by Alek Popov
“48,” he said with a stony face. “Show him in.”
The lanky figure of the Major appeared behind the small body of the secretary.
“Seventy seven!” shouted Major Potty, entering into the room like a gale-force storm but with his hand stretched in front of him.
“What?” Varadin flinched.
“Nice to meet you!” the major squeezed his hand fiercely. “I’ve no time to lose. I have arranged 77 crates of humanitarian aid, which need to be exported to Bulgaria immediately. People there are starving!” he ended on a note of pathos.
Varadin looked at him fearfully. Major Potty was an ex-colonial officer, who radiated an inexhaustible desire to slap down any naughty aboriginal. He was a tall bony old man, well past his sixties, with a shiny bald pate and a grey, bristly moustache. He was wearing a dark blue suit without a tie and spit-shined dress shoes – as if he did not have to walk on the streets at all, but moved from one office to the next like a spirit. He was carrying the ID-card of the organization he was representing on a chain around his neck.
Throwing himself onto the sofa, he started pulling various brochures from his bag. Varadin stood warily opposite him. A little later, Tania Vandova appeared carrying the coffee-tray.
For the first ten minutes the major jabbered incoherently about his organization, and the various celebrities on the board of governors. When he had piled up enough titles and crests to stand on, he looked down at the Ambassador and asked why, in principle, Bulgarians were so unresponsive to humanitarian aid.
“What do you mean?” Varadin raised his eyebrows.
“What do I mean?” repeated the Major sarcastically. “Well, we are moving heaven and earth to gather these essentials together and apparently nobody gives a damn!”
Varadin tactfully kept quiet.
“I have received information to the effect that a large quantity of this aid so selflessly donated is aging away down in the storerooms of the Embassy. Is that correct?” the ex-soldier asked harshly.
“I have no idea,” the Ambassador raised his arms. “I’ve only been here a week.”
“They tell us, would you believe it, that we must arrange the transportation for ourselves! As if the items we are sending were not worth the cost to transport them,” said Major Potty with disgust. “As far as I’m concerned, if you carry on like this, you’ll upset the entire charitable community. Think of your image!”
“Our new image will be my first concern!” the Ambassador assured him, feeling the first symptoms of his migraine.
“It had better be,” exclaimed the Major. “I wouldn’t want my seventy seven crates to be left to rot in some godforsaken storeroom.”
Varadin decided he would make a good impression if he showed some concern about the subject and asked politely, “And what do the crates contain?”
This was a serious mistake. The Major flinched as though stung by a wasp, “You ask what is in there! What is the content of my crates! Oh, My Lord!” He threw up his arms and let them drop enervated. “Oh, Jesus!” He repeated the same movement, expressing his deep despair at the insolence and audacity of this aboriginal. “Are we going to play Customs Officers here? Or do you think we are sending you any old rubbish, eh?”
“I said no such thing!” objected Varadin fearfully.
The migraine was already thrashing his brain cells.
“But your sneaky curiosity is implying just that, isn’t it?” spat Major Potty. “Either way, I am not ashamed of the content of my crates! Inside, you will find only simple yet sturdy objects, which served my compatriots for a long time and will serve your impoverished denizens honestly for the same long period of time!”
“I don’t doubt it!” Varadin hurried to agree.
“Prove it!” boomed the Major. “Those crates have to reach their destination as soon as possible.”
“I will personally see to it that they do!”
“Excellent! Because then I will send you another hundred crates of…” the Major paused before adding solemnly “bedpans.”
“What?!” the Ambassador blinked quickly.
“The Saint Barnabas Infirmary in North Hampshire closed recently,” Major Potty was happy to explain. “They are auctioning everything, but they are donating the bedpans to us. And we, in turn, will donate them to you. If you deserve them, of course!” he waggled his finger jokingly at the Ambassador.
“I really do not know how to express my gratitude,” mumbled Varadin.
