by Alek Popov
“What are you doing?” shouted the boss. “Put the curtain down immediately!”
Then he lay back on the seat and started to look at the upholstery.
“You haven’t finished your caviar. Eat up!” he added softly.
Now I’ll have diarrhoea for sure! she thought to herself, scraping the bottom of the tin with the silver spoon. The bottle was also empty. The man appeared to be deep in thought. They had made it off the bridge (maybe Waterloo?!) and were now on the south bank of the Thames. Here the traffic was less dense and the chauffeur made better speed. Katya had the feeling that they were driving down a wide, multi-lane road. Then they turned suddenly. The car slowed and stopped. The boss looked at her and smiled, “It was a pleasure to be driven with you, Your Highness. See you soon.” He nodded ironically and got out quickly, slamming the door.
Barry followed and they exchanged a few words.
“Where should we drop you?” he asked once he had got back in.
“Chelsea,” she replied shortly.
Katya flew back as the car accelerated. The seat seemed enormous to her. She spread out full-length on it, dropping the flute to the floor.
He turned around and passed the bag to her. “Come on, get dressed!”
“I failed, didn’t I?” she asked hoarsely.
Barry gave her an envelope. She opened it and counted the notes, still lying down – £500. Her stomach flipped over, as though the caviar had spawned thousands of little sturgeon.
“We’ll call you. Maybe at the beginning of next week.” His voice was devoid of feeling.
The car dropped her close to Chelsea Bridge. It was almost one. Katya was once again in her old clothes. Her hair had been messed up by the net and looked like the nest of a marsh-bird. Her thoughts were in a similar state. He was looking at her closely, as though debating whether she was in a fit state to get home alone.
“I’m not sure there will be a next time, Barry,” she said, surprisingly clearly.
“Did you find it hard, or was the money too little?” he seemed concerned.
“I don’t like it,” she shook her head.
“But you’re already a part of the game. Whether you like it or not.” He stated calmly, “You chose the role of a princess. You have to go through with it.”
“What if I say no?” she persisted.
“So you’ve decided to go back where you came from. Because sooner or later the Embassy will find out about your double-life.” He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think they’ll be too ceremonious with you, Kate. That’s quite a conservative environment. You’ll be out on your ear.”
“You know quite a lot about me, huh,” she said.
“Just a preliminary investigation,” he threw it at her. “Welcome aboard.”
The little fish in her stomach swam about uneasily. I need the loo! she thought to herself. Barry stood looking after her over the top of the limousine.
17
Today was a big day.
The official entrance to the Embassy was wide open, and the marks of a thorough mopping were still drying on the stairs. The staff were milling about excitedly in the foyer, dressed in their Sunday-best; from time to time, one of them ran to the entrance, looked up the street and returned to the group disappointed.
“Are they coming?”
“No,” he replied. “Not yet.”
The carriage was scheduled to arrive at exactly eleven o’clock. There was still a long time before then, but the staff were impatient. An event of such magnitude rarely took place twice during one mandate and they wished to live it to the full – like a wedding, or a soldier’s send-off. Even their relatives had turned up, armed with cameras and camcorders to record this incomparable spectacle.
The ceremony of the Presentation of the Letters of Accreditation.
The last living witness to such an event had been returned home six months previously, however, the stories he had passed down had left indelible marks in the imagination of the remainder of the staff. For some time they lived in hope of being included in the delegation for the Presentation, until it became cruelly evident that there would be no delegation, and the Ambassador intended to go to the Palace alone. That had been a great blow to the diplomats. Is he as hamed of us, or something? they asked one another acrimoniously. The technical staff gloated. But, in spite of the contradictory feelings that tortured them, they were all animated today, even pleasantly thrilled. The insult had faded into the background. Now Varadin incarnated the National Ideal. He was ‘Our Man’. ‘Our Man’ was going to be received by the Queen with all due respect. A carriage would convey him both to and from the Palace. They would all see Our Man! That was the exciting thing.
