by Alek Popov
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!”
6
During that day, many of the employees tried to contact him, but he resolutely refused to see anyone. He wanted to play with their nerves; to leave them with the impression that he knew everything about them and their doings, and that he had no intention of listening to their pitiful explanations. Let them tremble in expectation of his call!
Varadin threw himself into the thorough exploration of the multitudinous drawers and cupboards in his office; the cashbox, the wardrobe and all the other little places where he supposed the spirit of his predecessor might be hiding. Not much was left. People in his profession were secretive and erased all traces behind them, where possible. In the library, the Encyclopaedia Britannica and the ‘Who’s Who’ of 1986 feigned an air of dusty importance. In the draw of the desk lay three lonely paperclips and one used marker. In the safe he found a half-disintegrated washing-up sponge. That looked to be everything. He examined the toilet, tested it and sat behind the big boss’s desk, twisted around this way and that in the armchair to get used to the feel of it. He was almost feeling at home when the red phone rang.
He stared fearfully at it and picked up the receiver.
“Hello!” said a serene female voice. “Already in your workplace, eh? Bravo! Well done!”
“Thank you!” his ingratiating response conveyed little enthusiasm.
He knew the voice well and clearly he could not tell it to go to hell.
“You haven’t forgotten about me, have you?” He sensed an edge of suspicion.
“How could If or get you!” his voice filled with sincere indignation.
“Easily! Some people immediately forget everything, as soon as they land themselves a little mandate,” the subtle accusation rang from the receiver.
“I am not one of them. You know me.”
“We-ell, I’ve been let down so many times,” sighed the voice. “You think you know somebody but when they go abroad – they prove to be a completely different person. Ungrateful people! They imagine they have become untouchable. But they are mistaken.”
“They certainly are mistaken.”
“You are not one of them though, are you?” the voice quavered hopefully. “You know how the things are. You are experienced; that’s to say, you know how to prioritise.”
“I’ve learned that well.”
“I hope so,” there was a pause before the decisive question: “And, how are things going?”
“I don’t know yet. People here don’t look to be on the straight and narrow.”
“I had no doubts about that. They are a bunch of crooks. You must report to me every week.”
“Agreed,” Varadin nodded. “Do not worry.”
“Don’t be so relaxed. You don’t know her yet. She is so solemn! Every time I pass through London, I invite her properly for lunch or breakfast, but she always plays dumb. She is busy. And how is she so busy, if you please? Counting her coins, I suppose. The humiliation I have to endure.”
“We mustn’t lose hope, the stakes are high!”
“Yes, we have to draw her in somehow!”
“Leave it to me,” said Varadin authoritatively.
“If you betray me …”
“Not chance of that, of course not,” he assured her.
“Oh, well in that case, goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
The first number that burst into his mind was 98. For some moments he stared blankly at the phone, then quietly, but passionately, he pronounced, “73!”
7
‘Borscht & Tears’ was a famous Russian restaurant, situated in South Kensington. It was run by descendants of White Guardsmen. An important peculiarity, which very few people knew about and which was entirely absent from any advertising, was the fact that underneath the Russian restaurant, in the basement, was another restaurant – a Bulgarian one. This Bulgarian restaurant, carefully stored away within the belly of the big Russian doll, had been conceived fairly recently, due to the simple fact that the owners’ daughter had married a Bulgarian. An enterprising patriot, he had taken the risk of investing in nostalgia, whilst lacking a decent working knowledge of the peculiarities of its native version.
Bulgarian Nostalgia differed from Russian Nostalgia which was lachrymose and dripping in mineral resources – a big vein of gold, which generations of capable salesmen of swampy mirages have mined and continue to mine. Bulgarian Nostalgia was dusty and baked like a disused threshing-floor. It was fed with cheese from Finsbury Park Turkish markets and greasy Spanish bacon from Asda; it was stuffed with beans and lentils and drowned in a glass of Rakia spirit, for free if you could get away with it. It had no ambition to rule over the soul; you could easily releg
ate it to some solitary corner. It was too economical to be economically significant. That was why the Bulgarian restaurant was condemned to stay forever in the womb of the Matryoshka like a nameless and illegitimate embryo, fighting to be born, struggling to get out, and straining at the umbilical leash through which it sucked vital juices.