“Gratitude and charity are two sides of the same coin,” concluded the Major sagely and quickly stood up. “Unfortunately, I cannot stay a second longer. Lady Broad-Botham awaits me. We are expediting ten tons of winter clothes to Bombay, or Mumbai as they call it these days.”
He shook the hand of the dazed Ambassador and walked straight out with a decisive step as though impelled by some mechanical aid.
Varadin crawled back into his chair; leaned his head on the back and closed his eyes.
He quietly pronounced the number 95.
But he felt no relief. His skull was pulsing with pain, rubbery and soft like a bladder. It was only noon. A lunch in the French Embassy awaited him and he expected it to be formal and cold because of the well-known dislike of the French for anyone who did not speak their language. In the afternoon he had to see a line of clerks in the Foreign Office. In the evening he had to attend a reception at the Carlton for some occasion his brain categorically refused to retain. It was under attack from the intrusive image of that student that cleaned his office. Obviously there was nothing stopping him from taking her to bed. The question was: what would it cost him?
13
As she drifted through the London Underground, Katya caught herself thinking about the new Ambassador. They had spoken that morning. He had informed her that he had given the necessary orders for the purchase of a new Hoover. She had thanked him, but had been left with the impression that Varadin was somewhat disappointed by her reaction. Perhaps he had found it a bit flat. Perhaps he expected more than that. Tough. At the end of the day, the Hoover was not only for her. Although it was a gesture of good-will. If nothing more…. But, Bulgarian diplomats, in principle, were of no interest to her. The truth was that one could expect more trouble than real support from them.
Green Park. An Indian family got into the train and sat down opposite her. The women wore colourful dresses and the man a high, deep-purple turban. He gave her a sidelong glance, nothing more.
Next stop – Piccadilly.
Bailey’s was boiling and steaming, giving off a sharp smell of sweaty bodies. Katya looked for her costume but could not find it in its usual place. She noticed Beata, still with rash-ridden loins, attempting to squeeze her chubby ankles into the boots. Katya snatched them from her hands, “Those are mine, in case you didn’t know!”
Beata blinked gormlessly and whined, “But, Mr Dalali told me to wear them.”
Gunter Chas made his entrance at that moment, a guilty smile on his face and a hanger in his grasp. Some gauzy, golden garb shimmered on it.
“I’ve got something for you Kate darling. Something brand new!” His voice was at once chirpy and sleazy.
She grimaced. “Did you arrange that little number for me?”
“It’s about time for a change dearie. That’s what Mr Dalali said. Nice body, he said, but…we need to spice it up a bit.”
As far as Kamal Dalali was concerned, all the working girls were bodies and nothing more.
“So it’s spicing up they want….” she murmured, critically eying Chas’ creation, “It looks silly. And those lacy bits will get in the way when I’m dancing.”
“Put it on. Put it on!” he insisted.
There was no point in arguing. She sighed, threw Beata a nasty look, and went to change. She returned looking like the High-Priestess of some long-extinct oriental cult. The others looked at her enviously, but Katya was far from impressed. The material felt slimy, like wearing a jellyfish, and slid off her with every sharp movem
ent. Obviously, that was the whole idea, but equally obviously, no one had given any thought to her part in the equation. If she did not want the costume to drop to the floor in the first five seconds she would have to radically change her style. Which carried its share of financial risk….
“Oooh you’re so sexy.” Chas soothed her, whilst giving her two clips, with little bells on them.
She gave him a questioning look. He indicated her breasts. Suddenly, she felt like laughing.
“You put them on!”
“Why, thank you…” Chas accepted graciously.
He opened the clips and carefully fixed them to her pert, pink nipples.
“Ouch!!” she screeched, pulling away sharply.
“Tinkle, tinkle-inkle.” The bells chimed merrily.
“Ahh! They’re beautiful!!!” the assembled girls exclaimed in chorus.
Katya, however, did not share their enthusiasm. The clips painfully pinched those most sensitive spots like vicious predatory insects.
“Fuck!!” she gasped, as she desperately tried to take them off.
“Katiina, hurry up!” came the voice of Kamal Dalali.
“Go fuck yourself!” she blessed him in Bulgarian.
