by Alek Popov
At exactly 7pm a huge tourist-like bus pulled up in front of the Embassy. Its doors swooshed open, and, before the ogling eyes of the diplomats, a crowd of people in evening dress poured out. Robert Ziebling led them.
“Here we are!” he shouted and hurried inside.
Pezantova stood stunned.
The guests started to make their way up the stairs. It snowed smiles and titles: Baroness Remoulade, the Duchess Van Der Brayne, Sir Jay, Lady Marx, and Sir De Vilajidioff. She felt like melting in the social whirlpool. The queue extended all the way to the bottom step. Before proceeding into the room, the guests stopped by the little stand, rummaging amongst the displayed items and asking all sorts of questions. Unfortunately, the artistic director spoke not a word of English and was unable to satisfy their curiosity. He could only look at them with growing anger. No one had thought to get their wallet out. Fucking stingy bastards!
Last to appear were the diplomats struggling with the weight of Sir De Fazaposte’s wheelchair. His head lolled from side to side and his medals clanked. The severe looking Lady De Viyent fussed around them and was shouting demandingly, “For God’s sake, be careful!”
Then a brief moment of silence occurred.
“What if she doesn’t come?” fretted Pezantova.
“There’s no danger of that,” Varadin reassured her, looking at his watch.
Ziebling appeared. “What on earth are you doing here? Why aren’t you downstairs already?” he demanded angrily. “Didn’t you read the protocol? We are not waiting for a mere countess, you know!”
“Oh my God!” exclaimed Pezantova. “I totally forgot!”
She grabbed the Ambassador by the hand and dragged him down the stairs in a mad rush. Ziebling shook his head disdainfully. Barry Longfellow came over and leaned casually on the balustrade, he was presently the Marquis of Mullet.
“A heavy night awaits, eh Sir?”
“Don’t let that rabble out of your sight for an instant!” ordered Ziebling.
“I know my business,” the Marquis replied curtly.
The artistic director stared at them with his beady little eyes. The Famous Connector gave him a cheery wave. “Hey, we come in peace!”
The object of this humour entirely failed to understand and raised one eyebrow suspiciously. Fucking stingy so-and-sos!
The Rolls slid silently up to the porch. It lacked all the usual markings: crests, crowns and flags. The vast black automobile was shrouded in secrecy, as though it travelled not in the human reality, but flew on the invisible motorways between worlds. A huge man in a beige raincoat got out of the front seat, opened the back door and offered his hand to the lady inside.
Christ! They could be twins! Varadin was trembling at the thought.
“Your Majesty!” whinnied Mrs Pezantova, forgetting to curtsy and rushing towards the Lady like a hound on the scent.
“Oh, my dear woman,” exclaimed Queen Cunningham. “Your little charity brings tears to our eyes! Ah, and so good to see you once again, your Excellency!’ she said turning to Varadin. “If you continue to serve your country in this spirit, God himself will reward you.”
Witch! he hissed internally, taking her hand in turn and bowing low.
The diplomats buzzed around them like a swarm of wasps, only Varadin’s severe look keeping them at a respectable distance. The group wended its way towards the reception room. The Queen leaning on Mrs Pezantova’s arm and repeating tirelessly, “Oh, my dear!”
The bodyguard was her shadow.
Blood pounded in Pezantova’s ears. My God, what an honour! What an honour! If only Kututcheva and Moustacheva could see me now! What did they know? Pathetic little provincial girls! Here She is, leaning on my arm, speaking to me – the Queen of England, herself! Do you hear over there? Do you see? Do you understand? No, nobody gives a damn about you. Awful yokels, you do not deserve a thing. ‘Oh, my dear!’ She said it again. Those are signals. She likes me! The carpet beneath her feet had disappeared; she felt she was walking on air. A miraculous light filled her. You can all go to hell, damn peasants! I am on the other side of the divide. I am not what I used to be. I am different. I do not know you.
“Ah, and what is this?” exclaimed Queen Cunningham.
Oh no! That bloody little stand again, Pezantova swore. The magic disappeared. The Queen attached herself to the table and began to examine the display. The little decorative pigskin folk slippers caught her attention.
