9 – NATKULT.

I

With time to spare in Slaka, a lecturer with no more lectures to give, a tourist with nothing better to do than to tour, Petworth spends the next two days wandering the city – that idyll of north and south, west and Turkish, with its fine residences of stone and its rectorates of Baroque accretion. The events of the political world trouble him, he senses worry in the air; but everything in Slaka seems quiet. Waking in the morning in the all too familiar big bedroom, going down to breakfast, he stops each day in the lobby at the stall marked LUTTU to buy the red-masted party newspaper, P’rtyuu Populatuuu, hoping to find out a fact or two. Intens’uu activuu, mass’ufu manufestu say the headlines he reads over his pig-bacon and yurt. But though he is a linguist, though he has been in this country ten days now, and has promised to try the language in order to read Katya Princip’s book, still in his luggage, the words below the headlines still do not manage to yield a sense. When Marisja Lubijova, in her grey coat, arrives in the lobby after breakfast, looking as formal as she did on the first day of his visit, he tries to find out from her what is happening. ‘Oh, comrade Petwurt, I hope you don’t worry,’ she says reassuringly, sitting down in one of the red plastic chairs in the lobby, ‘There is just a very small confusion, in a few universities, so we do not ask you to give your lectures there. But that is nice, now you have time to look around Slaka, and go to the Wicwok shops. They open again the castle, and you have not been to the National Gallery. Of course perhaps you could change your ticket and go home before, but that is not so easy, they are such bureaucrats here. And then you miss our day of National Culture, and you do not want that! Look, I have brought you a nice guide-book in English, we will find you some nice thing to do.

So Petworth finds some nice things to do. He goes to the advanced glass-blowing factory, and to the National Gallery, where the frenzies of Post-lmpressionism and Fauvism and the work of the national Expressionist painter Lev Pric subside into the tidy narrative economies of socialist realism. He goes to the castle – ‘this time really the castle,’ says Marisja Lubijova, toiling by his side – of Bishop ‘Wencher’ Vlam (1675–1753, according to the guidebook), filled with fine armour and displays of Slakan history, great wooden furniture and elegant bedsteads. ‘Here the Bishop likes to have his pray,’ says Mari Lubijova, looking round a large, ornate, plastered bedroom, ‘I think he liked to have every girl in the city. You see how God works for some.’ He goes to the Wicwok shop, to look at Scotch tweeds and tartans, and to the heimat shop, to look at, and buy, fine hand-made embroidery, woodcarving, a small pot or two. He goes to parks where old people sit, and children play in groups under the regard of fat nannies in big, deep skirts. He goes to the great department store, MUG, where the people go to inspect the prospect of shopping, and manages to buy there, with some of his remaining vloskan, a big glass decanter, finely made. He makes a visit to the puppet house; he goes to the museum of old pianos. On some trips, Marisja Lubijova comes with him; sometimes, busy with her own unknown life in Slaka, she does not. He learns how to use the trams, buying tickets from the stalls marked UTTU; he begins to make in his mind a rough map of the city, though it must be admitted that, when there is no guide to describe it, no voice to tell its story, Slaka does not seem very different from any city anywhere else. The pink trams clatter, the men go by in khaki, the women in headscarves; the crowds stand outside the cinema in a bleak line, waiting to see something called Yups. And if there are troubles, vague drummings of disturbance, then life seems normal. From time to time, using the greasy telephones in the stand-up cafeterias where he catches a snack lunch, he tries to find out more, attempting to reach Mr Steadiman, at the Embassy, at home; but for some reason the telephone links seem to be severed. And once in a while, with great caution, he tries the number that has been given him by Katya Princip; but the telephone rings and rings in what, even down the imperfect apparatus, seems to be an empty room.

But on the third day, when he rises, and goes down to the lobby, to collect on his way to breakfast, the red-masted newspaper, he senses that something has changed. Then, over the slow breakfast, he sees what the change is, a perfectly small one: P’rtyuu Populatuuu has become P’rtyii Populatiii again. The fresh breakfast menu has gone from the table, to be replaced by a very old one, food-stained but in the words he had begun to learn when he arrived; the food is the same; and when he goes back upstairs to his room, to get ready for the events of this national day, men are lowering down from the opposite building the big neon sign that says SCH’VEPPUU. Over the square, the flags wave, for today’s day of National Culture; Marisja Lubijova, when she arrives in the lobby, wears a red carnation in her lapel, and seems full of excitement. ‘Well, it is your last day, and our day of happy rejoicering,’ she says, ‘It will be a good day, are you ready? Do you excite about our parade? I expect they will find a fine place for you.’ They leave the hotel to go out into packed and busy streets: ‘Oh, such a crowd on our special day,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘I hope I don’t lose you again. But I think you know the way now to Plazsci P’rtyii.’ ‘Wasn’t it once called Plazscu P’rtyuu?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, was it really?’ asks Marisja Lubijova, ‘I don’t remember. Of course our language is a little bit difficult.’ ‘Well, perhaps there was just a little confusion,’ says Petworth. But they come to the great square, whatever its name, and it has turned into a solid mass of people, standing, pressing, moving, eddying. The armed men who are everywhere are everywhere: ‘Push, push,’ says Marisja, excitedly, ‘We have a special seat, of course. And now do you see how well we love our writers and our teachers?’ And evidently they do, for it is clear that the people have come in their thousands: the soldiers and the waiters, the city-dwellers and the peasants from the countryside, the old men and women and the schoolchildren, the tourists from the first world, and the second, and the third, and however many more there are – they have all come and are standing together in the square.