“Is something wrong darling?” asked Chas worriedly.
“You try them on for size!” she hissed, throwing the clips at him.
“Hey, cool it! I already did, if you must know,” Chas said.
“Well, I’m not a masochist!” Katya shouted.
“Hurry up!” screeched Kamal Dalali once again.
“Come on, it’s only for ten minutes.”
“Not happening!” she snapped.
“Hurry up!!!”
“I’m not wearing them and that’s final!” she insisted. “They’re killing me. You’d better go invent something else!”
“Mr Dalali, we have a problem!” Chas whined loudly.
The Lebanese materialised instantly, wiping his face with a silk handkerchief. A still smouldering cigar drooped from his mouth, giving off a sickly smell. Chas brought him up to speed on the situation. He frowned, “Put the bells on!”
“Look what they did to me!” she said, holding her red nipples.
“There’s nothing wrong with your fucking nipples!”
“They hurt! Look how red they are!”
“Quit whingeing!” the Lebanese fumed. “Get on stage!”
Chas gave the clips back to her, waving them playfully in front of her nose. “Tinkle, tinkle!” Katya batted his hand away. Dalali slapped her forcefully.
“Bitch!” he ground out through his teeth.
“Arsehole!” screamed Katia in his face, rubbing her cheek. “Dirty butt-fucker! Pig!”
“Get out!” roared Kamal Dalali. “Get your arse out of here and don’t let me catch you round here again! Chas, see this whore out of here, d’you hear me!”
Katya stuck her tongue out at them and threw herself onto a chair. The girls busied themselves with their make-up once more, muttering discontentedly amongst themselves. Gunter Chas sidled up to her.
“Don’t let it get to you darling. He’ll get over it, you know how he is.”
“I’ve had it with the lot of you!” she sighed.
“Niina! Hurry up!” called Kamal Dalali from somewhere behind the curtains.
“Fuck you!” whispered Katya.
She shrugged sharply out of the slimy garment, not so much as bothering to pick it off the floor. She grabbed her rucksack and locked herself in one of the toilets. A notice was plastered on the door: ‘The smoking of weed is forbidden!’ She made herself comfortable and pulled out the mobile she had bought for just twenty quid two weeks earlier. She brought up Barry Longfellow’s number of and dialled. It was answered almost instantly.
“Hi, this is Kate,” she said hesitantly, “from Bailey’s. You offered me a part in your performance.”
“A part?!” The voice sounded strangely distant. “Oh, yes, I remember. I was beginning to think that you’d never call.”
“Well, I did.”
“Okay. Tomorrow evening, The Athenaeum, room 165. Come at 11 pm, sharp.”
“Okay.”
She had wanted to ask something else, but Barry put the phone down. That is what I call a business-like approach to things, she thought. Someone tried the door-handle without success. Katya chuckled. Then she dialled another number. This time she had to wait longer for a reply.
“Daddy?” she queried, once she heard a voice at the other end.
Usually, she phoned at the weekend when it was cheaper. Today was Thursday, and close to midnight at that. Her father started to fret, “Are you all right? Why are you calling?”
“I just felt like it. I wanted to hear your voice. How’s mother?”
“She’s sleeping. She’s well.” He sounded like a man counting seconds and pennies in his head.
“What are you up to?
“Television.”
“You’re watching telly?” she asked, bewildered.
“Well, yes! Look you’re blowing a lot of money….”
“Don’t worry about it. What’s on?”
“Rubbish.” He fell silent.
She also fell silent. The line hissed gently. Katya realised that her parents always spoke to her in that absurd and broken manner, no matter who was paying the bill. Most frequently it was herself, but to them it made no difference. The expense of the words seemed to paralyse their ability to talk. Silence, however, was no cheaper, and she sensed her father’s anxiety at the other end. She should not torture him any longer.
“It was good to hear you,” she said finally. “Give my love to mother, ciao.”
“Good to hear from you too, cherub.” Suddenly his tongue came unstuck, ‘Goodbye!’
