7 – OPER.

I

It is, this room that Petworth now steps into, a small, tight room, short of space for human endeavour. But human endeavour has been here, and humanized it: two antique chairs stand to either side of a fine wide modern sofa, which elegantly fits into the bookshelves on the wall, a wall on which hang three modern paintings of violent and erotic concept, and two small ikons. The rest of the wallspace is taken up with bookshelves, from which many hundreds of volumes tumble; and books, too, lie scattered on the tables and on the large wide desk standing by the window, on which sits also a telephone, a typewriter, a jumble of loose papers which flutter in the small draught that comes through the curtains above. ‘Well, my dear, I hope you don’t expect a special place,’ says Princip, taking off her white scarf, ‘Here in my country, the apartments are small, the heat is bad, the telephone usually does not march, the men do not mend a thing when it makes wrong. Of course, you do not have such problems in your country.’ ‘I suppose not,’ says Petworth. ‘Really, do you say so?’ asks Princip, laughing, ‘You think I have not been there? Don’t you know I was in London once?’ ‘You were?’ asks Petworth. ‘My dear, of course. Perhaps I saw you even in the street, and did not know it. If it was so, would it not be sad? But I think you have those problems too. Especially at my hotel. Some things grow the same all over the world, I think. It is a time when life is not so easy. Well, it is not so good, but I hope you like. Do you like these paintings of my friends? And my nice antiquated chairs? Do you know they are from before the revolution? Some of those things still exist. And my desk where I work, do you like it? Here is the private place where I make all those books. Oh, they are made here in my nice place, but then of course I must go to the world and put them to the market. That is the hard thing, to go to the market. To please those people at the Union. To value their wise criticisms. Well, you don’t come here to criticize me, I hope.’

‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘I like your room.’ ‘Well, it has a good taste,’ says Princip, ‘Or so I try. And, for a time, it is ours all. No one else comes. We have it for today. So please sit down, my dear, take a nice chair, make some music with the player, take off your shoes. And do you know what I do now? I go to the kitchen just to make you some coffee and bring you some cake. That is what you came for, I think, well, you must be served.’ Princip goes into the kitchen; Petworth walks about the small, cramped room, evidently living room, study, and bedroom, for a nightgown lies under the sofa pillow. ‘What do you look at?’ calls Princip from the kitchen, ‘I hope you don’t read what I write. It is very private, until it is finished. But of course, you do not know my language. In a minute maybe I will teach you some.’ ‘So many books,’ says Petworth, looking in the bookshelves, where the unbound volumes with their Cyrillic titles lie. ‘Yes, every day I read them and I become some more a person,’ says Princip, ‘Look please in the street. Does anyone watch?’ ‘Watch the flat?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Princip, ‘Don’t you know this is a main work for many people? To sit there in cars and watch the others? And I am a writer, not reliable, often they like to watch me for a while. Also to photograph me now and again, and make list of who my friends are. Of course perhaps it does not mean anything. It comes in useful perhaps for some later day, when I am not any more a person to invite to an official lunch and meet a nice foreign visitor.’ Petworth goes to the window and leans over the typewriter, where a page of unknown words spirals out; beyond the net curtains the street is quiet and empty, except for one parked car.

‘There’s just one car,’ he says. ‘Is it a black one?’ asks Princip. ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And do you see someone in it?’ asks Princip. ‘I can’t tell,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, of course,’ says Princip, ‘It is a state of mind, you know, to be watched. We like, don’t we, to see our lives from the inside. But if you are watched you see them from the eyes of those others. You can’t remember any more if you have really an inside, or if the inside is already the outside. You become like an actor, or those girls in a dress photograph, what do you call?’ ‘A model,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, perhaps now we are all so,’ says Princip, ‘Perhaps the inside was always just a little illusion, a false secret. But we like that secret, don’t we? And then, one day, they stop you perhaps, and take you to a place. They do not arrest you, it is just for a day and night, to ask you some little questions. So you can help a little the state. They are often nice, with cigarettes and drink. But they open your file and it is fat and everything is there, the notes and the pictures. And they tell you what you are and what you do. They know more than you, they remember everything, the things you don’t ever remember that you did, but you did them. They tell it, you say, “It is not me, I am not like that, I was never there.” And they tell: “Yes, it is you, really you, the other is your illusion.” They have made your story, a bad novel, and you are in it for ever. And here is what is strange. You begin to agree it, because it fits, because it has your images, your voice in a tape. You begin to confess it, yes, I am like that, how well you know me. And they are right, because in all of us is a doubt, that we do not know ourselves at all. We all feel a bit guilty to exist. And this they know very well. To be is the crime we commit, and anyone will confess it. Don’t you think you would do the same?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth.

‘Well, I am nearly ready,’ says Princip, ‘Put on please some music, my dear. Do you see my records player? Do you know how to make work that thing? I expect you are a little bit a mechanical person.’ ‘Yes, I can do it,’ says Petworth, finding the machine and switching it on. ‘You cannot read my books, but of course you can hear my music, that is a language we can all know,’ says Princip, ‘Do you find my records? What do you pick?’ Petworth sifts through the shelf of records in the bookcase; most of the covers are in the language he does not know. ‘Do you like the classical or the modernismus?’ asks Princip, ‘There are both.’ ‘Classical,’ says Petworth, ‘Here’s some Mozart.’ ‘Oh, do you like?’ asks Princip, ‘Well, he is civilized. Now do you sit down and take off your shoes.’ The courtly music comes through the speakers; a civil guest, Petworth sits on the sofa-bed, and removes the shoes from his feet. ‘And now here is your awful coffee, your terrible cake,’ says Princip, coming in in her batik dress, carrying a silver tray, ‘Also a little peach brandy that will make you better. I hope you do not mind to fatten a bit. I think it is good, really you are too thin. But I think in the West the thin is very popular.’ Princip sits down with him on the sofa, and hands him a plate: ‘I am sorry I am so long,’ she says, ‘But I do not make many foods. I like to eat in a restaurant, with my friends. But it is nice to have a friend who is here with me. I think you are one now. We make a little risk, but I think it is worth it. It is only what civilized people do, to make the frontiers go a little bit away. I think you would give me tea if I meet you in London.’

‘So you went there?’ asks Petworth. ‘Yes, I have been, I know where you come from,’ says Princip, ‘It is not easy to get travels, you know that. But I am a writer, that gives sometimes certain privileges. Also there were other reasons.’ ‘What were they?’ asks Petworth. ‘Well, you see,’ says Princip, smiling at him, ‘One of my husbands was high once in the Party. He was even for a little while minister. Of course then it was very easy to get travels. You see, here in Slaka, always there must be someone who can help. A person with a power who can pull for you some strings. We learn to live in this way. And if you have a nice body also, this is help. You make some love the way you join the Party. If you do it the right way, you get a nice reward for it. A very good meal at a restaurant, a place at the opera, a ticket to make travels. An apartment with a nice viewing, a place on a list. You become clever to do all these things very carefully. That is the way you get somewhere. Perhaps you think it is bad. Perhaps you think your life is not like that.’ ‘I suppose I do,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, do you?’ says Princip, ‘Well, perhaps you are simple. Don’t you think that is your nice illusion? Don’t you think everywhere all life is an exchange? What makes your people marry? What makes them choose their friends? Why do they say what they say, think what they think? And their desire, how do they make their desire? We have nice words, love, and friendship, and faith. But don’t you think there is, what do you say, a calculus? Perhaps what we do in Slaka is not so strange. Your coffee, you don’t like?’ ‘Yes, it’s very good,’ says Petworth, ‘So that was one of your husbands. Have you had many?’

‘Oh, not so many,’ says Princip, laughing, ‘I just had four. Some people like to collect the stamps or some china. Now you get idea what I have liked to collect.’ ‘And now?’ asks Petworth. ‘A husband, now?’ asks Princip, ‘Oh, no, I don’t, now. Now I am lonely in quite a different way. And what about you, Petwit. How many wives do you have had?’ ‘Me?’ asks Petworth, ‘Oh, just one, actually.’ ‘Only a one?’ cries Princip, ‘Really that is not very much at all, almost none. I think perhaps you are not very ambitious. And this one, you had her a long time?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And she likes you?’ asks Princip. ‘Well,’ says Petworth, ‘A little.’ ‘Oh, not enough!’ cries Princip, ‘Do you tell me she does not care for you so much?’ ‘That’s my impression,’ says Petworth. ‘She likes some other?’ asks Princip. ‘I don’t know,’ says Petworth, ‘She seems quite fond of her dentist.’ ‘And you think he fills some more cavities too?’ asks Princip, ‘Well, perhaps you are not so nice to her. If you are lonely, perhaps she is lonely too. Don’t you think it?’ ‘I think probably she is,’ says Petworth, seeing the view down the garden. ‘And she is warm, she is good at the bed?’ asks Princip. ‘Not very,’ says Petworth. ‘Really, my dear,’ says Princip, ‘This does not sound at all right. My husbands are always very good in that. Very bad in other things, but in that always very good. And what do you do? Do you take many lovers?’ ‘Not really,’ says Petworth. ‘I do not understand you,’ says Princip, ‘Perhaps you mean you like to, but do not have the courage. Well, if you do not, that confirms me. You are not a character in the world historical sense.’

