Mission London

by Alek Popov

  “What’s wrong with you, Mitche?!” called a frightened voice.

  The back door opened. Miladin stepped on the brakes. A tragic wail followed, together with the expulsion of a huge volume of liquid.

  “My God!!!” shouted Pezantova, covering her face in horror.

  From the neighbouring cars surprised faces emerged. The door slammed and Mitche (there was no way of forgetting her name now!) slumped back into her seat, wiping her chin with a handkerchief. Her not particularly intelligent plump face trembled in horror.

  “I feel awful.” she spluttered from the back of her throat.

  Devorina Pezantova’s lips compressed into a thin line. Varadin opened the window a little. The rest of the journey passed in heavy silence.

  31

  “Is that the artist?” asked Turkeiev, peering through the window of the duty-room.

  The receptionist nodded. Turkeiev sighed. He had been punished by being left behind at the Embassy whilst the others went to the airport to meet Mrs Pezantova. After the cock-up with the WC, the Ambassador had taken a final decision to keep the intern as far away as possible from all official events. In fact, Turkeiev was not all that upset; the incident had taught him that the less attention he drew to himself the less he risked his hide.

  The fire-dancer sat carelessly in the foyer of the Embassy, looking like an Indian warrior waiting for a sign from the spirits of fate. He had shoulder-length, thick, straight hair. His face was swarthy and angular, with thick, bushy brows. He was wearing a black leather jacket and thigh-length, red cowboy boots. On the table nearby lay his wallet, tucked into a big leather album.

  He was used to waiting. They would not scare him by making him wait. In the years he had been in London, he had crossed the threshold of many offices, both big and small. His backside had become as hard as the soles of a Dobrudjan peasant. Usually they listened to him, politely took his card and never called. But there were exceptions, which made it worth continuing. His art needed sponsors and social gatherings. He believed that one fine day his project would be approved and then he would wow the world. He dreamed of being Christo. Just like all the rest.

  It was not clear how exactly Mrs Pezantova had come by his coordinates – who had recommended him, and why. Only the man himself did not wonder about this – as far as he was concerned, it was entirely natural that people would know about him.

  “You’re Spass Nemirov, right?” said Turkeiev politely, and introduced himself.

  The artist looked sceptically at his freshly shaven, welcoming face. “I have an appointment with Mr Varadin Dimitrov,” he murmured.

  “He’s at the airport,” said Turkeiev. “But I am at your disposal, should you need anything. I understand that you will be a part of Mrs Pezantova’s concert.”

  “Yes, I’ve been invited,” the artist nodded self-importantly.

  “What will you be exhibiting?” asked the intern.

  “Well, an installation.” There was a noticeable softness in Spass’s way of speaking.

  “An installation?!” Turkeiev twitched; he had become somewhat wary of such things of late.

  “Yep. Shall I show you some of my work?” he said, quickly opening the album.

  Strange faces, people, animals and occult symbols stared out from the pages of the album, somehow reminiscent of Nascar drawings. Their contours were outlined in fire. To achieve that effect, Maestro Spass used a variety of flammable and inflammable materials: from the simplest candles and ropes soaked in petrol, to high-tech products such as napalm, thermite, sulphur-carbon derivatives or white phosphorus. Turkeiev knew nothing about chemistry and was deeply impressed. In spite of this, his basic instinct told him that these things were not without danger.

  “I haven’t had a single accident so far!” protested the artist energetically.

  “And you’re certain that the area is big enough?” asked the intern carefully. “Your works are quite sizeable.”

  “That’s right,” agreed the other happily, “especially this one!” He quickly leafed through the pictures and stopped, his finger pointing to a picture of a large blaze on a beach.

  “What’s that?” jumped Turkeiev.

  “It’s called the Night of Neptune. Napalm on sand. Can you see the trident?”

  The intern nodded in silence.