“What interesting moccasins!” said the Queen holding them up by their laces.
This time the artistic director felt able to say something. “They call tsarvuli,” he announced in a serious voice, looking all sweaty, “Natsionalen Kostyoom!”
“Oh, tsarvuli!” she said seemingly respectfully. “How wonderful! Tsarvuli!”
“Tsarvuli, tsarvuli!” everyone around her started to nod enthusiastically.
“How sweet!” she said condescendingly. “Might we try them on?”
The Artistic Director gaped blankly.
“She wants to try them!” translated Pezantova in her iciest tones.
Varadin gave Ziebling a withering look; the latter was observing the scene with unhealthy interest, almost indulgent. The diplomats hurried to bring a chair. She sat and removed her white shoes. The director helped her to do the laces.
“Oh, they are so comfortable, these tsarvuli!” said Queen Cunningham as she walked around. “We’ll take them!”
My God, what a lesson She is giving us all, thought Pezantova. Only a Queen could possibly be so diplomatic in such a situation. It is in her blood.
“Your Majesty!” she shouted emotionally. “You look fantastic!”
“Oh, my dear!” Her Majesty waved regally.
Without taking the tsarvuli off, and with a faint slap-slapping sound, she headed into the reception room. All the guests stood up and started to applaud. Then the doors were closed. The faces of the diplomats darkened. Mavrodiev lit a cigarette and put his hands into his pockets. Kishev picked up the Royal shoes from the floor, looked at them with respect and then put them on the table.
“And who is going to pay for the tsarvuli?” the director suddenly remembered.
His question hung in the air. Danailov was prowling in front of the doors, growling like a lion. Sounds of ceremonial pomp were coming from the hall. Kishev, who passed himself off as a classical music buff, listened to it and noted gloomily, “The Ode to Joy.”
‘The Ode to Joy’ was played by a group of Bulgarian students from the Royal College of Music. The guests listened carefully. The waitressing staff rushed quietly between the tables, filling the glasses with wine. When this unique entertainment came to an end and the applause died down, Mrs Pezantova stood up and took a deep breath, filled with scent of power. The world expanded briefly before she brought it back under control, “Your Majesty! Honoured Ladies and Gentlemen!” she started in the bombastic tone of a Girl-Guide Commissioner opening a new camp in the mountains. “It is my great pleasure and honour to welcome you here today. The gathering together of such a large group of so many important people here today is an obvious sign of the worthiness of our charitable cause. I would like to thank you on behalf of the Bulgarian people and to assure you that this historical gesture will be understood and greatly appreciated. This evening you will be given the rare opportunity to scrape only the surface of the eternal cultural values produced by Bulgarian genius. Let me open that priceless spiritual treasure from which radiate the most elevated human ideals, and to convince you that we belong to one and the same cultural family among the realms of Europe. Your Majesty! Ladies and Gentlemen! My heart fills with pride and emotion when I think of the great honour of being the one to present to you the cultural key to my country. I humbly beg you to accept it.”
There was a short silence. Ziebling started clapping and all the others followed him. Yes shouted Pezantova in her mind I knew they would be pleased! A professional literary sycophant, who had been taken on by her husband directly f
rom the school of the previous communist leaders, had written her speech. He was good, one had to admit.
“Now I am sure you will join me in the pleasure of welcoming Her Majesty, Elizabeth II,” announced Pezantova ceremoniously.
“Thank you,” nodded Queen Cunningham in a business-like manner. “The cause of the brown bears has always been close to our heart. That is the reason we think that the present initiative represents a valuable contribution to ecological balance of the continent of Europe.”
A shadow of doubt crossed Devorina’s face.
“What the Hell is she is on about!” hissed Varadin in Ziebling’s ear, “The concert is to raise money for the orphans. It’s written on the invitations!”
“What’s the difference?” whispered the other. “They are all endangered species, aren’t they?”
Behind the mask of not giving a damn, a brutal flow of obscenity filled his mind, that fuck-wit Munroe! How could he screw everything up like that! I will dock his bloody wages!
