by Alek Popov
There was a brief pause.
“I’m not certain,” replied Varadin.
“I’m talking about the grain of sand in the oyster, Victor,” said Hal, like a Baptist preacher. “The grain of sand that turns into a pearl. We’ll give you the grain, and you’ll stay with it in the oyster. Do you agree?”
“Yes,” Varadin mumbled, understanding exactly nothing. What exactly were they offering? Ziebling had never put things that way.
“If it isn’t totally clear, it soon will be,” concluded Hal philosophically. “Now let’s get to the heart of the matter. Tell me who you’re after, which member of high society you dream of touching.”
“Lady Di,” he replied, after summoning all his courage.
“Excellent, there’ll be no problem!” exclaimed Hal.
“But she’s dead!”
“Dreams never die, my friend.”
“So you’ll arrange a meeting for me, with her?”
“Of course!”
“But it won’t really be her, right? It’s not possible what with her being dead.” He raised his voice unintentionally, “You’ll send me some sort of actress! A copy! A double!’
“We’re giving you the grain of sand,” said Hal without blinking, “and whether it’ll turn into a pearl relies entirely on you. Do you have a scenario?”
He typed something on his keyboard.
“Pardon?”
“Do you have an idea of what you want to do with her?”
“Well...”
“I’m sure that deep down you know perfectly well what you really want,” Hal cut in. “Maybe you’re a bit ashamed of talking about it right now, but there’s no rush. Besides, her program is fully booked at the moment. We won’t be able to fit you in before next month, unless someone cancels. But I don’t think they will. People are crazy about her, especially the Near-Easterners.”
“Hal, I’ve already got an idea,” said Varadin unexpectedly; his tone had gone dead. “I just thought of it.”
“Brilliant! That will make things easier,” said Hal cautiously.
It cost him a great deal of effort to put his idea into English. “I’m going to shred her whoring arse!” hissed Varadin quietly.
“What?” Hal jumped.
“I’m going to shred her whoring arse!” repeated Varadin, in a voice that was breaking up, “and yours too, you bastard!”
He squeezed his mobile furiously and threw it onto his desk, as if he wanted to ram it into Hal’s invisible ear, deep into his chicken-shit brain.
“!!100!!” he shouted so loudly that the windows of the glass cabinet shook, “100!!200!!300!!400!!1000!!!FuckyouPepolen!!! You’llnotstopmenow!!!2000!!!3000!!!4000!!!10000!!!!12000!!!! 100000!!!!1000000!!!!!” All the numbers he had ever stored in his head came pouring out like a stream of wasps, forming a vast swarm of ever-larger numbers that buzzed lightning-fast.
Eventually he reached numbers that were too long to pronounce before its successor appeared and he sat silently, his lips moving spasmodically, as number after number buzzed by. It was beautiful and frightening all at the same time.
33
To The Minister’s Office
To The Office of The Spokesman of MFA
To The Department of ENA
To The Department of Information
British Press Review:
The British Press is paying considerable attention to the exhibition “Hygiene in Bulgarian Lands”, which opens today at the prestigious British Museum. There is an article in every Cultural Section of the major National papers.
“Bulgarian WC Challenge” by Matt Goswell, The Tribune:
The widely accepted fact that the first Water Closet was built in Elizabethan times will undergo correction today with the first unveiling of its Bulgarian Predecessor. The apparatus, found in Bulgaria, dates from between 980AD and 982AD and consists of a functional model of a Water Closet, an idea that only cropped up in Western Europe some thousand years later. There are still arguments relating to its origin: Thracian, Bulgar or Byzantine? Or possibly Celtic?
Until now, such things have not been found in either Thracian burial sites, or Roman/Byzantine archaeological sites in the territory of Bulgaria. That is the reason for which Peter Panchev, an expert from the Bulgarian Historical Society in London, holds that this is part of an ancient tradition of hygiene, form the Ancient Greater Bulgaria, spreading through the territories of the Ukraine and Southern Russia. The Bulgarians claim to be one of the oldest peoples on earth, stemming from settlements in the fertile Ferganska Valley, in the foothills of Pamir.
