by Alek Popov
Her last words faded into the sound of the drum.
A skinny bare-foot girl, dressed in a long white robe, flew onto the stage. Brandishing some non-descript hide stretched across an ancient-looking frame, she threw herself into a threateningly frenzied dance around the tables. ‘Bang-bang-bang!’ thundered the drum, awakening pagan sensations in the souls of the people present. The flute trilled first, the bagpipe wailed next, than the rest of the instruments entered. The guests stopped eating, in their eyes little flames started to sparkle and soon after that they all, one after the other, started nodding their heads in time to the beat: bang, bang, bang.
“The call of the wild,” whispered Mrs Cunningham with respect.
From time to time the girl raised her eyes to look at the ceiling and screamed, “Uuuuh! Uuuuh!” imitating a childbirth push.
An atavistic urge made Mr Halvadjiev put his hand on Yvonne’s knee. (My little Yvonne!) Than he shot her a glance out of the corner of his eye, but his action had no visible effect on her. His hand crawled up to the garter of her stocking, swiftly continued over her inner tight and suddenly froze. ‘Bang, bang, bang!’ continued the drum. Yvonne’s face remained still.
The other hand had obviously been there long before his. It was warm and relaxed, soaked in oblivion and pleasure. He squeezed it firmly, before it could escape.
“Yvonne, why are you playing dead?” he whispered in his lowest voice.
She did not react. But the Bishop turned his face in horror. It was the face of a tortured martyr. Halvadjiev had an iron grip. His knuckles cracked and there was no joy in his eyes. What is the world coming to? the big man asked himself bitterly.
“Uuuuh!Uuuuh!” huffed the girl, waving the frame and summoning the elements.
“Aaah!Aaaah!” The Bishop of Neverbury answered and sweat began to stand out on his forehead.
Yvonne, still unmoved by the dramatic action between her legs, dipped her spoon into the dessert.
Outside, important decisions had to be taken.
“The Fire Lady – how does that sound?” asked the artist.
“Good,” nodded Turkeiev. “Why not?”
“So, when I say in the end, ‘Here comes the Fire Lady!’ you light the fuses, understood?” said Spass Nemirov.
“OK, no problem,” the intern agreed. He was moved by any close encounter with Modern Art and took his task very seriously.
The Fire Dancer ran up the stairs and threw a last glance inspectinghis creation. On the marblefloor, exactly 253 metal cups were arranged, each one filled with different flammable liquids and wired up. An extensive imagination was needed to see the contours of a human face in this minefield, but the artist rubbed his hands together contentedly. The bird of luck had finally landed on his shoulder. He had been waiting for this moment for years: years of fire and loneliness, of non-recognition and ridicule. But now – an end to the humiliations! The Queen of England herself was going honour him with Her Royal attention. That could be the turning point of his career. If they liked the demonstration tonight, they could easily throw more orders for new fire performances at him. They would start inviting him to their castles. He licked his dry lips. There was no way they would not like it. He had given everything from himself for this forthcoming illumination. He had calculated everything; he had been experimenting tirelessly for weeks. It was going to be a masterpiece!
“Are you ready Turkeiev!” shouted Spass Nemirov.
The intern sparked his lighter instead of replying.
From the side door the diplomats appeared, well fed and merry. The general accompanied them to the doorstep. Suddenly a worried look appeared on his face. “What are those explosives doing here?” his voice echoed.
“Easy, Sir!” called the Fire Dancer. “The situation is under control.”
“Pyrotechnics!” Turkeiev added with a happy face.
“What pyrotechnics? Does the Ambassador know about this?” the General’s worried eyes were following the wiring across all the metal cups filled with suspicious powder.
“Those are his personal orders,” replied the artist looking down at him.
The three diplomats walked round the installation carefully, tutting. The general continued to stand on the doorstep. He did not like this, at all! He had started his career in the engineering corps of the army and although he had not practiced his speciality for years, he felt now personally disappointed at being left aside. How can he authorise sappers’ activity here without a consultation with a specialist? he thought with indignation.
