Rates of Exchange (38 page)

‘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.