by Alek Popov
You’re out-trumped, Kishev, you’ve out-trumped yourself, he thought to himself, staring gloomily at the envelope. But what if he hadn’t? He should be thinking positively. Positive thinking lies at the heart of every success. Negative thinking is the inheritance of socialism. He carefully opened the envelope and took out the piece of paper with trembling fingers.
Dear Mr. Kishev
Her Majesty thanks you for the kind invitation to attend the cultural festivities organized by your Embassy. Unfortunately, Her
Majesty’s official programme is fully booked and she will be unable to attend.
Yours sincerely,
Muriel Spark
Public Relations Officer.
On behalf of The Palace.
Kishev read the letter another ten times. In both directions. The content remained the same. Then he held the sheet up against the light to examine the watermark. He sniffed it; and he caught that scent of wealth and power given off by objects originating in the world of High Society. Deep metaphysical fear froze his heart.
The bearer of bad news is killed, isn’t he?
At that moment someone knocked at the door. A curly head appeared for a second and then fired the news with the precision of a professional killer.
“The new Ambassador has arrived!”
Varadin Dimitrov turned out to be a very bad psychologist. Contrary to his expectations, the news of his arrival had not hit the Embassy immediately, but had travelled by an overly long and meandering route, following human laws as opposed to nature’s.
Kosta Pastricheff was a lonely and desperate soul, to whom the mere idea of solidarity and mutual aid was foreign. It did not so much as cross his mind to grab the phone and warn his colleagues of their imminent danger. In reality, a cook cannot have colleagues. There is no position in the world lonelier than his. Beneath him there is the assistant-cook. Above him there is God or, according to ones beliefs, an even more frightening Nothing. And Kosta was an atheist.
He served the Mayor a plateful of trotter jelly, opened two ice-cold beers and sat down to keep him company. There was less than two hours left before his flight, but the Mayor was not especially worried: on the contrary, he could not believe that the plane would take off without its most important passenger. They chatted indifferently in the brief pauses between some of the Mayor’s mouthfuls. Kosta had no doubts that the new Ambassador had run directly to the Embassy, and the thought of that made him pull gently at the corners of his greying whiskery moustache. At 15.30 the driver, Miladin, rang the front-doorbell. The Mayor and the cook shook hands.
“If ever you find yourself unemployed,” exclaimed the Mayor, “you are more than welcome in Provadia. With those trotters you’ll not fail, my man!”
The driver, of course, had not the slightest suspicion regarding the dramatic turn of events. He first heard about it from his chatty interlocutor, who did not fail to congratulate him on his new boss. Miladin, who was also a less than outgoing individual of stunted social instincts, decided to keep the news to himself. There was a mobile phone in his pocket, which he deliberately switched off. After he dropped the Mayor at Heathrow, Miladin headed towards one of London’s famed car-boot sales.
Left to his own devices, Kosta dropped the mask of arrogance and indifference, which he always put on in front of other people, and became as gloomy as a peasant watching thunderclouds looming above the harvest fields. He let his wife’s bitching drift past his ears unheeded – she was, as per usual, railing against the social position fate had decreed for her.
“They come here, the dregs of society, stuff their faces, screw everything up, and then guess who gets to clean up after them!” she complained, carrying a stack of dishes to the kitchen. “They all became big-shots! There’s no life left for common folk!”
She was a tiny, thick-set woman with big, workers hands and a bitter mouth. Through eyes that were forever screwed up, she regarded reality around her with mistrust and reproach. As the wife of an international cook, she had ‘done’ a fair chunk of the world, but deep-down she believed that only one patch of her homeland truly mattered – somewhere between the river Iskar and Mount Vitosha. No matter where she stayed – in Paris, Berlin or London – she arranged the family’s way of life according to her pre-Columbian image of the world, slowly reclaiming from the Western jungle a small clearing for her domestic civilization.
Of late, Kosta had frequently asked himself, why the hell had he married her? Or more precisely, why, for fuck’s sake, did he continue to be married to her? Out of laziness, that was the truth of the matter. He had been too lazy to search for the woman of his dreams and instead had opted for the closest one available. He had been too lazy to divorce her afterwards and here they were, already a good twenty years trundling around together. Sex not working. Quarrelling all day. She despised him. He despised her. They had managed two children with a long interval in between. They had some small savings, but too little to be divided up.
After lunch, Chavdar Tolomanov put in a call to the residence. He had been living in London for some years and presented himself sometimes as a salesman, sometimes as a man of the arts, but in reality he made his living some third way, which he avoided ever having to explain. From time to time, Kosta supplied him with cheap cigarettes from the Embassy’s diplomatic quota, and they had gradually become friends. Chavdar had come up with an extremely brash scenario, even judged by the cook’s low standards.
“I wanted to tell you that I’ve pulled a really great chick! Would you believe it? Real Latin American! Do you want her to phone you? Her name is Juliet. It’s just that she doesn’t speak any Bulgarian, ha-ha…”
Loud music was blasting down the earpiece and Kosta concluded that Chavdar was calling from a pub. He was tipsy and obviously having a good time.
“Listen, mate, lets arrange some business…” continued Chavdar. “Is the Mayor gone? Good. Look, I’m making out to this Juliet that I’m the Bulgarian Ambassador. Is it all right if I bring her to the residence? Just for one night, yeah?”
“No way! The new Ambassador’s already arrived.”
“What?!” Chavdar was surprised “How come so suddenly?”
“He dragged his sorry ass in here two hours ago,” the cook replied dryly. “Anyway, I’ve cleaning to be getting on with…” Try making out you’re the Ambassador to me! he thought and slammed down the receiver.
The news, however, had now leaked out. Chavdar Tolomanov did not have the same habits as Embassy people. Without so much as putting down his mobile phone, of which he was inordinately proud, he dialled the first number he came across. At the other end of the line a woman named Dafinka Zaks answered. Zaks lived off her late-husband’s rent and had a reputation as a happy widow. She thirstily soaked up the fresh gossip and delicately declined Chavdar’s proposition that she play the role of the rich, old auntie who lavishly provides space for the intimate adventures of her nephew. Dafinka Zaks shot off the news in several directions and the news spread like wildfire, along the approaches of the entirely unsuspecting Embassy, where the working day was winding towards its natural end.
At 4.30 p.m. the secretary’s telephone rang and an oily voice said, “Could you put me through to the Ambassador, please?”
The secretary, Tania Vandova, flinched as though scalded. She was familiar with that voice and in no way found it congenial.
“The new Ambassador has not yet arrived,” she declared in icy tones.
“Don’t hide him! Don’t hide him!” the voice at other end sang sweetly. “I know from a perfectly well-informed source, that he arrived this very afternoon. I only want to congratulate and welcome him.”
“Your source must have misinformed you,” the secretary attempted a nonchalant tone. “There is nobody here. Goodbye.”
In reality, Tania Vandova was not quite so sure and decided to trust to her well-honed secretarial instincts. A short conversation with the residence followed and Kosta was forced to spit out the truth (a big black
mark for the cook!). The news whipped round the offices at the speed of light. At 5.30pm the Embassy emptied as though stricken by the Plague.
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.
