by Alek Popov
It burned, and badly at that. She had thought at first that she would not be able to sit down for at least a week, but the pain gradually faded leaving only the heat. The whip had left fiery marks on her buttocks. She felt like she was sat on a grill, while frozen ants crawled over the rest of her body.
‘The Taming of the Shrew by William Shakespeare. Adapted for private theatre by Thomas Munroe. Copyright, Famous Connections. All rights reserved!’
‘La Valeta’ was a small, exclusive restaurant in the upper part of Kensington. After a good thrashing, Desmond assumed that a good foie gras would not go amiss. And he was damn right. They decided not to return to the agency and Katya was still looking like Diana. That was a serious breach of the regulations. Rule number one was that they should not be seen in public places in full make-up, but she didn’t care right at that moment. Especially right then. She was even enjoying the amazed looks of the staff and the few mummified clients. She sensed their burning curiosity and unease (burning like the marks on her rear!) and her subconscious felt somehow avenged. As though this small fragment of the overall social mosaic represented the whole world in which her clients lived. It was balm for her soul. Desmond Cook had perhaps sensed that soothing side-effect, which was why he had taken her there in that condition and that outfit.
“That was not in the script,” she started hesitantly. “Maybe that guy got a little more excited than he was supposed to. He lost control. That had never happened to me before. Thanks for getting involved.”
“You’re always welcome.” He shrugged.
“It’s nice to have a chauffeur like you,” she said squeezing his hand. He had skinned his knuckles. “You know, I like what you did to that pig.”
“Well, I had something in mind.”
“Oh yeah?” she said startled. “So you’ve got more scenarios I don’t know about?”
“The answer is no,” he squeezed her fingers gently. “Calm down!”
But she felt anything but calm. “You knew what would happen?”
“Look, I’ve been in this business for four years. And any time handcuffs are involved I’m on my guard.”
He took a small piece of wire from his pocket, which looked a little like an opened paperclip, and held it up to her face. “Ordinary precaution,” he said, then added, “I’d advise you to learn how to use it if you’re intending to stay in this business. You don’t think you’re the only Diana, do you?”
“Hmm, I’d not thought about that particular question. I assume there were others before me.”
“There were,” Desmond nodded.
“And what happened to them?”
“Good thing you thought to ask,” he smiled. “Cynthia played the Princess whilst she was still alive. She was practically her twin. She was brilliant. Though that worked against her in the end. She was so into her part that after the accident she started imagining things and then...”
“What kind of things?”
“She started to believe that she was Diana and that her double was the one who died in the crash.”
“Totally barking!” exclaimed Katya.
“Absolutely!” agreed Desmond, “She was spending time in a clinic just outside London and I haven’t heard anything since then.”
There was a meaningful pause.
“Do I look so involved, to you?” Katya was fishing.
“You couldn’t be,” he shook his head. “You’re foreign.”
“Who was the last one?” she asked.
“Brigitte,” said Desmond dreamily. “An Eastern German. She was great.”
“She was?” Katya raised her brows.
“Car crash,” he explained quickly, then added meaningfully, “Some Japanese apparently wanted to be in Dodi’s place, and I doubt that she was given that scenario to read.”
“You think it was set up?” she asked hesitantly.
“I doubted it, but when the Lithuanian went the same way, there was no more doubt.”
“Car crash?”
“Yep. Only, a long way from here, in Prague. The agency has a wide network of international contacts. They could send you to Paris or Buenos Aires, Cairo, Kuala Lumpur, even the Bahamas. As long as the client is paying. And they do, believe me. You’ll certainly be asked to travel soon, Kate.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“I don’t want to frighten you,” Desmond shook his head. “You just need to know how things stand in the business with Diana. Your role attracts accidents like a magnet.”
“I don’t understand how someone could arrange their own death to order,” she said, cold shivers running down her spine. “Even if it was with the object of his dreams. I mean, that’s a real death and the Princess in the equation is a hired tart.”
