Rates of Exchange (25 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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