by Alek Popov
“Where is the speech?” he asked, white as a sheet.
“What? Haven’t they brought it yet?” asked Danailov – his surprise was not very convincing.
“No! No! No!” repeated the Ambassador staccato.
“That Turkeiev gave it to some Romanian,” said the Counsellor. “He promised to bring it to us.”
“Filthy idiot!!!” Varadin punched the column with his fist.
“Well, they still might bring it.”
“You wish! What if they don’t?”
The Councillor stayed sensibly silent.
Powerless hatred blazed in the Ambassador’s eyes. “We’ve got to find that man!’ He cast about in panic. ‘The Premier is on in ten minutes. They’re going to crucify us.”
They’re going to crucify you, said the experienced Danailov to himself, but tried to look as though he cared. He described as best he could the supposed Romanian and they ran off in opposite directions to find him.
The numbers flew through Varadin’s mind like the balls in a lottery machine. The green raincoat had either been buried or put in a closet, because nobody was wearing outdoor clothing. “Fuck! Fuck!” he added as he ran around in a trance. “I knew something like this would happen! I knew it! Those fuckwits!” The portraits of old British politicians looked down on him with veiled contempt. Suddenly he stopped as though nailed to the spot, as a sinister suspicion dawned on him. Were they lying about this mythical Romanian? Was that not actually some Bulgarian? That fox Danailov! Or the secretive Turkeiev, who always plays the idiot! Or perhaps the pair of them – a criminal duo who planned to bring him down? He returned to the Hall: he was almost certain that the Counsellor had already attached himself to the delegation and was explaining the situation to them, putting him in the worst possible light. But there was no one there. Varadin sighed briefly, then his panic started riding him again; the Premier had stopped listening to the other leaders and was carefully reviewing his notes. He was preparing to take the floor.
Varadin strove to find the Romanians. Their delegation was situated at the other end of the Hall. He left the hall, made the circuit and re-entered. Finally he came across a group of diplomats who nodded to him politely but coldly. No one was wearing a raincoat. Simultaneously, Danailov made an appearance. He quickly scanned those present, then his gaze slid to the piles of documents scattered across the tables. Their eyes met. Danailov shrugged.
“Ask them!” hissed the Ambassador.
“They’ll laugh at us,” the Counsellor whispered.
He was right, dammit!
They separated again and continued the search. Varadin began to look in all sorts of crazy places: behind curtains, vases, armchairs, even in the rubbish bins. He gave the impression of an agent looking for a time-bomb in the last minute before detonation. Security followed his actions with increasing concern, until a young man with an unobtrusive headset approached him decisively.
“Can I help you, sir?” he asked unceremoniously.
Varadin stared wildly at his well-shaven, pink face. Could he actually help him? At just that moment the Prime Minister’s name flew from the hall with a sound like the awful beat of the gong announcing the Second Coming. His body wavered. The agent lightly took his arm.
“Your Excellency!” he exclaimed, frightened: he had obviously already managed to read his ID badge.
Varadin heroically maintained his equilibrium, and uttered what was appropriate in such complicated situations, “99”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” the agent raised his eyebrows.
“99”
“Ah!” he smiled, happy that he had understood the meaning of the foreign words purely from the other’s expression. “The toilet! This way, please.” And he pointed to the end of the corridor.
Varadin headed mechanically in the direction indicated.
The agent shook his head and slowly pronounced, “De-vede-se-di-de-vit.”
Foreign languages were amazing.
What was this strange and beautiful place? Varadin asked himself curiously. How did I get here? The narrow cubicle gave him a feeling of security. The walls, the tiles, the ceiling shone with cleanliness. It was warm and smelled lovely. The water murmured gently beneath the lid. ‘I’m in the closet!’ the thought occurred to him. Just a second before he had said the blessed number ‘1’ He was calm now. Suddenly, his eye was caught by a stack of paper balanced on top of the cistern. It didn’t look like toilet-paper. He read the title. Adrenalin whipped his brain once more.
