Читать книгу Mission London - Alek Popov - Страница 10

5

The eyes of the diplomats were filled with melancholy. They were sat fidgeting around the long empty table in the meeting-room beneath the map of Bulgaria, with its cold pink and yellow colouring. Malicious tongues had it that the map had been put there not so much to arouse patriotic spasms in the employees, but to serve as a reminder of where they came from and where they could be returning if they were not sufficiently careful. In practice, that was the only thing that could truly make them feel anxious. The ghost of going back! This ghost was a constant, inexorable presence around them. It sniggered maliciously in every corner and poisoned their lives with the memory of the finely scented black earth of their birthplace, from the very first to the very last day of their mandates. The subject of ‘going back’ was taboo, shrouded in painful silence. To ask somebody when he thought he might make the return journey (a blatant euphemism) was considered an act of bad taste, base manners and even hostility. Nobody talked about going back, nobody dared to say it out loud for fear of catching the attention of the evil powers that slumbered somewhere deep in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Despite the fact that everyone, down to the last telephonist, knew that this was their irrevocable destiny, as inevitable as winter or death, deep in their hearts they still sheltered the hope that that dolorous hour might pass them by, that they might be missed or forgotten in the overall mass of people and that the awful notice might never reach them. But the notice invariably arrived, along with its sinister title: Permanent Return – the creation of a vengeful bureaucrat from the distant past, the title had remained unchanged throughout the decades. And then began the time of the great retreat, the slow ebb. The condemned soul took to the road, watered with the tears of their predecessors, back to Heathrow Terminal 2, through Gate 7 or 9, and into the gloomy vessel of the national airline ‘Balkan’, after which the door slammed behind their back permanently.

It was soon after 10 p.m. The presidential chair was still empty. At a reasonable distance of a few empty chairs, the diplomats were sat with open pads, pens at the ready. The technical staff had crammed themselves at the other end of the table – the driver, the accountant, the radioman, the cook and the housekeeper. Very few things bonded those people together as did mutual dislike, slowly built up, layer on layer, over the course of all those years of enforced co-existence, resigned to financial and cultural restriction. Nevertheless, it could be said that for some time they had been leading relatively bearable and even carefree lives. They had all had their little pleasures, and they had all had one big, unifying one: they had had no boss. Several months had already passed whilst Sofia dithered over the appointment of a person to this important and sought-after posting. The interests of several lobbies intertwined and hindered one another. So many favours and counter-favours had been called in, so many obstacles found, so many traps laid, that the path to the UK began to look like a cross between an assault course and a mine-field. During that time, while it enjoyed a relative lack of authority, the life of the Embassy reorganized itself independently, on the principles of reason and progress, far from the chaos of administrative orders. The tensions between the employees had eased, some vague spirit of goodwill and mutual aid had been born, which had had a beneficial influence on the actions of the whole collective. Not that the denunciations had stopped entirely, but there was nobody to read them. There was nobody to give red or black marks – Sofia was far removed. But now the bell tolled the end of that calm and natural existence. The boss had arrived. He had arrived suddenly, without prior notice, which made his hostile intentions clear. The life of the diplomats had become messy again.

Shortly, the secretary Tania Vandova came in carrying a big diary-notebook under her arm. “He’s coming,” she said succinctly

Unperturbed, she installed herself in the chair to the right of the presidential seat, opened her pad and also started waiting. Silence reigned supreme in the room.

As he made his way down the stairs, Varadin Dimitrov was imagining the dispirited faces of his underlings and a smile slid across his face. Let them wait, let them tremble! He found no cause to doubt what he had always known: he had in front of him a gang of good-for-nothings, parasites living on the back of the state. At first, their indifference and self-satisfaction amazed him, then made him angry. He started planning ways to poison their existence more efficiently – in order to remind them that this job was not a winning lottery ticket. He liked to observe how they returned to their habitual forms of frightened little beasties. And that was only the beginning.

“Hello to you all,” Varadin greeted them dryly and took his place at the head of the table.

The pens clicked alertly, ready to take note of his immortal instructions. Reflexes die last, he thought happily to himself.

Then, suddenly, he frowned. “Where is Mr. Kishev?”

The diplomats looked at each other and shrugged. The Ambassador shook his head reproachfully.

“I’ll tell you something unpleasant,” he started, as though it was possible that he would announce something different. Long speeches were not to his taste. Speaking frightened him, because it betrayed the chaotic nature of his mind. His thoughts jumped to and fro like grasshoppers that have just crawled out of a closed jar. He found it difficult to gather them back together. For that reason he preferred to open his mouth as little as possible. “In Sofia they think that anarchy reigns here.” Carefully, he gathered the bugs back into his head and continued, “The Embassy is not actively engaged in building Bulgaria’s new image. We are lacking contacts at a high level.”

Silence. Looks, overflowing with devotion.

“As you all know, the European conference opens on Monday,” he continued. “The Prime Minister himself will be participating, along with various members of the Cabinet. It is expected that the EU will announce a new integration strategy. I assume that you are all up to speed on this.”

The diplomats nodded energetically. For just that reason, a dozen faxes had been exchanged between the Embassy and the Ministry. The details of the program had been approved, and speeches and memoranda regarding the intentions of the Cabinet, on any subject, frenziedly translated. The program and the speeches, however, were constantly undergoing some change or other and thus needed to be approved and translated again and again. It was hell on earth, lavishly spiced with hysteria that wafted in clouds from the kitchens of power.

