Alek Popov - Mission London

“What do you mean?” Varadin raised his eyebrows.

“What do I mean?” repeated the Major sarcastically. “Well, we are moving heaven and earth to gather these essentials together and apparently nobody gives a damn!”

Varadin tactfully kept quiet.

“I have received information to the effect that a large quantity of this aid so selflessly donated is aging away down in the storerooms of the Embassy. Is that correct?” the ex-soldier asked harshly.

“I have no idea,” the Ambassador raised his arms. “I’ve only been here a week.”

“They tell us, would you believe it, that we must arrange the transportation for ourselves! As if the items we are sending were not worth the cost to transport them,” said Major Potty with disgust. “As far as I’m concerned, if you carry on like this, you’ll upset the entire charitable community. Think of your image!”

“Our new image will be my first concern!” the Ambassador assured him, feeling the first symptoms of his migraine.

“It had better be,” exclaimed the Major. “I wouldn’t want my seventy seven crates to be left to rot in some godforsaken storeroom.”

Varadin decided he would make a good impression if he showed some concern about the subject and asked politely, “And what do the crates contain?”

This was a serious mistake. The Major flinched as though stung by a wasp, “You ask what is in there! What is the content of my crates! Oh, My Lord!” He threw up his arms and let them drop enervated. “Oh, Jesus!” He repeated the same movement, expressing his deep despair at the insolence and audacity of this aboriginal. “Are we going to play Customs Officers here? Or do you think we are sending you any old rubbish, eh?”

“I said no such thing!” objected Varadin fearfully.

The migraine was already thrashing his brain cells.

“But your sneaky curiosity is implying just that, isn’t it?” spat Major Potty. “Either way, I am not ashamed of the content of my crates! Inside, you will find only simple yet sturdy objects, which served my compatriots for a long time and will serve your impoverished denizens honestly for the same long period of time!”

“I don’t doubt it!” Varadin hurried to agree.

“Prove it!” boomed the Major. “Those crates have to reach their destination as soon as possible.”

“I will personally see to it that they do!”

“Excellent! Because then I will send you another hundred crates of…” the Major paused before adding solemnly “bedpans.”

“What?!” the Ambassador blinked quickly.

“The Saint Barnabas Infirmary in North Hampshire closed recently,” Major Potty was happy to explain. “They are auctioning everything, but they are donating the bedpans to us. And we, in turn, will donate them to you. If you deserve them, of course!” he waggled his finger jokingly at the Ambassador.

“I really do not know how to express my gratitude,” mumbled Varadin.

“Gratitude and charity are two sides of the same coin,” concluded the Major sagely and quickly stood up. “Unfortunately, I cannot stay a second longer. Lady Broad-Botham awaits me. We are expediting ten tons of winter clothes to Bombay, or Mumbai as they call it these days.”

He shook the hand of the dazed Ambassador and walked straight out with a decisive step as though impelled by some mechanical aid.

Varadin crawled back into his chair; leaned his head on the back and closed his eyes.

He quietly pronounced the number 95.

But he felt no relief. His skull was pulsing with pain, rubbery and soft like a bladder. It was only noon. A lunch in the French Embassy awaited him and he expected it to be formal and cold because of the well-known dislike of the French for anyone who did not speak their language. In the afternoon he had to see a line of clerks in the Foreign Office. In the evening he had to attend a reception at the Carlton for some occasion his brain categorically refused to retain. It was under attack from the intrusive image of that student that cleaned his office. Obviously there was nothing stopping him from taking her to bed. The question was: what would it cost him?

As she drifted through the London Underground, Katya caught herself thinking about the new Ambassador. They had spoken that morning. He had informed her that he had given the necessary orders for the purchase of a new Hoover. She had thanked him, but had been left with the impression that Varadin was somewhat disappointed by her reaction. Perhaps he had found it a bit flat. Perhaps he expected more than that. Tough. At the end of the day, the Hoover was not only for her. Although it was a gesture of good-will. If nothing more…. But, Bulgarian diplomats, in principle, were of no interest to her. The truth was that one could expect more trouble than real support from them.

Green Park. An Indian family got into the train and sat down opposite her. The women wore colourful dresses and the man a high, deep-purple turban. He gave her a sidelong glance, nothing more.

Next stop — Piccadilly.

Bailey’s was boiling and steaming, giving off a sharp smell of sweaty bodies. Katya looked for her costume but could not find it in its usual place. She noticed Beata, still with rash-ridden loins, attempting to squeeze her chubby ankles into the boots. Katya snatched them from her hands, “Those are mine, in case you didn’t know!”

Beata blinked gormlessly and whined, “But, Mr Dalali told me to wear them.”

Gunter Chas made his entrance at that moment, a guilty smile on his face and a hanger in his grasp. Some gauzy, golden garb shimmered on it.

“I’ve got something for you Kate darling. Something brand new!” His voice was at once chirpy and sleazy.

She grimaced. “Did you arrange that little number for me?”

“It’s about time for a change dearie. That’s what Mr Dalali said. Nice body, he said, but…we need to spice it up a bit.”

As far as Kamal Dalali was concerned, all the working girls were bodies and nothing more.

“So it’s spicing up they want….” she murmured, critically eying Chas’ creation, “It looks silly. And those lacy bits will get in the way when I’m dancing.”

“Put it on. Put it on!” he insisted.

There was no point in arguing. She sighed, threw Beata a nasty look, and went to change. She returned looking like the High-Priestess of some long-extinct oriental cult. The others looked at her enviously, but Katya was far from impressed. The material felt slimy, like wearing a jellyfish, and slid off her with every sharp movement. Obviously, that was the whole idea, but equally obviously, no one had given any thought to her part in the equation. If she did not want the costume to drop to the floor in the first five seconds she would have to radically change her style. Which carried its share of financial risk….

“Oooh you’re so sexy.” Chas soothed her, whilst giving her two clips, with little bells on them.

She gave him a questioning look. He indicated her breasts. Suddenly, she felt like laughing.

“You put them on!”

“Why, thank you…” Chas accepted graciously.

He opened the clips and carefully fixed them to her pert, pink nipples.

“Ouch!!” she screeched, pulling away sharply.

“Tinkle, tinkle-inkle.” The bells chimed merrily.

“Ahh! They’re beautiful!!!” the assembled girls exclaimed in chorus.

Katya, however, did not share their enthusiasm. The clips painfully pinched those most sensitive spots like vicious predatory insects.

“Fuck!!” she gasped, as she desperately tried to take them off.

“Katiina, hurry up!” came the voice of Kamal Dalali.

“Go fuck yourself!” she blessed him in Bulgarian.