6 – LECT.
Petworth wakes in the morning, under the great duvet, in the great room, to find himself in a world that has changed its weather. A bright sun glints through the cracks in the dusty curtains; a warm wind dries off the gravel under the people and the trams in the Plazscu Wang’luku, down below his window; flashes of sunny light twist and turn the knobs and domes of the great government buildings. No one is taking down the sign saying SCH’VEPPUU, and in the breakfast room the menu is the same as yesterday’s, and so, despite the fact that he makes a quite different order, is the breakfast. In the lobby, at the appointed time, it is a more summery Marisja Lubijova who stands there; she wears a flowered dress and a tam o’shanter hat that falls to one side over her dark hair and tense white face. Only her manner does not fit the illuminated brightness; it contains – Petworth has every reason to expect it – a note of saddened rebuke. A man, he knows, in a difficult world, a place of false leads and harmful traps, doors that will not open and toilets that will not flush, needs a guide, severe yet competent, warning yet enlarging, to bring shape to the shapeless, names to the unnamed, definition to the undefined. Yes, a bruised man, he is pleased to see her, neat in the lobby; but evidently she is less pleased to see him. ‘Oh, today you are on time,’ she says abruptly, ‘You amaze, Comrade Petwurt. Your breakfast, did you eat it?’ ‘I did,’ says Petworth. ‘And your evening, you enjoy it?’ ‘It was very quiet,’ says Petworth, ‘I just ate and went to bed.’ ‘All by yourself?’ asks Lubijova, ‘You didn’t do it with a lady writer?’ ‘Oh, no,’ says Petworth, ‘She just left me here and went home. I don’t suppose I shall see her again.’ ‘Of course,’ says Lubijova, ‘She comes today to your lecture,’ ‘Well, no,’ says Petworth, ‘She changed her mind.’
‘Oh, poor Comrade Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, looking brighter, ‘What a shame for you. I have good intuitions, I am a little bit psychic, I think yesterday you were very pleased with Comrade Princip. Oh, Petwurt, look at you, you spent a quiet evening, I don’t think so. You have bruised all your face, at the mouth.’ ‘Ah,’ says Petworth, ‘Ah. Yes, I walked into a door I didn’t see.’ ‘At the hotel?’ cries Lubijova, ‘You should complain to them. It hurts? A doctor comes here, I think we go to the desk and ask he looks at you.’ ‘Oh, no,’ says Petworth, ‘It’s just a small bruise.’ ‘A door in your room?’ asks Lubijova, ‘You don’t go out and make some fights?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, Petwurt, I don’t know if I believe you,’ says Lubijova, ‘You have met a lady writer and now you tell me some stories. Do you think you can lecture very well, your mouth is important.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And your telephone to your wife, did you lose it?’ asks Lubijova. ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘You see, you drink so much, and you must go somewhere with a lady writer,’ says Lubijova, ‘Then you cannot do the things you must do. Always you are a trouble, hah? Well, I go to the desk and arrange again. When do we fix it? In the morning you make lecture, you have free afternoon, and then tonight we go, do you remember it, to the oper, that will be very nice. Do we say before the oper?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘That’s fine.’ ‘Sit down please and I fix,’ says Lubijova, ‘Then it is time to go to the university.’ Petworth sits down in one of the red plasticated armchairs; along the row, the big-hatted man who sat here two days ago, still wearing his raincoat despite the shining sun, looks up. Petworth glances rapidly through the text of his lecture, on ‘The English Language as a Medium of International Communication,’ to ensure that all the pages survive; they do, in all the novel neatness imposed on them by the lady in DONAY’II, so long, it seems, ago.
‘So, Comrade Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, coming back, ‘You ate and then you went to bed last night, did you? I don’t think so.’ ‘Pardon?’ says Petworth, getting up. ‘They tell at the desk you came in at three in the morning,’ says Lubijova, ‘Your clothes are torn and you do not walk straight.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Petworth, ‘I did go for a walk.’ ‘Where do you walk, at this time?’ asks Lubijova, ‘Well, no matter, it is not my business. Your telephone is arranged: six o’clock. They do not please that you do not come last night. Also the porters like to take a little sleep and not have to wait for the official guests who are here for a purpose. Now I think we take the tram to the university. It is not far but perhaps too far to walk, especially if you do not have so much sleep. Your lecture, do you have it? I must check on everything. I try to be good guide but you must help me. You were well when I find you at the airport. I hope when you turn back home to England and you are tired and your clothes are torn and your face is hurted and there are perhaps other troubles as well they do not blame me because I do not watch after you. I try, Petwurt, I try.’ ‘You do,’ says Petworth, as they walk out of the door of the hotel, ‘You’re a fine guide, really.’ ‘And I don’t like it you do not tell me the truth,’ says Lubijova, ‘I don’t know what to believe of you, Petwurt, I don’t really. You understand I do not want you to have some troubles here. But I think you don’t know life here and its difficulties. I believe you don’t mean harm, Comrade Petwurt, but you will find some. Petwurt, not on that tram, please, this one goes the wrong direction. Wait here with me and be good.’
They stand in the square, in the sunlight; the people move, and the newspaper man sells newspapers, the balloon man balloons. A tram comes with a sign on the front saying krep’atatok: ‘Now we go on,’ says Lubijova. They bounce, standing, as the tram rattles them through the city, along the fine wide boulevard, past the statue of Lip Hrovdat, who shines on his horse in the brightening sun. ‘Here we get off for the university,’ says Lubijova, ‘Watch always for Hrovdat, then you tell you arrive.’ Young people with briefcases stream across the crossing with them, toward a large classical facade of stained stone, where pigeons strut back and forth over the portico; more sober-looking young people sit taking the sun on the steps. Caryatids support the roof of the entrance, statues of the muses; ‘They say they move when a virgin passes in,’ says Lubijova, ‘But you see they are quite still. Now we go along many corridors here. You are lucky I know the way. That is because I made my studies in filologie here.’ ‘Is it a good department?’ asks Petworth, following Lubijova past a porter’s box filled with many faces and up a wide dark staircase. ‘Of course,’ cries Lubijova, ‘You see what a good student they produce. The professor is Marcovic, very old, very famous. Perhaps you will not meet him. Often he does not come because so many of the faculty work against him. Of course he himself worked against the professor before.’ They turn into a long dark corridor where faint figures scurry past; posters flap on noticeboards on the wall. ‘Oh, look what these students do now,’ says Lubijova, ‘When I came, the authorities would not permit.’ ‘What do they do?’ asks Petworth. ‘Here are posters to ask for more language reform,’ says Lubijova, ‘As if the party has not been kind enough. They will not get a reform, they will get the police and some prison.’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth.