‘You think I should?’ asks Petworth. ‘It is not for me to advise you,’ says Princip, ‘But I think you must have a will and a desire. Otherwise you are empty.’ ‘Well, in my country there is a saying,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Princip, ‘If a country, always a saying. What is yours?’ ‘A man needs a good woman,’ says Petworth, ‘And when he’s found her he needs a bad one too.’ ‘My dear, I do not know if I like this,’ says Princip, ‘Do you like to tell me I am a bad woman?’ ‘No, I didn’t mean that at all,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, continue, please,’ says Princip, ‘You tell me you hope I will be your bad woman. You like to make me a little insult. Perhaps in your country you make a compliment, but it is not, here.’ ‘You’ve misunderstood,’ says Petworth. ‘I don’t think so,’ says Princip, ‘My English is not so good, but I am not foolish. You see, here in my country we like to be a little bit admired. Even though feminist attitudes are very important, we like to think we make a little respect.’ ‘I admire you greatly,’ says Petworth. ‘That is different,’ says Princip, ‘Now you have convinced me. Remember, I am not your bad witch, I am your good one.’ ‘I know,’ says Petworth. ‘You see what I have done,’ says Princip, ‘I have changed for you the weather. I have made you disappear. I have brought you to my room. And now you do not know what I will do with you. Do you like that cake? Perhaps it makes you feel sleepy.’ ‘Not really,’ says Petworth. ‘I think so,’ says Princip, ‘Don’t you know you are careless? In a fairy story, you do not eat a cake. Or talk at all to the people with the red hairs. Or open a locked door, or go inside a room that is forbidden. If you do, things will change for you, and perhaps it will not always be nice.’ ‘Well, I know,’ says Petworth, ‘But that’s in a fairy story.’ ‘And you are not in one,’ says Princip, ‘No, you are not. And the cake is just a terrible cake and I do not even make it, just a shop. But I think you are tired, because you have been busy. Do you like to take now a shower?’ ‘I’d rather talk,’ says Petworth. ‘No, I think you must relax,’ says Princip, ‘Beside, I arrange it for you, while I make the coffee. There is a nice bathplace just behind the kitchen. You find there towel, hanging at the door. The soap is scented and very nice. It is all ready, please go now.’

‘Well, very well,’ says Petworth, getting up from the sofa. ‘And take please your time, my dear,’ says Princip, smiling at him, ‘We are lucky, this is our afternoon, you do not need to hurry. I can put away these plates and tidy for you my room, I did not expect such a visitor. Do you find it? You go through the kitchen and there is a little white door.’ Petworth goes, through the kitchen, through the white door, into a small, tiled bathroom with bare pipes and a great green mirror. In the mirror his body glints as he undresses, hanging his safari suit behind the door. A dull gloom goes with him, as he thinks of his confession, the admission of his wanting sexuality. He stands in the tub, turns the taps, feels the surge of water come over him, cold first, and then turning to hot; he thinks of his dark wife, who dyes her hair, and paints dark paintings in the lumber room, and stays silent, a dull dark anima at the end of a long tunnel. Like wasted words the water splashes over him; the heat grows, the mirror where his body shone fades and blurs. There is no shower curtain; the thick pipes roar; the flood washes over his face. He turns his head away, to realize that, in the steamed room, a person is standing there. ‘Who is it?’ he asks. ‘You don’t mind I come in?’ says Katya Princip, ‘You see after a cake, I like always to weigh, and my machine is here.’ ‘Please,’ says Petworth. ‘I hope the shower makes you fresh after your lecture?’ says Princip, a vague shape in the steam. ‘Yes, it does,’ says Petworth, naked and white. ‘Here is my machine,’ says Princip, ‘Now, do I get fatter? My weigh, fifty five kilos, that is not so bad. My high, one meter sixty five, that does not change. Other traits, grey eyes, blonde hair, all as usual. Special marks, not any. Rate of pulsation, normal, except when I look at you. You do not mind I look at you?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘The soap, do you like it?’ asks Princip, close to his side in the steam, ‘It is special, a present from France.’ ‘It’s very nice,’ says Petworth. ‘And this water, it makes itself hot enough for you?’ ‘Yes, just right,’ says Petworth. ‘Often it does not work so well,’ says Princip, ‘I just try it with my hand. You are my guest here, it is not right that you burn your shoulders. Oh, it is good today, perhaps a little hot, you are sure it is not too much?’ ‘No, it’s just right,’ says Petworth, politely, standing there bedraggled in the steaming shower. ‘Oh, look at you, my dear,’ says Princip, ‘Such a thin man, doesn’t it hurt to be so thin?’ ‘Not at all,’ says Petworth, ‘I’ve always been like this.’

‘Oh, you think I criticize the way you look, please, I do not,’ says Princip, ‘Really you look so nice there in the water, your wet body, very nice. But I hope you admit your lecture was open to an ideological criticism?’ ‘Too pragmatic?’ asks Petworth. ‘Exactly,’ says Princip, ‘Do you like me to soap you, and we can talk also about your deviations?’ ‘Well, yes,’ says Petworth, ‘It seems a good idea.’ ‘Perhaps it is easy if I come there in the tub with you,’ says Princip, ‘I do not want to get wet with this dress, do you like it, I paid for it much money?’ ‘I love it,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, I am nice in it,’ says Princip, fading into the steam, ‘But I am nice without it too. We must not be bound by fetishism of the commodities. I hang it up and come back to you.’ Without it, Princip emerges again from the steam, her naked back a blur in the mirror. ‘Make please a room for me,’ says Princip, ‘It is not such a big tub. Yes, you are easily disproved. Stand still, please, I put this soap on you, oh, what a soft skin. Yes, you see, my dear, in our histories, we both have an old grey man.’ ‘Do we?’ asks Petworth. ‘Is good? You like?’ asks Princip, ‘Oh, yes, one is Marx, and the other Freud. Naturally my thinking has much of Marx. My husband the apparatchik, he talked to me much of Marx.’ ‘Does he have to be here?’ asks Petworth. ‘My husband is nowhere, Marx everywhere,’ says Princip, ‘Of course he is here. My dear, it is you should not be here. You know if I make you a guest in my apartment, if I give you some terrible coffee and a nice shower, I should report this contact to the authorities? That is our law, of course I do not do it. Don’t you wash me now, I think you are very clean.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘Certainly.’ ‘You do not know Marx, but I think you know Freud,’ says Princip, ‘Isn’t this water very nice?’

‘Yes, I do,’ says Petworth, his hands moving over the soft contours of no-longer batik-clad magical realist novelist Katya Princip. ‘Marx explains the historical origins of consciousness,’ she says, ‘Freud quite ignores this, neglecting the ideological foundations of the mind. Yet it must be admitted he made some essential discoveries. He knew that it is nice to put a certain thing you have into a certain thing that is mine. For this he made a contribution to the progress of thought, don’t you say?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘So you are deviationist, but not entirely to be condemned,’ says Princip, ‘Both thoughtsystems have their deficiencies. Do you think it is possible to make a dialectical synthesis? If we do it well, it might not produce a false consciousness. Do you like to try it? Oh, Petwit, look at you there, already I think you do. No, no, wait, my dear, my dear, I do not think we succeed like this, do you? For some problems in philosophy, Plato shows it is best to think lying down. Don’t we go back there to my bed, isn’t it better, oh, what do you do to me now, my dear, oh do you, oh do you really, oh isn’t it nice, perhaps I am wrong, perhaps we stay, isn’t it too wet, don’t we fall down, no, we don’t, I think we stay, yes, we stay, yes, yes.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ says Petworth, an unattached signifier amid steam. ‘Da, da,’ says Princip, ‘Da, da, da, da.’ The water showers over them; for a moment there are no words. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Princip, a little later, ‘This was a real contribution to thought. But now I bring you your nice towel and we dry. I think we go back to my little room and consider again our positions. Oh, Petwit, you are lovely.’

‘I am sorry I do not have a nice little bedroom for you to lie in,’ says Princip, back in the sitting room, ‘Here for everyone only so many metres of space. I am lucky, I am approved writer, I have certain privileges. But only so much space, others are not so lucky even. My sofa is my bed, I make magic and it changes. Look, I just press here and now you have a bed to lie on. Lie, please, it is very comfortable. You must make strong again. Remember, you are only just started here. There are many more things for you to do in my country. Oh, our music has stopped. Were we so long at the shower? Well, I put some more on before I come to you, what do you like better, the woods or the strings? Here is some army songs, I don’t think you like to hear that. Here is Vivaldi, here Janaek? Do you like charming or sad? Of course, you told me your taste, it is Vivaldi for you. Now I come to you, my dear. Are you warm? No, don’t move, I just like to kneel here and look down at you. So thin, really there is not much of you. Your nice wet hairs, a thin white chest, so neat the thigh, is that what you call it, and what a good present for me in the middle. You know, you are just a little bit beautiful, Petwit. And me, do you like me? I am very good at the top, I think, but perhaps too fat for you at the stomach. Here we think a fatness there is just a little erotic. That is our cultural characteristic, but not so much in the West. All the ladies flat like a table, don’t forget I have been there. Well, in any case, my dear, my weigh goes down. So perhaps I please you more when we meet again, do you think? Do you believe it, we meet again? Or do you go home away soon to your country and forget all about me? Yes, I think you do, it is natural.’

