by Alek Popov
“Who is she?” hissed Baroness Remoulade in Sir Brandon Croft’s ear.
“No idea,” said the Manchester player. “First time I’ve set eyes on her.”
“Well lookie here!” exclaimed Pat, who had been with the agency longer than most. “The Return of Mrs Cunningham! Hip, hip, Hurrah!”
The queen stopped and gave him an unimpressed look, “Off with his head!”
Ziebling burst out laughing. He went over to the elderly lady and hugged her warmly. “Auntie Helen! As unique as ever! I’m extremely pleased to see you amongst us once again.”
“Well I’m not so pleased,” she replied harshly. “But I need a new fridge. And with that teacher’s pension...” Mrs Cunningham shook her head angrily.
“Well, you might even make it two fridges!” said Ziebling, nudging her elbow, “What do you think of our little scenario?”
“Dull as life itself,” she spat. “But I’ll manage, it’s not like this is the first time.”
“Now that’s what you call a professional,” said Ziebling, turning to the others. “Are you all ready?”
The group nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Enough rehearsals then. I think we all know what we’re doing here. The scenario isn’t complicated but you need to be on your guard. Don’t get drunk, don’t get chatty, remain grand and reserved, and it’ll all be fine. I’m off to see that the stage has been properly set. Barry will look after you all. I’ll see you this evening.”
Katya had followed the rehearsal, idly leaning against one wall of the make-up room. She was not involved in the scenario for obvious reasons but did not feel any pangs of regret. The fact that that grotesque spectacle would be taking place within the bounds of the Bulgarian Embassy, threw her into confusion. Why, who needed it?? And who was footing the bill? She felt personally degraded. Then she simply stopped caring. She was happier than ever that she had left the place far behind.
She stood in front of the mirror to try on a new wig, a light-pink one. They had brought it in to her that afternoon. It was an important part of a new scenario that had been written to order for some wealthy old punk rocker.
“So you’re my new daughter-in-law,” an ironic voice broke in behind her.
She moved slightly and looked at the reflection of Mrs Cunningham in the mirror. She liked the old lady; she had a bold voice.
“How old are you?”
“24,” answered Katya.
“Do you like the role?”
“My timetable’s fairly busy,” mumbled the girl.
“Then they need another Princess,” spat Mrs Cunningham. “This show will go on for a long time. You won’t find yourself on the street, believe me!”
“I’ve nothing against that,” said Katya. “But I don’t intend to stay in this business forever.”
“Are you Russian?”
“Bulgarian.” Katya said, shaking her head.
Mrs Cunningham narrowed her eyes, as though trying to remember something important. “Ah, you’re the girl who used to work there, aren’t you?” she asked in lively tones.
Everyone knows! So much for confidentiality!’ Then Katya said aloud, “Work is putting it a bit strongly. I cleaned every so often in exchange for lodgings. It was a real chance at first because I had no money. But things are a little different now, so I moved out.”
“Well, well, what is the world coming to!” sighed the old lady disapprovingly. “Masturbation at such a level. It’s going a bit far, don’t you think?”
“High-level, low-level, it’s all the same,” Katya shrugged.
“I still don’t approve,” said Mrs Cunningham, shaking her head. “Think what you will, but personally I don’t approve. Onanism stops people from developing. That’s what I was taught when I was young. Now I finally understand what they actually meant.”
She reached into her handbag and pulled out a cigarillo. She lit it. Her head almost disappeared in a cloud of sweet smoke.
“Everybody knows how to jerk-off in the dark,” she continued, puffing away. “You don’t have to be handsome, intelligent, wealthy – nothing! You can even have ‘bad personal hygiene’ as I’ve heard it called. People are becoming sloppy. Why bother making an effort to look good, improve the mind and so on, when you can sort yourself out? And that’s that. Once you start, nothing can stop you. You return to being an animal.”
The queen casually blew some smoke-rings. “When someone jerks themselves off, that’s their business. But when the whole country is jerked off, it gets a bit much,” she concluded philosophically.
