Rates of Exchange (10 page)

‘Tell me,’ says Petworth, sitting in his puddle, ‘Would you say now things were thawing or freezing?’ ‘Well, thawing, really,’ says the grey-haired lady,
‘Or they wouldn’t have asked you. On the other hand, they are beginning to freeze again. Since Afghanistan and the Reagan hard line and the failure of détente and the collapse of
SALT. Actually we’re very interested in your visit, because it’s rather a test of the mood. If it goes well, we’ll hope for more. Or course if it goes wrong, we’ll reassess
the whole programme.’ ‘Goes wrong?’ asks Petworth, looking up, ‘How might it go wrong?’ ‘Well, it does happen,’ says the grey-haired lady, opening up the
file in front of her and looking into it, ‘Tell me, my dear, you aren’t a bugger, are you?’ ‘Pardon?’ asks Petworth. ‘There’s nothing here about your
sexual tastes,’ says the lady. ‘I see,’ says Petworth, ‘No, I’m not.’ ‘Not that we’re against buggers in the Council,’ says the lady. ‘I
always thought not,’ says Petworth. ‘One’s all for life’s pleasures,’ says the lady, shaking out the match with which she has just lit a fresh cigarette, ‘The
trouble is there’s very high surveillance there, and their security police – they’re called HOGPo, actually – are rather keen on that sort of thing. They find it very good
grounds for blackmail. One can hardly blame them, really, they’ve done rather well out of our British taste, as you well know.’ ‘I suppose so,’ says Petworth. ‘Yes, if
one were asked to sum up Eastern Europe in a phrase,’ says the lady, ‘one would say it was their buggers listening in on ours. So you’re totally hetero, my dear.’
‘Well, I am, yes,’ says Petworth, staring down into the gloomy grounds of the coffee. ‘Well, in that case,’ says the lady, ‘do be careful. Practise out of sight, and
above all avoid the whores in all the main hotels and nightclubs.’ ‘I will,’ says Petworth. ‘And they’ll undoubtedly give you a guide-interpreter,’ says the
lady, ‘Sometimes they’re tough old biddies, but sometimes they go for rather attractive young females. Think of her as totally forbidden fruit, it’s probably a plant. Remember, in
this world, everyone reports to someone; them to theirs, us to ours.’ ‘But I don’t,’ says Petworth, ‘And I have no information worth having whatsoever. Except about
linguistics.’ ‘Yes, well, we’ll come to that in a minute,’ says the lady, ‘More coffee.’ ‘No, thank you,’ says Petworth, steaming in his chair.

‘Yes, well, now, my dear,’ says the lady, ‘I’m not sure what hotel they’ll put you in, probably the Europa. But do assume as a matter of course that the room is
bugged, most of them are. There’s not much you can do about it, except take care. But I always like to hang a towel over the mirror when I get into bed. They photograph through them, you
know, and you never are sure what you’ll be doing. Of course nowadays they’ve got these advanced multi-directional microphones that can pick up anything at enormous distances, so if
they’re interested in you they can usually find you. But if you’re talking to anyone, or worse, try banging spoons on the woodwork, or run the shower and do it in the bathroom. Better
still, go outside. The only real place to chat or make love is in a newly ploughed field, but they’re not always easy to come by.’ ‘I suppose not,’ says Petworth.
‘There are all sorts of ways of getting you if they want you,’ says the lady, ‘But do avoid illegal currency transactions. Everyone will try to buy your Western money, but
it’s a crime against the state and they can put you in prison for years. And don’t bring papers or documents out of the country, however compassionate the story; that’s another
favourite. Always stick firmly to the titles of your lectures, don’t comment on national events, and try to keep all politics right out of it.’ ‘Well, there aren’t many
politics in linguistics,’ says Petworth. ‘I expect that’s why they chose to ask you,’ says the grey-haired lady, ‘But you’d be surprised. If you should get
picked up by HOGPo at all, try not to eat anything. They’re particularly fond of drugged chocolates and poisoned cigarettes, for some reason. Of course all these are just common-sense
precautions; nothing’s likely to happen to you. Unless they suddenly decide they want to trade someone for someone, or something.’ ‘I see,’ says Petworth, ‘I think I
will have another cup of coffee.’