A soldier blocks the way, in a beret, with a gun and a radio transmitter; Lubijova shows him a pass, and they climb up wooden steps onto a viewing stand. ‘You see we have a good place,’ says Lubijova, as they go up high, ‘You are an important visitor. From here you will see everything.’ Petworth looks across the great masses, a man not used to them. There is a little rain in the air, and some hold up umbrellas, some black, some plastic and transparent, so that they have the effect of a great pebbled beach. But more important than the umbrellas are the flags that are waving from side to side: red flags, blue and green flags, white and brown flags. ‘Oh, don’t you like the flags?’ says Lubijova, ‘Please don’t think of all the nice shirts they would make. We like them very much on our special occasions.’ And above the flags in the crowd are the great banners flapping on the poles; and above the banners and the bunting are the great photographs, those realistic images of constructed seriousness. ‘Do you recognize them?’ asks Lubijova, ‘Comrade Marx, Comrade Lenin, Comrade Brezhnev, Comrade Grigoric, Comrade Vulcani?’ ‘What happened to Comrade Wanko?’ asks Petworth ‘I don’t think I remember this Wanko,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘Of course it is hard for you to remember names in another language.’ ‘And who is Vulcani?’ asks Petworth. ‘Well, there you see him,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘Look, down the stand. The men of the Party take up their positions.’ Petworth looks along the stand, and sees faces he knows: Felix and Budgie Steadiman, she in a great green garden party hat, are waving at him. And there, in the middle, right in the centre of things, is Tankic, grinning in his plastic Homburg hat. ‘Oh, Tankic, where does he stand?’ asks Marisja, craning to see, ‘That is what we come to look for. Oh, that is nice; they must have made him the Minister of Culture! And that is Vulcani beside him, with the Russian minister. Don’t you think he is a handsome president? Oh, don’t you excite? And now they have come, the parade will begin.’

From round the comer, where the Palace of Culture stands, there comes a noise of martial music; then, through the strip in the centre, which the armed men keep clear, there comes, for some reason, a row of rocket launchers, and a tank or two. Behind the tanks comes a marching procession: ‘First the musicians,’ says Lubijova. At the front there steps a military band; behind the band are musicians of another kind, carrying violins and French horns and bassoons and cymbals. Then behind them there come, in great quantities, children in leotards, all of them carrying bunches of flowers which they wave, in ceremonial fashion, from side to side in rhythm, first to the left, then to the right. The smallest children are in the front, and then the sizes grade upward, toward the adult. ‘They are the lovers of revolutionary culture,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘And now, look, the academicians, our very best scholars.’ And now there marches, behind the children through the square, a very solemn body of men, eminent in their grey hair and neat suits. Among them it is possible to see a very familiar figure, Professor Rom Rum, his topcoat loose on his shoulders, a medal on his lapel, a sash across his chest. The barriers to the side break, to let through a bevy of small children, all carrying bouquets of flowers; they hand the flowers to the eminent men, and Professor Rum bends to kiss one on the cheek. ‘I hope you treat also so your professors and your writers,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘It shows how we like to value them. Oh, yes, look please, here come next our professors. I expect you will remember some of them from your travels.’

The professors, it must be admitted, march somewhat raggedly, like a poor conscript army following on from the élite troops the academy has managed to muster. Their armaments, too, seem less: a few have sashes, and one or two have medals, but others attempt to define their rôle by holding up, like winners of a world cup, their trophies, which are in the form of books. Among them it is indeed possible to recognize a number of familiar faces, like a reprise of the recent past. For Mrs Goko from Slaka is there, marching sturdily, and beside her the little assistants Miss Bancic and Miss Mamorian, as well as the big Mr Picnic, who still wears his sunshades and carries his camera. Professor Vlic from Glit has somehow, despite the troubled air-routes, managed to be there, transporting himself somehow from one side of the country to the other; and there too are all the short stout lady professors from the Restaurant Nada, holding up great big bunches of flowers. ‘And which are the people I didn’t meet?’ asks Petworth, ‘The ones from Nogod and Provd?’ ‘Oh, I don’t think I see them,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘I expect there has been just a little confusion. But see, look, there is your good old friend, I think? Of course he has to be there.’ Petworth looks around, and then sees, a little to the side, as if he has a procession of his own to march in, none other than Dr Plitplov. He steps out in his suit and his white sportshirt, with a blazon on the pocket, and holds rather low down over his head a big black umbrella; conspicuous in his chosen inconspicuousness, he slinks by the saluting stand, where Vulcani salutes his intellectual troops.

‘And now the writers!’ cries Lubijova, as another large company emerges from the corner beside the Palace of Culture. ‘Such a lot of them,’ says Petworth, staring at the large massed company. ‘Of course,’ says Lubijova, ‘You know we are literate country. Of course some are journalists and some make only translations, but here too are many poets and novelists. Do you impress?’ The writers, men and women, step out; the children run out from the crowd to give them flowers; there is applause from the crowd. ‘Oh, and there walks your little princess,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘So she is in Slaka.’ And there, indeed, toward the back, walks Katya Princip, looking very well. Despite the rain that is falling increasingly, she still wears her sunglasses, pushed back into her blonde hair, and is clad in the familiar batik dress. Her expression, as Petworth tries to stare into it, is clear. Around her the writers walk; and, though not generally known for their skill with flags, they all carry little flags, and wave them from side to side, now to the left, now to the right, with a regulated efficiency. Above them blow the bigger flags, the banners on the poles, red, blue and green, white and brown. And higher still, over the whole display, unbelievably big against the tiny faces of the marchers down below (at whom, or rather at one of whom, Petworth is looking), are the greater faces, some goatee-ed and some pincenez- ed, some moustached and some bearded, some stern and clean-shaven, of Marx and Lenin, Engels and Grigoric, Brezhnev and Vulcani, those writers of history without whom the present occasion would not have been possible. The writers go off toward the lower end of the square, past Grigoric’s tomb; the batik dress disappears into the mass; ‘Oh, look, now here the painters,’ cries Lubijova, tugging at Petworth’s arm.