The appearance of Varadin in tails, decorated with some shiny, obscure Order, brought sweetness to even the most sceptical soul. What a hero! How handsome! Their hearts swelled with pride. The omnipresent fear of the boss had evaporated. With hitherto unseen audacity, the staff, with their other-halves, crowded around him to have their photos taken as mementos, as if he were a tourist attraction, a wax-work in Madame Tussaud’s, or a Horse-Guard at his post. Varadin felt helpless in front of such festive euphoria – he could do nothing except shift his weight from one foot to the other, a silly smile on his face, attempting to keep his spirits up.
At exactly eleven o’clock, the cortège appeared at the top of the street and made its way towards the Embassy. It consisted of two carriages, covered and uncovered, pulled by massive, thoroughbred horses. It was escorted by police outriders. The Major-Domo, Stanoicho waited on the steps, in a pleasant dark-blue blazer, light trousers and a silvery, polka-dot tie that resembled a large, dead fish. A cigarette smouldered in his hand, and he was staring blankly at the passing cars. He seemed to be debating some difficult question, something along the lines of: How did I end up here? Why am I here? Am I actually here or not? The clatter of horseshoes brought him out of his nostalgic reverie. He caught a whiff of fresh manure. One of the horses snorted loudly; Stanoicho stared at the Royal Arms on the doors of the carriages.
In the open carriage sat the Marshal of the Queen’s Household, Sir Justin Glough, holding a baton, wearing a glaring white peaked cap, and full dress uniform. One of the footmen quickly jumped down and opened the door for him. The Marshal got out and looked around importantly. Very tall, built like a bear, with a round head and small playful eyes, he bore a striking resemblance to the late Benny Hill, whose former house was only a hundred yards or so from the Embassy.
Stanoicho stared at him, his eyes wide, like a Halloween pumpkin. He had no idea who Benny Hill was, in spite of the fact that he passed the memorial plaque on the side of his former home every day, but he was so overwhelmed by the appearance of the Royal Emissary that he totally forgot to announce his grandiose arrival. For his part, the Marshal stared at Stanoicho, no less impressed.
That, he told himself, must be the Bulgarian Marshal.
The cigarette burnt between Stanoicho’s fingers; he flinched and threw it over the parapet. The two Marshals shook hands.
“Dobur den,” said Stanoicho in pure Bulgarian, blushed to the roots of his hair, and invited the eminent guest in with a broad Slavic gesture.
Justin Glough bowed slightly. Throughout his long and loyal service, he had seen all sorts of ethnic rituals and nothing surprised him any more.
The first person to notice him was the cook’s wife. She gaped in surprise and pointed at him. Varadin instantly shook himself out of his stupor and hurried towards the Queen’s Emissary. The others rushed out to see the carriages. A considerable crowd had already gathered in the street outside – passers-by and tourists. The diplomats dutifully arranged themselves in a semi-circle, their faces suddenly enlivened by the sight of the second carriage. Maybe the boss had changed his mind at the last moment? Or maybe it was merely required by Royal Protocol? Who would be chosen?
This fleeting hope was nipped in the bud. The footman informed them that it was in reserve, in case it shou
ld suddenly rain. The diplomats were visibly disappointed. Bitterness returned to their hearts in all its poisonous strength. There was no longer any doubt that they had been cut out of the ceremony, like an unwanted and embarrassing appendix. Despite the fact that they were accustomed to all sorts of humiliations, this last insult seemed entirely beyond the pale. The most disappointed was the Defence Attaché, Colonel Vladimirov. Especially for the occasion, he had put on his brand new dress uniform with piping, which, in his opinion, was just as good as the Marshal’s. Could the Ambassador be ashamed of him too, an old veteran?
In the meantime, a Japanese tourist managed to climb nimbly aboard one of the carriages and take some photos of himself, before being hauled off by the cops. The diplomats exchanged bitter smiles – even that opportunity was denied them.
The Marshal and the Ambassador descended the steps with Stanoicho still in tow. Sir Justin was paying the latter an irritating and entirely inexplicable amount of attention, as far as Varadin was concerned. Dozens of cameras and other photo apparatus followed their every move. The Ambassador surveyed his scattered troops and read the bitterness stamped on their faces. Just what they deserved! Did they really think he would drag them all the way to Her Majesty, merely for the show?! He checked their shoes: they were all carefully polished, with the exception of the ragged moccasins of the damn intern. Maybe he was saving his pennies like a mad squirrel?