He looked at her steadily. “Are all Bulgarians that clever?”
She said nothing. She thought there was a hint of sarcasm in his tone.
“Do your clients achieve orgasm?”
“Why the hell else do they get involved?!” she retorted spontaneously. “Where’s the link?”
“Don’t you get it?!” he exclaimed. “You may not be The One, but they’re enjoying themselves just as much. The fact is that no one, or almost no one, ever knew the real Diana, and they weren’t interested in her. That was her biggest problem. The public gulped down what the media gave them, or Andrew Morton, and that was plenty for them, more than enough to forge an idol and worship it. In real terms Lady Diana never existed; she was a papier-mâché figure, made of newspaper articles, pictures and photographic plates.”
“Then she shouldn’t have died,” observed Katya reasonably.
“But what else can you do, when you don’t want to play your part anymore?” asked Desmond.
“You just stop playing.”
“But you can’t,” he whispered sinisterly. “Because during all those years you were playing it, your role has destroyed your former SELF, and when, one fine day, you decide that you want out of the role, you realise that you’ve nothing else any more. The role IS you, and your old self is so destroyed that you can’t even play at it. You can’t play; you can’t not play.”
“That sucks. And the final result is that we were actually colleagues, huh?”
“Up to a point,” he agreed. “But you’re unique compared to her. Only a very few people can play with you, whereas everyone could play with her. She was put into mass usage, like a Barbie doll. And when Barbie gets broken, all the kiddies cry.”
“For one cheap Barbie?”
“Is there anything sadder?”
“If I get broken, no one’s going to cry.”
“No one cries about Luxury toys,” he added, nodding.
“You’re telling me that I should make a break, before they break me?” she dared to ask.
“Thematic dolls go with their story,” he observed. “Snow White has to eat the poisoned apple, Sleeping Beauty to prick herself on the spindle. That’s why they’re sold in a package with either an apple or a spindle. The same goes for figures like Batman or Luke Skywalker. The Diana figure is no exception. You’ll always find someone who wants to play the fairy-tale to the end.”
“That’s practically living Voodoo!”
“Call it what you will.”
“And what did you feel when you played OJ?”
“The two roles have nothing in common!” he objected angrily. “OJ is in the active position: he shoots, beats, kicks. The Princess is the exact opposite, in the eyes of most people she will always be the eternal victim. Have you ever been required to play the role as a dominatrix, whip in hand, while some unfortunate polishes your boots with his tongue?”
“No.” she admitted, without having to think about it.
“But you have been driven around, haven’t you? They rev their fast cars and flex their muscles, while you tremble, tied to the gear-stick with a leash, yeah?”
“How do you know?”
He stared at her questioningly. “So they’re still playing that one t
hen? Look at that sly old bastard Munroe! He created that scenario for Brigitte!”
“He’s not my type,” she hissed.
“You’re not the only one,” he nodded thoughtfully, then asked off-hand, “That one with the jeweller, is that still going on?”
“The Christmas Decorations,” she smiled, “I did it just the other week, why?”
“Hide!!” he said quickly.
There was a flash. The skeletal figure of a man appeared momentarily, armed with a huge lens like a bazooka. Katya instinctively covered herself with the big starched napkin.
“Paparazzi!” hissed Desmond. “To hell with ‘em! They’re on every fucking corner! We can’t let you be snapped!”
He rushed over to the manager and they exchanged a few words. The photographer lost no time in heading for the door, but two waiters brutally threw him out. He prowled in front of the restaurant like a jackal.
“Looks like we’ll be leaving out the back door,” sighed Desmond.
“Christ!” exclaimed Katya. “Even when you’re dead!”