The Russian restaurant had a well-polished, decadent interior: plush red damask, candles in champagne bottles, some dusty balalaikas on the walls, a big decorative samovar – all this, although seeming exotic to western eyes, nevertheless to some extent lived up to expectations fed by references from the vast corpus of Russian literature. In the Russian restaurant they played Russian romances, served ice-cold vodka and steaks à la Kiev; you could cry your eyes out, quarrel with God or the Devil, fall in love or blow your brains out with a revolver, if you felt so inclined.
The Bulgarian saloon did not offer such romantic extras. You reached it via a narrow tortuous staircase, as though descending into Tartarus
On the walls hung traditional ‘koukeri’ masks and dried corncobs, as well as a shield forged from copper with something like a horseman carved on it. Here a kaval and bagpipe tune could often be heard, or the bang of a drum and as for the customers, they sat right next to each other as if they were all boiling in a common pot. Wine and Rakia spirit were poured lavishly and simple peasant dishes were served. These last could be better described as fakes than as realistic reproductions of the originals. But the emigrants were easily pleased; they had forgotten the taste of the original dish, remembering only the look of the thing. It was not difficult for them to imagine they were eating the authentic Bulgarian tomato and roast pepper delicacy, lyutenitsa, whilst what they were really consuming was an ordinary salsa with onions. That made the management of the kitchen easy, but somewhat diminished the profits. Regular clientele was missing – the local gourmands passed it by, and misguided tourists did not have the courage to venture beyond the Russian section. The restaurant filled up only for special occasions – once or twice a month. Then the owner would invite Kosta to spice up the menu with some more sophisticated specialties. The cook had nothing against that – his salary was miserable and he was constantly on the lookout for ways to make an additional pound or two on the side.
On the evening in question there was no special occasion and ‘Borscht & Tears’ was half-empty. Not only the Bulgarian section, but also the widely advertised Russian one. It was Wednesday – a day that marked the apogee of the business week – and Londoners were saving their energy for stunts on the stock market. Only two or three couples who looked like tourists from Australia or New Zealand were picking at their plates in the hope of finding a small grain of the great Russian soul. A glum waiter, Polish no less, was observing them cynically, as he leant against the wooden column by the stairs. Kosta’s appearance caused a slight lifting of spirits, as though the long awaited fictional hero had appeared on stage at last and was preparing to do something suitably unhinged, which would instantly reveal the meaning of life to them. Kosta, though, did nothing so exciting; he headed quietly down the stairs, nodding to the waiter on his way past.
In the empty Bulgarian salon two men were seated. They had taken the table at the far end and Kosta saw them only when they waved at him. One of them combined the physique of an ex-bodybuilder with the droopy blond moustache of a Polish nobleman fallen on hard times. This was Chavdar Tolomanov, the man he had spoken to that afternoon. The other was a stranger.
Chavdar invited him to take a seat and made the introductions. “This is Batushka. Batushka, this is our guy.”
The Batushka in question, was a tall leathery individual with an angular Asiatic face and dark skin. He was wearing a loose designer-label training top, which revealed a prodigious, hairy torso. A massive gold chain sparkled on his wrist. Kosta was seeing the man for the first time, but immediately realised that it would have been far healthier to have never met him.
Batushka had a hard, ruthless handshake.
“We’re drinking vodka here,” said Chavdar. “Will you have one for starters?”
Kosta did not have much choice. The vodka was icy and smooth like a snowdrop at Christmas. He munched on a piece of lardy bacon. Tasty.
“And…?” growled Batushka, his voice a bass rumble.
Kosta glanced at Chavdar.
“Relax,” the latter raised his hand. “Batushka is an insider. He is the one I told you about. Everything goes through him.”
That was exactly what was worrying the cook the most at that moment. He suddenly realized that he was in something, and up to his neck. He had believed Chavdar and let the waster drag him into the depths. “Don’t get involved with those scoundrels!” Norka had yelled at him, but who paid attention? She might not be a lady, but she was by no means slow on the uptake.