“I am warning you that from now on…” he raised his finger. “I will tolerate no gaffes!”

Gaffes – everyone lived with that nightmare, which often assumed reality. The diplomats were so frightened and overburdened by the system, that they dared not make any independent decisions. The tension often degenerated into apathy, bordering on catatonic stupor at its most decisive. It was at such moments that the nightmares came true.

“What is happening with Mrs. Pezantova’s concert?” asked the Ambassador suddenly, once he was convinced that the previous subject had run its course.

“We are working on it,” called out Counsellor Danailov with the agitated tone of an electrical engineer working on a hopelessly damaged cable. “We are doing everything that’s possible at our end!”

“Then why has it already been postponed twice?” Varadin played the severe inquisitor, narrowing his eyes.

Panic appeared on the faces of the diplomats.

The technical staff observed the inquisition maliciously. Fortunately Tania Vandova was able to explain, “We still cannot ensure a representative from the Palace.”

“Are you inviting them at all?”

“Naturally,” Tania Vandova responded calmly.

Her mandate was coming to an end during the summer, so she did not have much to lose.

“Who is dealing with this?” he enquired coldly.

“Kishev!” they all chorused.

“Does he so much as know that we are here?” asked the Ambassador sharply.

“I don’t know,” shrugged Tania Vandova, “I haven’t seen him since this morning.”

“Go and find him!” he ordered.

This doesn’t look good for Kishev, she thought and quickly left the room.

Oppressive silence reigned.

“The post office workers’ union promised to buy 50 tickets,” the Consul, Mavrodiev, broke in totally inappropriately and at exactly the wrong moment, though probably with the secret hope of gaining the boss’s goodwill.

Big mistake. The Ambassador threw him a look full of hostility.

“As it seems, you are not entirely up to speed!” he spat bitterly, “The idea is not to gather a bunch of riff-raff. We want only the most select audience – aristocrats, world celebrities – the cream of society.”

What am I doing sitting here explaining to this savage?! he said to himself angrily. He imagined Mrs. Pezantova’s address: Dear Ladies and Gentlemen, in front of a crowd of postmen and drivers – unthinkable! It immediately struck him that lying beneath this seemingly well-intentioned proposal lurked a deeper plot: to discredit him in the eyes of those presently in power. From that moment onwards, in his eyes, the good-hearted, clumsy Consul was transformed into Enemy Number One, whose destruction was not to be delayed. With their delicate receptors the others immediately sensed that something bad was happening (danger, danger!) and did not utter another word.

The name of Mrs. Pezantova was a source of worry and agitation for everyone, including Varadin Dimitrov. In fact especially for him. Devorina Pezantova was the wife of an influential Bulgarian politician. She could not possibly accept the secondary role handed to her by history and hungered for her own aura as a woman of social significance. As often happens with such simple folk, lifted suddenly by some twist of fate to the very peak of the social hierarchy, her head was a murky vortex of boundless ambition and grandiose plans. Mrs. Pezantova frantically aimed to join the exclusive club of the world elite, without sparing resources – above all state resources. She dreamed of seeing herself amongst the shiny entourage of celebrities, who filled the chronicles of those fat western publications. In this unequal battle for prestige, Devorina Pezantova had stubborn and ubiquitous opponents – her own compatriots, who inhabited the hopeless space between hunger and darkness. It seemed they could not, or would not, comprehend how important it was that they look good (comme il faut!) at this decisive moment. They failed her at every step and did it energetically too, in a typical Balkan way. Ungrateful tribe! The lady did not give in easily, though. The misery of the masses at large was a good reason for the fine people from all over Europe to gather together, listen to some music, and eat some canapés. Proceeding in the light of that noble logic, she started with great élan to organize charitable events in all those European capitals which sported Bulgarian embassies. This was a heavy task for the missions concerned. The lady was rigorous and was not prepared to acknowledge the limited social effect of her humanitarian activity. She saw treachery, sabotage and conspiracy everywhere. The diplomats were not up to the job and did not take her work to heart; they wanted, more or less, to get the whole thing out of the way and withdraw once more into the swamp of their pitiful existence. Varadin Dimitrov had perspicaciously caught on to her trials and tribulations and managed to persuade her that he was not indifferent to them. For months he was constantly at her side suggesting that he was just the man to bring her dreams to fruition in this Mecca of all snobbery. She had played a more than significant role in his appointment. He owed her.

His gaze slid across the faces of the staff, but it only found downcast eyes. A good sign. He was doing well. A guilty employee was a good employee. Who had said that…?

Carried away by his triumph over those crushed souls, he permitted himself some distraction and his thoughts crawled off in different directions. Dr Pepolen did not have a cure for that ailment. Maybe the only salvation would be to put down poison in all the nooks and crannies of his brain. But there was the risk that the leading thought might die. Which one was it? They were looking frighteningly similar. Which one to choose…?

After a while he said, “The windows are not clean,” with a deep sigh.

The faces of the diplomats showed some relief at the expense of those of the technical staff. Several long, sticky seconds passed. The accountant, Bianca Mashinska, struggled to come up with some sensible explanation, but could not find anything.

Tania Vandova appeared and informed them that Kishev had not come to work at all. She had spoken with his wife: he had heart problems and had been taken into hospital for tests.

Helpless fury overcame the new Ambassador’s heart; he blinked quickly several times and snapped, “You may go!”