II

It is Petworth’s last day in Slaka, and tomorrow he flies; so, as the crowds disintegrate, carrying their flags, and they all leave Plazsci P’rtyii, it makes sense to tell Marisja Lubijova that he would like to take the afternoon to himself. He takes his lunch in a stand-up cafeteria, looking out into the hotel square where men are putting up a new sign that says SCH’VEPPII; the word is changing in Slaka. Then he goes to the greasy telephone, finds a number written on a small slip of paper, and carefully dials it. ‘Da?’ says a voice at the other end. ‘Katya Princip?’ he asks. There is a pause; then the voice says, ‘Oh, really, is it you?’ ‘Yes, it’s me,’ says Petworth. ‘And you have made a good tour?’ says the voice, ‘You go to many places in my country? But now you are back, someone told me.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And did you learn anything, I hope so, you were not here for fun,’ says the voice. ‘I don’t know,’ says Petworth. ‘And do you wear still that stone?’ asks the voice, ‘Perhaps you have lost it.’ ‘No, I still have it,’ says Petworth, ‘It’s here.’ There is another pause, and then the voice says: ‘And now do you want to know the end of the story of Stupid?’ ‘I do,’ says Petworth. ‘Wait, I think,’ says the voice, ‘You know we cannot go back there to that place, the one with the lift. Things are not very easy now, I told you how it might be. You are all right?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘You know I like to see you very much,’ says the voice. ‘And I you,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course, we are in the same story,’ says the voice, ‘Listen, there is a place, if you can find it. Do you know where is the Cathedral, to Saint Valdopin?’ ‘Down by the power station?’ asks Petworth. ‘Near to the river Niyt?’ says the voice, ‘Well, can you go there, we say at three o’clock. You have your watch? Go inside there, be somewhere near the altar, wait for me. You can find it, you won’t be lost?’ ‘I can find it,’ says Petworth. ‘I waited here,’ says Katya Princip, ‘I knowed you would telephone to me. Of course I am a witch.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And I will witch you again,’ says Katya, ‘So, go there, wait for me.’

Petworth goes out into the square, buys a ticket from the stall that is marked LITTI, and gets on board a pink tram that is marked VIPNU. It is crowded in the tram, filled with children carrying flags and flowers from the morning celebrations. Gradually the tram empties, as it takes its route out over the Bridge Anniversary May 15, and rattles down the boulevards toward the new workers’ apartments; Petworth is almost the only one left when it reaches the end of the line, to turn in a circle in the marshy land near to the power station and the river Niyt. At first sight, the cathedral close to is not impressive, but he walks up the steps toward its massed blackened brick. He is very early, so he walks to the side, and finds the entrance to the crypt; paying his vloska, he goes down into the deep stone rooms where the gallery of ikons hangs. He looks for a long time at the dark strained faces, staring out from the paint, the tempera, the gilding, uttering the pain, the faith, the love behind their sacred stories. It is nearly three, time to look for the person he wants so much to meet again; he goes outside, and walks to the great curved porch, scattered with confetti from a recent wedding. He steps inside, into the great solemn darkness, everywhere lit by spluttering beeswax candles, which scent the air. From the central dome comes more light, falling over painted canopies and the plaster, silver and gold of the great long altar; the altar is set far forward in the nave, as if to protect deeper mysteries within. The cathedral is almost empty; a few, a very few, old ladies in shawls kneel in the side chapels under lit candles; a small number of tourists wander about in the half-dark, with cameras slung round their necks; somewhere in the darkness, a priest is intoning.

Petworth walks toward the altar, looking for the person he has not at all forgotten, the person who makes all other faces somehow look like hers. There are alcoves near the altar, one of them holding a glinting silver tomb; in the half-dark someone comes out of one, toward him. ‘Oh, are you here, my good old friend?’ says a familiar voice; Petworth stares at Dr Plitplov, with his sharp black eyes, his natty shirt, his elegant little handbag, ‘And you have turned back to Slaka safely, I am very glad. You have made your tour in some awkward days, but I hope it did not spoil it at all.’ ‘Not at all,’ says Petworth. ‘And now you look at our cathedral,’ says Plitplov, ‘Do you like it? I do not much, myself. Always I remember how the priests took from the peasants all their money, in those past times. Of course sometimes they have made something very fine of it. I hope you notice this tomb, Saint Valdopin, he was a very famous saint of us.’ ‘Saint of ours,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, ‘Always I get so excited when I see my good old friend. Do you like to walk? Or perhaps you are meeting someone?’ ‘Well, no,’ says Petworth. ‘No, you don’t?’ asks Plitplov, ‘And your lady-guide is not with you? That is very unusual.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘But there are certain businesses we must always do on our own,’ says Plitplov, ‘You are sure you don’t meet someone? Perhaps a lady? Always you are lucky with the ladies.’ ‘No,’ says Petworth. ‘Of course you are right to be very cautious,’ says Plitplov, ‘I told you this: in my country always one must be an artist of relations. Well, at last you seem to learn quite well your lesson. But I am your good old friend, I know your wife, you know that you can trust me, I think. I know you mean to meet here a certain lady writer.’

‘Really, do you?’ says Petworth, walking away. ‘My dear friend, please, I do not mean to make you embarrassment,’ says Plitplov, coming after him, ‘Understand me, please, I also know that lady. You know what is go-between, she sends me with a message. She cannot come now, there is a difficulty, a small confusion. Her life is not so easy now as before, I think you know why, I believe you had a finger in that pie?’ ‘You’ve seen her,’ says Petworth. ‘You rang on the telephone,’ says Plitplov, ‘That was to my apartment. Sometimes she is there. She asks me to tell that she is very sorry and that she likes to see you, very much. She regrets that you do not meet again before you leave Slaka, it is tomorrow, I think?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘But she likes to send you a present,’ says Plitplov, ‘Do you like to walk outside, on that terrace? Perhaps it is the smoke of all these candles, but I feel again a little headache.’ They go out of the porch and onto a paved terrace; side by side, mosquitoes buzzing by their ears, they stare down into the marshy waters of the river below them. ‘A present?’ asks Petworth. ‘A very nice present,’ says Plitplov, ‘Her new book. And she tells that if you read it you will find the end of the story of Stupid.’ Petworth stares down at the turgid waters below; ‘But I can’t read it,’ he says after a moment, ‘I haven’t learned the language.’ ‘I think you will read it,’ says Plitplov, ‘I think you read French.’ ‘It’s in French?’ asks Petworth. ‘No, it is not yet in French,’ says Plitplov, ‘But there is someone in Paris, a good old friend. He likes to translate that book, and publish it there. You understand that since certain difficulties, I think you know them, you had a finger in that pie, she cannot publish that book here. Of course it is not so easy to get it out of the country.’

