Читать книгу Mission London - Alek Popov - Страница 14

9

The driver came to pick him up from the residence at 6.30 p.m.

Varadin waited for him in the entrance, slightly pale, wearing dinner-jacket and tie. His shoes squeaked neurotically. The insidious smell of cooking was seeping out of the cook’s lodgings and made him feel queasy. During the entire time, as they crept though the congested arteries of the city, Varadin was restlessly sniffing the lapels of his jacket; recognising that sticky national stench which could not be washed out, it nested in the tissue like a cloth nit; it penetrated the skin – into the very marrow and stayed their forever, like the scars from a shameful disease.

‘Buckingham Palace,’ said Miladin, without removing his eyes from the back of the black cab in front of him.

Varadin flinched. How dare he, the idiot?! Did he really imagine he was driving some peasant from Dolno Kamartsi, who didn’t have a clue about landmarks? As if he didn’t know this was Buckingham Palace!…He pursed his lips, while curiosity mingled with anxiety ate away at him. The invitation was enigmatically laconic. The hosts had signed only with some whirly squiggles, which told him nothing. The dinner was to be accompanied by a lecture entitled: The new challenges facing the steady development of Europe. The rain was pouring down on the front windscreen of the car; the wiper-blades were swinging with quick, rapid movements. The car finally got through Trafalgar Square and turned into Pall Mall.

The gloomy front of the club, with its heavy cornices and small windows, placed at a distance from one another, suggested hidden voluminous spaces inside. The entrance had no sign, only a number. Compared to the size of the building, the door, sandwiched between two glowing yellow lights, looked disproportionately small, as if to enhance the exclusive character of the building.

The concierge ushered him in.

Varadin left his coat in the cloakroom, passed along the line of portraits of famous activists and entered the reception. The people present were mostly over sixty, while here and there, a few confused middle-aged individuals stuck out. There were almost no women, apart from some very old, severe, obviously wealthy ladies, perched in different corners of the hall like oracle-birds.

The Major Domo found his name on the guest-list and showed him to his place. ‘Varadin Dimitrov’ was written on the little piece of paper, placed near the cutlery, ‘Ambassador, Bulgaria’ – that gave him a pleasant tingling sensation.

To his left was an empty chair, to his right, a tiny old man was seated, with a pinkish face and tight brown suit. On the piece of paper in front of him was written: Douglas Smack, followed by a mysterious line of letters, which reminded Varadin of the notes on the labels of bottles of old brandy. Mr. Smack, half drowsing, was listening to the mumbling of a large, impressive lady, with a pearl necklace wrapped around her wrinkly neck.

Opposite them sat a monster of such over-inflated ego as to make Varadin look like a genuinely pleasant, good-hearted individual in comparison. The white hair was carefully brushed back like a mane. The posturere vealeda decisive man in charge of an important economic conglomerate. Said monster was wearing an immaculate DJ and tie, and his chest glowed with diamante buttons.

What on earth am I doing here? Varadin asked himself. Down the whole length of that long table, he could not see a single familiar face, not a single familiar voice rang in his ear. He was completely alone. His spirits dropped still further when the scanty hors d’oeuvre suddenly appeared in front of him. Two ribbons of red fish, some little rose of butter and a leaf of lettuce. Because he had nothing better to do, he started rolling up the fish onto his fork, at which point a gentleman flumped his large body down in the empty seat next to his. He was fiftyish, in a chic dark blue suit with fine stripes and flashy orange tie. A strong, almost overpowering scent of eau-de-Cologne surrounded him. He had yellowish straggling hair, carefully slicked onto his reddish skull. A silver ring with a red stone decorated his fleshy little finger.

He slid his eyes to Varadin’s side, read the card in front and his mouth opened into a big smile.

“Mr. Varadin Dimitrov!? Nice to meet you! Dean Carver, M.P.” He offered his hand. “How long have you been in London?”

“Only a few days,”

“Fresh indeed!” grinned Carver, as if he was talking about the fish on his plate. “I know Bulgaria quite well. Magnificent place! I’ve been there several times, in ‘86 and ‘87, at the invitation of your agricultural Minister, what was his name…?”

“Petar Tanchev?”

“A-ha! That’s the one,” Mr. Carver agreed with verve. “Good old times! Your old leaders, they had some style, you know! Real barons! I’ll tell something in confidence: not everything was so bad, ha-ha!”

Shocked, Varadin stared at him. The other filled his glass with red wine.

“Cheers!” Dean Carver took a large sip and winked at him, “It’s not so bad, considering it’s Bulgarian!”

In the meantime the VIPs had taken their places around the table. Someone tapped a glass and the hall fell silent. Some bald, wrinkly old man, decorated with a huge necklace was about to speak – a Lord Basterbridge, as it became clear later.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the annual dinner of our modest society. I am very pleased to announce the presence here of Mr. Morel – Her Majesty’s Minister for Defence.”

A murmur of approval circled the hall.