30
The hassles with the British Museum had sapped his strength and now this stench...it would be the coup de grace! He could not understand how, in such a small area as the Embassy, there could be concentrated so much idiocy! Was there no critical mass? Or was it well past that? The stink hit his nose almost instantly on the way to the airport. The driver was listening to music on the radio; pretending nothing was the matter. In spite of that, he had his window wide open and there happened to be a brand new air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror.
“What’s that smell?” asked Varadin menacingly.
“Stale air,” said the chauffeur edgily.
Varadin took a deep breath and felt on the verge of puking. They were trying it on again!
“What bloody air?! It smells like something died in here, and it bloody well shouldn’t!!” exploded the Ambassador.
Miladin was left without choice. “Well, you see, there was a little accident...” he admitted awkwardly. (Ha! They always started like that!)
The ‘accident’ had occurred the morning of the day before. Before turning up for work, he had gone to the fish market, where he had bought a huge salmon. On the way back, however, he got stuck in traffic and didn’t have time to take the fish home. It had only stayed in the boot for a few hours, but it looked like something had leaked out of the fish and into the upholstery.
“I don’t know how it could have happened,” spluttered the chauffeur. “It was really well wrapped.”
There remained less than an hour before the plane landed.
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” asked the Ambassador in icy tones.
Numerals boiled up in his brain, looking for a way out.
“I thought it would fade over time,” replied Miladin simply. “I washed the whole boot only this morning. I’m really sorry, Mister Ambassador; it won’t happen again.”
It did not need to happen again – it could hardly have come at a worse time! But, for the moment, he had to save his strength, it was already too late to do anything about anything. Varadin laid his head back and opened his window fully. I’ll give you something to remember that fish by, blockhead!!
He had to start counting down the numbers!
At Heathrow a cold wind was blowing. The diplomats were milling around on the tarmac of Gate 7, where the Balkan hearses usually pulled up. Nearby three cars were parked, of different national brands, a green Rover at the head. Two policemen in bright, fluorescent yellow jackets observed the official to-ing and fro-ing with interest. A noticeable distance from his underlings, hands behind his back, Varadin Dimitrov stood importantly.
‘There it is!’ shouted Mr Kishev, convulsed in artificial joy, pointing to the snout of the aircraft that was just appearing around the corner of the terminal building.
Varadin also saw the aeroplane, turned around and gave the diplomats a severe look. Aimless conversations instantly dried up and they all hurried to arrange themselves behind him in order of rank. The little group waited in ceremonious silence.
The tail of the aircraft was covered in soot, as though it had over-flown a war-zone. It made a wide turn and trundled to its parking space. As with all TU-155’s this plane did not link to the automatic corridors of large airports and soon a mobile staircase could be seen making its way to the front door of the aeroplane. Meanwhile the roar of the turbines slowly faded. The diplomats fixed their gazes on the door, but it remained closed for another few minutes.
At last the door disappeared inwards with a flash of a uniform, then a head appeared. Although all that was actually visible was not a head but hair, or more precisely a mass of hair, tightly plaited into tiny dreads that fell higgledy-piggledy. Through the hair a fleshy black nose could be seen. It took a deep breath of the muggy London air and snorted happily. The black man pushed back his mane and stared at the welcoming party in amazement. He was an athlete, wearing a pink jacket and a long white robe with a shiny medallion at his neck. He was carrying a stereo under one arm. The diplomats stared back at him; they had been expecting Mrs Pezantova to be the first off the plane with her entourage. The big athlete grinned widely, then pushed one of the buttons on the stereo, releasing reggae rhythms. Swinging gracefully down the stairs he passed the file of officials and threw them a casual, “Hi!”
A company representative dashed over post-haste and pointed him in the direction of the terminal. “The Nigerian team,” he shouted to the Ambassador. “They came transit through Sofia.”
Another ten or so Africans made their way out of the aircraft. They were followed by a variety of glum individuals carrying impressive quantities of hand luggage. They threw spiteful looks at the welcome party and dashed towards the terminal, there to make their way to their visa Golgotha. Last came a Buddhist monk, in sarong and sandals, carrying a little black suitcase.