‘I see,’ says Petworth, ‘You want me to take this typescript out of the country.’ ‘I believe you have a book by this writer before,’ says Plitplov, ‘Well, it is just another. No one will stop you, you carry papers all the time, you are a lecturer. And the next weekend you can take it to that person in Paris.’ ‘I’m not going to Paris next weekend,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, I think so,’ says Plitplov, ‘I have telephoned your wife, your Lottie. She asks why you do not call, and sends you her love. We have made some arrangements and she likes to be in Paris. Of course she thinks I will be there also but that will not be possible. There is a café, the Rotonde, that person will meet you there. I hope you don’t mind, you know how I like to make plans for you. Already I begin to arrange your tour next year in my country.’ ‘My tour?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, ‘You still have those lectures to make at Nogod and Provd. Everyone likes you to come because you make such good talks. And you know I have a string or so I can pull.’ ‘I don’t think I want to make another tour here,’ says Petworth. ‘My dear good friend,’ says Plitplov, ‘Do you know how you get a good apartment here, I will tell you. You must make some bribes in hard currency. Otherwise you wait for five years.’ ‘What has that to do with it?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course,’ says Plitplov, ‘By this time there will be many francs in Paris, of the book. You change those francs into dollar, bring here all those dollar when you make your next tour, and there is a very nice apartment.’ ‘And who is this very nice apartment for?’ asks Petworth. ‘That lady writer, who sends you her present, and cares for you so much,’ says Plitplov, ‘And also perhaps her very good friend.’

Petworth stares down at the stagnant water below him; he says, after a moment, ‘And you are that very good friend?’ Plitplov stares down at the water too; he says, after a moment, ‘Perhaps we all have a secret. Sometimes it is a sausage, sometimes it is more.’ ‘And you’ve been that good friend for quite a long time?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course in my country, people need a friend,’ says Plitplov, ‘I have made some books, I write in the newspaper, my criticisms are well respected, even on Hemingway. It is not so easy to survive here if people do not help each other. I am sorry you did not meet my wife. She is a very dull person. She does not even make a very good dinner. I think you would understand it, but perhaps you do. You know very well these things yourself. Really I think we know each other very well, now. I am very glad you came, and I enjoy well your lectures. Sometimes your theories are not correct, but you make up for it with good examples. Well, of course, I will say farewell to you at the airport. The package will be small and it will go well into your briefcase. If they ask you at the donay’ii, tell them you must have picked it up by accident in a confusion at a conference. And I think it is always a pleasure to go to Paris, perhaps like a little honeymoon.’ ‘And why should I do this?’ asks Petworth. ‘Of course there are ways of embarrassing everyone,’ says Plitplov, ‘You have not been so discreet on your tour. Really it would not be hard to make some difficulties for you. Perhaps you would have to stay here a long time in our country, not in the best conditions. But I do not make those reasons to you, because you know there is another.’ ‘Do I?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, that lady writer, she likes me a little, and I am useful. Soon Professor Rum will not be doing so well, there is a new regime, so it is good to have a friend who is all right, with Tankic and some others. These are our necessities, you know it. But for you there is a different feeling, I don’t know why, of course I am jealous. She tells she has to see you again: that is why she sends her book, it is the book of you both together. You will see she dedicates to you. She says: here you will see, you are in one story. Also she asks me to say to you one more thing: I mean to give you a better sense of existence. Do you think you know what that means?’

‘Yes,’ says Petworth, turning away from the parapet. ‘And so I find you at the airport?’ asks Plitplov, ‘I must know you really mean it. You know you will do something very good.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, perhaps I will be a bit elusive there, you may not see me,’ says Plitplov, ‘Now, how our exchange is done, what you must do. Take in there your bags, put them down by the stall that is marked Cosmoplot. It is in the centre, you do not miss. Do not lock please your briefcase. Leave it there, ask to go for a cup of coffee, there is a place. Wait a few minute, then remember you have left it, and go back. That is all, and you do it?’ ‘Yes,’says Petworth. ‘I am so pleased to see you again, my good old friend,’ says Plitplov, shaking his hand, ‘And you have made very good visit. I do not ashame I pulled those string for you. Well, my friend, I think perhaps here is our farewell. I don’t think I will talk to you tomorrow, though I wish your flight well. I hope you will remember always your visit very nicely, I hope you think once more about the work of Hemingway, I hope you give to your nice Lottie my love and wishes to meet again. Most, I cannot tell you how much I wait your next visit here. And not I only, you know that other one waits longingly for you.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘So, do you go back now to your hotel?’ asks Plitplov briskly, ‘It is the tram marked Wang’liki over there, but first you must buy ticket at the Litti.’ ‘I know,’ says Petworth. As he gets on the tram, Petworth looks across to the Cathedral of Saint Valdopin; Plitplov, with his bright, bird-like look, is standing on the steps. But when, a moment later, he looks through the glass, he has gone, quite suddenly, as he once did before.

That night, in the hotel, Petworth eats a solitary meal in the great dining-room, where the sad singer sings again, songs of love, songs of betrayal; he sits and thinks of obscure processes, strange machinations, stories perhaps of love, perhaps of betrayal, in which he has some unexpected part. He does not know whether these stories started before he arrived, or because he arrived. The singer tosses her hair, the gipsies fiddle, in the city of flowers and song, chaos and confession; Petworth goes down into the cellar bar, where the silvery whores laugh, and look at him. Late that night, he wakes up; he is sweating, and in a state of high anxiety. He exists, he does not. Darkness fills the room he is in; he is not quite sure what room it is, where he is. A tram clatters somewhere; he is in the dark, and under the dialectic. The duvet has come off him and his naked legs are out in cold air. The duvet is piled beside him, tugged over someone who lies there, her back against him, warm. His hand is evidently trapped under her shoulders, the circulation fading, pain in his fingers; his heart beats furiously. Troubled, curious, he senses the shape of the flesh beside him: the skin in its long planes, hollowed here, puffed there, the outward spill of the breasts, the pucker of the nipples, the inward tug of the navel, the fuzz at the groin, the intricate vaginal crease. He is afraid he has done wrong, he feels guilt. And someone watches the wrong, requires a confession and an expiation. He switches on the great brass bedside lamp; the duvet is crumpled beside him; there is no one there. Light flashes on the ceiling, with its romping cupids, its great crack; he puts off the lamp, covers himself, struggles for sleep.