“The brown bears are our friends,” ended Queen Cunningham importantly. “Respectively, the friends of the brown bears are also our friends.”
She raised her glass, “To the health of all the bears in the world!”
“Fuck you Munroe!” Ziebling sighed. Frenetic applauses echoed.
“You’ll pay me for this!” hissed the Ambassador.
“It’s only human to make mistakes!” Ziebling shrugged.
“What is the big deal,” thought Mrs Pezantova whilst applauding the Queen’s speech. With all those engagements one must get mixed up. She knew it from experience. The words are ephemeral, the facts remain. The main thing is, she is sitting here, at this very table.
The concert opened with the song from the folk singer, Radka Madjurova. The starter was served: chicken livers with a salad of fresh radishes à la Pastricheff.
“Mmm, delicious!” exclaimed Mrs Cunningham, but her compliment remained unheard.
Radka Madjurova was a natural phenomenon, examined many times by physicists. Her voice had a huge drilling power. In order to demonstrate this undeniable fact, a little demonstration was arranged in front of the public. They placed a crystal glass at a metre’s distance in front of the singer’s mouth, which the singer shattered with several vibratos. Pezantova threw a quick glance at the horrified Queen as though to demand, Do you have such wonders?
The intense frequency of her voice managed to disturb some device in the duty room and it started squeaking. The general stood up and switched off.
“What on earth is going on in there?” he mumbled.
“They are having fun,” said Danailov in a bitter voice, whilst chewing a piece of crispy duck skin.
The defence attaché was on duty. He was casually dressed in his tracksuit-bottoms and trainers and feeling far more comfortable than the diplomats, who had been mobilised to fulfil porter’s duties. On top of that, he was well provided for the evening: in a strange surge of remarkable generosity and solidarity they had sent him a huge tray, overflowing with dark duck meat and banitsa. He had added to these two bottles of red from Assenovgrad and six cans of Becks. The general was not stingy and he could not manage such a quantity on his own, so he had invited his dejected colleagues to share it with him. The men sat around the low table, stuffing their faces with pieces of meat and drank in a mood that could best be described as ‘pissed off with life’. From time to time they threw a distracted glance at the television. At around 8pm Turkeiev and the artist appeared, carrying various flammable materials, and started preparing the foyer for the forthcoming pyrotechnics.
“Look, they are showing the Queen!” exclaimed counsellor Mavrodiev.
The others automatically turned their heads to the screen. BBC1 was showing a report of the Queen’s visit to Matrongo. This afternoon Her Majesty Elizabeth II had a meeting with President Dr Michael Sesseto Loko. The visit coincides with the third year celebrations of the first democratic elections in the former British colony. Tomorrow the Queen will be visiting the National park ‘Tete’ and will have talks with the Head of the Matrongan Anglican Church, Bishop Brian Mega-to-Longo. Next to Queen a tall black man walked importantly, dressed in a traditional handmade golden robe; in the background palm-trees, barefoot children and military men in their parade uniforms could be seen.
“Well, well!” the general opened his eyes wide. “Isn’t she here, the Queen?”
Nobody said anything; the television was spewing forth data about the economic development of Matrongo over the last decade, which was not very joyful despite the successes of the democracy.
“Come on, why you are all pretending you don’t know!” said Danailov suddenly. “She has her own double, that woman! Like Brezhnev and Yeltsin. They all had their doubles, even our old president, Todor Zhivkov. She’s not that stupid, you know!”
“So you think that’s a double?” Mavrodiev pointed to the screen unconvinced.
“And what the hell do you think it is?” exploded Danailov, who was a fervent supporter of conspiracy theory. “Do you actually think that they are going to send the real Queen to meet some African? Don’t be ridiculous! Why do you think she arrived here incognito without her carriage or any of her official entourage? Why won’t they allow any pictures? Because she is officially in Matrongo. If you phone the Palace now and ask them, where the Queen is, the last thing that they are going to tell you is that she is here. They will laugh at you if you confront them!”
“But they are in the shit now because we saw her!” said the general cunningly.