“Brilliant! Why don’t you profit from the occasion to tell them that?” proposed Katya.
The queen considered for a moment, then shook her head, “It’s not in the script. And it’s none of my business. But don’t you worry, one day they’ll find someone to explain it to them. There’s always one to explain.”
The elderly lady headed off to her make-up room, muttering under her breath, “Who the hell came up with that damn dull concert? Probably that half-wit Munroe! That man is a complete idiot!”
35
“You’ve played me for a fool,” snorted Varadin. “You Bastard!”
His voice spewed from his oral cavity like a thick black, pestilential stream.
“Your Excellency,” replied Ziebling coldly. “I’ve no idea what you are talking about. You wanted the Queen, you have Her! What more do you need!”
“The real Queen, you bastard!” The Ambassador groaned and then almost choked. “100!”
“Pardon?” Ziebling raised his eyebrows.
“75!” said Varadin and repeated himself furiously, “The Real Queen!”
“The real Queen?” Ziebling seemed genuinely surprised. “Are you mad?”
“No, I’m not!” spat the Ambassador, “300!”
Pepolen’s system was coming apart at the seams. Obviously it was not designed for such heavy use. The emotional valve could not hold the pressure; there were too many numbers and with no other escape-valve, the whole system was blocking up. At any moment it might blow, and bury him in the debris. He had to save his brain.
Ziebling stared at him, as though trying to guess what was going through his client’s mind.
“Why don’t you bring Lady Diana along as well,” the Ambassador continued cuttingly. “Just for the look of the thing.”
The Famous Connector blinked rapidly, “But you didn’t ask for her!”
“Enough!” shouted Varadin, stopping both Ziebling and the numbers. “Do you think you can lead me around by the nose? I know all about your agency!”
“We have nothing to hide, Sir,” Ziebling answered calmly. “I assumed that you were aware of the nature of our services from the start. You called us, if you remember.”
“Dean Carver recommended you, and I put my faith in him,” the Ambassador complained bitterly, and added bitingly, “I suppose it was in his interest...”
“I’m not surprised he spoke highly of us,” said Ziebling. “We’re very good of what we do. I assure you, you will like our show!”
“There won’t be any show!” spat Varadin.
“You’re cancelling at the last minute?” the Famous Connector shifted uneasily. “Whatever for?”
“Because you expect me to accept a fake Queen, that’s why!!” Varadin exploded, “Do you really think we’re that stupid?”
Ziebling went red and jumped out of his chair, “My dear man, not for an instant did I expect that you might think that we would actually get hold of Her Majesty herself! That’s absurd! Where on earth did you get such a bizarre idea?”
The Ambassador blinked rapidly opposite him. “We’ll have to think of something,” he mumbled, mostly to himself. “…That she’s fallen ill or been called away on important State business. I don’t know. We have to think of something!”
“But what about the others?” asked Ziebling, business-like.
“What others?” gaped Varadin. The guest list appeared before his eyes, titles and a
ll.
“I want to inform you that they are only extras, you can’t rely on them too much,” Ziebling said.
Varadin felt his migraine coming on and massaged his sinuses, without much success. “I should have known,” he muttered. “You thought of everything!”
“But of course!” nodded Ziebling. “It wasn’t easy, let me tell you! Usually people choose more private scenarios. But you’ve wanted this concert so much! You obviously have good reasons for it. I don’t know. It’s not my business to comment on my clients’ desires, merely to fulfil them. However, I cannot allow external elements to interfere with the troop. That’s unprofessional.”
“But they’ve bought their tickets already, for God’s sake!”
“We assumed that this will please you. We included them in the price. Don’t worry.”
The Ambassador looked up quickly, “You expected me to pay for this masquerade?”
“Amongst other things – that is why I’m here,” replied Ziebling cheerfully, “to discuss our fee. I’ve prepared you an invoice down to the last penny.”
“Maybe you didn’t understand that I’m turning down your services!”