III

And now it is morning again, and Petworth sits for the last time in a red plastic chair in the lobby of the Hotel Slaka, his luggage – the blue suitcase, the battered briefcase, but no longer the Heathrow bag – round about his feet. He has taken breakfast, the familiar breakfast that bears no relation to the menu, the old food-stained menu he had seen on his very first day. A weak sun shines across the square outside, with its grinding trams, and looks into the great dusty hallway. In the hallway, his guide, Marisja Lubijova, stands at the desk, talking to the Cosmoplot girl with the splayed lacquered hair, under the photographs showing portraits of Lenin, Grigoric and Vulcani. ‘Oh, they are such bureaucrats,’ Marisja cries, hurrying over to him, ‘They say you have burned a hole in the bedspread at Glit. Of course I have fixed it, I tell them the Min’stratii will pay it. And now do you have everything, all your presents, your souvenirs? You are ready to go?’ An orange taxi is already waiting beyond the glass doors; they get into it, and drive out through the busy square. COPT, says a sign, and PECTOPAH; in the little side street, down toward Plazsci P’rtyii, the faces of the men of history hang, with the wind taking them; so that now it is Marx high and Lenin low, now Engels up and Kruschev down, now Grigoric above and Vulcani below, and now it is the opposite. In the corner of the taxi, Lubijova sits, twisting the strap of her shoulderbag. ‘Well, my dear Comrade Petwurt, you know I shall miss you?’ she says, ‘In my country we have a saying; I am always telling you our sayings. We say, if you come to Slaka once, always you come again. And I think it is a little bit possible, don’t you?’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth, ‘I think it is quite possible.’

‘Well, that is good, I think it means you liked our country,’ says Lubijova, taking out a notebook and scribbling in it, ‘And, look, if I give you an address, do you try and see me? Perhaps I will not be there, but you can try. Or perhaps I might even be your guide again, if you make an official tour. I hope you do, next time a proper one. This one was really a little unusual.’ ‘There were just a few small confusions,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, I am sorry about my confusions,’ says Lubijova, ‘But I hope you think I was always good guide, you know I tried it. And I think you always needed one.’ ‘I think everyone needs one,’ says Petworth, ‘You were a very good guide.’ ‘And do you remember what we nearly did at Glit, and did not?’ asks Lubijova, ‘I remember it.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘And now you go home to your wife, is it Lottie?’ asks Lubijova, ‘The one who smokes the small cigars, the friend of Plitplov.’ ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, that will be nice for you,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘But I don’t think you will tell her all that happens to you, not this time.’ ‘No, I don’t think so,’ says Petworth. ‘No,’ says Marisja, ‘You will have to make up a story. But then you have learned some things about stories. You still have that book I gave you? You know, written by that one? Do you think now you will try to read it?’ ‘Perhaps,’ says Petworth. ‘Really you have not learned much of our language,’ says Marisja. ‘Well, enough to have an idea,’ says Petworth. ‘And your diseases have all gone away? Your mouth is all better?’ asks Marisja. ‘Yes,’ says Petworth. The long straight road now stretches ahead toward the airport, with the power station and the cathedral to the right. ‘Oh, what a pity, you did not go to the cathedral,’ says Marisja Lubijova, ‘But is good to keep one thing for another time.’ ‘Yes, it is,’ says Petworth. ‘And I think you will come,’ says Marisja, ‘You know I am a little bit psychic.’

A familiar gilded onion dome appears on the skyline; there are aircraft beacons in the flat wide fields that spread out to the jagged horizon. On the airport concourse stand the blue armed men; one of them comes up to the taxi when it stops in an unpermitted place, but Mari Lubijova, a good guide still, is persuasive. They go into the departure building, wooden, low, a little bigger than the building into which, two weeks ago, he came. The crowds mill, with their luggage; ‘Change money, change money,’ says someone, clutching his arm a trifle desperately, in the press. There is a stall marked LITTI, another marked TYP’ICHII, another marked COSMOPLOT, in the centre, with a girl in a green uniform writing at it. Long lines wait at the two small, slow check-in desks. ‘Do you like to check now?’ asks Marisja Lubijova. ‘I think there’s just time for a cup of coffee,’ says Petworth, putting down his luggage by the Cosmoplot desk, and looking for a sight of a crisp white sports shirt, a natty pair of trousers, but there is nothing of that sort to be seen at all. ‘Oh, do you like?’ says Marisja, ‘It is this way, and, yes, you have time.’ His luggage left by the Cosmoplot stand, Petworth pushes through the crowd after Marisja. But, suddenly, there is a commotion behind them; one of the blue armed men comes urgently through the crowd, pushing aside priests in robes, old ladies with cardboard boxes, shouting and waving his gun. ‘Oh, Petwurt, what do you do now?’ asks Marisja, stopping, ‘Oh, really, how do you do it, he tells you forget again your luggage. It is not permitted to leave it, you must go back. Really, you are hopeless, don’t you say so? Maybe I should come to England with you. I do not know how you can live at all without me.’ ‘No,’ says Petworth.