The corridor is dirty and has bare board floors; offices with glass doors stand open along it. ‘Now here Germanic languages and filologies,’ says Lubijova, ‘Of course it is always hard to find somebody. They are all so busy working somewhere. Look, I try here.’ She knocks on a door and opens it; Petworth waits in the corridor, where a few students pass, looking at him with suspicion. ‘Oh, is here, Prifessori Petworthi?’ cries a voice, and a sturdy short middle-aged lady emerges into the corridor, wearing heavy spectacles suspended around her neck on a chain, as if otherwise someone might steal them, ‘Prifessori Petworthi, welcomi. I have been reading your booki, what an interesting thingi. Of course it is not my sorti of worki.’ ‘No?’ says Petworth, ‘What’s your field?’ ‘Goldi and silveri imagery of the Faerie Queeni,’ says the lady, ‘I am afraidi Professori Marcovic sends apologies, very sorry. He is not so well, is his stomachi. I step instead into the breachi, my name is Mrs Goko.’ ‘Delighted,’ says Petworth. ‘Come pleasi into my office,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Here some coffee, and also some of my assistanti, waiting to meet you. All are doing most interesting scientific enterprisi, and they welcome your criticisms and suggestions.’ Petworth steps out of the dark corridor into a dark room, shelved with old wooden shelves holding books, some in the Cyrillic alphabet, some in the Latin, some even British paperbacks. In the middle is a desk, in the corner a coffee table, with a coffee machine on it, and some cups, and around it a worn settee and some easy, all too easy, chairs. On the chairs sit three young ladies and one young man, who wears Tonton Macoute sunglasses, and a camera round his neck. The three young ladies rise civilly and look at Petworth with sceptical curiosity; the young man takes the lens hood off the camera and takes a photograph. ‘Here has come Professori Petworthi,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Please sit down and take some coffee. We have much timi and these ladies have many questions.’ Petworth sits down. The ladies look at him and ask no questions. The young man takes another photograph.
‘First the coffee, you do not mind it strongi?’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Also a little rot’vuttu, to make it go downi?’ ‘Well, just a little,’ says Petworth. ‘Of coursi,’ says the lady, ‘Is that just nicei?’ ‘Fine,’ says Petworth. ‘These are my brightest assistants,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘As you see, three of them are ladies, and that one is a mani. In my country, no discrimination for sexi, yet still the ladies study the languages and filologies and the menis the heavy thingis, like to build bridges, although a lady can plan a bridgi just like a mani. Of course you interest in such sociological thingis. Please say now your namies to Professori Petworthi, so he knows you all.’ ‘Miss Bancic,’ says one. ‘Miss Chervovna,’ says the next. ‘Miss Mamorian,’ says the next. ‘Picnic,’ says the man, looking at him through his dark sunglasses. ‘Now tell Professori Petworthi what you make your theses on and explain your enterprises. Please be as critical as you wanti, here we are always critical of our praxis and try to make our thinking always correcti.’ ‘I work on anarchistic nihilism of the proletarian novel of A. Sillitoe,’ says Miss Bancic, ‘I investigate his quasi-radical critique and his modus of realismus.’ ‘This should be interesting to Professori Petworthi,’ says Mrs Goko. ‘It is,’ says Petworth, ‘Tell me . . .’ ‘I work on the anarchistic nihilism of the drames of J. Orton,’ says Miss Chemovna, ‘I use a new concept of tragi-comedy and investigate his corruption-image.’ ‘That should interesti you very much, Professori Petworthi,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘It does,’ says Petworth, ‘Fascinating.’ ‘I compare the political poem of William Woolworth and Hrovdat,’ says Miss Mamorian.
‘Of whom?’ asks Petworth. ‘Yes,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Please be as critical as you liki.’ ‘Hrovdat,’ says Miss Mamorian. ‘Our national poeti,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Has translated Byroni and Shakespeari, was friend of Kossuthi.’ ‘You saw his statue when you came,’ says Lubijova. ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘But who was the English poet?’ ‘Woolworth, author of Prelude,’ says Miss Mamorian. ‘I think you mean William Wordsworth,’ says Petworth. ‘Our visitor’s criticism is correcti,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Woolworthi is name of department storyi.’ ‘This is correct?’ asks Miss Mamorian. ‘Our visitor’s criticism is righti,’ says Mrs Goko firmly, ‘And we must learn to put it into practicei.’ ‘And Mr Picnic, what are you working on?’ asks Petworth, as Miss Mamorian gulps and begins, very quietly, to cry. ‘I think you are bourgeois ideologue,’ says Mr Picnic, ‘Why do you come here to our country? How are you sent?’ ‘Professor Petworthi is guesti of the Ministrat’uu Kulturu Komutetuu,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘His visiti is approved by the Minister.’ ‘Who asks you?’ says Picnic, ‘Someone here on this fakultetuu?’ ‘I think it is time for your lectori,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Because of Professor Marcovic’s little sickness, I am agreed to introducei you.’ ‘I like answer please,’ says Picnic, ‘Is this invitation arranged by a person of this fakultetuu?’ ‘I don’t think so, Mr Picnic,’ says Petworth, ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘Marcovic?’ asks Picnic, ‘You know Marcovic?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘You don’t know who supports your visit?’ asks Picnic, ‘Varada? Plitplov?’ ‘I thinki we go now, to the lectori, where our studenti are waiting,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘The session is of two houri, you know the continental fashioni, with perhaps a fifteen minuti breaki for the lavatory or for smokings in the middle. You accept to take questions?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Then we hear your lectori and see if we want it,’ says Mrs Goko, as Mr Picnic takes another photograph.