“Like they give a damn!” Danailov waved disparagingly.
He looked at the tray and frowned; the meat had disappeared.
“What about Clinton when he visited Bulgaria,” asked Kishev with a guilty expression on his face, whilst cleaning his greasy fingers. “Was that him?”
“Are you nuts?” nodded Danailov. “At that time they wouldn’t have let him out of the States at all, because of the Lewinski trial.”
An uneasy silence followed.
“Are we gonna watch Leeds-Manchester?” the general prompted cleverly, giving them all a way out.
They all nodded with relief.
Back upstairs, the main course was accompanied by a little musical performance. A pleasant duet, flute and guitar, with its fourteenth century troubadour motifs provided the accompaniment to the prosaic clicking and clacking of cutlery.
“I want to assure you, my dear, that you have an excellent cook!” whispered Queen Cunningham to Pezantova, “The duck is simply delicious!”
Pezantova blushed with pleasure and threw Varadin a glance full of gratitude. She had tasted almost nothing herself. Her senses had gone numb because of the nervous pressure; she had the feeling she was chewing a piece of cardboard. She had no need of this rough material substance, called food! She was more than content with simply absorbing the aristocratic vibrations, which filled the atmosphere of the hall. Varadin, on the other hand, was swallowing her vibrations and his stomach felt full. That was not true of Ziebling though, or of the other guests. Who had said that exquisite people eat very little?
On the other table, Mr Halvadjiev was having an argument in Bulgarian with his wife, “Yvonne, stop playing with your food and eat it!”
“I swallowed something nasty, some little bone, there might be more,” she said staring at the plate and not looking up.
“Aah, you’re just afraid of getting fat. I know you,” he said pointedly.
“Fuck you!”
“You’ll never get fat,” he said with certain note of disappointment in his voice. “The duck’s good, look how that Baroness is stuffing her face! She is not afraid of getting fat!”
“Because she is a Baroness, you wood-head!”
When she heard her title, Baroness Remoulade raised her head and smiled importantly. For the entire evening, she stuck strictly to Barry Longfellow’s instructions and avoided opening her mouth with the exception of certain occasions when she stuffed something tas
ty into it. Only the Bishop of Neverbury had spoilt the good overall impression. He had Barry throwing lightning glances across the room.
“What a funny Holy Father!” thought Halvadjiev feeling some obscure disquiet, whilst watching the Bishop flirting with Yvonne.
At this moment, Sir De Fazaposte decided to pay a visit to the facilities again. For the third time! This was an operation involving quite a lot of effort, because said facilities were downstairs on the ground floor. Four students lifted the wheelchair and started trundling it down the stairs, huffing and puffing, lots of swearwords hidden behind their silent red faces. This time the self-sacrificing Lady De Viyent showed a surprising coldheartedness. “Aaah, no! That is enough!” she hissed maliciously. “I want to see the next performance. You take care of yourself this time, you clown!”
Sir De Fazaposte, however, could not take care of himself, which led to a lot of additional complications. Samuel Fogg was really having fun.
In the meantime the light in the hall darkened and the table music faded away. More musicians appeared, a big drummer with waxed moustaches amongst them. In the space between the tables, adapted as a stage, some strange woman looking like a Delphic Sybil appeared, “Your Majesty! Ladies and Gentlemen! It gives you great pleasure for me to announce the next performance. It is an ancient ritual, called Molitva za Dusht or Prayer for Rain. This ritual originates the village Kundurli in the South-Eastern part of Bulgaria, and is brought to stage by our famous actress, Larissa Mundeva.”
She paused, then started again in a heart-stopping tone, “It is summer, over the drought-filled Thracian plains, and not a single cloud is being. Inside dry and stony sharp riverbeds only snakes and lizards crawling. Worried peasants round their dry lands walking. Even birds are silent singing! Then the wise village men gathering and deciding to turn to old half-forgotten rituals, from their ancestors inheriting, and to the forces of Nature praying. The most beautiful maiden of the village goes to dancing near the river: it is the ritual dancing for the rain summoning.”