‘Sorry I couldn’t offer you lunch,’ says the lady, ‘I’ve found the most marvellous Indonesian round the corner, but you know our budget’s been cut, like
everyone else’s. Georgina, Dr Petworth would love another cup of your coffee. I say, dear, haven’t you had your hair done? I think it’s super.’ ‘Thank you,’ says
Georgina, ‘Same again?’ ‘Black this time,’ says Petworth. ‘Well,’ says the grey-haired lady, snapping shut the file in front of her, and smiling at him.
‘I’m sure you’ll have the most marvellous tour there. I was posted there, you know, I loved it. Slaka’s a very delightful city, you know, lots of old buildings and parks and
flowers and gipsy music. And you’re perfectly entitled to dismiss your guide when you’re not working, and get in lots of sightseeing. Incidentally, let me recommend the cathedral.
It’s just out of town, but the ikons are marvellous, and I always say you can’t get into much trouble in a cathedral. There’s a lot of very nice craftwork, some of it you
can’t bring out, but do watch out for the handmade embroidery. Your wife, you’ve got one, haven’t you, will love it, and you might as well buy masses, since you can’t bring
any money out with you, you know. Ah, here’s Georgina with your lovely coffee. And, look, here’s a little booklet you might find useful. It’s not actually for academic visitors,
but it’s full of wise saws and modern instances. You know, like the voltages, and so on.’ ‘Well, thank you,’ says Petworth, taking the coffee, and
Helpful Hints for
British Businessmen
. ‘And if you should get into trouble,’ says the grey-haired lady, ‘we’ve telexed the British Embassy to forewarn them about your tour. Of course
it’s a very small embassy, Slaka’s not exactly the centre of the world, but there’s a second secretary there named Steadiman who does traffic accidents and a bit of culture.
He’ll give what help he can in any emergency. I’ve put the address in your papers, and you’ll find the number in the Slaka telephone book, I expect. If they allow you to see one.
Yes, I loved it there, marvellous posting. The only thing was not being able to talk to anyone. When I got back, I just talked and talked and talked, for twenty days. And ate chocolates. As you
know, their economy’s weak, and you don’t find many delicacies.’

It is gloomy in the British Council office, with its dark old corners, on this exceptionally bleak day. The rain falls outside; and the sunshine is not shining in Petworth’s heart either.
He knows and has read the stories, of frontiers and guardposts, spies and imprisonments, beatings and treacheries, that we delight ourselves with in this dark world; and perhaps if he were a
stronger character than he is, or is said to be, he would protest now that he does not really wish to be put into one. But then he knows he is not being put into one, rather a version of the old
and familiar story, the lecturer’s tale, with stock theme and minor variations. He drinks the coffee, the lady blows smoke: ‘Well, I think that’s really it,’ she says,
‘It’s all common sense. No currency deals, no buggery, no political statements, no private talks, in bedrooms or public places, no documents, towel over the mirror. And do watch the
ladies; I think you get the point.’ ‘Yes, I think so,’ says Petworth, ‘Beware of foreign parts.’ ‘Exactly,’ says the lady, ‘And just one more thing.
We’d like a brief report when you get back. Purely on academic matters, state of the universities, and so on. Don’t make your notes while you’re there, of course, keep them in
your noddle and then jot them down when you’re back in, where is it, Bradford?’ ‘Yes, Bradford,’ says Petworth. ‘Well,’ says the lady, standing up, and walking
him toward the door of the dark office, ‘Have a marvellous time, enjoy yourself. And do let us know when you return safely.’ ‘I will,’ says Petworth, ‘If I do.’
‘Well, of course you will,’ says the lady, ‘It’s a terrific experience. Georgina, he’s going.’ ‘Bye,’ says the secretary, picking up the file from
the desk, ‘Sorry about the coffee.’

And so, his face looking a little bleak, and not unlike the day, Petworth walks, in his damp mackintosh, out of the dark British Council office and across the corridor toward the rickety British
Council lift, which stands waiting. At the back, a sign forbids more than six people to travel in it at once; ten laughing Japanese, blue airline bags hanging over their shoulders, cameras round
their necks, beckon, excitedly to him to get inside. He steps into the elevator, as if into an unwanted future; around him, the Japanese now all begin to press conflicting buttons at the same time,
with the result that the lift jogs up, jogs down, and visits every single floor in the building before it descends at last to street level, where Petworth,
Helpful Hints for British
Businessmen
held in his hand, steps out into Davies Street, amid the decorations and the gloom, and past the newspaper seller at the tube station, who is advertising some new strike for the
summer silly season, to go on about his business, find his visa, check his ticket, make his plans. And it is in consequence of all these arrangements, or the lack of them, that he now finds himself
in the dusty airport concourse of the airport at Slaka, standing against a pillar near the door marked noi va, his luggage tumbled by his feet, while the great crowd bobs around him, and the clock
on the wall ticks away the time.