There still remains the question of why the use of this device was not more widespread during the medieval Kingdom of Bulgaria. According to Mr Panchev, one explanation might be the invasion of the Turkish tribes at the end of the fourteenth century, who then set about demolishing all such cultural devices as a symbolic gesture of their victory. He does not exclude the possibility of more such artefacts being found within the territory of Bulgaria.
Elena Papadopoulos, an archaeologist from Oxford University, holds an entirely different opinion. According to her theories, the WC is of Byzantine origin. The lack of other such artefacts is explained in her thesis as being the result of their systematic destruction during the seventh century, at the hands of the invading Bulgars, who thought them to be Christian sacred sites. Her thesis lacks an explanation of the lack of any such artefacts in any other part of the former Byzantine/Roman Empire.
An original opinion comes from Professor Michael Callaghan, of the University of Glasgow. He is of the opinion that this ancient WC is a leftover from the time when the Celtic tribes populated those lands. Obviously that Celtic tradition was far separated from the traditions of the Western Celts, especially those occupying the British Isles.
The origins of the Provadian Water Closet remain shrouded in mystery for the moment. The exhibition is expected to be visited in person by Her Majesty Queen, Elizabeth II.
The Guardian mentions that the dig and the conservation of the unique artefact were carried out thanks to the enthusiasm of the local people, though sponsored by a Dutch Foundation. The Bulgarian Minister for Culture had denied funds to the project under the budget cutbacks.
Editorial of the European Post: “Was it actually being used?”
The Ancient Installation stands out, tragically alone, from the prevailing darkness of Balkan history. Attempts to classify it under any one cultural tradition have so far been of no avail. It seems that the first ever WC was the creation of some former-day Leonardo da Vinci, which unfortunately remained an oddity in the eyes of his contemporaries. The hypothesis is supported by archaeologists’ suspicions that the device has never been used. If that proves to be the case we will be witness to a cultural paradox that could well explain the Balkans as we see them today. And even if we accept that Sir John Harrington was not the first to create a Water Closet, we are left secure in the knowledge that he was the first to put one to use.
Photos and technical diagrams, accompanied by short explanatory notes were published in Liberation and The Endeavour, the latter including a picture of the Mayor of Provadia alongside the title: “The Herald of Progress”.
The Sun carries the story under the headline VULGAR BULGARS WOULD RATHER SQUAT THAN SIT ON THE POT. The fusty world of archaeologists is going potty over the ancient Bulgarian khazi currently on show at the British museum. They can’t make out why the world’s first flush loo was never used.
SO WHAT DID THE BULGARS USE THEIR TOILET FOR? THE SUN OFFERS A WEEK IN SUNNY BEACH FOR THE READER WHO COMES UP WITH THE BEST ANSWER!
The other major headlines involve the continuing Balkan Crisis
***
“And what’s that all about?” spat Devorina Pezantova in peeved tones, throwing the print-out onto the table amidst the remains of her breakfast. “How come no one is writing about me?”
Varadin looked at her with deep sorrow. A ‘good night’s sleep’ had left deep, dark circles under his
eyes. He looked like a man returned from purgatory, carrying with him the secret of the end of the world.
“Why are you looking at me like that? What did I say?” she asked irritably.
“There was that small condition, if you remember...” he replied quietly. “This is an informal event and they do not want publicity.”
“How could you accept such a stupid condition!” she burst out. “What use is this meeting if no one knows about it?”
Varadin said nothing. He had not actually had a good night. The ladies had occupied all the bedrooms in the residence and he had been left to sleep on the sofa in the hall. But the aches and pains of his body were nothing compared to those in his head. The empty streets of his subconscious were filled with roaming questions, as frightening as gangs of street-dogs during a harsh winter. They attacked him on the corners, barked wildly at his presence, howled at the sky. But he had nothing to feed them with, no answers at all, not even the skeleton of a plan for them to gnaw its bones. And his particular winter was getting harsher still.