  “I created it last summer when I was in Bulgaria, on the Arapia beach,” added the artist proudly. “It burned all night. They wrote about it in all the papers. I wanted to make a copy here in Brighton, but they wouldn’t allow it. Various eco-groups protested against it, as usual! And napalm is expensive! Over here I mainly use candles.” Spass suddenly became more talkative, “They’re more economical and they don’t leave such a mess. This is one I did last month in Covent Garden. With the Local Council’s permission. See – it was even in the Times!”

  He extracted a sheet of paper, with a photocopy of the newspaper on it. It consisted of a picture and text: ‘Fire-dancer – The Bulgarian artist Spass Nemirov offers tourists an unusual attraction.’

  “Wonderful!” Turkeiev nodded in approval.

  “Sooner or later recognition comes.”

  “And what are you thinking of putting on here?” asked the intern politely.

  “I know that space is limited,” said the fire-dancer. “That’s why I’ve prepared something a little more delicate for you.”

  He put his battered cardboard suitcase on the table and opened its lid as though it was Pandora’s Box itself.

  “Well?” he raised his eyebrows as he gave Turkeiev a piece of card.

  “But that’s Princess Diana!” exclaimed the intern as he stared at the rough sketch.

  “In pink flames,” said Spass dreamily. “Just think of it...”

  “Mmmmmm,” mooed Turkeiev, scratching his ear.

  “I’m thinking of using a new technique.” The artist was inspired. “Magnesium oxide. They have it in Chinese shops but it’s a bit expensive. You’ll need to give me quite a bit of money.”

  Just then the door opened and Varadin himself appeared in the foyer. He threw a vague glance in the direction of the two men sat around the table and continued to drift further into the Embassy.

  “Mr Ambassador!” He was stopped by the hated voice of Turkeiev.

  He had difficulties understanding what exactly what was going on at first. Who was this accursed artist and where in hell had he come from? Obviously the heavy smell of fish had damaged various important brain-centres. Slowly, along with the fresh air, his senses returned. He snatched the album, looked over the sketch of the Princess and nodded. “Interesting.”

  The aesthetic side of the whole thing was of little interest to him. If Mrs Pezantova said it was interesting, that was good enough for him. The sum in question caused a small tic in his right temple, but he tamed it easily. It was not going to break the bank. He ordered the intern to fill out the necessary invoices and take it out of the Petty Cash.

  This business-like approach to things made the artist whistle in amazement. “I think I’ll probably need transport as well...” he said slyly.

  “Mr Turkeiev will be entirely at your disposal,” Varadin vengefully ground the sentence out through his teeth. “You must tell me personally if you are unhappy with his services. It was very nice to meet you.”

  As he said the latter he hurried to disappear into the depths of the building.

  The artist looked Turkeiev up and down regretfully. “Don’t worry about it mate! Everything will be fine!”

  Fuck you all!! The intern sighed.

  32

  Varadin snuck up the stairs as silently as a panther. He had escaped the guests under the pretence that he had to write an important report. As a matter of fact, he did actually have such a report to write, but that was the last thing on his mind. Pezantova had immediately begun to fire off orders in the residence, causing absolute chaos. He had the premonition that that would continue for a long time – until he waved goodbye to her at the steps of the ai
rcraft. He wanted to steal a moment of peace and quiet to gather his thoughts.

  Tania Vandova was fussing around the photocopier in the offices and didn’t notice him. The door of his office was ajar. From within came the roar of the Hoover.

  “You’re within my grasp now, little slut!” he said, grinding his teeth.

  The girl was working with her back to him. Varadin slammed the door on purpose, with the idea of making her turn around. Her eyes would pop out in horror. He was just thinking of something cutting to say, but stopped himself all of a sudden. The Hoover was still screaming. Almost half a minute passed, before she thought to turn it off.

  “Who are you?” he asked in a pain-filled voice.

  “Doroteya,” said the girl stiffly. Her wide face was a mass of red spots.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, they sent me to clean,” she replied. “I’m the replacement.”