And away the time goes; it is thirty minutes since he came through the door, thirty minutes in which nothing has happened. The puce and magenta tag still dangles from the briefcase at his feet,
a sterile sign, a meaningless meaning; the crowd mills, and faces swim into existence and then fade again. The other passengers of Comflug 155, the besuited men, the elderly ladies, have all long
since come through the doors behind, to be welcomed and kissed, hugged and enfolded, laughed over and given flowers, taken off through the crowd, led through the exit doors, hurried off into the
forecourt, removed into life. But nothing of this sort has happened to him; there has been no meeter to meet him, no greeter to greet him. Outside, beyond the dusty glass, the red sun has been
steadily slipping down, and most of the blue buses in the parking lot have long since been driven away; in the coming dusk, the golden onion has ceased to be golden, but has begun to turn toward a
shade of black. From Petworth’s face too a certain glow has gone: the confident expectation he wore as he came out from the arrivals labyrinth has turned to doubt, and even to a tiny touch of
fear. Things, of course, should be well; there is an organization behind all this. For somewhere, if the typist of the grey letter in his pocket has got matters clear, and translated the
information correctly, if the dates are accurate and the British and Slakan calendars analogous, if he has himself comprehended all facts correctly and those with whom he has been dealing have done
the same, then he should be passing now from the hands of Davies Street to the hands of Stalingradsimutu, from the closed file of the British Council to the open one of the Min’stratii
Kulturi Komitet’iii

On the other hand, it is apparent that certain things could have gone wrong. He has, after all, come on a flight that, thanks to the Heathrow strike, many thought would not take off at all; he
has come on a plane that has descended two hours late, and on top of that he has been delayed for an hour in the labyrinth of entry; he has arrived on an arrangement which, if one closely inspects
– and by now he has very closely inspected – the grey letter, actually appoints no specific places of rendezvous, means of contact, type of encounter. The chances for confusion are
many, and confusion in these matters is not unknown, even when travelling with the British Council, which he is not. The clock ticks on; he has been here forty minutes; the crowds, the noise, the
dust rage around him in the long concourse. Airport lobbies all over the world are, if one passes through them quickly, as one usually does, much the same anywhere; but the more time one spends in
them, the more minor variations grow apparent. Thus, at Schiphol, Amsterdam, there is a Diamond Shop; at Frankfurt one may find Dr Muller’s Sex Shop; so in either place one may pick up that
last-minute present she has always wanted. And other airports, when recalled offer a similar infinitude of delights; bars and banks, radio shops and ski shops, shoe-shine parlours and fast-food
outlets, souvenir stalls and bookstores. By comparison, the arrivals hall at Slaka is simplicity itself; its services are minimal. There is, to one end, under the clock that ticks away his time, a
small kiosk, displaying some pens, a few postcards, and some copies of
P’rtyii Populatiii
, with a sign over it saying
Litti
. In the centre, there is another stall, with a girl
in a blue uniform behind it, writing on a form; the sign over this says
COSMOPLOT
. At the further end is a third stall, marked
AVIS
; it has a notice
on it saying, in English, ‘We Try Harder,’ and no one on duty.

Beyond this, there is nothing. There is, for example, no telephone kiosk, from which, if he had money, he might call the Min’stratii Kulturi Komitet’iii on Stalingradsimutu and
declare his arrival, though even that would presumably be unprofitable, since, as
Helpful Hints for British Businessmen
helpfully hints, banks, offices, and state trading organizations are
closed on Saturdays and on Sundays, the day that this is. There is no place to get money, no bank or change desk (
camb’yii
) to which he can turn for local currency, though, if there
was, it would, this being Sunday, probably be closed anyway. Having no money, there is no way he can take the airport bus to the Comflug offices in the city (no check-in facilities) where it is
just possible that his meeter might even now be waiting, nor take a taxi to Stalingradsimutu, where he might find a guard or a porter who could find a host or a receiver who could find a hotel, or
just sit on the steps. There is no place marked
Information
, where he might get some, or even
Enquiries
, where he might try to. Another sort of man might do something; grow angry,
take action, leave arrivals and go to departures, there to try to change his return ticket and get back on the flight back to London, if there is one, or even go back through the door marked
NOI VA
and ask for assistance. But Petworth, in his dogged way, knows the sort of story he should be in, and he is prepared to wait and let it come to him: a story not of
frontiers and guardposts, spies and imprisonments, beatings and treacheries, but a simple story, commensurate with his talents and limitations, a story of small hotels and large lecture rooms, of
faculty lounges where grey professors talk about incomprehensible educational reforms which are hardly worth comprehending anyway, since they will be transformed again within the year, and bright
girl assistants discuss the deeply dull theses they mean to write, and of occasional evening receptions where, drink in hand, Petworth can chatter brightly on about matters of common fascination,
Hobson’s Choice and Sod’s Law, birds in the hand and frogs in the throat, a story of, in short, everyday life.