They walk in a crowd along the dark corridor, which has statues in gloomy niches, and many cigarette ends on the floor. ‘The Presidenti of the University hoped formally to greeti you,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Unfortunately he is not so welli also, in his chesti. He asked me to sendi to you his welcomes and his sentiments of scholarly amity and concordi.’ ‘Thank you,’ says Petworth, ‘I should like to send him mine.’ ‘Our studenti are of excellenti standard but perhaps you should speak just a little slowly,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Also you do not mind if we maki tape-recording, only for educational purposes?’ ‘Not at all,’ says Petworth. ‘And do you have some special needi?’ asks Mrs Goko, ‘For a screeni or a big sticki?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. A few students stand huddled round an open doorway out of which comes a buzz of noise. ‘Pleasi,’ says Mrs Goko, ushering him in through the door. He is in a large raked auditorium in which, in stacks, students in considerable numbers sit. They rise to their feet as the party comes in; ‘Thank you, sitti,’ says Mrs Goko. The students resume their seats and a familiar form of coma, leaning hands on elbows or whispering to each other from behind notebooks. There is a podium with a very high desk on it, and behind the desk chairs for two. ‘Now, pleasi, I introduce you, but one question. I note you were borni in the twentieth century but what is the datei?’ ‘1941,’ says Petworth. ‘A year of destiny, I thinki,’ says Mrs Goko. ‘I’ve always thought so,’ says Petworth. ‘On the deski a glass of water,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘All is welli?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. Mrs Goko then rises and goes to the high podium, cranes over the top of it so that her head is just visible, and begins to speak, while Mr Picnic, in the doorway, takes a photograph of the audience.
‘Cam’radakuu,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘It is a greati pleasurum to introduct our guesti Professori Petworthi. Doctora Petworthi is lecturi of sociologyii at the Universitet of Watermuthi.’ ‘No, no,’ says Petworth, leaning forward in his chair. ‘He is authori of monographic achievementis to the number of seven, inclusive of An Introducti to Sociologyii, Problumi in Sociologyii, Sociological Methodi, and so forthi.’ ‘I’m sorry for interrupting,’ says Petworth, ‘But a confusion has occurred. I’m not that Doctor Petworth.’ ‘You are not Prifessori Petworthi?’ cries Mrs Goko, fuming at the podium. ‘I am,’ says Petworth, ‘But I’m a different Professor Petworth.’ ‘You are looked up in Whosi Whosi,’ says Mrs Goko. ‘I’m not in Who’s Who,’ says Petworth, ‘That’s another Professor Petworth in another university. He’s a sociologist. I’m a linguist.’ ‘Don’t you give lectori on prublumi of English sociologyii?’ asks Mrs Goko. ‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘On the English Language as a Medium of International Communication.’ ‘But that was the approved lectori, approved by the rectori,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘It is not permitted to give it on something else. I must cancel, tell them all to go away.’ ‘Mrs Goko, in the approved programme he is giving lecture on the English language,’ says Marisja Lubijova from the front row, ‘That is on the programme of the Mun’stratuu.’ ‘But he must give the lectori approved by the rectori,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘I think he should give the lecture approved by the Mun’stratuu,’ says Marisja Lubijova. The two hundred or so students sitting in the room stare, delighted, like all students everywhere, by confusion; Petworth stares back at them, red in the face, like all lecturers everywhere, when, as is so frequent, lectures do not go as they are meant to. ‘I think we take a break for fifteen minuti,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Please to come back here and don’t go awayii.’
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ says Petworth when they all huddle, a moment later, in the corridor, ‘It is easy to confuse the two of us. I sometimes get his letters by mistake. I bet he never gets mine.’ ‘It is not your fault,’ says Marisja Lubijova, reaching in her shoulderbag and producing a file, ‘See here, please, here is written the programme of Petwurt, all quite clear.’ ‘The Mun’stratuu has changed the programme approved by the rectori,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘We have applicated for this subjecti. Is this man a qualified scholari?’ ‘Isn’t Mr Plitplov here?’ asks Petworth, ‘He’s met me before.’ Picnic, who has been taking photographs, comes nearer. ‘Dr Plitplov is not so welli also, in the head,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Well, I think I must telephone now the Mun’stratuu for confirmation and also the rectori so I am not to blami.’ Mrs Goko bustles off, to her office. ‘Petwurt, you don’t embarrass,’ says Lubijova, ‘These people have made their own mistake and must take a responsibility.’ ‘How is this mistake occurring?’ asks Picnic, approaching, from behind his sunglasses. ‘Obviously this man is an agent,’ murmurs Lubijova to Petworth, ‘They are in all universities. Do not tell him so much.’ ‘Do you have ident’ayuu?’ asks Picnic, ‘And Plitplov, you are friend of Plitplov?’ ‘The Mun’stratuu of course has checked all ident’ayuu,’ says Lubijova, ‘You must look somewhere else for the cause of this error.’ ‘So, very welli,’ says Mrs Goko, coming back, her face looking white, ‘You are righti, there is an error. But now I do not know how to introduct him. Also some of these studentis are studentis of sociologyii. Their English is not so goodi. You must tell one sentence at a timi, and I do translati. Now we go back.’
‘Cam’radakuu,’ says Mrs Goko, when the audience has settled itself again, ‘Here is another Professori Petworthi. He is very famous scholari who has authoried many famous books on topicis, and he speakis now on “The Englishi Languagi as Mediumi of Internationali Communicationi.” Welcome him please.’ A strange noise follows, as Petworth rises and steps up to the podium; it is, as he sees when he peers out over the high top of it, the sound of the students, rapping with their knuckles on their desks, though whether in appreciation of the brevity of Mrs Goko’s introduction or in polite appreciation of his own presence he does not know. He puts the well-used lecture in front of him, and takes off the paperclip; he stares out. The stack of faces, looking at his poor haircut and his small head peering at them over the podium, reaches ever backward: big faces and small ones, male ones and female ones, light ones and dark ones, civilian ones and military ones. It is a familiar ecology, a world to which he is well used. In the front row sits a recognizable selection of likely lecture-goers: a white, tenselooking Lubijova, a black spectacled Picnic, looking more at the audience than the speaker, the three girl assistants, with Miss Mamorian still visibly watering at the eyes, a professorial looking person, with an ironic manner and a V-shaped grey beard, a stout middle-aged Indian lady in a sari, a few more female assistants in cardigans, then a male one, wrapped in wiring and holding a tape recorder. Yes, it is known ground, a usual party almost complete, save, he thinks, for two possible guests who have sent their apologies: Mr Plitplov, and, alas, brilliant, batik-clad Katya Princip.