‘No,’ says Petworth, lying there on the sofa which has so magically become a bed, his head against books, looking up at Princip, big over him as she leans on one elbow to stare down into his face. ‘Oh, listen, you are so sure,’ says Princip, ‘Well, I am not. There is a world out there, my dear Petwit, do you forget it? Of course we have made a very nice exchange, each one gives the other something, all so simple. Oh, such nice touchings and chattings, but they do not last long, not like history. Sex is good, but is not information. Here, you see me, I look at you, and what do I know? I know you have a sad wife, I think you are sad too, perhaps you have many problems. I know you are not character in the world historical sense, I try to make you better, but I don’t think I do. You are confused, you are good person, you have a desire, or you would not come with me, you are a little bit in my heart. And you look at me, and what do you know, I could be anyone, your good witch or your bad. You know I have had four husbands, and I have written a book you could not read. Now you know I have a body that you can read, it has been your book and you have read it in a certain way, for the pleasure. Well, I hope it was a good pleasure, but did you learn much, do you think you will pass the examination? Well, perhaps it does not matter. Often the best relations are between the peoples who do not know each other so well. Perhaps it is silly that people get to know each other very well, often it is nothing but disappointment. Who is ever as interesting as ourselves? Who can love us enough to drive away all the lonely and the terror? And to be known, that is often dangerous, especially in my country. No, I think I am a thing that happens to you once, in a foreign place, not a part of time, not a part of your true life.’

‘I don’t think so,’ says Petworth, ‘You’re more than that.’ ‘Well, of course, it is possible to reach in a sudden into a soul, and find a friend,’ says Princip, ‘This is what I felt when I saw you at the awful lunch of Tankic. Such an apparatchik, I know that kind. Did you know at once I wanted you then, I felt an ache? Perhaps you made me a little foolish, you know I did not behave well. But something happened, I wanted you in my life, I wanted to give you a story, make you a character. And I think you wanted that too, you are not a character, not yet, but there is something in your eyes, always looking. Yes, we liked each other, I believe that. Of course we did, or we would not do these things. But what is liking when it is so easy? Oh, we made the bad world go away for a minute, that really is what love is for, but when it comes back, we have of course to live in it. Make all the loves you like and you still do not escape. Most lives are a prison, here in my country of course, you know, but I know also in yours. Do not forget, I have been there. If yours is not, you are very lucky. And all the lovings in the world, they do not make these things go away. The sad wife in your bed at home. The black cat that waits outside, did you see it? The water that dries here on your skin that is like me going away. Oh, yes, my dear, we have made our nice secret, all so natural. But of course it is not so natural. As my grey father Marx tells, it is also cultural and ideological, economical and sexual. It is part of all the systems, and each time you choose or you do, you enter one of them. I make you a certain kind of man, you make me a certain kind of woman. What a nice bed this would be if it was not in the world, but it is. Petwit, do you listen, do you go to sleep?’

‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘I listen very carefully.’ ‘But you don’t like what I say,’ says Princip, ‘No, this is why love is sad, this is why people after love lie on beds like we do, and do not feel happy. My dear, excuse me, please. In my country, after an event, we make always an analysis. That is our cultural characteristic. But you see, my dear, I want to give you a better sense of existence. Petwit, you know, to exist, that is not so very fantastic. Any fool can do this. All that is needed is for two people to make the nice little secret, just like you and me, and pouf, another in the world. I don’t think this happens this time, Petwit, don’t look so bad, of course I make a certain protection. But so we come into existence. And the problem is not to exist at all, it is to make importance of it. We are not just stones that sit in a field. I don’t think so. Are you a stone, Petwit? I am not. Don’t we have to find a desire, make a will? Don’t we go always somewhere toward something? Of course to do it is hard as well as nice, it is even dangerous. No teacher is pure. No witch is safe. Oh, Petwit, my dear, I upset you. Now, I see it, you are the one who is sad. Well, perhaps I meaned it. Not to hurt you but to learn you. Stay quite still, please, one minute, I just do something to you. Do you like it? I kiss your feet. It is something we do here. Perhaps not in your country? Well, it was worth your travels. Oh, Petwit, you go soon, I don’t like it. I wish I could keep you here for always. Perhaps you do not wish it also. Well, remember, a witch is not so easy to lose. I will not be far away when you go into the forest. And even if you do not come back, you will not really forget me.’

‘I won’t,’ says Petworth, ‘I really won’t.’ ‘Listen, I think I tell you just one more story,’ says Princip, ‘Not a very interesting story, it is just about me, a true story, how I became writer. I was married then, with one of my husbands, not the best one. It was the one I told you, the minister, the apparatchik. He sat all the day in an office, with fat secretary, he drove inside the official cars with the curtains, he was high in the party, at all the meetings, he came home each night nice in a dark suit. I was student then, I read many books, I was clever. I studied with him his work, I advised his awful decisions, all those corrupt things. But always he told, please, be a good wife, an apparatchik must have a good wife. Well, he was not such good man, but I was pretty good wife. I made the dinner parties, I sat at the table, not this one here, of course then there was an apartment, very good, I said amusing things, I spoke in Russian and English, I talked the music and the art. Not the politics of course, oh no, not permitted. Well, on a certain night, he brought round our table some very important men, to talk about a national affair. I knew all about these things then, I listened, I understood, I wanted to say something. Well, I made mistake, I began to talk. These men, they were not so bad, they listened quite politely. But they turned round and round their glasses, they looked at each other in a certain way, I knew of course they want me to stop. Well, at first the things I said were sensible, but then they became foolish, because, you see, they were not wanted. But I knew if I stopped they would all turn right away, and I did not want it, so I could not stop. My face was red, but I talked and talked, and then I got up from there and ran to the door and outside, and always still talking. I went out into the park, and I waited till the cars came for those men. Then I turned back to my husband, he stood in the room in his nice suit, and so angry. Do you know what he told me?’

‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘He told, when you give a party again, you say nothing, never again do you speak in this way,’ says Princip, ‘Well, he came home the next day in his nice suit, and I expect he called for me, but I was not there. I was somewhere else, with someone else, and already I was writer. I could not live in a world where you think words you cannot speak. Of course, if people make of reality a prison, then others will wish to escape from it. I wrote down my words, the nonsense and the not nonsense, the words I could speak and the words I was trying to learn to speak, the words that were not yet words. I learned then a certain sense of existence. This is what I thought. But in case you think it is easy, no, it is not, because those words are like love, they do not go out of history. I feel toward the free, but I am not free. And no one is free, which is why the words are as sad as the love. My life is not better, but it is mine. I am sorry, my dear, really it is a very dull story. The others were much better. It is boring to be true.’ ‘What happened to your husband?’ asks Petworth. ‘This one, the apparatchik?’ asks Princip, ‘Oh, there was a political change in my country. What was right was now wrong. Who was in now was out. Well, we had been given some nice privileges. We builded a nice dacha, a little house, out in the forest, not so far from here. One day he went there in his nice suit, and he shot himself. He was allowed to be a hunter and to keep a gun. It was better for him than a trial and a prison. This also is remembered about me, by those who do not like me. For him, I am afraid I was not such good witch. For you, I hope I am much better. Now you see why I can tell so much about history. I have learned in the best places.’

‘Should we have done this?’ asks Petworth, looking at her, as they lie there in the small room, where a faint wind blows the net curtains, and rustles the papers on the desk, and the light begins to fade down in the sky beyond. ‘Now you think you commit a crime against the state,’ says Princip, ‘Now you wish it had not happened. Well, it is not a real offence, even under Marx. Not if you do it with a good ideological attitude. Of course, if you find your position is not correct . . .’ ‘Well,’ says Petworth, looking at their bodies infolded into each other, ‘It looks quite good to me.’ ‘I think so,’ says Princip, laughing, ‘Perhaps you like to improve it some more? You see now I know how to teach you.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Then I will help you,’ says Princip, ‘I told you you had many things still to do in my country. Hold me so, see me please as a comrade-ofarms of the struggle. Think with your mind you build a great and startling project. Feel with your heart you reach the great laws of human universality. Know with your strong you contribute to the historic advance of the proletariat.’ Live grey eyes are staring into his face; a body beside him is a fundamental mass with a living motion; there are hands on his own body, drawing its shape and design, drawing it out of shape and design. ‘Yes, something is happening to you, do you feel it,’ says Katya, eyes, hair, flesh leaning over him. ‘Oh, Katya,’ says Petworth, looking at the face, alert, moving, the eyes open, reaching out to touch the mass and feel its architecture, the bone order beneath the fleshly pads, ‘Katya.’ ‘Oh, Petwit, do you remember my name?’ says Princip, ‘You have not said it before. Do you call me a person? Well, perhaps I am Katya, someone like that, but please, it is not the person, it is cause that matters. Take me into yourself, do you do it better if I come on top of you, don’t you say?’