“Turkeiev!” hissed the military man. “Give me that lighter!”
The intern became confused.
“You stay where you are!” the artist threatened him with his finger.
“Don’t even think of lighting this up!”
“Don’t you dare to screw this up!”
At that moment they all heard the opening of the doors and the guests starting to come out of the hall.
“Lights!” shouted Spass Nemirov dramatically.
Danailov helpfully turned the light switch behind his back and the big chandelier darkened. Soon afterwards, the big staircase was packed with people. In front of everybody Mrs Pezantova and Queen Cunningham importantly stepped out, accompanied by Varadin and Ziebling. Behind them the pale face of the Bishop could be seen, while Sir De Fazaposte was still swaying his body in his wheelchair like a Chinese mandarin.
“Lovely evening!” noted Ziebling casually.
“Hum,” muttered the Ambassador and said to himself, When things go too well it’s not for the best.
The Fire Dancer greatly appreciated the iconic system of the Wild West. Especially for this occasion he had chosen the best from his wardrobe: a new denim shirt with all sorts of picturesque labels on the pockets and the collar, all in Willy Nelson’s style, together with his usual leather trousers and reddish cowboy boots. At his waist a vast buckle sparkled.
The artist waited for the audience to gather, silently standing up in the middle of the foyer with his long hair loose and face down like a shaman reaching into the depths of his soul. He was concentrating on words he had to say in English. Damn words! He was afraid they would run away at the last minute, even though he had spent all morning memorising his speech. Languages were not his strong point. How was the beginning, Respectable guests? damn it! The drummer appeared in the upper part of the stairs and started banging invitingly.
Respectable guests, dear Queen? No, no you couldn’t say it like that! But how? In a minute you will witness a unique demonstration conceived in the womb of the most primary element – fire! But how to say all that in English? Fuck my head! How did I end up with all this? I am an artist, not an orator, he concluded in the end. Let my work speak instead of me!
The Fire Dancer raised his head and announced clearly, “Here, The Fire Lady comes!”
Everybody felt sudden strange cold wrapping their senses as they were awaiting the Second Coming. The intern, who did not expect such a sudden beginning, feverishly started looking for the lighter in his pockets. The Fire Dancer strained his ears to hear the familiar hissing of the fuses but nothing of the sort followed.
“Here comes the Fire Lady!” he repeated suggestively.
At that very moment Turkeiev produced the sacred spark. The general instinctively stepped back, closed the door behind his back and ran to the duty room.
The fire spread up to the fuses with its small sparkling flames, hissing maliciously. Then they suddenly disappeared and above the cups thin lines of smoke started to swirl. The smell of sulphur swam in the air. The faces of the guests strained. Varadin and Pezantova exchanged concerned looks. She decided to say something but the words stuck to her mouth like flakes of dry skin on chapped lips. She started chewing her lips. Suddenly a shower of red sparks flew up to the ceiling. The real illumination followed. Within the flames the contours of a human face emerged, which were immediately swallowed by the smoke. The sensors of the smoke alarm reacted instantly. The shrieki
ng of the alarm brought people out of their stupefaction. Confusion reigned. Water poured from the sprinkler system.
“As though Hell opened its gates,” remembered old Mrs Cunningham till the end of her life and particularly in her last days, when a devoted priest was coming to give her soul consolation. “Yes, I saw Hell. I know what awaits me, because of my way of life, because I dared to imitate Her Majesty. (Pause) When the flames exploded in front of us, the ugly face of a daemon appeared, calling out to us from Purgatory. And the most sinister thing was that he had the features of the late Princess Diana. Good Lord, I still see it in front of my eyes. In the place of his eyes he had blue flames. Suddenly from his mouth a purple tongue appeared and licked the chandelier. Then a thick, acrid smoke started spewing from his mouth. The smoke filled the whole foyer! From the ceiling water gushed like rivers, as though the Lord had heard the prayer for rain. Ziebling grabbed my hand and dragged me out. The car was waiting in front of the Embassy. We quickly got inside and drove away. I stopped playing the queen after that incident. I got frightened. I feel the beast near me waiting for me to close my eyes for the last time. What is going to happen to me, Father?”