Petworth looks down to his ill-written text, his web of old words; he starts the lecture that has caused so much stir at Slaka airport, and is now causing so little here. The students stare blankly as he begins his explanation, arguing that in the modern world the English language has quite changed its function, become a new lingua franca, so that the most common speech acts in which it is now used no longer involve native speakers at all, but those who use it as a second language: a Japanese talking to a Norwegian, an Indian to a (insert, says the text, local example) Slakan. ‘Pleasi, I translati,’ says Mrs Goko, tapping his elbow, and stepping forward to speak. They mumble a little to each other as he explains that a new form of language is emerging in the world, divorced from its original cultural associations, dislocated and displaced, a Spranglais of potent proportions, manifest everywhere. Signs and advertisements everywhere employed it; newspapers and novels were constructed in its terms, from African polyglot fictions to Finnegans Wake. Politics and love affairs were made out of it; planes went up and down, and generally managed to avoid hitting each other, through its use. Behind the language was a world culture, itself divesting itself of its traditional rooted signs; a new world of the plurilingual and the distorted, of the sign floating free of the signified, was upon us. Petworth is talking, says Petworth, about language in a new state of volatility, the world after Babel. The students murmur amongst themselves, or grow tired and stare into the air; Mrs Goko takes his own words and makes them something else; the faces in front of him grow blank to his eyes. But then they grow real again, for at the back of the room a small door opens, and two late arrivals come quietly in, slipping into back row seats. The other people are strangers, but these are not; for one, besuited and crisp as a lettuce, is Mr Steadiman, and the other, wearing a white scarf neatly tied round her neck, and the batik dress, is Katya Princip.
The business of a lecturer is, of course, to lecture; this is why lecturers exist. Petworth has not come this far, crossed two time-zones, found other skies and other birds, simply in order to answer toasts, to visit tombs, to worry about domestic disorders, to catch himself in the thorny thickets of sexual confusion, split loyalties, divided attachments, to know desire or despair, to fall in love with lady writers; he has come to perform utterance. This is why planes have flown to bring him here, hotel rooms been booked, food set before him on plates; this is why he has left his house, home and country, brought his briefcase, made his way to this point. His head may ache with peach brandy, his wrist may hurt, his split lip blur his talk a little; his heart may be troubled, his spirit be energyless, poor, lacking the will to be, let alone the will to become. He may be a speech without a subject, a verb without a noun, certainly not a character in the world historical sense; but he has a story to tell, and now he is telling it. And telling it, he becomes himself an order, a sentence that grows into a paragraph and then a page, a page and then a plot, a direction incorporating due beginning, middle, and end. His text before him, he becomes that text; and, though he may be before an audience that has come to hear another lecture, from another lecturer, it does not matter. Petworth, for this moment, exists, in his hour of words. A bell rings in the corridor, and he knows his words and his existence are up. But, sitting down, in the great auditorium, while Mrs Goko utters a few last sentences of translation, Petworth knows that he has been.
The knuckles rap on the desks; the audience stands politely as Mrs Goko leads the way out of the room. In the corridor, reaching for a cigarette, Petworth feels his old empty self come back. ‘Really I think this goes quite welli,’ says Mrs Goko, her spectacles hanging round her neck, ‘It is not whati we expected, but it is interesting lectori. The speedi is finei, and you may telli by regarding their faces how well they graspi what you speaki.’ ‘Comrade Petwurt, I tell you we expect some remarkable talks,’ says Lubijova, ‘Well, I think you give us quite a remarkable one.’ ‘Perhaps now you wishi to go to the mani’s room for a little relief,’ says Mrs Goko, pointing to a door with F on it, ‘Do go there, and then comei back pleasi to my roomi, do you remember? We have fifteen minutis, and is just a little brandi more in the bottlei.’ ‘Aarrghh,’ says a voice, ‘Good stuff, old chap. The last fellow was pretty boring, actually. Sent the audience off to sleep.’ ‘English for Soporific Purposes,’ says Petworth, ‘Do you know Mrs Goko?’ ‘I’m Ster Ster Steadiman,’ says Steadiman, ‘Cult cult cultural man at the British Embassy. Professor Marcovic was kind enough to invite me.’ ‘Marcovic?’ says Mr Picnic, taking a photograph. ‘I am sorry,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Professor Marcovic has a little sicknessi today.’ ‘I’ve never man man managed to meet him,’ says Steadiman, ‘I hope one day.’ ‘There are many political complicaties,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘But if he survives these I expect he will be welli again.’ ‘It is really Wordworth?’ asks Miss Mamorian, catching Petworth just as he enters the door marked F, ‘Not Woolworth? I am only a little way into my project, and I don’t read yet any books.’ ‘Yes, Wordsworth,’ says Petworth, pushing open the door, entering a place of cold tiles and hissing pipes.
When he comes out again, the crowds that have just filled the corridor have gone; only one figure stands there, back to him, looking at a poster. ‘Oh, you are funny behind this so high desk,’ says a lady writer, turning, ‘Do you know Fonzy Bear, of Muppets? You are like this. Mr Petwit, walk with me a minute on the stair.’ Round the corner, on the stone staircase, where cold statues stand in niches, Katya Princip says: ‘I came, you see. Of course this is foolish. But I think about you last night, and I know I like to see you again. Do you mind it?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘I wish we talk again,’ says Princip, ‘But I think is not possible. Soon you leave Slaka.’ ‘Yes, tomorrow,’ says Petworth. ‘Do you have lunch with all these people?’ asks Princip, leaning against the wall and looking at him. ‘That’s what often happens,’ says Petworth. ‘I like you to come with me,’ says Princip, ‘I like to take you somewhere. Do you want it?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘You know it is foolish,’ says Princip. ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Then we let fate decide it, like in a good story,’ says Princip, ‘Of course if we know how we should give it some help. Let us just say, we try. If we are lucky, we know we are lucky couple.’ ‘Good,’ says Petworth. ‘Watch for me when your lecture stops,’ says Princip, ‘They do not know me but perhaps I come to you. Do what I tell you, I am good witch. Now, go to them, they wonder where you went. And wish, wish, wish we are lucky. In my books wishes often work.’ In the long corridor to Mrs Goko’s room Mr Picnic stands in his dark sunglasses; ‘You take a long time,’ he says, ‘We wait you.’ ‘Brandy, drinki it quickly,’ says Mrs Goko, giving him a glass, ‘Already it is time to go backi and meeti once more the studentis.’
