Читать книгу Mission London - Alek Popov - Страница 13

8

A piercing howl welcomed him – in one of the corners of the office the grey belly of an enormous Hoover-monster loomed like a communist mausoleum. The hose twisting across the floor ended in the hands of some girl, her nose facing the carpet. Varadin knitted his brows: she really had picked the wrong moment to clean, the idiot! The idea of waiting outside until the noisy process was over did occur to him, but then he remembered the gang of employees shunting in at the entrance downstairs and quickly reaffirmed his intentions. He stepped in quietly and sat down in an armchair. He had heard people say that if you stare at someone for long enough, something started itching in their brain and they would turn around. This obviously did not apply to her, or maybe the howling instrument created some barrier that dispersed the fluids in question.

He continued to stare at her.

She was slender, with long legs. Her stray, ash-blond hair was falling to one side and covering her face. Below a light blue working dress, colourless tights and Nike trainers enhanced the muscles of her calves. Her movements betrayed her annoyance, although she was working very hard. She hoovered all the carpet around his desk and then turned off the ugly machine. Their eyes met.

“I’m sorry,” she said, confused. “I did not notice you there.”

He said nothing. In his ears the sound of the Hoover still echoed. The face of the girl seemed familiar to him and he stared at it more than decency allowed. She blushed and lowered her eyes. At the same moment a fickle smile appeared on her lips.

“You must be the new Ambassador?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Katerina, Katya for short,” the girl introduced herself, while she was coiling the cable of the Hoover. “I’ll be cleaning your office if you don’t object.”

He did not but said sternly, “I would be grateful if you don’t come during my office hours.”

“I’m very sorry for the inconvenience,” she started. “I had a paper to write. I’ve been reading all night. I didn’t think you’d be here. I’ll come to clean in the mornings or after six.”

“Agreed,” he nodded and unexpectedly asked “What are you studying?” Don’t go any deeper, his internal monitor pulled him up.

“Design,” she said, with a tone that bordered on the sleazy, while she put the hose over her shoulder and started dragging the Hoover to the door. Then she stopped and turned around. “Do you want me to dust?”

“No, there is no need.”

Katya, though, was not in a hurry to go now that her initial confusion was over. Her wide silver-grey eyes did not look very red.

“Mr. Ambassador, I have one problem,” she seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “Actually this is not only my problem, but one for everyone who cleans here in the Embassy.”

Varadin knitted his brows but let her speak.

“I am talking about this,” she pointed at the Hoover. “Simply, the time has come for its retirement. I wouldn’t take up your time with this, but some people cannot see this fact…”

“Which fact?”

“That it doesn’t suck anymore! What I want to say is it only sucks feebly. It’s a real chore to use…”

“It might be full,” he guessed with little enthusiasm. “Do you clean it often?”

“No it is not full,” she insisted brusquely. “It is old!”

“What do you want from me? A new Hoover?”

“Yes,” the girl nodded. “The accountant said that it depends entirely on you.”

He did not like the way she looked at him: it seemed to him she had guessed the thought, which buzzed in his head like a big, nasty, insolent fly and filled him with gloomy premonitions about future implications of a personal and official nature. His exhilaration at the advantage gained by his surprise appearance disappeared. Heavy strategic decisions were looming. He realized that the advance he had gained was insignificant and would be soon swallowed by the heavy load of duties and nuisances.

“Hum.” he frowned, as though he were about to consider an important offer for fighter planes. “We’ll see.”

“Well then,” she smiled. “Goodbye!”

The end of the grey hose crawled after her like a sinister snout.

A little later, Tania Vandova carefully knocked, listened for a second and stuck her head around the door. Varadin Dimitrov was sitting behind the desk as though turned into a waxwork, staring in front of him without blinking, his eyes fixed. The secretary, terribly frightened, jumped and hurried to close the door. She waited several seconds, gathered her courage once more and looked around the door again. There was nobody behind the desk. The door to the bathroom was wide open, the noise of running water came from there along with some strange noise similar to gargling. What now? she thought, chewing her lip. Quietly she walked with short steps to the desk, deposited a pile of letters and retreated.

“Wait!” his voice, coming from the bathroom, froze her on the doorstep.

Varadin oozed out of the bathroom with his face all wet.

“Did Kishev come back to work?”

“Not yet,” she shook her head.

A short pause followed.

“Are you going to attend the banquet tonight?” asked the secretary.

“Yes,” he replied mechanically, despite the fact that he was hearing of this event for the first time.

“I will call to confirm,” she said quickly and left.

He stared with surprise at the pile of correspondence. Apparently the mundane institutions of the former Empire had caught scent of his arrival from a distance – maybe before the decision for his appointment had even been signed. Some invitations were lying on the top, heavy, large, gilt-edged pieces of paper that could be used for playing table tennis. He randomly picked the first one and read with pleasure his own name written at the top with steady, lop-sided handwriting. Maybe it was not particularly advisable to throw himself immediately into the whirlpool of social life, but he was eager to do a quick round of High Society. To have a sip of that foamy cocktail before diving into it forever. He had no time to lose.