“But where is everyone?” shouted Pezantova in her screechy voice, as she was looking around with her eyes full of tears. “Your Majesty!!!”
The éclair-hat was as wet as a sponge. A thick, yellowish smoke was still spreading low above the floor level. From the ceiling the sprinklers were still spraying water. Varadin was coughing into his fist. He was trying desperately to hide the malicious satisfaction burning deep inside his soul, Now You are responsible for the whole mess, you stupid cow!
The Fire Dancer had disappeared like a spirit from the prairies. The intern Turkeiev was touching his singed eyebrows stupidly. Devorina Pezantova hurried over to him and grabbed him by his collar, “You! You pathetic little worm, you’re going to pay me for this!”
“Mitche fainted!” came Veronika’s crying voice from the other end, but nobody paid any attention to it.
Mavrodiev and Danailov were running around as though drugged in the foyer, stumbling carelessly over the metal cups. Kishev was crawling to go to the toilet, fumbling in the dark, and groaning helplessly, “My eyes! I can’t see...”
“Where is my dog?” exclaimed the artistic director worriedly, after the last patches of smoke cleared away from his stand.
The place of the little sculpture was empty. His glance landed on the Queen’s white shoes and did not move from them from a long time. ‘Where the hell did those stupid shoes come from?’ he desperately tried to remember. Then he looked at the sculpture’s place, left empty. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Thieves, everywhere! Then he looked at the shoes again and an acute social protest filled his heart, They didn’t even pay for their shoes! Damn it!
Suddenly he realised that he was not the only one looking at the royal shoes. Mr Halvadjiev had his little eyes on these grand royal objects, too.
“Give them to me!” he hissed.
His face was covered with small sweaty drops. Yvonne was coughing and sniffling next to him, her nose was bleeding.
“E-e-e-r!” the director instinctively pulled the shoes to his chest.
“I’ll give you twenty quid,” said Halvadjiev and his eyes narrowed. Those are royal shoes, one day they will cost millions... his mind had become a calculator.
“Weeeell,” the director scratched his head. “Those are Royal shoes.....”
“Fifty quid!” Halvadjiev interrupted him.
Wow said the director to himself. You’ll not getting them for less than 200!
A wailing noise filled the street outside. Three fire engines with flashing lights stopped in front of the Embassy, which was still shrouded in smoke. Who had called the fire station, nobody knew. The general persistently denied being the one, despite the fact that all the evidence was pointing to the duty room. Despite the late hour, some people came out of the hotel to watch the action.
“Two hundred and not a penny more!” groaned Halvadjiev, his face getting red.
“They are yours,” the director looked around and stuffed the shoes into a plastic bag with a Bulgarian advert on it. Halvadjiev’s wallet looked like a Christmas piglet.
“Come on Yvonne!” he said and counted ten brand new twenty notes.
The foyer was filled with men in helmets and gasmasks. Pezantova sat on a chair, weeping, her feet trailing in the pool of water that had replaced the usual floor. Nearby a man in yellow protective overalls was speaking some incomprehensible words though his mask. Two others were rescuing Mitche. Varadin was dealing with some enthusiast with a hose, who was insisting on going inside the building.
“Ts, ts, ts,” Halvadjiev nodded his head. “We turned this soiree into a total fuck-up, but never mind!”
37
The telephone rang and woke him up at exactly 6.35am. Normally at that time Dale Rutherford was already up drinking his cup of black coffee and watching the repeat of the program ‘From a Bird’s Eye View’ on Animal Planet. But since the duck incident, now widely known as ‘The Richmond Catastrophe’, his spirit had faded; apathy and melancholia had overtaken him. He did not hurry to drop by and see his favourites with a pocket full of breadcrumbs, but preferred to stay in bed until the last moment, his head buried under the pillow. He started going to work still sleepy and unshaven, and sometimes even late. His colleagues pitied him. In a week’s time a new flock of ducks was due to arrive, to replace the missing ones. They all hoped that that would cheer him up. Dale Rutherford knew though that it would never be the same.