But back on the podium, as Petworth talks again, his spirit rising, about the things he knows so well, about EFL and ESL and ESP, of EAP and EOP and EST, he sees that the audience has strangely changed. The numbers are much the same, but new faces have been traded for old ones, fair for dark, women for men, military for civilian. Only the front row remains as familiar as ever, save for one new figure, a man who sits on the end of the row, holding up a copy of P’rtyuu Populatuuu to cover his face, though the sharp striped trousers that show below it suggest a possible identity; on the back row, still, sit Steadiman and, looking at him warmly, Katya Princip. ‘I think we permiti some questions,’ says Mrs Goko, after Petworth has sat down, and the knuckles have rapped, ‘Also any criticisms. As you know, Professori Petworthi, always we are criticali, according to revolutionary principles.’ There is the statutory long pause, and then a few questions, a few criticisms: the man with the V-shaped beard rises, to denounce, in English, English as the language of capitalist oppression; Miss Mamorian also rises, to suggest the thinking is not correct; Mr Picnic observes that the lecture fails to unravel the hegemony of forces underlying the process to which it refers. ‘Professori Petworthi,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘You have given us a fascinating lectori of importance to all who study Englishi. Also we are pleased you speaki it very welli. You have heard some very good criticisms, and we thinki your visit will not be wasted. We thinki it may make your changi your theories, and so all have profited.’ ‘Theories exist to be changed,’ says Petworth. ‘So thank you, pleasi, for your good lectori, and may we acquaint you that here in our country we make a languagi revolution with the aimi of devising a true popular language consistent with history. We hope you study.’ ‘I shall,’ says Petworth.
It seems to Petworth, as he leaves the hall, that a dispute is now breaking out among the audience; indeed Picnic now stands at the podium he has just left, addressing the students in the language Petworth does not know. But there are other matters to attend to. ‘Perhaps I make mistaki to refer here to the language revolution,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘But you are linguisti, I think you interest.’ ‘Yes, very,’ says Petworth. ‘I like to tell you more at the lunch with our faculty arranged to followi.’ ‘Ah, I see,’ says Petworth. ‘So, my friend,’ says the man from behind P’rtyuu Populatuuu, who is no other than Plitplov, ‘This was quite a good lecture of bourgeois linguistics. Of course the criticisms of Madame Goko and others are most potent.’ ‘Very good,’ says Miss Mamorian. ‘I hope you excuse I miss some of your wise words,’ says Plitplov, ‘As I tell you last night at a certain party, I have many obligations.’ ‘Oh, yes, a party?’ says Lubijova, ‘You ate and then you went to bed, all by yourself? I don’t think it any more, Comrade Petwurt.’ ‘Oh, here is Miss Lubijova,’ says Plitplov, ‘It is nice to see you in our university.’ ‘You have seen me in it before, I think,’ says Lubijova, ‘Perhaps you forget because you have a headache. I do not think a party will help it. It does not help Comrade Petwurt’s face.’ ‘I’m Ster Ster Steadiman,’ says Steadiman, coming up to Lubijova, ‘I gather you’re Dr Petworth’s guide interpreter.’ ‘I am not to blame for Dr Petwurt at all,’ says Lubijova, ‘I try to make him good but he is naughty. How do you know him?’ ‘Dip dip dip,’ says Steadiman. ‘Oh, Mr Petwit, so good a lecture,’ says a certain lady novelist, coming up, ‘Do you know I understand nearly all of it?’
‘You are all friends?’ asks Picnic, coming up beside Petworth, ‘How do you meet? Who knows who?’ In the dark corridor stands much of the gallery of his Slakan acquaintances. Petworth stares at them, this one talking to that one, compounding his emotional confusions, unravelling or complicating his lies; he no longer knows the answer. ‘Oh, you are Mr Plitplov?’ cries Katya Princip, ‘I have read your articles in the newspaper with an interest.’ ‘You are good to notice,’ says Plitplov. ‘You are Katya Princip?’ cries Mrs Goko, ‘Welku, welku.’ ‘Oh, look, here is Miss Lubijova,’ says Katya Princip, ‘You see I took good care of Mr Petwit and left him very nicely at his hotel.’ ‘Oh, yes?’ says Lubijova, ‘I think it is good thing he leaves Slaka tomorrow.’ ‘I hope you arrange a nice lunch for him, he does very well,’ says Princip. ‘Mrs Goko has arranged a lunch,’ says Petworth. ‘No,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘I telli I like to arrange a lunchi, but is not possibli. Marcovic is not welli, and he alone can spend the departmenti fundis.’ ‘Oh, cancelled?’ says Katya Princip. ‘Well, let’s all find a rest rest restaurant,’ says Steadiman. ‘I cannot comi,’ says Mrs Goko, ‘Many duties in university.’ ‘I know a nice place,’ says Plitplov. ‘Which one?’ asks Picnic. ‘Come, we will follow Dr Plitplov,’ says Lubijova, ‘We must hope his head is all better.’ ‘We have learnied very much of you,’ says Mrs Goko, shaking hands, ‘Now I like to say thanki.’ ‘Is really Wordworth?’ asks Miss Mamorian, as the assistants, in their cardigans, line up to shake hands, and Picnic takes one last photograph for what must now be quite an extensive collection.
But then the occasion is suddenly over, as these formal occasions so suddenly are. The remaining party descends the great stone staircase into the great gaunt front hall of the university: Steadiman and Lubijova going ahead, talking together, perhaps about his clandestine last night, Petworth following behind, flanked by Katya Princip and a panting Plitplov. ‘So, your lecture has gone very well,’ says Plitplov, ‘Perhaps at lunch I can make a few suggestions for your improvement. You will see our academical standards are very rigorous, and we expect a special clarity of analysis.’ Porters peer at them out of glass booths as they go out of the building; a few students with briefcases stand on the steps. ‘I also found it interesting,’ says Katya Princip, ‘And I think you spoke a little slowly for me.’ ‘Always you are of fine quality,’ says Plitplov, ‘But of course in our context a few dialectical errors will become apparent. We are not so much pragmatist as the British. But definitely I did not make a mistake to come there. You know well you did not really disgrace yourself.’ They step out through the colonnade onto the street, which looks out onto a square where the sun shines brightly. Across the square stands the statue of Hrovdat, that Wordworth of Slaka: the national poet who has been, like all such national poets, in all such countries, a romantic revolutionary, who has translated Byron and Shakespeare, written plays, fought the nation’s oppressors from the east and the west, the Turks or the Germans, the Macedonians or the Swedes, known Kossuth, fought and declaimed on the barricades of 1848, fled away into exile, discovered conspiratorial friends, returned in disguise, gathered new forces, gone back into battle and in it fallen, his last and bravest poem loud on his lips; the pigeons strut on his head now, and the party, with many explanations, stares across the street at him.