There is a body elevated above him, shaped against the light. ‘Petwit, now I am magicking you,’ says Princip, ‘I will take you somewhere, on a nice journey, I am your guide.’ ‘Oh,’ says Petworth, ‘Oh my god.’ ‘Petwit, please, no god,’ says Princip, swinging the top of her body across his face, ‘Don’t you know our task is secular? Try please to relate your subjective to your objective, your spirit to history. In this way you will grow free of errors. Yes, I am your guide, we make it together, our special journey. Do you remember Stupid, do you think you know now how he climbed the tower, perhaps he did what you do, perhaps he found the witch was the princess also. Well, I am your sex princess, I am witching you, I am taking you where you cannot go, think of a word you do not know, I am that word, try to understand it, do you come nearer?’ Above him is skin in its long planes, hollowed here, puffed there, the outward thrust of breasts, the inward tuck of the navel, the feel of an intricate yielding crease. ‘Yes, you come nearer,’ says Princip, ‘is there a meaning, is there a place, you go into that place, I put you in that place, you come there and I come there with you, and we are together. You don’t have a sad wife, you have me only, no other, all the bodies are my body, do you feel it happen, I do, you do, I know you do, yes, yes.’ There is light and dark, inside and outside, arrest, explosion, light following dark, a room of books where curtains blow. ‘Wasn’t it my best story?’ says Princip, ‘Didn’t I magic you nicely?’ ‘It was better,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Princip, ‘Only one thing wrong.’ ‘What’s that?’ asks Petworth. ‘Look at you,’ says Princip, ‘Nowhere to pin on you your medal. Petwit, do you think we found a place that is ours?’ Petworth leans up; with a dull, dragging, mechanical note, the telephone on the desk under the blowing curtains begins to ring.

‘Oh, no,’ says Princip, looking at him, ‘Who is this? Quick, go please and put on clothes. Wait, what is time?’ ‘Time?’ asks Petworth. ‘On your watch,’ says Princip. ‘It’s a quarter to six,’ says Petworth, hurrying, heart beating, into the bathroom. The steam is fading slowly off the green mirror, a naked Petworth refracts emptily at him, the pipes in the tub rattle and groan, Katya Princip’s batik dress swings loose on the hook behind the door. Dressing quickly, tugging up clothes, he can hear, beyond the thin wall, the stop and start of a voice, in rapid irregular conversation in the language he still does not know. Telephones and time are of this world; something in the world, half-remembered, presses on him, a worry. In the other room, the telephone clicks down; then Princip, big, naked, her face sad, stands in the door. ‘Oh, Petwit, be quick, you must go now,’ she says, ‘Someone comes here soon, I cannot stop it. Find please my dress.’ ‘Here,’ says Petworth, handing it to her, watching her body scurry, become disorderly, as she pulls it onto her. ‘Oh, why don’t we have time?’ she says, ‘And now you will go away, and perhaps I will not see you again.’ ‘We have to,’ says Petworth, ‘I’m back in Slaka in ten days.’ ‘Ten days, it is long,’ says Princip, ‘And things will happen on your journey, perhaps you will not want then to see me. And you have not been good visitor today, they will watch you, it will not be easy. Oh, I know how it is done, they will make you suddenly busy, they will change your programme. Or they will perhaps invite me to make a little journey from the town. All of a sudden they need my new book, go, please, to the dacha for writers in the country, it is all arranged. For people not to meet, that is easy to fix, we are experts. Wait, your hair, borrow please this comb, you must not look like that when you go. Oh, look, you are in my mirror, I wish I keep you in there. I have a love for you, Petwit, I don’t know why, and no time to say it.’ ‘I have it too,’ says Petworth.

‘Come quickly, help me, we must turn back the bed,’ says Princip, drawing him back into the small room, ‘Oh, Petwit, do you truly want to see me again? Even if it is so hard and so foolish?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, as the bed becomes a sofa again. ‘Well, you make good decision,’ says Princip, ‘It is foolish and it is right. So how do we arrange, how? Well, look, I write down a telephone for you to ring. It is not this one here, another. When you ring there, do not speak, wait till I answer. If another one answers, still do not speak, put it back, wait a time and then try again. If I answer, talk like we make a small business. Do not try the number more than two times, always people listen, they might interest in you. Do you understand all this? It is very important.’ ‘Yes, I understand,’ says Petworth, ‘But if I don’t reach you, is there another way? Can I come here?’ ‘No, never come here, you understand that?’ says Princip, ‘There is the coffee house, you remember it, you know I go there. Oh, I hope you come back, I hope you find me, but now I know you will. You see, I did not finish the story of Stupid. Oh, look at you, Petwit, so intense and sad. Are you always so?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Only in your spare time,’ says Princip, ‘It will be all right.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, Petwit,’ says Princip, holding him, ‘Well, I have put you in my story, you know. And I give you the stone, do you wear it? And here, from my pot, one flower, not for you, for your guide. And a coin to pay the lift, you know how to use. I cannot come with you, but Wang’luku, that is easy to find. You walk here to the end, then go three streets to the right, you will see before you Hotel Slaka. And on your journey in the forest, think I am with you, not far away.’ ‘I will,’ says Petworth. ‘Go now, quickly,’ says Princip, opening the door of the flat, ‘Be always careful, my dear. Oh, the lift is here, go, I watch you.’

The gates of the lift come to, the coin goes in, the cage goes down. He hurries through the empty lobby and into the darkening street. To his left, the black car still stands; he goes to the right, coming to a busy street along which pink trams clatter. In one hand he carries the tattered folder holding his tattered lecture, in the other the bouncing single flower. The street is busy, and the crowd comes toward him in bewildering profusion, faces too many to meet, shawled women, men in fur hats, young people in jeans, soldiers in khaki. There is a strain in his senses, a mild disorder in his body, a faint pain in his side, like the pain, perhaps, of existence itself, a feeling made half of pleasure and half of guilt. There is a throb in his groin, and in his mind a sense of a destination with a duty in it, though he cannot remember quite what it is. His breath pants; white-walled buildings rise on either side, and down the side streets domes glisten and glint. On the high government blocks, not very far away, the clocks begin to strike, like the rasp of a telephone; the notes in the air sound six, and he remembers what he is half-remembering, what he is halfstriving for, that just at this time he should be at the hotel, calling his distant dark wife. The roof of the hotel shows over the buildings in front of him; he begins, now, to run toward it, the flower bobbing in his hand. The big square shows up in front of him; the flashing sign says SCH’VEPPUU. The square opens up, but the massed crowds that move toward the pink trams stopped in the centre obstruct. He pushes through, running dangerously in front of traffic; a pink tram clangs furiously at him. Breathing hard, he reaches the glass doors of the hotel.

On the other side of the glass, as he pushes at it, one of the dark whores, in a long velvet dress, looks out, smiles at him, inspects the flower he carries. ‘Change money,’ murmurs a voice in the crowds just inside, as he hurries in, stumbling over the luggage of a new bus-party which has just arrived and stands all round the desk. ‘Pervert!’ shouts a voice from somewhere in the crowd, ‘Pervert!’ The lacquered-haired Cosmoplot girl stands in her blue uniform behind the desk marked R’GUSTRAYUU, looking at him and angrily tapping her watch. ‘My call to England,’ says Petworth, pushing up to the desk. ‘Don’t you see this time?’ says the girl, pointing at the big clock on the wall between Marx and Lenin, ‘You are late five minutes.’ ‘I was delayed,’ says Petworth, ‘There’s a lot of traffic. Can’t you put me through?’ The girl turns, and looks at a man in a dark suit, standing in a doorway marked DURUG’AYUU; the man shakes his head. ‘It is cancel,’ says the girl, ‘You must be here right time.’ ‘Can I call later?’ asks Petworth, holding the wilting flower. ‘Tomorrow,’ says the girl. ‘I leave Slaka tomorrow,’ says Petworth. ‘Then you see why is bad to be late,’ says the girl, ‘Do you like key?’ ‘Please,’ says Petworth. ‘Ident’ayuu,’ says the girl. Taking the key, going to the lift, Petworth sees the man in the dark suit watching him. In the lift, his image shows in the mirrors, a man carrying a flower; in his mind there arises the guilty image of his dark wife, yet the face is imperfect and not quite right, for it has the grey eyes of Katya Princip. He goes along the corridor past the floormaid; he unlocks the door to his big and empty room.

II

‘Oh Petwurt, Petwurt, that is nice,’ says Marisja Lubijova, in a fine blue knitted dress, with a white lace stole over it, when he meets her in the lobby at seven, ‘You have brought me one flower. Look, I put it in my dress. It is just right to visit an oper.’ ‘I thought it would suit the occasion,’ says Petworth. ‘Also I think it means you feel a little ashame, I hope so,’ says Lubijova, ‘This thing you do at lunch-time.’ ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ says Petworth, ‘A small confusion.’ ‘Really you are very naughty,’ says Lubijova, ‘Your friends arrange you a lunch where you are guest of honour, and then you do not come. Of course everyone is very embarrass. They do not know what to tell each other. And your official from London, where you go last night and do not tell me, he thinks a very bad thing has happened to you. He thinks he will go to the police, or call London, do you like to start a world war between our powers, Petwurt?’ ‘No, not really,’ says Petworth. ‘It is happy Dr Plitplov thinks it is a small affaire du coeur,’ says Lubijova, ‘But you must tell your Mr Steadiman what has happened to you.’ ‘Can I call him?’ asks Petworth. ‘I think he goes also to the oper,’ says Lubijova, ‘Yes, you are very naughty, but you have brought me a flower, and you look very sorry, and we go to make a nice evening. So I will not be so cross with you. But look at you, please. We go to oper, where everyone dresses in the best, and you don’t even put on your nice suit. Don’t you like to go back and change yourself? We have time for it.’ ‘My suit?’ says Petworth, thinking of it, ripped open at the flies by Budgie Steadiman, ‘I’m afraid it needs pressing.’ ‘Very well,’ says Lubijova, stiffly, ‘Come then in your bad clothes. Let us find a taxi. Or perhaps you feel better in a tram.’