Sir Justin Glough slapped Stanoicho on the shoulder like an old friend and gave him his hand, “Very nice to have met, indeed!”
Stanoicho strove to think of something appropriate to say. “Dosvidanieh!” he said in Russian, the one foreign language he had any grasp of whatsoever, before Varadin shut him up with a look.
Dammit! The diplomats were chortling spitefully, with the exception of the colonel who suffered silently, eyes downcast. The Marshal looked over his uniform with interest. Then he raised his eyes to the sky, checked it was not going to rain in the next 20 minutes, and invited Varadin to get up into the open carriage.
The big wheels turned on the asphalt.
The same big wheels brought him back to the Embassy two hours later. The reception to celebrate the Presentation of the Letters of Accreditation had begun, and the housekeeper rushed down the steps once more to receive the guests. The instant he saw the Ambassador, Stanoicho said to himself: This is no longer the same man! What exactly had happened to Varadin during those two hours was difficult to imagine, yet, his entire being glowed with the after-effect of some important and irreversible change. He passed the speechless Major-Domo without so much as looking at him, and walked up the official steps with a slow, ceremonial gait, as though balancing an enormous vase atop his head. In the grand hall, there were some twenty people gathered, chatting casually, glasses in hands – Foreign Office clerks, diplomats from former allied states, representatives of the Bulgarian community and a few strange birds who had flown in somehow or other. The reception was only just starting. Suddenly the conversation dried up and all eyes turned to the entrance where Varadin now stood, pale-faced, his temples damp and pulsing, but the aura of his new-found dignity seeping through the tails he had rented for £18. Those present rushed to congratulate him.
“Your Excellency, I would like to wish you all the best for your shining path in Diplomacy!” Dean Carver, M.P. shook his hand energetically. His face was flushed from the wine.
“Mr Carver!” exclaimed the Ambassador. “I am very pleased to see you.”
“I was touched by your kindness. Old connections shouldn’t be left to rust!”
“What do you mean? I’m so much in your debt,” Varadin protested.
“Are you indeed?” Carver’s eyebrows rose.
“The agency you recommended to me,” Varadin graciously reminded him. “I think they’ll do an excellent job for us.”
“Oh, please, think nothing of it,’ Carver murmured nobly, whilst depositing his empty glass onto the tray of a passing waitress and snagging himself a fresh one, “Cheers!”
“Mr Ziebling, we were just talking about you!” the Ambassador shouted.
Carver turned his head mechanically. His face emptied of all character and content, as though it had been drained with a siphon.
“Gentlemen,” Ziebling greeted them. “It is an honour to be here in your exquisite company.”
He was wearing his usual grey jacket, reminiscent of Chairman Mao, beige trousers and a pair of shoes with shiny buckles. This time the lenses of his spectacles were blue.
“What are you doing here?” whispered Carver.
“Ha-ha, are you surprised?” Varadin was happy. “We don’t waste time here, hey? We head straight to our goal! If you’ll excuse me for a second! I should go and entertain some of my other guests.”
“Amazingly cool-headed!” Ziebling shook his head, turning to Carver. “You’d make a superb adverting agent!”
“I don’t know what you are talking about!” the other hissed.
“Come off it, you recommended us to His Excellency, that’s quite something!” Ziebling said smoothly.
“I have no recollection of doing any such thing!” Carver objected.
“You even went so far as to give him my card!” continued Ziebling. “I didn’t even know you still had it! How did you manage to become so close? How many had you had?”
Blood rushed to the Honourable Member’s face.
“How dare you?! It was a terrible mistake!”
“No mistake, my dear!” Ziebling reassured him.“ His Excellency oriented himself rather quickly. We came to an understanding in the first instant. He knows exactly what he wants, as opposed to certain people I might mention. Ambitious project! These people aim high, don’t you know! They may not have style, but they have scope!”
“Oh, yes!” Carver agreed, crestfallen. “Their old leaders knew how to live. They were true Barons!”
“So, you’re up to date, then?”