‘And now do we all eat together?’ says Plitplov, ‘I think you all follow me.’ ‘But I think there is a nice restaurant just this way,’ says Lubijova, leaving the side of the umbrella-ed Mr Steadiman. ‘Oh, but please, this is my university,’ says Plitplov, ‘I know there is better a Balkan one this way. I go to it often.’ ‘Oh, that one,’ says Lubijova, ‘But it is spicy, and often there is no food.’ ‘I know a nice one in the town,’ says Steadiman, ‘I believe they take American Express.’ ‘Well, all depends on what people like to eat,’ says Lubijova, ‘Comrade Petwurt, what do you like? The spicy or the plain?’ ‘The fishes or the meats?’ asks Plitplov. ‘The typisch or the modern?’ asks Lubijova. ‘All of them have no food,’ murmurs Princip, ‘Well, it is always so. In Slaka people will talk so long about where to have food they never eat any.’ ‘The place in town is awe awe awfully good,’ says Steadiman, ‘Not sure how to get there from here, though.’ ‘The one that way is better,’ says Plitplov. ‘The other that way is cheaper,’ says Lubijova. And so, in front of the colonnade of the university, the group falls into one of those huddles of indecisiveness that such groups are prone to, when no one quite wants to defer to, but neither to offend, anyone else, and no one can quite go anywhere. Petworth stands, and a hand slips through his arm: ‘While they talk, I just take you to see the statue of Hrovdat,’ says Katya Princip, ‘Don’t you think you must see it?’ ‘He has seen it from the tram,’ says Lubijova, turning. ‘Then I think he sees it properly,’ says Katya Princip, ‘You will take ten minutes to make your mind. I like to explain to him our national tradition of poetry. Don’t you think you must know more about our writers?’
‘Well, yes, I do,’ says Petworth. ‘So we are back in a minute,’ says Princip, leading Petworth across the busy road. The statue stands up, a man in metal on horseback, romantically falling while his flag still stays aloft. ‘So, you see him, Hrovdat,’ says Princip, ‘This was a very good man and he did brave things and believed very much in liberty. And so we still like him and his poems are remembered, and we can speak them from our hearts. It is nice to be a writer like that, to have a little courage. Now, do you have a little courage, Petwit? Do you jump with me on this tram?’ ‘On the tram?’ asks Petworth. ‘I think fate smiles on us,’ says Princip, ‘Quick now, while they don’t look this way.’ ‘I don’t think it’s a very good idea,’ says Petworth, ‘They’re all waiting for us, they’ll all . . .’ But his considerate thoughts are evidently too late; Princip has him by the hand, is tugging him along, is standing on the steps of the old metal tram and drawing him up after her. Across the street he sees Lubijova staring as he is dragged up into the huddle of passengers; a metal shutter closes behind him, and the tram begins to rattle off. He is in a press of bodies, but through the rough glass of the window he can see, across the street, the uncertain huddle of prospective diners break open, line the roadside, stare after the rattling vehicle. Plitplov and Lubijova stand still; Steadiman, with characteristic courage, lifts his umbrella and, waving it, begins to run down the middle of the street, after the tram. ‘They saw,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Princip, laughing in front of him. ‘We can’t just disappear like this,’ he says. ‘Of course, my dear,’ says Princip, putting her arm through his, ‘I am your witch. I make you disappear just when I like it, into the air, down a hole. Just like Stupid in my story.’
‘And here the place I want you to see,’ says Katya Princip, in her batik dress and white scarf, as they sit, a little later, in the quiet corner of a restaurant that lies somewhere just beyond the end of the tram-route, with fields outside the windows, ‘It is very special to me, do you see why I like it? Once it was hunting lodge, for some imperial princes. From here they took out their guns and went into that forest. Now still are cooked the wild things. Isn’t it better?’ Petworth looks round at the room they have much to themselves. Only two other couples are here; they sit at a white-clothed table, near to a log fire, in a room of dark wood, with ornate carved beams and painted walls, where the horned fragmentary skulls of many creatures, the sad severed heads of deer, the brute rooting faces of wild boar, stare down on them. ‘It’s delightful,’ says Petworth, ‘I just hope it wasn’t a bad idea.’ ‘Oh, Petwit, please don’t worry,’ says Katya Princip, putting her hand on his, and looking at him with clear grey eyes, ‘Of course it was not a sensible thing. But don’t you think we all need sometimes to do a foolishness? Tomorrow you go away, perhaps I don’t see you again, and I like to see you. That dinner is cancelled, I think fate likes us to meet. And we are here together, we can be happy if we like. Now, my dear, look around you, please. Look through the window. The sun shines there, the rain has gone, it is warm day, the fields and trees are very beautiful, don’t you say so? And now look please at me. We sit here, there is nice fire, we drink, our knees touch underneath, we look into the face of one another, and perhaps I am a bit beautiful like those fields. Don’t you think we could be happy? Most of the time is sadness, happiness is only a little time. But don’t you think it is good to take it?’ ‘Yes, I do,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, you do,’ says Princip, squeezing his hand, ‘Now I think we eat something.’
Princip waves to a waiter in a long white apron, who comes to the side of their table, holding his pad. ‘Now what do you like?’ asks Princip, holding the menu out to Petworth and smiling at him, ‘Look, I explain you. Here is massalu, this is a fish just like a dentex. Here is valpuru, made of the brain of a little cow, very nice to eat. Natupashu, this is what a bull has, and you too, I hope. What do you call, is it testicle?’ ‘Ah, yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Do you eat it?’ asks Princip, ‘It makes you love better, that is what we say here. But perhaps you don’t need it, you look strong to me. I tell you what is best to eat here, the wilde, what do you say, the wild things. Here is lad’slatu, that is the boar, they live in the forest not far away. This is what I have, do you eat it too?’ ‘Marvellous,’ says Petworth. ‘Not a testicle?’ asks Princip. ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘This is right,’ says Princip, ‘Something wild, because we are a little wild. And some wine, don’t you say so. So we can drink to our foolishness?’ ‘Please,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, that is good,’ says Princip, when the waiter has gone, ‘And now, Petwit, tell me something. When, please, do you make your next appointment?’ ‘Tonight at seven,’ says Petworth, looking at his programme. ‘And this girl who looks to you, she comes then to your hotel?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, I will make some plans for you,’ says Princip, ‘Tell her you have been to see the city, to look at the castle. She will be suspicious, but you are a free man, I think. And what you must do, you must take her a flower. Then she will think you are not so bad, everyone likes a flower.’ ‘I will,’ says Petworth. ‘And so you have all the afternoon,’ says Princip, ‘It is the same with me. Well, we will enjoy it.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth.