As they sit in the orange taxi, driving off through the evening streets of Slaka, Lubijova turns toward him. ‘So, Comrade Petwurt,’ she says, ‘You went away with your lady writer. Did you make a nice afternoon?’ ‘Oh, very pleasant,’ says Petworth. ‘Perhaps you go somewhere quite interesting,’ says Lubijova. ‘Oh, Miss Princip wanted to take me to see the castle,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, really, that is nice,’ says Lubijova, ‘The castle of Vlam?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And you like it, it is good?’ asks Lubijova. ‘Yes, very fine,’ says Petworth. ‘I am glad you impress,’ says Lubijova, ‘The castle is closed for some weeks, for a restauration. That is why I do not take you there already myself. But of course your friend is a very famous writer, who has important contacts. I expect she has used her privileges so that you can go inside.’ ‘I expect so,’ says Petworth, feeling uneasy. ‘And do you see in there the tomb of Vlam?’ asks Lubijova. ‘The tomb of Vlam,’ says Petworth. ‘In the baroque style,’ says Lubijova, ‘All over it the cupids.’ ‘Ah, yes,’ says Petworth, ‘It’s very good.’ ‘Oh, really, you think so?’ says Lubijova, ‘I did not know there was one. I have just myself invented it. Don’t you think I would make a nice lady writer too?’ ‘Well, yes,’ says Petworth. ‘I wonder what you really do,’ says Lubijova. ‘We just looked around,’ says Petworth. ‘Petwurt, Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, ‘You are such a trouble to me. You lie to me about last night, now you lie to me about today. I don’t know about you, Petwurt. I don’t know why you are here, but I know I must think of you in a new way. You are not a good visitor. And don’t you know I might be in some troubles if you do bad things here?’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Petworth, ‘But it’s all quite harmless.’ ‘Is it?’ asks Lubijova, looking at him, ‘Perhaps you are quite clever or really quite simple. How do I know? But if you are simple you are not in a simple world. Don’t you remember, when I bring you to your hotel from the airport, I told you something? That here in my country it is always good to be cautious? Don’t you listen to what I say? Don’t you think? And I am your poor guide who is responsible. Well, perhaps I will trust you a little bit. I don’t know why, perhaps I like you. In any case, we go away tomorrow away from Slaka. Perhaps you will make a new start.’ ‘I’ll try,’ says Petworth. ‘You try,’ says Lubijova, ‘Well, we shall see. But let us in any case enjoy our evening. It ought to be our nice time. You do not mind to sit for five hours for an oper in another language?’ ‘Aren’t all operas in another language?’ asks Petworth. ‘Yes, well, tonight you have interpreter,’ says Lubijova, slipping her arm in his, ‘And it is very good oper, by one of the great musicians of my country. For a long time this work was lost but then under socialism it was discovered again. Many have seen it as the prefigure of many other great oper works, like the Figaro Wedding of Mozart or the Seville Haircutting Man of Rossini. Now it re-lives, and everyone is very excited, including many foreign peoples. Here come all our workers, and also the important visitors. Even the naughty ones, like you, Comrade Petwurt. I wonder what you are really doing, all that aftenoon, my bad friend, with your little lady writer?’ ‘Really, just a little tourism,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes, do you?’ cries Lubijova, taking the fleshy part of his arm between her fingers, and squeezing it, ‘Well, perhaps I must not ask you to describe the places where you make this tour. Perhaps they are not so polite. Perhaps you embarrass if you tell them?’ ‘Not at all,’ says Petworth, ‘I just don’t know where we went. I’m a stranger.’ ‘Not so strange, any more,’ says Lubijova, ‘On your neck, isn’t it a bite?’

The taxi has stopped; the high, well-lit dome of the opera house is above them, and bright lights illuminate the great windows. Outside, on the gaunt pavement, a great crowd mills, as fine-looking couples descend in large numbers from orange taxis or big black Volgas and cross from the curb toward the great marbled entrance. ‘I hope you make it your mind to escort me nicely, Comrade Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, ‘Here at the oper we like always to make a very good style. Please put my shawl nicely round my shoulders, I think you know how to be a gentleman. Now do you have some vloskan to pay this taxi? I think he likes very much to be paid.’ ‘Yes, of course,’ says Petworth, reaching down into the pocket of his worn trousers. On the pavement, Lubijova, in her stole, the flower in the bosom of her dress, tucks her arm through his as they walk to the entrance. Big posters show singers in false beards, with their mouths wide open; Vedontakal Vrop, say the inscribed words. A few, but just a very few, of the universal armed men stand by the glass doors as they sweep with the press into the lobby, part of a great tidal drift of human motion. Inside, from the glinting chandeliers, a thousand lights shine; Petworth feels tired, very tired, and his body, from the exertions of the day, has a certain pained fragility to it, while his mind runs troubled about what Lubijova has found out about him. But the city of betrayals and disappearances, watchers and listeners, seems curiously behind him as they pass, in the crowd, through the lobby and up a great curved stone staircase, where the walllights glint and glisten, and so, too, do the necklaces and tiaras and fur-wraps of the handsome ladies who stand in line at the mirrored cloakrooms, waiting to de-cloak.

‘Well, do you impress?’ asks Lubijova, as they stand in the great plush foyer. ‘Splendid,’ says Petworth, standing in his old clothes, as the ladies in front of him expose black dresses and décolletage, and the men stand neat as penguins in their dinner jackets and evening dress. ‘Yes, you surprise,’ says Lubijova, laughing, ‘Of course we are a music-loving nation, and since socialism the loving has much increased. The tickets are sent to the factories for the best workers and they come with a great pleasure, as you see. Of course they do not explain you these things in the newspapers of your West. You think we are just some factories and food shortage; we know what you say about us. Well, now you know it is different. Now you see we make really a very nice life.’ ‘These are workers?’ asks Petworth. ‘Yes, you see our people like to make good display,’ says Lubijova, ‘Only you, Petwurt, not in the best, look at you.’ ‘I didn’t know it would be such a gala occasion,’ says Petworth, seeing himself, in his sagging safari jacket, reflected back from the mirrored walls. ‘Well, we know you are foreigner, a bit strange really,’ says Lubijova, ‘So perhaps we all make a little excuse for you.’ A high-ranking soldier passes them by, chest heavy with ribbons; on his arm is a tall fine woman, her cleavage so complete it displays the navel and almost visits the crotch. ‘They’re hardly all workers,’ says Petworth. ‘Perhaps some are party officials,’ says Lubijova, ‘You like them to have a relax after all their hard work, I hope?’ ‘You realize this whole derned thing could be in some foreign language?’ says a middle-aged lady, wearing a diamanté-ed trouser suit, in the accents of Texas, to Petworth’s side. ‘Yeah, well, just listen to the music,’ says her escort, a middle-aged man in bright tartan trousers. ‘Also people from everywhere in the world,’ says Lubijova, ‘They travel many miles to hear our arts.’

The engulfing human motion continues, as the people press through the plush-walled foyer, which curves in a circle around the central auditorium. Perfume wafts from bosoms; faces appear and disappear; the heat of humanity grows. ‘I think perhaps you wait for me here,’ says Lubijova, ‘I go to collect our tickets, also to find a programme that is English. Always they make one for our special guests from abroad. Now, you don’t go away? You only wait here? If some pretty lady comes, you don’t leave with her?’ ‘No, I’ll wait here,’ says Petworth. ‘All right, I trust you,’ says Lubijova, leaving, ‘Perhaps I am mad.’ In her white stole, she moves off with the crowd; Petworth stands, reflected in mirrors, lighting a cigarette. The press continues; bright couples slide through velvet curtains into boxes, offering him brief glimpses of the great lighted auditorium within. Led by an official guide, the Vietnamese ladies from the hotel swarm by; they have set aside their dark blue work suits, and are clad now in fine silk cheong-sams. The bodily strangeness that has been overwhelming Petworth for most of the day becomes a physical unease; like water down a drain, the self he thought within him seems to be draining out. The lights glitter; the mirrors glint. ‘Isn’t it Dr Petworth? Isn’t it my good old friend?’ says a voice; in a dinner jacket worn with a fine white sweater, Plitplov has somehow emerged from the crowd and stands in front of him, his birdlike eyes looking hard at him, ‘You are well? You are safe? No bad thing has happened to you?’ ‘Oh, you’re here,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course, everyone comes here,’ says Plitplov, ‘Well, all day I am making a worry for you.’ ‘There was no need,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, ‘In my country, when someone is lost, all the friends grow upset and wonder if a bad thing has happened. Of course, there is usually a simple explanation. I expect you have one.’

