear in Petworth’s admittedly not quite clear head. ‘Don’t you love red lingerie?’ Budgie Steadiman, he recalls, has said, standing there in the kitchen in some, of admirable quality, while the coffee maker bubbles and Tannhäuser rages somewhere nearby, ‘Actually I bought it in the Reeperbahn in Hamburg. Look what it does.’ ‘Budgie, I really think it’s time Mr Petworth was returning to his ho ho hotel,’ Steadiman has then said, coming into the kitchen in his coat, dropping windscreen wipers on the floor to grip Petworth rather firmly by one wrist, ‘He looks pretty tired and ready for bed.’ ‘Oh, he doesn’t want to go, Felix,’ Budgie has said, ‘Can’t you see he’s sad and lonely? And I too am sad and lonely. I want him to try on uniforms. I want him to stay here with me.’ ‘Come on, Budgie, let go of him, there’s a go go good girl,’ Steadiman has said, taking Petworth round the head in an expert arm-lock, ‘The ho ho hotel will probably alert the po po police if he’s not in his room tonight. We don’t want him in trouble.’ ‘Loneliness and the need for reassurance,’ Budgie has said, holding fast to the waistband of Petworth’s trousers, ‘Don’t you understand, Felix, that is the meaning of life.’ ‘Budgie does not understand the meaning of life,’ Steadiman has said, wrenching Petworth free with a ripping of material, and dragging him into the living room, ‘She only thinks she does. Mr Petworth would like to go home.’ ‘He wants to spend the night with me,’ Budgie has said, falling sobbing into a chair. ‘Don’t you, Angus?’ ‘Well, I do,’ Petworth has said, diplomatic in the diplomatic living room, ‘But I’d better go.’ ‘He’s a very polite man and he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings,’ Steadiman has said, ‘But he’s go go going.’

And so it is that Petworth now sits, with throbbing arm, hurt lip and torn trousers, the zip quite gone, in the brown Cortina as it drives speedily and erratically toward Slaka. Driving rain and road mud smear over the windscreen, eliminating all visibility – for, in the rush of his departure, out of the flat, down, down, down the long staircase, into the car, Steadiman has failed to bring the wipers with him. ‘Well, look, I do apologize,’ says Petworth. ‘Not at all, old chap,’ says Steadiman, ‘You gave her a good evening, che che cheered her up no end. I should have warned you, really, she does that. I should apologize to you. I don’t usually use violence on my guests of honour.’ ‘It could be serious for you?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, God, for heaven’s sake,’ says Steadiman, looking into the mirror, ‘There’s a tail on us.’ ‘Why?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, they follow us everywhere,’ says Steadiman, ‘HOGPo is the biggest employer in the country. That’s how they manage to have no unemployment. Everyone’s followed by somebody else. I just hope I don’t hit anyone. See anything ahead?’ ‘There’s someone now,’ cries Petworth, as a khaki figure leaps for the curb. ‘I hate to think what the sentence would be, after all the stuff we’ve put away tonight,’ says Steadiman, ‘Pru pru Proust wouldn’t be half long enough.’ ‘I really shouldn’t have had so much myself,’ says Petworth, ‘Two parties in one day.’ ‘Never mind, good fun, enjoyed it,’ says Steadiman, ‘Thank God, they’ve turned off.’ A sign on a building in front of them flashes through the mud, saying SCH’VEPPUU. ‘This is your square, isn’t it?’ asks Steadiman, ‘Wang’likii? I’ll just park and make sure you get in all right.’ It is lucky that Petworth has his topcoat to cover his one best suit, split now right down to the crotch; they walk together toward the entrance of the Hotel Slaka. ‘Marvellous evening,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes,’ says Steadiman, ‘Let’s do it again. Call me when you get back to Slaka next week. I’d like to hear your news. Oh, damn, look, the hotel’s all locked up.’

Peering through the glass doors of the hotel, they see it is dark, dark, dark in the lobby; but then it is late, late, perhaps three in the morning. One faint light shines over the registration desk, but nobody in blue uniform sits at this hour beneath Marx and Wanko. ‘They seem to have lock lock locked you out,’ says Steadiman, ‘Can you see a bell?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth, tapping on the glass door. No one walks, no trams grind, in the great square; the rain beats on the gravel. After a long wait, and much tapping, a door inside does open, casting a beam of light; a limping figure comes toward the doors, looks out at them, and then turns away in a gesture of dismissal. ‘Don’t you have an ident’ayii?’ asks Steadiman. Petworth takes out his hotel passport, spreads it against the glass, and taps again. The doorman turns, puts on spectacles, stares; then, slowly and grudgingly, he takes out a key and unlocks the door. ‘Give him a tip,’ says Steadiman, ‘And don’t forget. If you feel in need of a bit of ass, a bit of assistance call me, any time.’ ‘I will, thank you very much,’ says Petworth, ‘It’s reassuring to have someone to turn to. Many thanks.’ He watches a moment through the glass as Steadiman walks off, in quite the wrong direction from his car, while the aggrieved doorman inspects the ident’ayii. Petworth takes out a handful of vloskan; the doorman nods, stares, and then limps away to the desk, to come back with Petworth’s key, and disappear inside his door.

The lobby is dark, but somewhere in the darkness there is a faint murmur: ‘Change money?’ says a voice. ‘Na,’ says Petworth, groping toward the elevator, to find it switched off. Groping, he finds a back staircase, long and dark, like the staircase at Steadiman’s apartment, like life itself, in a sense; he ascends, up and round, round and up. In his corridor, at her desk, under a little light, the floormaid sleeps, to wake in surprise as Petworth unlocks his door. Inside the great room the lamps are lit, the cracks in the ceiling wide, the pyjamas spread. Loneliness and fear, guilt and betrayal, spread from the room into Petworth, from Petworth to the little house in Bradford, his old domestic space. In the great mirrored bathroom Petworth takes off his torn and ruined trousers; under the duvet he tries to sleep. The voices begin to sound again: she is a very tough lady, chosen special for you; this is a forbidden area, you do not go there; the witch was not a good witch; this is not the posting I would have desired. In the night there are dark and winding staircases, going up and down, round and up; a wind blows; a car follows; a maid in gloves waits by a dead man’s tomb. Two men talk under a sign that flashes and says PLUC. A soldier with a gun appears and holds it toward a car. There is a glimpse of Katya Princip, falling falling down a hole, to the middle of a forest, where people dance and gipsies play violins. There is a pain in the wrist, a taste of blood in the mouth, and around the wall secrets hanging, like sausages, in strings.