‘Oh, look,’ says Princip, laughing, and taking his face in her hands, ‘Still a long face, down to here. My dear, I will explain you something. In my country, people do not like to do a thing that is noticed. They like it to stay quiet, and they like quiet in others. Don’t surprise, don’t be excellent, it makes troubles. Well, your friend here is not like that. I am just a little bit excellent, do you notice?’ ‘I do,’ says Petworth. ‘I have a good mind I like, and a good body I like, and I like to use them, to make display of them. I do many things people tell are foolish, because, you see, my dear Petwit, if you do not do them, you are nothing, and you make everything else nothing. Of course I can be sensible, you saw it yesterday, but sensible is nothing. Do you see why I came to your lecture?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘No, you do not see,’ says Princip, ‘Because I do not explain it so well. I come there because I like you, do you see it, and if you like somebody it is nice to do something about it. I think you are looking at my charms.’ ‘I am, indeed,’ says Petworth. ‘Do you like them?’ asks Princip. ‘Very much indeed,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, do you, very much indeed,’ says Princip, laughing, ‘I do not mean those charms, the charms here on my wrist. Do you see them? Always I wear them. They are magic, you know. This hanging here is a fish, well, a man can ride on the back of a fish, and go to another world. Here a key, with a key all you must do is find the right door. A stone, well, give a stone and you get a story. And here is a heart, you know what you do with a heart. You think they are nice?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, fingering the bracelet round Princip’s white wrist. ‘Well, my dear, I give you one,’ says Princip, ‘Let me think which one. Not the heart, you have one already. Not a key, I need it. I think the stone, because I like you to have a story. Find a string, wait, I have one in my bag, and put it please round your neck. I want to find it there when I meet you again. Oh, look, here is our drink. Now we can drink to foolishness.’
‘Foolishness,’ says Petworth, after the waiter has served them, raising his glass. ‘You see, the stone works already,’ says Princip, ‘Now do you have a story to tell me?’ ‘I don’t think so,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, you are dull,’ says Princip, ‘Well, I am the story-teller, I tell you one. What do I pick? Oh, I know, an old one, the man who goes to Glit.’ ‘Very appropriate,’ says Petworth. ‘Do you go there?’ asks Princip, ‘Well, this is a story from old times, about a traveller from afar who made a journey in our country. He wanted to make his journey somewhere interesting, and on his way he met a man who told him that Glit was a place of good streets and beautiful women and the finest things to buy. He went to Glit, but just as he could see the city, he met on the road with a marvellous thing. A young woman with fine eyes stood under a tree looking at him, and he knew he was in love. The woman smiled and things happened, you know how it is, my dear. He spent some days with her in her little house, but after some days, well, the eyes did not seem quite so beautiful and he did not think so much about love. He had waited too long in this place, passed all these nights, and it was time to make his journey again. So one morning when she goes off to the market to buy food, he packs up his baggages and goes on to Glit. But as he travelled he thought all the time of the young woman, and he knew she had bewitched him and was trying to find a way to see him again. But he must make the purpose of his journey, and he is a man, so it is not love. He entered the gate of Glit, it is still there, and saw a woman walking down the street toward him, an old peasant carrying some sticks under her arm; her body is bent but her face is the face of the girl. He walks on through the streets, and all the women walking there, clean or dirty ones, old or youngs, just the same. He looks through the windows; there are women sewing, women cooking, women in bathtubs, all the same face. Oh, see, he brings our food, wasn’t that quick? Doesn’t it look nice?’
In a metal dish between them, a meal of meat and vegetables bubbles and seethes aromatically; the waiter fills their glasses with wine. ‘It looks very good,’ says Petworth. ‘Put your plate here,’ says Princip, ‘I serve you.’ ‘You will finish the story?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, my dear,’ says Princip, ‘If you like it. In my country the women are quite feminist but with a nice man we still like to please. Well, my dear Mr Petwit, the man has business on his mind; he likes to buy a ring. He goes to the house of a fine merchant of Glit and makes some good trade; for not so much money he gets a beautiful ring. The merchant is kind, and asks him to stay there the night. He calls his wife and asks her to take the man to a beautiful room with bed. In the room the wife looks at him. It is the same face, the same body, surely the same person as the young woman by the road. The traveller tells that they have met before. “No, we don’t meet,” says the wife, “But you must leave at once. I like you, and I know my husband means to kill you in this bed tonight, and take back his ring.” The traveller looks round. The doors have no handles, the windows don’t open. “There is only one way to leave,” says the woman, “I am a witch. If you give me one kiss, the doors will all spring open and you will be free.”The traveller makes the kiss, mmmmnn, the doors open, he takes his luggages and runs from Glit. He looks on the road for the house he has been, but all he sees there is bundle of rags. After long travellings, he comes to his home and his wife. He gives her the ring, makes her the kiss, mmmmnn; and then he sees she has the face of the lady of Glit. This is the story, do you like it?’ ‘Did you make it up?’ asks Petworth. ‘It is a very very old story,’ says Princip, ‘How could I make it up? Of course it is very fantastical, not real at all, but you see I do not believe in reality.’
‘You don’t believe in it,’ says Petworth. ‘No, I have tried it and I do not believe it,’ says Princip, ‘Reality is what happens if you listen to other people’s stories and not to your own. The stories become a country, the country becomes a prison, and the prison comes in your mind. And everywhere more of the same story: the people do not steal, they make miracles of production, they all love Karl Marx. Soon it is the only story, and that is how comes reality. Well, I will tell you something, my dear, if you give me one kiss, even if you don’t. I have only one I with a me in it, you the same. The world is in your own head, and they put it there, with a me and a you in it, so we can make our own stories. And this is how I like to use my own head, which you see right in front of you, a nice one, I hope. Not to make some more reality for other people to live inside, but some space for my mind to grow. And now you tell me, Comrade Petwit, that my position is not correct, it does not advance history and truth. And I tell you, my nice friend, that history and truth are your stories and not mine. And then you tell me, well, you had better drive a tram. I can do it, too. Do you think I am a witch?’ ‘Perhaps,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course it is possible,’ says Princip, ‘In my country we talk of rational projects and economic plannings, but really we are still peasants and magicians. Do I witch you a little bit?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, I try,’ says Princip, ‘Now, do you like some coffee?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Then we ask for a taxi and we go and find some,’ says Princip, ‘I know a place where it is better.’