  “Is that so? And what happened to Katya?” asked Varadin pretending disinterest.

  “Katya won’t be cleaning anymore.” The girl almost spat at him.

  His stomach flipped over. “But who will pay her rent?” he asked angrily.

  “She has hardly got problems with her finances...What with her new profession!”

  He thought he could detect a trace of spite in her tone. Why was she telling him all this? To what end? It struck him that perhaps continuing to question her would not be a good idea; but he could not stop himself, “What profession?”

  “Well, she’s playing Princess Diana.”

  “Princess Diana?” echoed Varadin, eyes wide.

  The girl nodded, “Uh-huh, she is working for Famous Connections.”

  “Famous Connections?”

  “Have you heard of them?” she asked innocently.

  A black cloud passed across his face. There was no going back now. He shook his head, “No, never. How do you know that?”

  “We were roommates,” explained Dotty with a smirk. “Recently, she was going around the place with various scenarios like some kind of starlet. But if you ask me, I’m sure it’s all soft porn.”

  “Porn?” he gasped. “Are you sure?”

  “Judge for yourself!” She rummaged in the pocket of her overalls and proffered some folded sheets of paper. “I photocopied them, just in case.”

  He jumped back as though scalded.

  “Maybe I’ve said more than I should,” mumbled Dotty, leaving the pages on his desk.

  “Does anyone else know what she’s doing?” he asked quickly, then thought to himself, in answer, of course they know! I’m always the last to be told!

  “No, no one at all!” the girl protested. “I only said because...”

  “I have to talk to her. Immediately!”

  “She doesn’t live here any more,” said Dotty shaking her head.

  “She left?” he gaped stupidly. “When?”

  “The other day.”

  “And where is she now?”

  “She rented herself some sort of studio, maybe in the Portobello Road.”

  “A studio in the Portobello Road?”

  “Something like that. She didn’t leave an address or phone number. Just upped and left. Maybe she found herself a guy. I don’t know, I just don’t know!” She wrung her hands helplessly.

  He walked up to her, looked her in the eye and hissed, “Did she rub you up the wrong way?”

  “I thought you ought to know,” replied Dotty gloomily.

  Nasty, sticky business, he thought to himself. He was in it up to his ears.

  “Excuse me,” she said, and started to wind the cable of the Hoover up, clumsily.

  He sat down behind his desk and waited for her to leave in silence.

  ‘DRIVING LADY DI’, scenario by Thomas Munroe. Famous Connections. All rights reserved!’ Varadin frowned. His eyes scanned the lines distractedly. What filth! Which, of course, did not stop it from arousing him. ‘PAINTING NUDES!’ and ‘THE LAST WEDDING!’ were the following titles. “A cursed little whore!” he spat malevolently.

  Nothing was the same as it had been anymore! Naturally, it was only to be expected when things are going so well, that there will always be some cause for doubt. Like a burning ember, covered in ash. That is how fires were started.

  There was a knocking at the door. Tania Vandova came in. “The copies for Mrs Pezantova,” she said.

  “What?” he gaped.

  “The program for the concert and the guest list,” explained the secretary, leaving a thin folder on the desk. “The photocopier jammed, but it sorted itself out, thank God,” she added.

  He wasn’t listening to her. The secretary left hurriedly.

  ‘THE CONCERT, scenario by Thomas Munroe. Famous Connections. All rights reserved!’

  “Bastard!” exploded Varadin as he remembered the scriptwriter. He had only met him once, but the memory of his filthy presence radiated from the folder with unusual strength. He asked questions such as, “In what role do you see Her Majesty, as a ruler or as a mother?” and then took notes. Varadin had not paid too much attention to him at the time. Maybe he should have.