The Premier’s speech!
The fucking translation of the fucking speech in all fifty fucking copies here in the closet!
The door of the cubicle opened wide and the frame was eclipsed by the impressive silhouette of an elderly lady. She had carefully styled hair and a beautiful, cruel face. She frowned and tightened her lips like a matron in a Victorian girls’ school.
“You naughty boy!” she waggled her finger at him and slammed the door.
Wasn’t that Lady Thatcher? he asked himself, his jaw on his knees.
With a few skilful jumps Varadin reached the corridor, hugging the priceless sheets to his chest, and stared at the little-shoe cartoon on the toilet door in embarrassment, it was a female shoe.
He rushed to the hall. At the entrance he ran into Danailov.
“So you found them!” he exclaimed and helpfully took the entire stack.
“I found them!” Varadin snapped.
‘Just in time!’
“What?!” Varadin shook himself. “Hasn’t he started speaking yet? I though I heard them announce his name.”
“They announced that he was going to speak after the interval,” Danailov said.
Those words seemed to caress the Ambassador’s spirit like an angel’s feather. It was the most beautiful thing that had happened to him in the last two days. Even the vindictive Danailov seemed benevolent in that brief moment..
“Take care of distributing the Premier’s speech!” he said after the moment of sudden and undeserved bliss had passed.
He puffed out his chest and brushed off last traces of ill-humour and re-joined the delegation with the grace of a well-groomed lion.
16
The hotel Athenaeum was to be found at the lower end of Piccadilly, opposite Green Park – a modern construction wedged between Victorian mastodons. There was a pizzeria nearby, out of which drifted strains of jazz. On the other side of the street loomed the shadowy colossus of the Ritz. Katya had never been inside, just as she had never been near the Athenaeum before, but it seemed to her that were the Ritz to fall, the foundations of the world must have crumbled. There were certainly no strippers running around in the Ritz.
A few marble steps led to the entrance. The girl on reception could be seen through the glass doors, in the glow of the yellow lights pouring over her. The foyer looked deserted. In the twilit gloom, one could make out some well-tended, decorative plants. The porter shot her a suspicious look, but allowed her in, even tipping his top-hat. The girl behind the polished mahogany desk looked up and stared at her. Her hair glowed like a swiss-roll made of copper threads. On her lapel there was a name-badge: Mary-Jane. Behind her, the huge bank of pigeon-holes for the keys. Though for years now they had held only magnetic key-cards.
“Room 365,” said Katya, and waited to see what would happen.
Mary-Jane had obviously been informed of her imminent arrival. She lifted the internal phone and dialled a number, without removing her gaze from Katya.
“The lady is here,” she informed the other end emotionlessly.
A short command followed.
“Go straight up,” the receptionist nodded towards the lifts.
Her heart started beating faster. She had reached the final straight. She stopped briefly in front of the enormous mirror installed near the reception and stared at her reflection. Then she headed for the lifts. The numbers above the door quickly changed as the lift moved between floors. It stopped at the third, went on up to the s
ixth, and then set off downwards. The doors swished silently open. The lift was empty.
The thick carpet deadened the sound of her steps. Katya headed down the corridor, hypnotised by the number-plaques on the doors. At the end of the day, she was not obliged to do it. She could still turn back. But she did not turn back. 361, 363, 365. The door was no different from the rest. She stood in front of it for a few seconds, as though she was waiting for it to open of its own accord. No sign. No sound. She knocked. Nothing. She turned the knob and went in.
The room was simply yet tastefully furnished, which gave a touch of class to its regular visitors. The beige wallpaper gave a feeling of warmth. The bedside light was on.
The man was sitting in the armchair, his legs carelessly crossed, reading a newspaper. He was wearing black trousers with a sharp crease. From outside, the half-muted rumble of traffic on the street drifted in. It was exactly 11 o’clock.
“Hi,” she said. “I came.”
Barry put down the newspaper, “Hi.” He was in no hurry to speak. He just looked at her.