Mr. Morel had the radiant looks of an educated working class man who had made a career in the Unions. He thanked the people present and bowed to the old man, who was apparently the object of deep respect for all present. After the Minister, it was the lecturer’s turn. He was a Jonathan Cragg – a tall, dark man with liberal views on life. He was head of the current government’s strategic international research team – a key post reporting to the Cabinet. Jonathan Cragg was an agile quack: his expressions were complicated and he built an extensive construction of scientific-like clichés to befuddle the audience. Without doubt his work was well paid. The representatives of his parasitic caste travelled relentlessly around Eastern Europe and in the guise of experts swallowed the largest slice of the funding pie, designed for the revival of this deeply problematic region. Varadin was enraptured by Cragg’s speech for some five minutes, and then realised that he had lost the gist of it completely. Only separate words started to have meaning as the whole speech became akin to a verbal salad. Despite the helpless condition of his mind, he made sure the look on his face remained that of an attentive listener until the end, when he enthusiastically joined the chorus of applause.

‘That does not explain the differences in the exchange rates,’ mumbled the old man to his right.

He felt a bit uneasy that he had until now ignored this probably quite important person. He tried to introduce himself, but Smack V.S.O.P.C.R., was already snoozing, which was apparently his usual state.

When the official part was over, people became livelier. Dean Carver filled his glass with wine again and his memories from Bulgaria came back to him. Unforgettable days! As a young lobbyist for the left, with prospects, he had dared to pass through the iron curtain…They received him like a king! Helicopter flights, hunting parties, night feasts in the residences! And what women!

“In ’93 I brought some Arab investor to Bulgaria,” he continued. “He wanted to build a lift in the ski resort of Bansko, but then he backed out when he saw what was going on…I haven’t visited since.”

The fact that Carver was sat next to him was hardly a coincidence, thought Varadin. To arrange the guests around the table so they have something in common to talk about was an art-form – one that the English certainly possessed.

“I really want to revive my connections with your magnificent country…” Carver sighed, after a long sip from his glass. “I heard you have a new government. How’s it going?”

“Very well, thank you,” Varadin replied without thinking.

“Then why were the papers writing about those orphans that were dying from hunger? Was that true?”

Varadin made an involuntary grimace. Apparently Carver had seen the advertisement which was in circulation in the British press. It had a picture of a hungry, disabled child wrapped in rags. The advertisement was printed under the name of some Eastern European fund, which was gathering money for the orphans in need in Bulgaria.

“The period of transition to a market economy is not an easy one…” the Ambassador’s response was edgy. He thought a little and then added, “It is a shame that people tend to speculate on other people’s misfortune.”

“Ah, those do-gooders…” sighed Carver. “There is nothing more damaging for the image of a country. Those humanitarian parasites are like fleas in the rags of a beggar. They feed themselves on the misery of others and have no interest whatsoever in seeing that misery removed. The only thing they care about is how to expose it sufficiently to reach sponsors. I know them quite well: the worse your condition is, the happier they are! Do you know that the charity business is the third biggest, after drugs and pornography?”

Varadin’s brain was feverishly trying to process all this information and was struggling to put it into a report format. He was having difficulties with it and that made him feel uneasy: everything that could not be put into a report was either too dangerous or too insignificant. He could not grasp which of the two he was dealing with. Third options did not feature in his mind.

“But you’re not drinking at all!” exclaimed Carver, fixing his full glass with a contemptuous stare. “I raise a toast to Bulgarian wines. Especially the reds!”

And he downed his brimming glass in one. Original man thought Varadin and took a more generous sip for appearance’s sake.

“The solution to all your problems lies in decent PR,” resumed Dean Carver with authority. “Someone to take care of your image. Do you know how much money other countries are throwing into that sort of thing?”

Varadin nodded; there were certain rumours that this latest tear-jerking campaign was being organized by the intelligence services of a neighbouring Balkan country, whose aim was to discredit his government’s political efforts, at a time when the discussions about European Union enlargement were reaching their climax. “Quite recently, the government decided to invest more money in this direction,” he conceded.

“And it’s doing the right thing,” exclaimed Carver. “You have to keep your eyes open though, London is full of identical agencies. To my regret most of them are crooks. They’ll wrap you up in all sorts of ‘concepts’ and ‘strategies’, and then present you such a bill that it’ll make you dizzy. But there are some genuine professionals, as well. They talk little, but perform wonders.”

“And who are they?” asked Varadin timidly.

“There is one agency that I know of…” Carver lowered his voice confidentially; his breath had some bitter aftertaste. “They worked for me during the elections. As far as I know, at present, they’re taking care of the image of one of your neighbours; I think it was Slovakia. They’re also working for countries in the Middle East! Real professionals! They have connections at the highest levels. And a spotless reputation! It is said that even members of the Royal family have used their services from time to time …”

“Do they have connections with the palace?” Varadin’s face tensed.

“Undoubtedly!” nodded Dean Carver, M.P. “After they arranged a dinner for me with Prince Charles, my ratings instantly shot up a mile! Ha-ha! I may have republican ideas, as you know, but who cares? You seem intrigued. I think I still have their card.”

He started looking in his wallet.

“It must be this one…I forgot my specs, can you, please, read what it says here.”

Varadin lifted the card: Famous Connections. PR Agency. “Thank you,” he nodded.

“You don’t have to thank me! I am friend of Bulgaria. Take my card as well… You can always count on me.”

As he was saying this, Carver moved his eyes to his plate and raised his finger in approval. Where the starter had been, now lay a serious piece of meat, covered with cranberry sauce. He poured himself some more wine and started devouring it with deliberate concentration. Not wanting to be left behind Varadin also took to his cutlery, but his brain was elsewhere: the chewy undercooked meat slipped across the plate and splashed him with sauce. Bloody Hell!

“It doesn’t give in easily, eh?” giggled Carver. “You have to get used to the character of the roast here.”