The window was slightly open and a fresh breeze blew in, the thick curtain waved slightly as a result.
“So, She’s going to go and see that bloody toilet, and that’s all over the damn press,” started Pezantova, with renewed fury. “And the fact that She’s coming to my concert? Oh, no, not allowed!! And what’s the upshot? That some stupid toilet is more important than I am!! How could you accept such idiocies!?”
“The exhibition is nothing to do with us,” Varadin muttered.
“So who is it to do with, then?” she screeched.
“It’s nothing to do with anybody in particular,” he replied. “The initiative came purely from the British Museum and the Local Council of Provadia.”
“But that’s stupid!” complained the now famous Mitche. “Can’t we invite the BBC to do a documentary? It might not be too late? You do have contacts with the BBC, yes?” she asked turning to the Ambassador.
“What?” he frowned.
“The B-B-C,” she repeated. “To call out a team for this evening.”
Varadin smiled contemptuously. “This isn’t Sofia in case you hadn’t realised. Apart from that, allowing anyone to attend who is not on the guest list means that the whole engagement will be cancelled.”
“What, even at the last moment?” Mitche’s eyes opened wide.
“Are you willing to accept that responsibility?” he was almost daring her.
There followed an icy silence.
“Wouldn’t it be easier,” started the second lady-in-waiting, “if Mrs Pezantova went to open the famous WC herself? They could hardly object to that. Then she would be all over the press as well.”
“How could you say that Veronika!?!” Mitche raised her voice spitefully. “Mrs Pezantova only associates with eternal spiritual values! She could never be linked to something so V...Bulgar.”
Veronika Dishlieva, a lady of no small repute amongst the Sofia High Society, turned to look at her patroness, Just look how she’s always whingeing said her look. She was on the point of voicing her thoughts on the matter, but realised in time that she would find no sympathy where she was looking. Pezantova looked very serious, almost as though she was thinking of something important.
“Listen,” she said suddenly. “No one can stop us from sending an article to the press as soon as the concert is over. We won’t be taking any risks. Let them be peeved as much as they like, what’s done is done. Do you think it’s a good idea?” she turned to Varadin for an answer.
A sunbeam danced triumphantly on her tip of her toffee-nose.
He looked through her and nodded, “Absolutely.”
There were less than ten hours until the official proceedings began.
The seconds counted down, scrolling on a huge screen in the back of his skull.
Pezantova looked at him worriedly. What was wrong with the man? Yesterday he had been perfectly all right, and today he looked like a three-day corpse. He probably had various things to worry about, but that was none of her affair. As long as he does not cock everything up at the last moment, that is, she thought with her usual ruthlessness.
“I’ll go and see how the preparations are going,” he mumbled, then stood up and left.
34
“Sir and Lady Brandon Croft!” announced Barry Longfellow ceremoniously.
Down the improvised red carpet came two middle-aged figures, looking grandiose. A thick band of pearls was wrapped around Her Ladyship’s neck; she smiled dazzlingly and arched her spine gracefully. Applause echoed to the rafters of the Factory.
‘Lady Croft’, known to the majority of the population as Susan Lamour, usually played Brigitte Bardot. Recently, her fame had been steadily dwindling, and she had gladly accepted the role of an extra in the new extravaganza. The role of Brandon Croft was played by a well-built, womaniser, who usually played a popular, kick-ass football player. The family of Sir Brandon, according to Debrett’s Peerage was traceable back to 1234. Its heredity consisted of some land in Lancashire and a small castle in Wales.
“The Reverend Adam Sacks, Bishop of Neverbury, director of the Celestine Charitable Trust,” Barry shouted once more.
A tubby gentleman appeared on the walkway, wearing a purple cassock, his eyes were playful. It did not take much to guess whose double he was. His real name was Pat Moremead, but in every other detail he was Benny Hill: voice, face, walk, mannerisms; as though the great comic had left them to him in his will.
The Reverend Adam Sacks sidled up to Lady Croft, raised his eyes to Heaven, and pinched her bottom. Everyone burst out laughing fit to cry.