“And?” she smiled awkwardly.
It suddenly struck her that this could be a trap. And she had taken the bait like a dumb carp. She was overcome by fear.
“Listen carefully, Kate,” he started unexpectedly. “After one hour you must leave the hotel. There are two ways you can go about it. The first is to leave as you came – an ordinary girl. The other is to leave as a princess. Your choice.”
“What is expected of me?”
“For starters, put on the clothes that are in the wardrobe.”
She shrugged. Getting dressed, and undressed – a considerable part of her life had been spent on those activities. It was no big deal, but clearly paid well. Now she felt even surer of herself, because it seemed that things were taking a turn closer to her expectations. A simple black dress hung from the hanger. An unsealed pack of tights and a pair of high-heeled shoes, also black, completed the outfit. She got dressed and instantly realised that the dress cost a considerable sum. As though it had been made not just to be put on but to be worn as a demonstration of the idea of the general inequality between people. It was the first time she had ever put on such a dress. The shoes made her a few centimetres taller. She suddenly felt awkward, as though she had entered another body without permission. She moved woodenly to the centre of the room and stood before her client, as she had already come to think of him.
“Good,” he nodded, and pointed to the chair in front of the mirror, ‘Sit down.’
He pulled a pearl necklace from his pocket and put it around her neck, without demonstrating any feeling whatsoever. The pearls were cold.
“I’ll need to make you up.” Barry opened some sort of bag and took out a make-up case. “I assume you don’t mind?”
She said nothing. He obviously knew what he was doing; he was business-like and precise, like a professional make-up artist. He reinforced some features, reduced others and put others into the background. He gave her complexion that golden tan that only people from the upper classes possess, and rouged her cheekbones, which had suffered from ordinary food and bad air.
“Hey, you’re not some kind of designer are you?!” she could not help but ask.
“Yeah, the Head of Make-up for the RSC,” he answered casually.
“Yeah, right,” she threw back at him.
Barry looked at her with obvious pleasure and said, “Close your eyes.”
She obeyed.
“And you’re not to look,” he warned her. “Otherwise you’ll ruin the effect.”
“I won’t. Get on with it!”
Barry carefully put her hair up in a net, then put some sort of wig on her head – a feeling that she could never mistake for any other, and which she did not particularly like. He pulled it this way and that and then told her to open her eyes.
She shouted in surprise. She instinctively went to remove the wig but he caught her wrists and lightly, almost tenderly, pushed them down.
“I wonder,” said Barry, “if anyone has ever told you how much you resemble the late Lady Diana Spencer?”
Katya stared dumbfounded at her new face. “No,” she whispered.
“I’m telling you!”
“I feel horrible,” Katya confessed. “She’s dead.”
“I’m not so sure any more,” Barry shook his head.
From the depths of the mirror, the face of the Princess of Wales regarded them in surprise, with a hint of repulsion, as though not wanting to accept the fact of this cheap resurrection.
“Stand up!” he ordered.
Katya stood up.
“Walk!”
She started to walk from one end of the room to the other. The miracle had happened.
“Take this,” Barry, gave her a small flat black handbag. “A Lady never walks with her hands empty.”
Then his face suddenly soured. “Take that off!”
“Why?” she asked, looking at her nice plastic watch, with its big face.
“SHE would never wear such a thing,” Barry spat. “The Princess had only the finest things.”
Wow, crazy bastard, she thought to herself; she pulled her hand through the elastic strap and let him put a slender, golden ladies wristwatch in its place. He had thought of everything!
“That’s better,” Barry sighed.
Were there no real British girls for that purpose? Katya wondered, as he contemplated her in speechless admiration. Now he’ll pull it out and start to masturbate, she tried to guess at what was to come. That, however, did not happen and she continued to stand awkwardly in front of him, clutching the elegant handbag. Really, how come no one had ever noticed the resemblance, why had she herself not seen it? Was she blind? And how on earth had Kamal Dalali missed the opportunity to profit from that chance: to show the Princess naked?!