‘It’s quite simple,’ says Petworth, ‘I was just taken for a little look around the city.’ ‘A little advice, my friend,’ says Plitplov, looking around, ‘Please do not smoke. It is not permitted in a public place. And it is not so good to draw an attention to yourself. A little look around the city, well, that is very nice. And your guide the excellent Miss Princip?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘A very fine writer,’ says Plitplov, ‘I have reviewed myself her books, did she mention so?’ ‘Actually, no,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, it does not matter,’ says Plitplov, ‘So, you like to disappear. Well, I do not mind it. It is true I made many special efforts to come there to your lecture and take a lunch with you. But of course I understand. Your field is literature and this is a writer. Also I do not have those nice charms. And of course it was noticed very much in Cambridge you liked always the ladies. A man is not so interesting to you. But of course here is not Cambridge, I have told you this already. You like to be absent, well, my friend, it is not so hard to be absent in my country. But don’t you know you make a risk for everyone? For you, for your writer, for your friends, for me. You know I had a hand to invite you? Do you like to make a difficulty for me? Perhaps that was the intention of your visit?’ ‘Not at all,’ says Petworth. ‘And your guide, your Miss Lubijova, does she know what you do?’ asks Plitplov. ‘I think she has a good idea,’ says Petworth. ‘And of course what she knows, all will know,’ says Plitplov, ‘And what do you do with Miss Princip? Do you make an affaire du coeur?’ ‘We simply went for a little—’ says Petworth. ‘Structuralism,’ says Plitplov, ‘I believe it has caused many intellectual searchings of heart in your country.’

‘Oh, are you here, Dr Plitplov?’ says Lubijova, coming up in her stole, ‘You don’t tell me this at our lunch.’ ‘Of course, I am opera lover,’ says Plitplov, ‘I perhaps also write a something in the newspaper.’ ‘But at our lunch you said you were going somewhere to dinner tonight,’ says Lubijova. ‘Well, it was such a sad lunch,’ says Plitplov, ‘Of course I was worried for my old friend.’ ‘Well, you did not need,’ says Lubijova, hoisting her stole, ‘He makes a very interesting afternoon. He goes with a lady writer to the castle of Vlam.’ ‘That is nice,’ says Plitplov, ‘But I think the castle is closed now, there is nothing there.’ ‘But there are ladies who know special ways into castles,’ says Lubijova, ‘You know what is said: the way into a room is not always through the door.’ ‘I see, my friend,’ says Plitplov, ‘You make a little mystery for us.’ ‘Perhaps it is not so hard to solve,’ says Lubijova. A bell rings: ‘Don’t you think it is time to take a seat?’ asks Plitplov. ‘Well,’ says Lubijova, ‘I am afraid there is just a certain small confusion.’ ‘Really?’ says Petworth. ‘Not a difficulty,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do not worry. They have been very efficient here, and sold our seats two times. An American tourist sits in your place.’ ‘We won’t be able to see it?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course, you are an important visitor,’ says Lubijova, ‘They will make certain arrangements.’ ‘Please,’ says Plitplov, ‘Sit down please on this banquette. I have certain influences here. I will speak to some people I know very well.’ ‘Already I have spoken,’ says Lubijova. ‘I think perhaps I know them a little better,’ says Plitplov, ‘I have a certain skill to make some arrangements. It will not take long.’

‘Of course it is arranged already,’ says Lubijova, sitting down, ‘This American is not so important as you. They will take him out and give him ticket for another night. Now, while we wait, I explain you the programme. There is also a small confusion with a printer and they do not have now a text in English. But it is simple, I interpret you, do you like?’ ‘Of course,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, I am your good guide,’ says Lubijova, reaching into her small red evening bag and taking out her big red spectacles, ‘So, here on the front, the title, Vedontakal Vrop, do you understand it?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, how does it mean?’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you know, the secret that is not a secret, the secret found out, how do you says? Like your afternoon. You think you have done something hidden, but everyone knows it.’ ‘The secret unmasked?’ suggests Petworth. ‘Exact,’ says Lubijova, ‘The secret unmasked. Now here inside is explained it is oper bouffe of two hundred years. You know bouffe? It means is very funny. Here is explained it is played in a typical style, but with some modernizations. The technic is influenced by China oper of Sichuan province, but also by Bolshoi. The play has always been lost but now is found, except part of acta three. But with brilliant improvisations this small difficulty is triumphantly overcome. The story is from the folk, but Leblat, who makes the liber, has changes all things round to make them more unusual, so it is not the same any more. And now here is the story, do you like I tell it to you, in case we do not find some seats?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘Please.’

‘Well, it is difficult,’ says Lubijova, turning over the written pages, while in the auditorium the buzz and chatter of the audience rises, ‘But I try. In acta first, a student paramour falls into love with a beautiful girl who has bad father, who forbids a marriage. He is a magician who is sometimes turning people into a bear, and of course this makes laughable confusions. Also the boy has cruel father who does not understand him. That father tells he must not marriage but make travel to the big city and make his examen to become a government official. The girl is sad and disguises herself as boy to go after him. But the boy is sad and decides to stay, so he disguises as girl. Also his mother is loving an uncle who disguises himself like a king from a foreign country so he can make visits. But also there is naughty maid and a silly servant who is sometimes in love with this maid but often not. These two also are disguising all the time, but of course in oper nothing is as it seems. By two scene, the confusions are very bad and then come more people, like a tough aunt, a man from Turk, a soft-wit brother who is more clever than he looks, and a priest who is perhaps policeman. I hope you understand it now, a bit? It is not so easy for me.’ ‘Yes, I think so,’ says Petworth. ‘Why don’t those people leave now?’ says Lubijova, looking up, ‘Perhaps they like to make protest. Sometimes this happens. But our ushers are always very efficient.’ And indeed the curtains leading to the auditorium now part, and, between two black-suited ushers comes a couple, he wearing bright tartan trousers, she a diamanté-ed trouser suit. ‘Jesus, when will you guys ever learn to run a country?’ says the man to one of the ushers, in a Texas accent. ‘Do you know this is the third goddam night this has happened?’ says the woman to the other. ‘You see how easily our little problem is solved,’ says Lubijova, rising, ‘Now we go in. Please take my arm, we do it nicely.’

The auditorium, high, round, and ornate, is a monument to the baroque taste. Three tiers of boxes run round it; in the boxes sit, in a buzz of chatter, shining people with white glowing shirt fronts and bright dresses. The great proscenium arch is finely plastered and decorated with cupids; only the cusp in the centre shows history’s workings, for, where damaged plaster shows the arms of an imperial power must once have stood, there is emblazoned a red hammer and sickle. ‘Our seats are in stall,’ says Lubijova, as they are led to the second row from the front, ‘That is nice, we will see everything. And not even late: only now does the orchester come. Perhaps they wait for us. Of course this orchester is very fine, our players are in the class of the world. Perhaps sometimes they have just one little problem.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Petworth, sitting down, ‘What’s that?’ ‘They like to work hard, like all our people,’ says Lubijova, ‘So when it is rehearse often they are too busy, and must send their substitutes. Then at performance, well, of course always they play very well, but often they do not understand what the others do. But it will not be so tonight. They are playing together one night already. And now here is coming the conductor. It is Leo Fenycx, geboren Prague and if quite young also very famous. Perhaps you know of him already?’ ‘I’m afraid not,’ says Petworth, as the audience begins to clap, and Leo Fenycx, in his white tie and tails, bows his head. ‘No?’ cries Lubijova, clapping, ‘Many fine evaluations have been written of his work. You don’t read them?’ ‘No, I haven’t,’ says Petworth, as the conductor turns toward the orchestra and the bright lights of the house begin to dim.

‘Oh, Petwurt,’ says Lubijova suddenly, squeezing his arm, ‘Who is that?’ ‘What?’ asks Petworth. ‘Someone waves you, at the loge up there, in the second tier, where sit the party officials,’ says Lubijova. But the boxes are deep dark circles in a near blackness; and now, with a great plucking of strings, a romping, bantering overture begins. ‘Who was this?’ whispers Lubijova. ‘I didn’t see,’ whispers Petworth, ‘A man or a woman?’ The bassoons come in loudly. ‘Of course,’ murmurs Lubijova, ‘Another lady. In a red dress.’ ‘I have no idea,’ murmurs Petworth. The noisy brass enter. ‘Of course you have idea,’ whispers Lubijova. ‘I don’t suppose she was waving to me at all,’ whispers Petworth. There is an arabesque of woodwinds. ‘Yes, to you,’ murmurs Lubijova, ‘Petwurt, you are like romantic little boy. Everywhere you go, there are ladies.’ ‘No, not really,’ murmurs Petworth. The fiddles come in to state a second theme. ‘Perhaps you are an American,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you like to think of sexing all the time, like those people?’ ‘No,’ whispers Petworth. The new and darker theme begins to swell, while the light woodwinds play the first theme against it. ‘I think so,’ murmurs Lubijova, ‘Is this why you come to Slaka? To make your romantic life? I thought you are here to make some lectures.’ ‘I am,’ murmurs Petworth. The brass come in, to restate the first theme more strongly. ‘Only two days ago you are coming to Slaka,’ says Lubijova, ‘You are telling me you know no one. Now is two days, and everywhere there are ladies. In the morning, the afternoon, the night, always some ladies. Who is this one?’ ‘I really don’t know,’ whispers Petworth, conscious that along the row heads are swivelling to look at them. ‘Please,’ says a voice in English from the row behind, ‘We try to listen this music.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ whispers Petworth, turning. ‘Oh, is it you, my good old friend,’ says the voice from behind, ‘Do you make a quarrel? Something has gone wrong?’ The overture swells and rises, the two themes become one. ‘Not you, Comrade Plitplov,’ murmurs Lubijova. ‘Oh, we sit close,’ says Plitplov, ‘What a good coincidence.’