He walks back to the Cosmoplot stall, where his bags stand, apparently undisturbed; and that is hardly surprising, for another blue armed man stands firmly over them, legs astride. ‘You see how our militias like to look after you,’ says Marisja, ‘Now they like you to check it at once. Our people here do not steal, but they do not like anything to happen to you. You are our important visitor.’ So, an important visitor, firmly flanked by two armed men, Petworth is led to the head of the queue at check-in, while the other passengers stand patiently, casting only the smallest and most oblique of glances at the business being conducted. The green Cosmoplot girl takes his ticket and both his bags; slowly and painfully, she writes LHR on two baggage tags, fixes them to the luggage, and puts it behind her. ‘That is good,’ says Lubijova, ‘Now you will not see them again until you must show what you have at the donay’ii. That is your boarding pass, put it please in your pocket, one where you will find it, or you will be in Slaka all your life. I don’t mind, but perhaps you do. And your passport, you have it? And what about your moneys? You know you must not take any vloskan out of the country?’ ‘I’d better give it all to you,’ says Petworth, reaching in his pocket for the finished money, useless for further exchange. ‘Oh, Petwurt, are those your riches?’ asks Marisja, laughing, ‘Don’t you know you have left only five? This is not too much. Perhaps a hundred tram tickets, or thirty loaves of bread. I think you can keep that in case you have some duties on your souvenirs. Our donay’ii, very strict. And I hope you don’t take any forbidden things. Antiquities, any ikons? They will not like you if you have such things.’ ‘No, I don’t,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, now if you like, we take our cup of coffee, with no worries,’ says Marisja, ‘I do not like to say goodbye to you, do you understand?’

Petworth understands, but something is happening to him; under the strange dulling grammar of airports, all feeling except a sense of anxiety begins to go. The announcements come through the loudspeakers, in a confusion of languages; words become part of the endless web of multilingua that runs through the head like a dream. The flight-boards are fluttering, signs turning toward redundancy; the city that two weeks has built in his mind no longer seems close. The coffee cloys and does not taste like coffee; the people already begin to look strange. ‘Attenzie, slibob,’ says a girl over the loudspeakers, ‘The flucht of BA to London now boards after all formalities.’ ‘My flight,’ says Petworth. Facing him at the counter, her features looking paler and more tense than he has ever seen, Marisja Lubijova is looking at him. ‘Petwurt, Petwurt,’ she says, ‘Oh, it is goodbye. And there is no way to say it, really, no words that can be right. Do you know any? I don’t. But you remember our custom?’ ‘Your custom?’ asks Petworth; but his words choke, as two warm arms come round his neck, his face goes down, he is tugged forward into two soft breasts that are pressed forward at him, into him. ‘Thank you,’ says Petworth, ‘My very good guide.’ ‘Cam’radakii,’ says Mari, adding a kiss, ‘For me you really are. And I hope for you I am a little bit also.’ ‘You are,’ says Petworth; but the crowd is moving, toward the labyrinth of departure, and he must move with them, to get on his flight, and ahead there is an armed man, holding his gun out over a black line across the floor, and beyond there is a row of small curtained stalls, and a sign that says IDENTAY’II. He looks back, and sees that he has already gone through a gate that Marisja Lubijova cannot pass; she stands behind it, waving, shouting ‘Goodbye, comrade Petwurt.’ He turns and waves and shouts goodbye; the armed man nudges him lightly with the gun, to move him forward.

And then he is again in the familiar labyrinth of the airport, the boxes that follow on from boxes. In the booth marked IDENTAY’II, where four armed men sit, they look at his passport, and one of the men tears away the rest of his visa. In the booth marked GELDAY’II, his unfilled document causes doubt and much inspection; but ‘Ned vloskan, turnii off’icayii min’stratam culturam komitetam,’ says Petworth; ‘Ah, da, va,’ says the man, stamping the document and letting him through. Caught in the grammar of airports, already less a subject and more an object, Petworth walks on, into the larger hall beyond, marked DONAY’II. At the end of it, many uniformed men work in supermarket aisles, tipping out luggage, checking pockets and wallets. The tagged flight luggage is stacked on trolleys at the entrance to the hall, to be identified and carried to the inspection. The blue suitcase, the battered briefcase, sit there; and, as Petworth picks them up, anxiety strikes him, an anxiety like the anxiety that has been with him throughout his tour, an anxiety not unlike that which has been with him all his life, but an anxiety incremented, made intense, so that, if one was looking for a word to describe it, as a linguist should, then perhaps the word would be: terror. He puts the bags down in front of one of the uniformed men, who looks at him, and begins to open them: first the blue suitcase, with its jumble of dirtied shirts, discarded underpants and used socks, its torn best suit, split past the crotch, its small scatter of peacemaking presents, its scrap of handmade embroidery, its well-wrapped glass decanter from MUG, the sum of his travelling being. But not quite the full sum, for there is also his briefcase, with his lectures and writings and notes, his mature reflections on the Uvular R, his comprehensive version of English as a medium of international communication. The case falls open, and there are the books, Lyons and Chomsky, Fowler and Princip, Transformational Grammar and Nodu Hug; and the crumpled, beaten papers, held together with their rusting paperclips; and, in the middle, a thick bright wad of new paper, shining in its cleanliness, the story of Stupid.

And Petworth now thinks that he knows the end of the story of Stupid, and that it is here, where the uniformed man stands fumbling into the bags, unfolding, unwrapping, unpacking, scattering. For Petworth can see very clearly that not all the people who are lining up in expectation of taking this flight are going onward, into the departure lounge further on; some are being turned back, some being led off into side rooms for further questioning, some being inspected by more senior officers who come from a room at the back. And it is one of these that is being called by the uniformed man now; he walks over, in his blue shirt, and stares into the two jumbled bags. ‘Something wrong?’ asks Petworth. ‘You don’t speak our language?’ says the man. ‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘Not really.’ ‘Yes, a thing wrong,’ says the man. ‘What is it?’ asks Petworth. ‘You don’t know?’ says the man, ‘You make an offence.’ ‘What offence?’ asks Petworth. ‘This,’ says the man, reaching into the luggage, and picking up the glass decanter that Petworth has bought in MUG, ‘Not for export.’ ‘No?’ says Petworth. ‘No,’ says the man, holding the decanter up high, as if to examine the texture of the glass; it slips, as if by mistake, though it does not seem to be a mistake, from his fingers, and smashes to the floor. On the tiles, glinting, lie the broken pieces of the elegant, crafted construction; Petworth stares at them. ‘You don’t know it is not permitted?’ asks the man. ‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘You will know when you come again,’ says the man, going back into his office.