“Don’t rush it, your Excellency,” continued Ziebling, paying not slightest attention to his words. “We’ve already invested in this project and you will be obliged to refund our expenses in any case. Besides which, we all bought our tickets, including myself, see here it is.” He pulled a piece of card from his breast pocket, which had the Embassy’s seal on it. “And we have no intention of missing the food or the show. I know you’ve been preparing for this occasion for almost six months. Troubadours and acrobats have been called in all the way from Bulgaria. So it should be worth seeing, shouldn’t it?”
“We’ll refund the price of the tickets,” said the Ambassador gloomily. “I won’t let you make fools of us.”
“Just don’t kill yourself!” Ziebling interrupted. “I am worried about you, you know? Where on earth are you going to find other guests?” He looked at his watch. “You’ve only got three hours till the concert. I suspect certain people will be unimpressed if the whole room is empty. Especially if they find out why. Where does the buck stop? You can’t pass the buck to the small fry. Think of your career!”
Varadin looked at him blankly. What did it matter now? His career was already up the creek. And not a paddle in sight.
“No, nothing is lost, Sir!” shouted Ziebling, as though reading his mind. “You mustn’t give up hope. After making one mistake, don’t make a second. Let us put on our little show and everything will be all right. They are absolute professionals, especially our Queen. Children have often stopped her in the park to ask her, ‘Excuse me, are you Queen Elisabeth II?’ You know? And the costumes are simply to die for.”
“Are telling me I should try to fool them?”
“I’m offering a way out,” Ziebling lowered his voice. “The only one for a man in your position! I’ll save you and you simply keep to your contract. There won’t be any scandals. Nothing will reach the press. Someone will believe that they’ve dined with Her Majesty and will be happy. You’ll be the hero. And if you want the princess later, you just give me a call. You are quite taken with her, aren’t you? We have large discounts for our regular clients.”
He had gradually moved closer to Varadin, blocking the faint afternoon light from the window. Suddenly, his figure loomed large and its huge shadow fell across the mass of his desk. His lips were almost kissing his ear, as though they were trying to suck the remains of brain out. Terrible warmth encircled his body.
“You’re the Devil himself!” hissed Varadin.
36
At exactly 6.45pm, a pink hat, shaped like a gigantic éclair, passed triumphantly through the Embassy’s official entrance. Behind it stepped a neurotic Varadin and the two ladies-in-waiting. The foyer shone as if freshly licked. The crystal chandelier sparkled festively. At the threshold, they were greeted greasily by Mr Kishev. Another two diplomats hovered nearby, looking like coppers. None of them had been honoured with a place at the Concert. Their task consisted of guarding the front-line of the gathering. The technical staff had been pulled back far into the reserve, owing to ‘technical incompatibility’.
Devorina Pezantova did not deign to notice the diplomat; she swirled out of her fur cape and deposited it on his arm, as though he were some strange mobile coat rack. Her dress was a sequined nightmare, which instantly caught the light and shone like a garish Christmas display. She was wearing a wide blue band with a medallion at the lower end over one shoulder – a trophy from a visit to some faraway country. She thought that that particular decoration made her look grand, and never passed up an occasion to wear it, especially if said occasion came under the heading ‘ceremonial’.
The giant éclair made its way to the main staircase, followed by its entourage. They slowly ascended the stairs, like people making their way to Heaven. The red carpet smelled freshly of lilac. The doors to the reception room had been opened wide; between the tables smartly dressed students hovered, wearing white gloves that had been bought especially for the occasion. An approving smile appeared on Devorina’s lips. Then disappeared, far faster.
“What is that stall doing there?” She demanded peevishly.
Her gaze had fallen on a small table to the left of the door. Varadin shrugged. The table was covered with an assortment of articles, each with its own little price tag. He had no idea where the cursed little stand had come from. Only an hour before, when he last did a round to check up on things, it had been nowhere to be seen. The goods gave the general impression of souvenirs everywhere: a catalogue of icons printed way back in 1971 (£7), a pile of CD’s of folk songs (£5 each), a few pairs of knitted woollen socks (£5), decorative folk-slippers (£15), towels with folk motifs (£6), plaited straw bag (£10), as well as other odds and ends amongst which the little bronze dog frolicked, its collar showing the respectable sum of £150.