But now, in a cloud of dust, the great curtain in front of them ascends. A three-dimensional painted landscape of very bosky aspect is disclosed, with barrel-shaped tree-trunks rising up to branches that shake paper leaves. Centre stage is a papier-mâché cave; from the cave comes a young man dressed as an old man and wearing a long grey beard. He sings lustily at the audience: ‘Tells he is a very old man with a long grey beard,’ whispers Lubijova to Petworth. In the orchestra pit a flute-bird twitters; from stage left comes, tripping lightly, a young girl dressed as a boy. ‘Tells she is a young girl dressed as a boy,’ whispers Plitplov from the row behind, after a moment. ‘Of course the old man does not know she is really girl,’ murmurs Lubijova, ‘Because now she is telling him she is soldier.’ ‘Also she does not know he is really her uncle,’ whispers Plitplov, ‘Because he tells her he is really the king of another country.’ But now, backstage, a singing boy, wrapped in a very large cloak, has appeared, slinking through the cardboard trees, and singing. ‘Oh, what a silly boy!’ cries Lubijova, laughing, ‘He tells he is a young man in love with a girl who is lost.’ ‘That is this girl,’ whispers Plitplov. ‘But he cannot marry her because all the fathers forbid, so he hides in the forest dressed like robber,’ says Lubijova, ‘He tells he likes to take from the rich to give to the poor.’ ‘To spend on his bets,’ says Plitplov. ‘To give to the poor,’ says Lubijova, firmly, ‘Now he sees the old man and thinks he will steal his purse, so everyone will know he is robber.’ ‘Look, he steals it,’ whispers Plitplov. ‘But the girl wants to show now she has the honour of a man,’ says Lubijova, ‘She tells that boy she fights him to a duel. Doesn’t she know he is her best lover?’ ‘No,’ says Plitplov. ‘Look, they both pull out their arms,’ says Lubijova, ‘Oh, what a pity. He shoots her and she falls. She sings she dies of a plum in the breast.’ ‘A plum?’ asks Petworth. ‘The plum he has shooted from his arm,’ says Lubijova.

‘Bullet,’ whispers Plitplov, ‘Plum is a make of fruit.’ ‘I am right, plum,’ says Lubijova, ‘Now he sings he is sorry. He thinks he will bend to loosen her blouses. Perhaps he will find there a very nice surprise, don’t you think so?’ ‘No,’ says Plitplov, ‘Because now is coming a man who tells a wizard has turned him into a bear.’ ‘It is funny,’ says Lubijova, laughing. ‘The old man laughs at him and says he was always a bear!’ ‘But he tells he was not bear before, but only dog,’ whispers Plitplov, ‘Because he was always servant and a servant is only a dog.’ ‘Now they help the one with the plum,’ whispers Lubijova. ‘No,’ says Plitplov, ‘Because now comes a man who says he is a Turk who comes from Turkey, but really he is the brother of the girl.’ ‘Also comes a girl who sings she is the maid of the mother of the girl,’ says Lubijova. ‘He says he must hide from this maid or she will know him,’ says Plitplov. ‘She tells her naughty plan to marry the mother of the girl to the father of the boy, because they are always loving each other.’ ‘But first must die the father of the girl and the mother of the boy,’ says Plitplov, ‘That is why she carries here a pot of poison from an apothek.’ ‘From a magician,’ says Lubijova. ‘You tell it wrong,’ says Plitplov. ‘I tell it right,’ says Lubijova. Meanwhile the stage fills with an extravagant crowd of people, some in costumes of relative realism, others resembling animals. ‘Here some people who go to make a festival in the forest,’ says Plitplov. ‘They stop to sing a chorus about making some nice cakes,’ says Lubijova. ‘About the coming of the spring,’ says Plitplov. ‘Now they see the girl who is dying of the plum,’ says Lubijova. ‘Of the bullet,’ says Plitplov. ‘And now steps forward one to take her off to the cave of the magician.’ ‘The shop of the apothek,’ says Plitplov. The chorus ascends, the girl is lifted, the singers move, the curtain falls.

In the dark auditorium, heads all round them have turned to stare. Two bassoonists rise to peer critically over the top of the orchestra pit at them. ‘I think we’re disturbing everybody,’ murmurs Petworth. ‘Comrade Plitplov, I think they will stop this oper if you are not more quiet,’ says Lubijova. ‘It is you,’ hisses Plitplov. ‘Well, we don’t talk,’ says Lubijova, ‘I explain you all in the interlude, Comrade Petwurt.’ ‘In the interval,’ whispers Plitplov from the rear. ‘I am interpreter, I am right,’ whispers Lubijova, firmly, ‘See, again arises the curtain. Now we will be quiet and perhaps you will make the sense for yourself. Look, the cave of the magician.’ ‘The shop of the apothek,’ hisses Plitplov, before he subsides in the row behind. Left to his own resources, Petworth stares up at the great stage, where the voices sound and the complex musical codes continue to unwind. One thing is clear: whatever the miseen- scène, during that brief dropping of the curtain, much has changed in the imaginary world of artifice that is being composed and constructed just above his head. Perhaps much stage-time has passed, or everyone has died, or turned into something quite different, for the mind and senses are evidently being taken toward a new landscape of deceit and desire. Continuities may exist; the boy who was previously dressed as a robber could well be the same boy who is now dressed as a girl, though this could be an error; the coquette-ish maid in the dirndl who formerly carried her pot of poison might well be the girl now dressed as a cavalry officer, with moustaches, though this could be an optical illusion. Sexual arrangements are clearly other than they were. The boy-girl with the plum in her breast has either made a rapid recovery, or died, along with everyone else, but her erotic attention is now devoted to the magician or apothek, whom Petworth had previously understood to be her father. Meanwhile the boy dressed as a girl is being wooed by the young wife, or mistress, or perhaps assistant, of the magician, or perhaps apothek, though whether because she has unmasked his disguise, or because her tastes are oblique, or because she is a man who thinks he is a woman, is hard to surmise.

Shards and fragments, chaos and Babel; Petworth sits in his plush seat in the great auditorium, where from the circle of boxes the audience in their costumes of bland civility stare down onto the stage, and looks at the spectacle. Above him the faces move, painted and prettified, the cosmetics and the false beards gleam, the cadenced words, in the language he still does not know, spill out in their mysterious series, high sound that flows out erotically over him, as if his body is being washed in a shower of noise. The operatic confusion seems entirely in tune with that tumultuous exhaustion, that waning of utterance, that fading of self into contingent event that comes over a man in the midst of a difficult journey. Yet the mind, even when worn, still seeks order; lost in the garden of forking paths, where the narratives divide and multiply, he struggles to find a law of series, a system of signification, discover a story. But the author of what is being enacted in front of him seems to have little regard for the normal laws of probability, the familiar rules of genre and expectation. It is no longer clear to him who desires whom, nor which of any two partners is of which sex, nor, if he or she is, whether he or she will remain so. Identities have no proper barriers; people seem facets of each other. A singer appears who does not sing. The magician, or perhaps apothek, has big shoulders and many gold teeth; his wife, mistress, or assistant, has a fine neck and a mole above her right breast. Only impersonation seems true, the charade itself, the falsehood that is being created, the codes that proliferate and turn into counter-code. His mind drifts, dislodges, seems to find a room somewhere else in the big dark city he knows he is in, a room where water pours over him, and his body is being warmly touched.

His body is being warmly touched: ‘Do you like it, do you like?’ a voice asks, while someone shakes at his arm and tugs his hand. He opens his eyes; he is in the great baroque auditorium, with the lights ablaze. The orchestra has left the pit, the curtain is down, the stacks of boxes high above him are emptying of the party officials, the generals, the décolletée ladies. ‘I hope you like it, they make it very well, I think,’ says Lubijova, her hand on his arm, ‘Of course, that poor boy, for him it is very difficult. He asks himself, is that man a woman, or the woman a man? And if there is this confusion, how many more? No wonder he is puzzled, and cannot believe his eyes or his senses.’ ‘Quite,’ says Petworth. ‘But in the ending all comes clear, if not in the way those people intend,’ says Lubijova, ‘Well, for an oper, such confusions are essential. Always an oper is a little bit erotical. Now, do you like to go in the foyer and make a promenade?’ ‘Do I?’ asks Petworth, looking around. ‘Yes, you do,’ says Lubijova, firmly, pulling her stole around her, and rising, ‘That is what we always like to do at the interlude.’ ‘Perhaps you like to visit also the men’s room,’ says Plitplov, solicitously, from the row behind, ‘The next act is very long, and I will come with you.’ ‘Don’t you like to take a drink that is a bit like champagne?’ asks Lubijova, leading the way toward the aisle, ‘Or if you like it, a pancake that is often very good? And perhaps also you will see your nice lady in red who likes to look out for you.’ ‘I don’t think she was looking for me,’ says Petworth, struggling along behind. ‘Of course for you,’ says Lubijova, ‘Do you think we do not know what is your favourite interest?’