The voice rattled in the phone like a mouse in a tin, “Good morning, Dale. Nat Coleway calling. Are you still asleep?”
“No I am not,” mumbled Dale.
He had no reason to like Nat Coleway, but it was obvious he despised this case and was completely indifferent to the fate of the ducks. No surprise the investigation had hit a dead end.
“Last night one of the devices called in,” said Coleway.
“What?” Dale jumped up.
“We are still not 100% certain,” continued the detective. “The signal is not clear. We are comparing it with the recordings of the others. Something tells me though that we have located your bird.”
“I thought you had given up?” said Dale not bothering to hide his emotions.
“We had, but not the computer on Astra’s board,” said Nat flatly. “Listen Dale, you know the system better than us. Can you come round our way?”
“Of course! When?”
“Wait for us at the upper end of the High Street. In twenty minutes.”
The van appeared at around seven. Dale Rutherford was already walking up and down wrapped up in his green parka. Something trembled inside him when he saw the mobile antennae on the roof of the van. Last night one called in, whatever that meant!
“Get in, Dale!” Nat opened the door.
The familiar buzzing of the instruments surrounded him. The dry air was charged with electricity.
“Sir!” called the man with the headphones. “It disappeared again!”
He started twiddling various buttons, but soon after shook his head, “Gone.”
“Damn it!” Nat swore.
“What’s going on?” Dale was worried.
“That’s what I want to know, too,” sighed the detective.
The signal had suddenly appeared on the satellite’s radar early this morning, just before five. The news shocked Nat Coleway out of his bed and soon after the whole team was on-line. At exactly 5.32am though, the signal mysteriously went silent and they spent more than half an hour immobile in the Chatham area. At 6.20am the signal appeared again.
“And what are we going to do now?” asked Dale.
“Wait,” Nat ground his teeth.
In the beginning it had been difficult for him to comprehend the rage and sorrow of the Park’s employee. He had thought he was slightly cuckoo. At the end of the day they were only some stupid ducks! But now he did not think so. The Hyde P
ark case had entered the golden annals of police folklore. Nat was now feeling personally responsible. “Go on, call in again!” he whispered nervously.
Instead of a call from the radar, the popular melody ‘Six Little Ducks’ sang from his pocket. Dale gave him an icy look. The detective smiled internally and pulled out his mobile. He had changed the melody whilst they were thinking what to do in Chatham. He hoped subconsciously that the tune would bring him luck. It was Chuck Salinksi from the laboratory of the technical centre. Nat listened to him attentively without interrupting.
“The signal is identical to the others,” he said and put the phone back in his pocket. “That much we now know...”
Surprise, surprise the magic had worked!
“But what took it so long?” asked Dale eagerly.
“I have no idea,” Nat shrugged. “Maybe something was blocking it. What do you think?”
Dale started to think. During the experiments it had been proven that some of the chips blocked when exposed to temperatures of -20°C and below. This suggestive thought made him shiver.
“If it was deep frozen...” he said in a low voice.
“Of course, I should’ve thought of that!” exclaimed Coleway. “Nobody can eat 40 ducks at once, can they? They failed to take it out, and then deep froze it!”
The park’s employee was silent. Nat put his arm around Dale shoulder. “I think I know what’s activated it again...”
“Then we have to hurry up Nat!” Dale said. “Before we find it in the sewers!”
The next hour passed amidst guesses and ominous doubts. The antennae were searching the air in vain, trying to dig out the signal from the universal haystack. The chip was not giving any signs of live. Dale’s head bowed in sadness.
“Do you have any idea how it reacts to stomach juices?” asked Nat, trying to cheer up the atmosphere.
9.15. The operator, half asleep with the headphones on his ears, suddenly moved. “Look! The bird’s awake!” he said with a note of contempt.
10.30 The car moved down High Street Kensington and stopped in front of Marks & Spencer’s.