“Time to go,” said Barry business-like, and clapped his hands. “Let’s move.”
“Where?” she asked, frightened.
“We’ll drive around a little. Do you like to be chauffeured?”
“I can’t go out like this!” she protested.
“You’ll wear this.” He gave her a thin black headscarf and dark glasses.
Katya obeyed unenthusiastically. “Christ! Everyone will recognise me!” she exclaimed, looking in the mirror.
“You?!” Barry raised his eyebrows. “Who on earth will recognise you?”
“I meant her.” Katya was confused.
“Good to see you live your role,” he chuckled. “Otherwise, everything goes to hell. Don’t forget: he’s expecting a princess, and not some screeching street-trash.”
“Who?” she trembled.
“The boss,” explained Barry, unmoved. “Look, this is only a casting session. He’ll judge whether you’ll do for the role or not. Do what he says. In my opinion, you’ve got it, but he has the final say. I just want you to know that whether or not you get the part, you’ll receive £100, for your participation.”
“Very kind,” she said. “And my clothes?”
“I’ll bring them, don’t worry.” Barry quickly gathered up her things into a black bag.
Katya crossed the small foyer of the Athenaeum, followed by Barry, the big black bag slung over his shoulder. Several people turned to look at her. The porter’s jaw hung stupidly agape. A long, black, Lincoln limousine was waiting out front. The chauffeur, in a faceless grey uniform, was holding the door open. She slid into the twilit interior of the car. Her escort installed himself in the front seat.
Once her eyes adjusted to the half-darkness, she realised that she was not alone. At the other end of the seat there was a strange individual, with a bowler hat and long black overcoat. Beneath the brim of the hat there was a lively round face with ruddy cheeks. He turned his head towards her and chuckled playfully. “Your Royal Highness,” he enunciated grandiloquently. “I am honoured to be able to offer you my hospitality. Would you care for some champagne?”
He leaned forward, took a frosted bottle
from the mini-bar and gave it to Barry. Then took out two flutes and a tin of caviar. She now noticed his long, yellow little-fingernail; it looked like a coffee spoon. The cork left the bottle with a cautious sigh. A slight white wisp floated up out of the neck.
The little curtains of the limousine were fully closed. Katya had no idea where they were going. The car stopped and started frequently, which led her to believe that they were still in the centre. But she always liked to know where she was and such a situation bothered her. She was asked most-politely to remove her dress and she complied. She felt silly: totally nude, in only stockings and shoes, champagne in hand. It was not a particularly new experience for her to act in this manner, but in spite of that she still felt somewhat uncomfortable. Maybe it was the fact that she was in the middle of traffic, separated from the outside world by only a door and a thin curtain that led her to feel that way? What if they decided, of a sudden, to throw her out? They did not seem to have any such intentions, however, at least not at this stage. And what’s more, the boss’s interest in her seemed to have lessened as soon as she removed her clothes. Now he looked more like a bored husband, taking his wife to some society party. From time to time his gaze fell on her and he would raise his glass and encourage her to have more caviar.
“You must eat it all,” he had told her at the beginning.
The tin held 150g. It seemed only a little, but with each further mouthful, she realised that that was not the case. It was lukewarm, greasy and heavy. The feeling that she was eating some kind of delicacy diminished and gradually gave way to the feeling that she was swallowing some kind of medicine designed to grease and loosen up her innards. She swallowed a healthy gulp of champagne. Some roe dropped from the spoon and fell on her breasts. He watched her: not so much lustfully as curiously. There were no napkins and no one offered her any. She scooped of the roe with her finger and licked it. Fuck it!
Warm air licked her body like a fine silk veil, blowing from the unseen heating vents. She was tipsy, or perhaps vaguely horny. They had been stationary for some time, most likely stuck in a traffic-jam. She tugged at the curtain to see where they were. She caught a view of the parapet of a bridge, the brown waves of the Thames and another bridge in the distance.