The door-handle rattled once more.
Katya stared at the phone’s screen until it switched itself off. I’m never going back alive! she thought, grinding her teeth. Even the clips were preferable to the enduring humiliation of life over there.
Leaving Bailey’s Place, Katya felt a certain sadness. She had had some good times in that hole, but most importantly, she had gained her freedom. She had not only stripped clothes from her body, but also those odorous garments that wrap the virgin minds of the folk from the East. Here she had had a taste of financial independence for the first time. She had gotten to know her body and how to manage it.
She had felt mistress of her destiny.
On the way out, Samantha caught her hand tenderly – the memory of which stayed with her as she walked away down the streets of Soho. Drizzle hung in the air. The streetlights glared brightly, reflected by the wet tarmac. Katya crossed Shaftsbury Avenue, and continued down into China Town. She dived into one of the many little restaurants where one could stuff oneself to bursting for less than ten pounds, and ordered Peking Duck, her favourite dish. Whilst watching the small Chinese waiter dismembering the fowl with a spoon, she thought to herself, Life goes on, and should be lived to the full.
14
“Your Excellency!” Robert Ziebling exclaimed, from the very threshold of the office, “I cannot begin to express how delighted I was to receive this invitation.”
The Managing Director of ‘Famous Connections™’ seized the Ambassador’s hand and proceeded to shake it fiercely. He was of average height, slightly over forty, with thick, unruly ginger hair. A pair of fashionably thin glasses, with yellow lenses, were wrapped around his face. He was wearing a severely cut, single-breasted jacket, buttoned to the neck, which gave him a military air.
“Please, have a seat,” Varadin responded woodenly, nodding to the heavy leather suite that graced the forward half of his office.
He waited for Tania Vandova to serve the tea for his guest, and began warily, “I received an excellent recommendation for your agency from Dean Carver.”
“Oh, yes!” Ziebling nodded energetically. “He is one of our regularclients. Avery original man. Such a tireless imagination…!”
Varadin blinked bew
ildered. “Mr Carver let me know that your agency has connections at the highest possible levels…” He continued hesitantly, “I won’t hide from you the fact that that is precisely what interests me. As you can see, my own connections are purely official, which imposes certain restrictions…you understand, of course.”
“Of course….” Ziebling began to nod.
“The possibility of less formal ways of communicating has always interested me,” the Ambassador added. “Sometimes such connections can turn out to be far more fruitful than official ones.”
“That’s usually how it happens,” Ziebling agreed, and asked slyly, “And in which sphere do your interests lie exactly?”
“Excuse me?”
“Our network of connections is tremendously wide,” explained Ziebling. “That’s why they are grouped into different categories. For example, Show-biz stars: Spice Girls, Elton John, Boy George, Mr Bean, Benny Hill…”
“Wait a moment!” cut in Varadin. “I thought Benny Hill was dead?”
Ziebling stared at him shocked, “So what if he is?”
“Excuse me?” Varadin was confused.
“Aristocrats are, of course, in another broad category,” continued Ziebling unperturbed. “As are the politicians, Lady Thatcher, Gorby. We also have some very effective contacts in the Catholic line of things.”
“You have connections with Lady Thatcher?!” Varadin was awash with respect.
“All the time!” proclaimed Ziebling. “Did you know that she is an extremely sought-after lady. Such style! Such an iron hand!”
“I don’t doubt it,” muttered Varadin.
“She is fully booked. Naturally, one can always find a slot, but, usually she has ongoing engagements.”
“I assume that is not cheap?” Varadin narrowed his eyes, amazed at his own audacity.
“Good investments are never cheap,” Ziebling, shook his head sagely. “Let’s be serious, these things last a lifetime!”
“That’s true,” Varadin nodded timidly.“ All the same, how much?”
“My dear, we are not talking lettuce in the supermarket here!” Ziebling warned him playfully. “It all depends on the character of the engagement. As well as its duration: one hour, two, the whole evening. Who the client is, of course, is not without importance either. To sum up, every offer is treated individually.”