And Petworth walks on, into the small departure lounge, where a strained and clearly depleted band of passengers stands, wiping their heads with handkerchieves and waiting for the London flight. There are some hard chairs and even a small duty-free shop, selling vodka and rot’vitti, hand embroidery and glass decanters, curiously like the one that has just been shattered in DONAY’II. But this does not detain Petworth, for the room has mesh-covered windows, and beyond them is the tarmac, where there stand the blue buses, the tank carriers, the rows of lined-up planes. One of the planes is in British Airways livery; it is an ancient Trident, the union flag flaking rather on its tail; that does not matter, for Petworth would like to be on it. But there is a wait, a long wait, as passengers filter through into the tiny lounge. Then, suddenly, a green stewardess comes through and goes to the locked door; she picks up a microphone. ‘Attention, slibob, here is flugzig informato,’ she says, ‘Soon the flight to London of BA boards at a certain gate. For security, all baggages, including hand ones, shall be identified and placed on the cart before is boarded the bus. To take baggages into the plane is not permitted.’ She unlocks the door; Petworth steps outside, puts the old, heavy burden of his luggage onto the trolley, and gets inside the blue bus. Soon it is juddering him across the concrete to the stand where the Trident waits. He goes up the steps, into the round cabin where a concealed tape plays, for some reason, ‘Way Down Upon the Swanee River.’ ‘Hello sir,’ says an affable stewardess in a familiar uniform; ‘This way, please,’ says another, with gloves on, leading him down the cabin to seat 21D.

‘Thank you,’ says Petworth, sitting down, ‘Thank you very much.’ Fastening his lap-strap, he leans across the passenger between him and the window, in 21E, and looks out through the globed glass. Beyond it, no distance at all away really, is the tarmac, with on it a few flight-handlers working at their familiar tasks, and a crowd of armed men, with long flared topcoats and boots up to the knee in cavalry fashion. Beyond them are the lined-up planes on their stands; beyond them one can see, white in the sunlight, the wooden terminal buildings, with their tightly closed doors, the signs above them saying OTVAT. On the roof of the building is an area where people stand and wave; they are, most of them, dressed in a certain formality, the women in bulky cotton dresses, the men in Sunday suits, though it is in fact Saturday. The plane windows are curdled from flight, so that it is not easy to project distances, or identify anyone exactly. But it does seem that, among the waving wavers, one of them, tall and dressed in grey, could well be Marisja Lubijova, her hand in the air. There are more men than women, and they look indistinguishable; but there is one, much further along, right at the end of the row, in natty sports shirt and trousers, who might possibly be Dr Plitplov, though this could well be an optical illusion. But, however hard one looks, there is no one there at all resembling the brilliant, batik-clad magical realist novelist Katya Princip. Beyond are the trees that line the airport perimeter, and poking up into the sky amongst them a golden onion, the spire-dome of a church; and beyond that is, as is well-known, the city, with its hotels and bars, its museums and cathedrals.

And inside is the cabin. On the forward bulkhead are lighted signs, saying FASTEN SEAT BELTS and NO SMOKING. It smells faintly of cleaning fluid, though no one has cleaned out the seat-pockets or the ashtrays. Petworth is old, old enough to remember the days when all British air captains had names like Hardy, and Frobisher, and Savage, just as all stewardesses seemed to come from county families and served, as it were, from the sideboard. But things change; it is not quite so on today’s flight BA231. The gloved stewardess who is now checking his lapstrap has acne. ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain, Captain Smith,’ says a voice over the intercom, ‘We’ve got what they call a gatehold here, that means something or other’s got to be sorted out. We’d serve you a drink, but local regulations don’t allow it. I’d like to introduce your steward today, Mr Maggs, and your delightful stewardesses Babs and Shirlene. Let’s hope the delay won’t be long, and we’ll soon be pushing off.’ ‘Isn’t that typical Slaka?’ says the passenger who sits between Petworth and the window, in 21E. It seems to Petworth that the man, who wears a suit and striped tie, and has a smell of rot’vitti strongly on his breath, is familiar; that indeed he closely resembles the man who was led off by the khaki soldiers on the day of Petworth’s arrival, two remote weeks ago. ‘They let you all on so they can take you off again,’ says the man, ‘Just to create a false sense of security. I’ve seen it, I’ve seen it. Fifty get on, only forty fly. I’m here often, I sell scalpels.’ ‘Do you really?’ asks Petworth. ‘Oh, yes,’ says the man, ‘One of those fields in which they respect our British know-how.’ ‘Do they?’ asks Petworth. ‘It’s an interesting job,’ says the man, ‘I like travel. The only problem is, they have no idea how to do business. For instance, you can never find anybody there who’s actually empowered to buy anything. You have a very nice time, sitting in cafés talking over coffee and brandy; then you find you’re with completely the wrong chap. They’re a little bit elusive, if you know what I mean.’ ‘Yes, I do,’ says Petworth. ‘Oh, look,’ says the man, tapping the window, ‘This is what all the fuss is about.’

Petworth cranes to look out; two figures, one carrying a suitpack, and both surrounded by a bevy of armed men, are coming toward the plane, disappearing under the wing. The steps are put back against the plane’s side; there is a thudding of footsteps, and of people entering at the back of the cabin. Petworth turns to look, to see coming down the aisle a man in a fine suit, carrying an umbrella, and a woman bright in a green party hat. ‘Oh, look, how marvellous,’ says the lady, looking down at him, ‘It’s darling Angus. Do you mind if I sit next to you?’ ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have our start clearance, so we’ll push off now,’ says Captain Smith over the intercom, ‘We’re flying to Heathrow with a stopover at Frankfurt, a short stop, so we’d like all ongoing passengers to remain in their seats. I can’t give you a flight-time because there’s still a bit of a problem at Heathrow, and we may be diverted. But I’ll let you know more about that nearer the time.’ The engines roar; slowly at first, then with growing rapidity, the plane begins to move. ‘Thank God,’ says the man who sells scalpels, in 21E. ‘Take hold of my hand and hold it very tight,’ says Budgie Steadiman in 21C, ‘I’ve never understood why these things should suddenly rise up into the air, when the perfectly natural thing is for them to continue straight along the ground.’ But rise, rise, rise into the air it does, over the polythene crop covers and the onion dome. ‘They seem to have given you very special treatment,’ says Petworth, ‘Is this diplomatic privilege?’ ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ says Budgie, continuing to squeeze Petworth’s hand very tightly, ‘We were being bundled out of the country. I thought they did it very well.’