Varadin watched him slip past the ranks stony-faced. Then he stared once more at the door of the aircraft. For almost a minute there were no signs of life other than the stewardess. It struck him that perhaps he should send someone to find out what was happening. However, as he debated the possible consequences of such an action, a shadowy figure emerged from the plane’s interior to stand at the top of the stairs. It was Mrs Pezantova.
“Here she is!” exclaimed Kishev.
From the top of the stairs the world seemed small and insignificant. She took a deep breath and forgot to breathe out most of it. She adored moments like these! Looks filled with trembling awe, faces full of devotion! The feeling gave her enough adrenalin to last a week. She smiled regally, delaying a touch longer on the uppermost step, indulging herself in the effect her appearance was causing. Then she slowly descended, turning her head this way and that, as though a teeming and enthusiastic multitude awaited her. Varadin hurried to meet her.
“At last! How long we’ve been waiting for you! Welcome! Welcome!” he pronounced ceremoniously, then asked courteously, “And how was your trip?”
‘Fine,” she replied.
She was of average height, with a haughty face and a complicated hairstyle, atop which was affixed a still more complicated hat. A fluffy red cape hugged her shoulders like a mutant manta ray. She was accessorised with a small handbag made from the skin of some rare animal. Varadin was forced to admit to himself that she did have a certain elegance.
After the grand exit/entrance of the Prima Donna, came the rest of the troupe. First her two ladies-in-waiting rolled out, both wives of lesser-calibre politicians, who had also simultaneously embraced charitable causes, and free air-travel. Behind them came the actual concert performers: two folk singers, a piper, a fiddle player, a promising soprano, and a strange individual who would be performing some sort of ritual for summoning rain. Last of all trundled the artistic director, heavy sack across his shoulder. He was a sculptor and was carrying in his bag a little bronze statuette of a sausage-dog which he was hoping to sell during his short stay in Londo
n.
Devorina Pezantova coldly shook hands with the diplomats, decisively ignoring Kishev’s attempt to engage her in conversation. She called her two companions and together with Varadin they headed to the Rover. There was a brief moment of confusion whilst the rest of the group arranged itself into the other cars. A police car escorted the column to the VIP terminal.
“Do you mind closing your window, it is very windy?” said Pezantova to Varadin.
He frowned, but half-closed it.
“Close it fully, if you please!” she insisted. “I have a cold. You close yours too!” she said to the driver.
He threw a quick glance at his boss, but the other only pressed the window-button. The driver did the same.
“But what is that smell in here?” whinged one of her companions.
“Yes, really? What is that smell?” whinged the other in her turn.
Devorina sniffed and spat, “Nothing!”
Varadin sighed with relief.
At the Chiswick Roundabout they hit a traffic jam. The vehicles crawled along at a snail’s pace. On the right hand side of the road, British Airways was plastered all over the billboards. There were always traffic jams here and he suspected that the adverts were put there on purpose to get even deeper in the brains of the people waiting. That is what you call strategy!
“She will definitely come?” Devorina’s voice called from the back seat.
“We have confirmation,” replied Varadin.
The stench was eating his brain; he wanted to grab the driver and strangle him with his bare hands.
“Christ! Kututcheva and Moustacheva will be so full of envy, they’ll explode!” she exclaimed. “That’s what they deserve for not lending me the private jet! Rattling my bones in that hell-hole of a plane!”
“They will definitely explode,” he nodded.
There was a worrying trend: with the number of downtrodden boiling ever upwards, the number of philanthropists was also rising. The competition between those good people was becoming ruthless, and the lack of rules – ever more obvious. Kututcheva and Moustacheva were also involved in feverish philanthropy, leaning on their husbands’ enormous shoulders and on the funds controlled by them. Recently, Pezantova had got it into her head that those two had united against her. They deserved a good lesson!