In the wide aisle, the people flow toward the exit; in her stole, Lubijova hurries in front. Following, Petworth stumbles, over, he finds, Plitplov, who has somehow managed to drop his programme and has bent down to retrieve it. ‘My good friend,’ hisses Plitplov, rising suddenly, and clutching urgently at Petworth’s sleeve, ‘don’t you see now how foolish you have been?’ ‘Foolish?’ asks Petworth, looking at him. ‘Please talk quietly, pretend you discuss the opera,’ says Plitplov, walking beside him, ‘Of course, you have compromised everyone who is your friend. Now that one, your guide, knows everything. She sees right to your heart. Of course she knows what relations you have made this afternoon. And with what a nice lady.’ ‘That was a private matter,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, my friend,’ says Plitplov, ‘Do you think you are in the Cambridge of Russell? What is a private matter? You cause trouble for that lady, I think also for me. Do you see I cannot trust you any more? And so you think this work contains a problematic of identity? Of course, you are right, with your sharp critical acumen. Ah, Miss Lubijova, I hope we don’t make you wait. We dispute a little this opera.’ ‘But you miss the promenade,’ says Lubijova, leading them out into the foyer, ‘And I think that is really why people come to an oper. To see and to be seen. It is one of our events, don’t you like to join it?’ ‘My dear lady,’ says Plitplov, bowing, ‘Clearly you are our guide.’ Petworth looks around; the foyer has been strangely transformed. Evidently many intervening doors have been thrown open, to create a long curving corridor that leads, through plush passages, from one mirrored room to another, in a great circle round the entire building.

And round the opened-out concourse the people walk, in stately procession, some in one direction, some in the other: the party officials, the military figures, the décolletée ladies. The clothes are fine, the dresses bright, the shirt fronts glow; they walk slowly, as if to some civil dance, the music from the opera still in their heads. Some carry glasses of sparkling wine, others fine food on plates; the high-ranking officer walks by, on his arm the cleavaged lady, her hair in a bun, her body seemingly split bare and open down past the ribcage, and each of them carries a large ice-cream, topped with artificial foam. ‘They say if you walk here at the oper you will soon see everyone in the world you know,’ says Lubijova, as they join the moving slow circle, with Petworth to one side of her, Plitplov to the other. ‘Of course not everybody likes that,’ says Plitplov. ‘I think now you are learning our country very well,’ says Lubijova, ‘You see our academical life, at close quarter. Our literary life, at very close quarter. And now our cultural life, which all support, the workers and their wives.’ ‘Oh, these are the workers and their wives?’ asks Plitplov, chuckling. ‘Oh, who do you like to say they are?’ asks Lubijova. ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, smiling, ‘The apparatchiks and their mistresses. ‘Well, there are workers of the head and the hand,’ says Lubijova. ‘And some other parts of the body also,’ says Plitplov, ‘You know what we say, some advance on their knees, some on their backs. Well, I think it is not hard to recognize those who make a horizontal progress.’ ‘Ah, I understand you,’ says Lubijova, ‘You like to say that the wives of our leaders are horizontals.’ ‘So you admit they are our leaders, not the workers,’ says Plitplov. ‘So you accuse our party officials of sexual crimes?’ says Lubijova.

‘Well, my good old friend,’ says Plitplov, suddenly putting out his hand to Petworth, ‘I hope you enjoy your last night in Slaka. I am afraid this occasion is not so pleasant for me. I think I go now, so let us say farewell.’ ‘Oh, no, you don’t leave?’ cries Lubijova, smiling. ‘I expect my wife has a headache, and she does not see me all day,’ says Plitplov, ‘Also you know I rose very early to complete my businesses, so I might hear a little piece of your lecture and make a lunch with you. It has not been a day of great pleasures, but I try to do my duty. Still, I know now you have this guide who is watching you. I hope you will be careful in your journey through the forest.’ ‘I’m sorry to have disappointed you,’ says Petworth, ‘But I hope we’ll meet when I come back to Slaka.’ ‘Oh, I don’t think it,’ says Plitplov, ‘I like to make many affairs all over the country.’ ‘Comrade Petwurt also,’ says Lubijova. ‘So I say goodbye, my friend,’ says Plitplov, ‘Take please a very good care. You are not always so sensible. And when you turn back to England, give please my love to your Lottie. You know I am fond of her. Tell her I am well, except for some headaches. Also that I succeed quite well, despite some petty criticisms and enemies. Perhaps she gave you a message for me when you telephoned to her?’ ‘Well, no,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, yes your telephone call tonight,’ says Lubijova, ‘It was successful? I hope you did not forget that important thing I have arranged for you?’ ‘No, I didn’t forget it,’ says Petworth, ‘I just wasn’t able to make it.’ ‘You don’t make it?’ asks Lubijova, stopping suddenly. ‘No, I reached the hotel desk just too late,’ says Petworth, ‘I was only a few seconds after six, but they wouldn’t let me call.’

In the great mirrored corridor, under the gleaming chandeliers, Lubijova stands and stares at Petworth. The promenading circle behind them, halted in its passage, backs up; somewhere a glass is dropped. ‘Oh, really, yes, what a pity,’ cries Lubijova, angrily, ‘How my nose bleeds for you. Yes, it is very difficult to leave a lecture at noon and be at a hotel desk by six.’ ‘So you don’t speak to your Lottie?’ asks Plitplov. ‘You go off all afternoon with your lady writer, and then you are late to call your wife?’ says Lubijova, ‘And what does she think now? Don’t you wonder it?’ Their movement arrested, the promenaders behind are forming a curious circle around the quarrel: the party officials in their evening dress, the generals and the air-force marshals, the Vietnamese ambassador, perhaps, in his denim workclothes, with his retinue, the Russian ambassadress, perhaps, in her tiara, with hers. ‘I’ll call her tomorrow,’ says Petworth, ‘I don’t think she’ll worry.’ ‘You do not call her tomorrow,’ says Lubijova, ‘Tomorrow you go to Glit, very early. And from there a call to the West takes perhaps one week. Also don’t think I try to arrange it. I have tried for you, Petwurt, and I see what you do.’ Troubled, disoriented, Petworth stares round the curious grotesque circle of official faces, and it even seems that there are some he recognizes. But if this confusion, how many more; he cannot believe his eyes or his senses. The chandeliers are bright, and even the ceiling is mirrored; up there is Petworth, standing on his head. Looking up, Petworth suddenly sees himself enfolded by the redness of a dress; then lips are descending on his face, a kiss is planted on his cheek. ‘Angus darling, how wonderful,’ says Budgie Steadiman, fine in a long velvet dress and cloak, with a tiara, ‘Aren’t you enjoying the opera? And don’t you wish I was in it?’

‘Oh, Budgie,’ says Petworth. ‘Petwurt, Petwurt,’ says Lubijova, ‘Not another one. I think you are impossible.’ ‘Who’s your nice little friend?’ asks Budgie, ‘You must meet mine.’ A small, round, bald man in a worn dinner jacket, holding a cigar, steps forward: ‘Hey, Professorim Petwort and guide,’ he says, ‘Still very tough lady, hah, I think so.’ ‘Good evening, Mr Tankic,’ says Petworth. ‘Felix is engaged tonight,’ says Budgie, ‘And, yearning for opera, I succumbed to the attentions of another.’ Tankic grins mischievously, and raises his cigar in salutation: ‘You keep secret?’ he says, ‘A little assignation.’ ‘And dear Mr Plitplov,’ says Budgie, ‘My second favourite dinner guest.’ ‘Oh, do we meet somewhere before?’ asks Plitplov, slinking obscurely toward the safety of the crowd. ‘Only at my drunken table last night,’ says Budgie, ‘Strange how one always meets the people one knows at an opera.’ ‘Who is this?’ whispers Lubijova, ‘Who is your friend?’ ‘It’s awfully rude to whisper,’ says Budgie Steadiman, ‘Come into our box. We’re drinking champagne.’ I do not think we are expected,’ says Lubijova. ‘In official box, all are expected,’ says Tankic, lifting a velvet curtain, to reveal the dark red gloom of the space inside, and the bright lights of the auditorium gleaming beyond. ‘And then we’re going on to a strip club,’ says Budgie, ‘You really must come, Angus. I should love to take you there and strip you. Oh, do meet the rest of my party.’ In the darkness of the box, on red plush chairs, two people are sitting, a couple, holding hands. ‘Oh, well, it is the feder man,’ says Professor Rom Rum, rising from the darkness and smiling, smart in a tailed evening suit, ‘You enjoy the piece?’ ‘And you must meet . . .’ says Budgie. ‘I have,’ says Petworth, staring at the other chair, in which sits, not in batik but in a low-cut black gauzed dress, the blonde magical realist novelist Katya Princip.