  The scenario had been thought out down to the very finest detail. The reception and departure ceremonies, the seating plan – even the topics of conversation had been noted beforehand. The guest list was also an agency product. Ziebling had managed to be even more demanding than the good Mrs Pezantova as far as that had been concerned; the company had not seemed exclusive enough for his liking. In the end he had involved himself personally in the quest to find guests of a high enough calibre, and as a result the first draft of the guest list had been almost entirely changed. “Take it as a bonus,” he had said nobly.

  The famous personages responded warmly to the invitations, and their cheques did not delay in flying in. Evan though tickets cost £100 a head, that did not discourage them and all forty places were soon filled. As compared to the agency’s fees as well as all the other expenses surrounding the affair, the total seemed a drop in the ocean. However, Varadin attempted to think in terms of the state, as opposed to anything else. Otherwise, he started to have malevolent thoughts along the lines of: If all this money was poured over the heads of those orphans then maybe there wouldn’t be any need for these concerts. But then, what would good people like Mrs Pezantova do with themselves all day? A difficult question. A dangerous question. When he was ceremonial mode, such thoughts did not occur to him and he felt a great deal calmer. In this case, unfortunately, ceremonial thinking was to no avail. The hard facts, both the lesser and the larger, had become the rock and the hard place that were slowly closing in on him.

  Famous Connections.

  Close contact with people of high society, informal contacts. Discretion and security.

  Varadin dialled the number carefully. He was phoning on his own for the first time, without telling his secretary to put him through. He felt awkward, as though sneaking into someone else’s office.

  “Welcome to Famous Connections,” sang a tender voice, “Experience the magic of informal meetings. Your idols await you. If you are interested in our services or wish to become our client, say one. If you are already our client and are experiencing problems, say two. If you wish to speak with our administrators, say three.”

  The words hung emptily in the cables like frozen starlings. The voice recited them once again. Varadin persisted in his silence. He imagined how the cables disappeared into the darkness: one led to Ziebling’s office, the others lost themselves in the maze of the agency. He knew which road he should take but did not dare. Not yet.

  A minute later he dialled the agency’s number once more and the same greeting message answered. This time he did not put the phone down. He made sure to change his voice slightly, although there was no danger of his being recognised. “One,” he announced clearly.

  For a while he was subjected to some crackly muzak, then a recorded voice answered, “Welcome to Famous Connections! You will shortly be put through to one of ou
r staff. At this stage we require no details concerning your identity. For your own comfort, we suggest that you use a pseudonym. If you do not have one ready, take a few seconds to think of one. Thank you for your attention.”

  “Hello, thank you for calling, my name is Hal,” a friendly male voice said. “I’ll be helping you become acquainted with the rules of the game. You’re about to realise your most treasured dream. Don’t stop now! Everyone has the right to touch their idol, to feel their aura, to play with them a little. The stars would be nothing without us ordinary people. We make them what they are, which means that some part of them is ours. We just have to ask for it! Isn’t that so, Mr...?”

  “Victor,” said Varadin without thinking. He had always wanted to be called that.

  “Great, Victor!” enthused the voice. “Let me just tell you how it all works. We don’t want to sell you anything so don’t worry on that front. Famous Connections just helps you to get what is yours by right. D’you understand, we are merely the go-betweens, everything else is up to you!”

  “Not quite,” mumbled Varadin.

  “Doesn’t matter! You just need to know one more thing,” Continued Hal, “We’re not thieves, so we can’t deliver anything that doesn’t belong to you. Don’t expect miracles. If you’re entitled to only one percent, then there is no way you can get one hundred percent without stealing from others, and we, as I just said, don’t do that. Still there?”

  “Yes,” said Varadin. “I’m listening carefully.”

  “That was the bad news,” said Hal. “But there’s good news too, which is far more important: the fact that this seemingly insignificant percentage, to which you are entitled, will give you one hundred percent satisfaction. Don’t believe it, eh? Experience demonstrates that that is entirely possible. Because, believe me, that little percentage is all that you need. It’s got the necessary essence for you to change your vague, dreamy image into hard fantasy. Do you understand what I’m getting at?”