Chavdar Tolomanov was a former film actor. In the past, in the time of darkest, deepest socialism, he had played a few roles that made him famous at a local level. And that was his misfortune: this popularity (specifically popularity, not fame!) was too little for him, compared to the dazzling summit of greatness, being reached by such stars as De Niro, Kevin Costner, Michael Douglas and even that bed-wetter, Brad Pitt. Chavdar, naturally, was not going to lose out to them; the problem was that some several thousand miles away from the place where the stars were growing, cruel destiny had dumped him in an entirely different climate in which only shapeless potatoes grew. For this reason he had decided that he must act to correct this entirely unfair situation, by moving to a more favourable place. Afterwards, having been denied an American visa for no apparent reason, he found himself in London, armed with a brilliant CV and two demo-tapes. He launched an assault on all the casting agencies in the city, as well as on all the producers. The English, being, in principle, a polite people, received him warmly, although with some slight surprise; they nodded, seemingly with some respect at his artistic CV, but then politely declined to employ him. The reason was simple – his Slav accent. He made big efforts to cure that cruel disease, and had even made some progress. Unfortunately, this progress made itself heard during the final auditions for the roleofa malicious computer maniac of Russian descent, who had penetrated the allies’ security system. The producers decided that his accent was not expressive enough and gave the part to someone else, who was 100% English and made it sound far more sinister. That proved a heavy setback for Chavdar. From that moment onwards his life became chaotic, a typical state of affairs for people who have lost the firm ground from beneath their feet. He tried different jobs that brought him neither money nor any other satisfaction. He was kidding himself that these were only temporary jobs – a process of adaptation to his new environment. But the currents of life were carrying him implacably away from his vocation, involving him in more and more absurd enterprises that were not always entirely on the right side of the law. His depression turned into gluttony, which, given the prevailing conditions in the abundant western market, was not difficult to satisfy. Very soon his well-trained body lost shape and became fat and ugly. He was aware of his gradual decline, but was too afraid to go back to his country, where, he guessed, only venom and spite awaited him. His compatriots, like typical Eastern Europeans, were inclined to forgive the people who were leaving the country, but not the people who were coming back, because they tarnished the image of The West – the last hope of desperate souls, who had inherited the debris that was the post-communist era.
“So, what being happening?” said Batushka in his Russian version of English, leaning his body forward like an interrogator.
“The new Ambassador arrived, that’s what!” retorted the cook shortly, pouring himself more vodka and drinking it.
“So it’s true then!” Chavdar exclaimed as he turned to Batushka and nodded, “He has arrived.”
“That’s what I’m having tell you!” Batushka nodded.
“And so?” asked the actor. “What’s that to do with our business, anyway?”
“What do you mean what?
” the cook exploded. “He’ll immediately start digging everything up now, sniffing about the place, reorganising everything. It’s impossible! It’s…”
“Nonsense!” Chavdar broke in. “He hasn’t found his feet yet, he needs time to sort things out. Before he figures out what’s what, we’ll be done, isn’t that right, Batushka?”
Batushka nodded dryly.
“You can talk,” Kosta nodded. “But you haven’t met him. He’s insane. He just appears out of the blue. Anything could come into his head.”
“There, there, he has other things to do,” the actor calmed him. “He’ll not start his digging in the fridges.”
“You never know,” sighed the cook. “How can I put it? You better find yourself somewhere else.”
“You can’t pull out now, at the last minute!” Chavdar exploded. “We’ve already invested in this project! Isn’t that right, Batushka?”
“Hmm!” Batushka began to frown darkly.
“Batushka’s opinion is that is too late now to turn back,” continued the actor. “The whole thing’s already going at full tilt!”
Kosta scratched his neck sceptically, “You’re going to have to think of something. There are loads of other places.”
“What’s he be saying?” Batushka raised his voice.
“Nothing, nothing!” Chavdar sought a hurried translation. His forehead was shining with sweat and now really agitated, he turned to the cook, “Listen, Kosta, we’re going to be in deep shit! I’ve vouched for you and now you’re losing it!”
“They’ll send me back!” was Kosta’s curt comment.
“What?”
“If they catch us, they’re going to send me back to Bulgaria, on the first plane.”
“My God!” Chavdar cried out. “We’re risking our necks here, and he’s worried they’re going to send him back. What a fool. What do you say, Batushka? Send him back – that’s his worry!”