‘Wasn’t it nice?’ asks big, blonde Katya Princip, sitting beside him in the small orange taxi, her arm through his, ‘You see now why I like so much that place. I hope you like the next one.’ ‘I’m sure I shall,’ says Petworth. The taxi is driving toward the city, at some speed; loud honkings from the other traffic surround them. ‘Here our drivers do not look behind,’ says Katya Princip, ‘They look always forward, into the socialist future. Look, here on the hill, the castle. This is where you are going this afternoon, so please remember just what it is like. Inside is big and dark, and there are many small rooms of stone. You have been in castles before, I think. In the rooms, the nice metal suitings for the very little soldiers, with plumes in the helms, and on the wall some pictures of all the old battles. Then you see some old guns and a wine press. Then downstairs some cold prisons with no windows, for the tourists, not for them to live in, just to look at. We do not treat our tourists so badly. There is fine exhibition of our Slakan past, with many maps and drawings of the old invasions. Upstairs the bedroom of Bishop Vlam. You know he was, what do you call him, a man who likes too much the ladies.’ ‘A rake?’ asks Petworth. ‘That is a rake?’ asks Princip, ‘Then what do you clean the leaves with?’ ‘Another rake,’ says Petworth. ‘So, two rakes,’ says Princip, ‘This one has a fine bedroom with a bed of four posts. Or perhaps now three posts, he was very rough with his ladies. He put them down a hole also, remember the hole. So, do you see it all?’ ‘I think so,’ says Petworth. ‘Good,’ says Princip, ‘Well, now you have been there, so we go somewhere quite different. I think I tell this driver to slower, don’t you? He is running over much too many people.’ Princip leans forward to talk to the driver; Petworth stares out at the cityscape of urban Slaka, where in grey and khaki the people walk, in the day’s sun, and the streets flicker past. He stares, feeling separate, pleasurably hijacked; as he does so, a certain small thought occurs to him.
It is the curious thought that he is happy. He is, for a brief spell, in the company of a woman, blonde, batik-clad Katya Princip, whom he finds gay, and amusing, and beautiful, and whose gaiety makes him feel gay too. But there is more to it than that; for Dr Petworth, sitting there in the foreign taxi in the foreign city, clutching his lecture, is not a man much used to feeling that he exists. Over the years he has grown older, seen some greying of the hair, watched his teeth deteriorate and be on occasion extracted, lost his youthful humour, grown more anxious and solitary, felt some centre in him, some ground of being where value ought to be, grow fragile and dissipate. The world about him, as he has come to know more of it, has grown not more real, but less, and life not more living but a parody of itself. People have become repetitions of people already known, desires become an absurd biological urgency, vague therapeutic hungers for variation and complication. The wife who was once everything seems slight now, a drifting mysterious presence and absence; women who appear in his days and dreams as possible lovers have not tugged him with the necessary intensity of emotion. The objects of will have deteriorated, like his teeth; he has trouble in summoning up enough substance to be, to stir, to feel, to say. He has come to feel contentless, wordless, not there, grown more used to inner absence than to presence. But now, though he knows he should not be here, though he thinks with anxiety and guilt of the three lost diners, talking about him somewhere in any one of a dozen possible restaurants, though he can think of no adequate explanation for himself when explanation is needed, he feels a curious small sense that exist is what he does.
‘This taxi driver is very interesting,’ says Katya Princip, the presumed source of these emotions, turning towards him, ‘He tells me he is no more in love with his wife.’ The taxi driver, a big hairy man, turns and nods. ‘He has seen me and now he loves me, and he wants me to go and take some drinks with him. I explain no, I am busy with my lover, you do not mind I say that?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘But now he wants to kill himself,’ says Princip, ‘Sometimes people are like that here.’ The taxi stops, in the middle of a quiet urban street with linden trees along it, and behind the trees rows of old high balconied apartment buildings; the driver turns and speaks volubly to Princip. ‘Do you please get out, my dear,’ says Princip, ‘I come to you in a minute. I just have some more words with him.’ Petworth gets out and stares up and down the street: no one walks in it, and the doors are all shut. ‘So,’ says Katya Princip, climbing out of the taxi, ‘I think I persuade him not to do it. I take a drink with him tomorrow. Often such things happen to me, I don’t know why, of course. Well, we just walk a little, and we are there.’ ‘Where?’ asks Petworth. ‘Where we are going,’ says Princip, ‘I think you are liking some coffee. We go to a place we can get some. It is called my apartment.’ ‘Ah,’ says Petworth. ‘I look at you and I think you are very tired,’ says Princip, ‘Perhaps you need a rest and a shower, before you do your next thing. I will make you some terrible coffee and give you an awful cake. It is just here, we go in this door. Press the button and the machine opens it. Now we go in quickly, I do not want everyone to see you. I am smuggling you, Petwit.’
They enter a dark lobby, with a lift in a cage at the end of it. ‘Come inside it, quickly,’ says Princip, ‘Look, I show you how it works, in case you come here again to see me. I hope another time you will want to, do you think so? Look, in this box on the wall you must put in a small coin, ten butt’uun. If you do not do it, the machine does not march. If you do, well, pouff, there it goes.’ In the clanking cage, they rise up together through the building. Princip is close against him; stone landings float past, lined with closed wooden doors. ‘Now here is my floor, the top,’ says Princip, ‘Aren’t we lucky, there is no one to see us. Now, where is my key, and then I make you disappear again.’ They step out onto the stone landing, and Princip puts her key to a blank wooden door. ‘When it is open, go quickly inside,’ she says, ‘We do not like the world to know all the things we do.’ The door opens; inside is a small narrow hall, a hall so narrow and small it is hard to know whether it has been designed to increase human intimacy, or entirely prevent it. The walls press them together: ‘You see, you are come,’ cries Princip, laughing, her face just below his, ‘I hope you don’t think this is all I have. There is some more apartment inside.’ In the tight space, it is difficult not to find one’s arms around the person with whom one is pressed; Petworth’s, certainly, are now round Princip’s waist. ‘Oh, Petwit,’ says Princip, gently removing his hands, ‘Don’t you know I brought you here for a rest? Of course; you must be tired after such a lecture. Do you like also to be a rake? You are such a thin one, perhaps really a rake of the other kind.’ ‘I like you,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes, I understand it,’ says Princip, ‘I also to you. But I am a little bit elusive, my dear. I like to talk a bit with you. And we have so much time, isn’t it nice? All the afternoon, and for us to stay together. Unless you like better to go to the castle? Do you prefer it better?’ ‘No, I like to be here with you,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, you have good sense,’ says Princip, ‘Now come inside and I show you my flat.’