“Cut!” cried Ziebling professionally. He was standing at Barry’s shoulder watching the ‘Parade of Benefactors’, as he had dubbed it. “You are not to do that, got it? You are not Benny Hill for the time being!”
“Oops, sorry!” exclaimed Pat to more laughter.
Barry wagged a finger at him and shouted, “Baroness Remoulade!”
Remoulade had been a sauce for chips, bangers or mash, but it sounded eminently aristocratic to the ears of one Thomas Munroe, the author of the honours list. At a certain point he was bored to death with Debrett’s and its dry articles and, reaching for his pint, had noticed the packet of sauce on the table and decided to indulge himself in the luxury of create-your-own aristocrat. He had listed Remoulade as an ancient Danish family, Lords of the Keep of the Baltic Island of Faarhoeighen. From the start of the fifties their descendants had moved to London.
Baroness Remoulade was a washed-out blonde, with the face of a drowned victim staring at the sky through a thick layer of arctic ice, and all the grace of a walking robot. She was wearing a light-pink checked suit, white gloves and big glitzy hoop earrings. Her Star had risen eighteen months previously, when the housewife Lorena Bobbit had cold-bloodedly cut her cheating husband’s penis off, written a book about the whole thing, and achieved fame on both sides of the Atlantic. From that moment her personality had stoked the fires of passion in many of the populace, and it was pure business-sense for the Factory to respond to the new demands. The unpleasant Elaine Carter, who was also a middle-class housewife and thus very suited to the part, played the role. She did not have the courage of Mrs Bobbit, but needed money to repay the loan she had taken out for her breast enlargement. Bobbitt’s star had burned itself out quickly, but her loan repayments were still a fact.
“Lord De Fazaposte, and his sister Lady De Viyent!” announced Barry.
A wheelchair appeared on the carpet, pushed by a severe-looking, eagle-nosed woman, dressed as a widow. The good Samuel Fogg, also known as ‘Hawking’, occupied the wheelchair, dressed like a Chelsea Veteran. The able make-up crew of the Factory had managed to make him look respectable. But that did not stop the assembled cast from laughing, to which he responded with a maliciously vacant smile.
“Lady Marx, the Duchess Van Der Brayne, Sir De Vilajidioff!” Barry continued like a true medieval Herald. “Hugh Munroe, esquire, President of The
Monarchist League, Sir Jay.”
Those announced walked forward with grandeur, chests puffed out, and professional smiles in place. Once the glamorous parade was over, Barry turned to his boss. Ziebling applauded appreciatively and gestured to them all to gather round.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began. “We find ourselves on the eve of a unique Super-Production. Until now we have never done such a thing: every one of you had your own little show, quite separate from the rest. This evening, however, you will be called upon to be a part of a grand-scale scenario, which requires an unusually high level of realism. Despite the fact that most of you are playing minor roles, there will be many guests present and you most be in-role at all times. They want realism, so we’re going to provide it!”
He looked around at the silent actors and continued, “People around the world get their kicks in different ways. Prestige, High Society, Fame, these things have always been the most powerful aphrodisiacs, and always will be. Those who are attracted to these things, however, rarely admit, even to themselves, that what they truly desire from them is actually selfish sexual gratification. Sometimes they even go so far as to disguise this behind various abstracted and ill-defined goals. But they cannot fool their own subconscious. The nature of orgasm is both mysterious and capricious. Millions never achieve its heights in their entire life, whilst others get there every day. Some spend a fortune to avail themselves of one, to others it falls like a golden shower. Blessed are those who are content with little. Our clients, though, are not amongst these blessed souls. They want it all! If that helps them climax, all the better.”
Ziebling paused, before making a sweeping gesture with one arm, “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he announced poignantly. “Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II.”
Everyone turned to look at the start of the carpet. An elderly woman stood there in a light-green hat and white shoes. Behind her, in the role of the bodyguard, stood Desmond, wire in ear, wearing the obligatory strict black suit. The lady raised one hand and waved regally. She seemed almost too real, and the others stared in respectful silence.