“Don’t try to get me involved!” The Honourable Member pulled back quickly. “I don’t want anything to do with it!”
“A favour is a favour,” whispered Ziebling, sidling up to him again. “You’ll get a 50% discount next time. Our new Britney is an absolute sweetie.”
“You evil tempter!” croaked Carver. “Fine, I’ll phone you later. Now, I must go, apologize to the Ambassador on my behalf. Goodbye!”
He looked around uneasily and hurried to the exit.
Ziebling briefly drifted aimlessly, then attached himself to one of the tables. He took a piece of banitsa and cautiously took a bite. He nodded in approval.
“Banitsa!” someone exclaimed enthusiastically behind him.
A tall, almost skeletal woman headed towards the table. Her bony hand shot greedily forward.
“A national pastry,” she explained when she caught Ziebling’s blank look.
“Ba-ni-tsa,” he repeated after her, chuckled, and took another piece.
Varadin appeared next to him and said, somewhat uneasily “I hope you are not bored. Where is Mister Carver?”
“Urgent engagements…” Ziebling waved his arm dismissively and added with concern “Your Excellency, I think we should have a talk, immediately!”
“I hope you’ve not encountered any problems?” asked Varadin.
“Quite the opposite!” Ziebling reassured him. “You will have an unforgettable experience! That’s the reason I wanted to ask you to be a little more discreet!”
“Excuse me?” the Ambassador raised his eyebrows.
“Dis-cre-tion!” insisted the other. “That is our main principle. I’d be obliged if you don’t inform anyone of our little gathering, or else the event will be automatically called off!”
“Reall-lly?!…” stammered Varadin.
“Exactly! You see, whilst I respect your open style, British society is a great deal more conservative than you’d imagine,” Ziebling lowered his voice. “I came especially to warn you. If the media gets wind of this…It’s all over!”
“The
media only ever see the bad side of things…” the Ambassador frowned. “And they ignore people’s successes!”
“Exactly!” agreed Ziebling. “I am so glad we think alike. Formal and informal contacts should never be mixed. They are two parallel dimensions. In principle, we avoid such situations, but in your case we shall make an exception.”
Varadin blinked blankly. A student appeared next to them with a big tray full of sandwiches. Suddenly the tray tilted dangerously to one side.
“Oops! Be careful!” exclaimed Ziebling.
Katya caught her balance, her gaze not leaving Ziebling. She would have difficulty forgetting him! It was Him!
The imbecile who stuffed me with caviar!
What was he doing here?!
“Hi!” Ziebling said easily. “Do you work here?”
“Yes,” she dropped her gaze.
“Do you know each other?” asked Varadin uneasily.
Ziebling ignored the question. He picked up a sandwich, examined it critically and said, “You see, these sandwiches distance you from Europe.”
Varadin gazed at Kosta’s culinary creation and was forced to admit (deep within himself) that it was chunky.
“I’m not a snob,” Ziebling shook his head. “Even though I come from a good family, I value the virtues of the simple life. As far as sandwiches are concerned, however, the British have some sacrosanct standards that your cook would do well to learn. The size of the sandwich is inversely proportional to the host’s position in society,” continued Ziebling ruthlessly. “You’ll notice that the more exclusive the society you are in, the smaller the sandwich. The outside is cut away until only the kernel remains, so to speak, which is often so small as to be inedible with fingers alone, and one is forced to use a cocktail stick. There are, naturally, some places where they simply disappear, leaving only the idea of a sandwich, and in reality they only serve brut champagne in extremely fine-cut crystal glasses. Not that I would suggest such a thing to your good self,” Ziebling hurried to clarify. “Let’s not forget that it is the sandwich which should reflect the status in society, not vice-versa. In this context, some not very well thought out small canapés might be mistakenly interpreted as evidence of stinginess or nouveau-rich attitudes. That is why one should not rely too heavily on the good sense of one’s cook! One should, therefore, collect samples from other cocktail parties, at every possible occasion – if not personally, you should give the task to some member of your staff; measure them, compare them, classify them into groups, take notes – in this way, before you know it, you will begin to grasp the logic of various sandwich formats, and thus, you will develop an idea of how your own sandwiches should look.”