The wheels come up, the casings lock; below, in a haze, is the city, the apartment blocks, the strange web of streets, the moving pink trams, the great central square, Plazsci P’rtyii, the castle of Vlam up on its rock. The bulkhead signs go out; Petworth, one-handed, lights a cigarette, thinking of the briefcase in the hold, the story of Stupid, the troubled world he flies above. ‘Bundled out?’ he says, ‘God, I hope it had nothing to do with—’ ‘Of course,’ says Budgie, ‘Everyone’s bound to think it was I. Being so famous for my indiscretion. No, that was absolutely nothing to do with it. I come out white as driven snow.’ Below, cloud is drifting over, but one can just see the orange pollution of a power station, the bulk of a cathedral that seems to have had its top knocked off, a river spilling everywhere beyond its banks, a jagged cup of mountains. ‘Then what was it?’ asks Petworth. ‘It was Felix,’ says Budgie, still holding his hand, ‘He did something to a peasant.’ ‘Ra ra ran over him, actually,’ says Felix Steadiman, leaning across the aisle in his blood-speckled shirt. ‘He stepped out in front when Felix was driving along, absolutely perfectly properly actually,’ says Budgie, ‘Then he lay in the road and said he was dead.’ ‘Yes, we were in a pa pa part of the country we shouldn’t have been. That rather counted against us,’ says Steadiman. ‘The ambassador moved awfully fast, though, I must say,’ says Budgie, ‘For one of his years.’ ‘Probably turn out to be a bi bi bit of luck,’ says Steadiman, ‘You know they expect the Vulcani regime to announce martial law this evening. Oh, froliki, some thirsty people here. Could we have a gin and tonic?’ ‘Yes, sir, as soon as we leave their airspace,’ says the stewardess, smiling down at him, ‘Sma sma smashing girl,’ says Steadiman.

Below, the cloud has covered, and there is nothing to be seen. There is something in the air, perhaps to do with the ears, that changes the world obscurely; one can scarcely dispute Marx’s proposition that changes in condition produce changes in thought. Consciousness shifts; words and concepts change in weight; reality is not eternal, but a collective construct. Yet things elsewhere matter, history is universal: ‘Martial law?’ asks Petworth. ‘Yes, end of lib lib liberalization,’ says Steadiman, ‘Vulcani’s an old soldier. I expect things will be rather sticky for some of those people you met. You’re well out. I tried to call you at the ho ho hotel actually, but the telephones were cut. You had no trouble leaving?’ ‘No, not really,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, jolly good,’ says Steadiman, ‘Ah, my dear, I take it we’re all gin and tonics? Yes, three, please, with ice and lemon, and could you bring some nice nuts?’ ‘It’s the quarrelling I’m looking forward to,’ says Budgie, ‘We can do it all the time.’ ‘You realize this is probably the end of my dip dip diplomatic career?’ says Steadiman. ‘Don’t be gloomy, Felix,’ says Budgie, ‘Better than twenty years with your lorry drivers. And there’s still always Bangladesh. I do hope Angus, you’ll come and visit us on your next tour. You do do this kind of thing a lot, don’t you? One would not want an acquaintance like ours to lapse.’ ‘Here you are, drinkies,’ says Felix Steadiman, ‘Did you actually get to Provd?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘There was a small confusion and they dropped out that bit.’ ‘Pity, really,’ says Steadiman, ‘That might have been interesting. That’s where they were shoe shoe shooting people. You didn’t see anything of that anywhere?’ ‘No,’ says Petworth, ‘I suppose I’m just not a character in the world historical sense.’ ‘Well, anyway,’ says Steadiman, ‘Ch ch ch ch cheers.’ ‘Yes, cheers,’ says Petworth.

There is a brief stopover in a very rainy Frankfurt, where a few of the passengers get off; the rest remain strapped in their seats, unable even to go and visit Dr Müller’s Sex Shop, for that intimate small present that might please her so much. There is a glimpse of autobahn, packed, as the flight resumes, and then soon they are circling and recircling a strikebound Heathrow, while Budgie grasps Petworth’s hand in a desperate grip: ‘These people always think they’ve got more petrol than they really have,’ she says. But the signs come on, and soon there is a glimpse of a red bus and they are running along the runway. They go through the long half-empty endless corridors and through the United Kingdom channel in immigration; beyond is the luggage hall where the carousels turn. Petworth collects a cart and goes to the turning machine with a sign marked SLAKA, where luggage vomits into view and is collected. The businessman in scalpels, from 21E, waves and walks off; ‘Are you coming?’ asks Budgie, holding his hand again. ‘No, my briefcase hasn’t turned up, they seem to be leaving it till last,’ says Petworth. ‘Well, Felix has to go straight to a debriefing at the FO,’ says Budgie, ‘So it looks like au revoir, though not, I trust, goodbye.’ There is another kiss, and then, in their fine clothes, the Steadimen walk out. Petworth waits for a while longer, and then goes to a desk. A clerk in a white shirt makes some telephone calls, and then says: ‘I’m afraid they offloaded your briefcase at Frankfurt by mistake.’ ‘Oh, no,’ says Petworth, ‘When will I get it?’ ‘I’m afraid you won’t,’ says the clerk, ‘When they found the passenger wasn’t scheduled through the airport, their security people blew it up.’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth, ‘You’ll take more care of me.’ ‘Well, these days one has to be very cautious,’ says the clerk, ‘You’re entitled to make a claim, of course. Was there anything in it of great value?’ ‘I suppose not,’ says Stupid. He walks away, following the signs, the words, the arrows, that lead him out, through the green channel that means nothing to declare, into the Heathrow concourse; where, at the barrier, he sees, waving at him, his dark wife.