The shady artistic director slid out of the corridor leading to the service area. His long hair was tied back into a ponytail. He was wearing a black, woollen suit and a loose-fitting collarless shirt, which made him look a little like a vicar.
“Did you put this here?” the disapproving voice of Mrs Pezantova greeted his arrival.
“Umm, well, the artists asked me to,” he mumbled, looking guiltily at the traditional wooden horse-comb in his hands (£4).
“I don’t like it at all, remove it at once!”
The artistic director did not move, however. So timid on an institutional level, he was ready to risk his life for his interests on a domestic level. Mrs Pezantova was not in the habit of paying her artists. Her speciality was spiritual reward. He knew that if no one bought the little dog, he would be going home empty-handed. And the winter heating bills required more than spiritual well-being.
“Can you put those tapes as well,” a melodic voice sang. “They are left over from our Argentinean trip.”
The voice belonged to one of the singers. She appeared like ghost from the dark corridor, her heavily decorated costume chiming. Her thickly made-up face had playful dimples.
“We were waiting for you, Mrs Pezantova,” she said casually. “You don’t disapprove of our little display, do you? People like our things, and a few levs on the side will do us good.”
At that particular moment a diplomat ran up the stairs and waved his hands, “They’re coming” he shouted and ran back.
“Fingers crossed!” exclaimed the singer and disappeared into the dark corridor once more, where the make-up rooms had been improvised.
The artistic director looked all business-like. Pezantova looked at Varadin, who merely raised his eyebrows in philosophical resignation. The others rushed to disappear into the background.
A mysterious silence fell. “It’s starting,” said Varadin, his stomach in knots. The hard stitches of his tailcoats were digging into his armpits; that halfwit Miladin had obviously got the wrong size. How could he possibly have sent h
im to hire his outfit! Underneath the hat’s brim, Pezantova’s eyes were almost popping out of their sockets in anticipation. With a little more luck we might be able to pass off a pig’s ear!
“Why is nobody coming?” mumbled Pezantova staring at the empty staircase.
“Here they come!” exclaimed Mitche behind her.
A lone couple made their way across the red carpet.
The man was well built, with an equally well-built gut and a goatee, which made him look older than he was. He was dressed all in black and to judge from his tie and the handkerchief in his breast pocket, he liked to stare at the window displays on Oxford Street. Next to him a strange ostrich-like creature minced, with feathers to match.
“The Halvadjievs!” hissed Pezantova through her teeth. “For once they’re not late!”
When the duo reached the landing, however, her face was all sweetness and light. “How nice to see you!” she smiled.
“Thank you for the invitation!” neighed the big man shaking hands with them both. Then he turned to his better half and said, “Yvonne, let me introduce Mrs Pezantova! And this is Yvonne.” He added with no little pride.
“I am so glad!” the creature smiled. “Brilliant party!”
Her skinny neck was armoured with several rows of pearls.
“Come along!” he put an arm around her waist and towed her away.
Two students rushed to show them to their seats. Pezantova waited for them to be out of earshot and remarked spitefully, “Sponsors, what can you do!?”
How had such a man become so wealthy? In Socialist times, he had just happened to be in charge of a large manufacturing company. When after the fall of the old regime, the Privatization Agency offered the company up, all its records mysteriously disappeared, leaving him as the only shareholder, managing director and president. On the few occasions that he talked of the matter, Halvadjiev liked to use phrases such as: ‘saved from bankruptcy’ or ‘protected from dissolution’. The rumours back in Bulgaria tended to disagree, often vehemently, with his terminology. As a result he tended to sponsor events, especially when members of the government were involved. His buying of indulgences continued, full steam ahead.