Alek Popov - Mission London

“Bitch!!!” Varadin repeated helplessly.

Hearty laughter gushed from the other end of the line. “You woke me up nicely; Ciao for now!”

The line went dead. Varadin shook the phone as though he wanted to shake all the negative energy out of it, then put down the receiver. First privatized Embassy was what percolated through his mind. But all he could vocalise was the number 100.

“100!-100!-100!”

Doctor Pepolen did not allow for numbers outside the framework of 1 to 100 — that was the iron rule. However, there existed no categorical statement that numbers could not be repeated, and thus Varadin often bent the rule by pouring out his spiritual turmoil in small packages of 100, fired off like a machine-gun, until he emptied the well of his anxiety. Dr Pepolen was unaware of this little innovation, otherwise he might have banned it.

For the opening of the European Conference, a huge heap of Bulgarian Cabinet members fell on London, headed by the Prime Minister himself. The local press was extremely sceptical about this gathering; there was even a note of cynicism, but for the transition-tormented governments from Eastern Europe, it was manna from heaven, an overwhelming prelude to their eventual membership of the club of prosperous Western cousins.

Throughout these three days that were filled with general commotion, long speeches, exultation and not very well hidden disappointment, Varadin struggled merely to survive. The reality of the situation blurred before his eyes, like the countryside outside the window of a speeding train; he saw clearly only the obstacles, hazards and pit-falls that he had to avoid. His immediate proximity to the Premier horrified him. That strict and powerful politician, who had swum out of Post-Communism’s primordial soup, looked to be the sort of man who breakfasted every morning on bureaucratic destinies, cooked al dente with garlic and horseradish sauce. Varadin had cause to believe (he had half-heard it from somewhere) that this man was far from happy about his ambassadorial nomination, and so Varadin was quaking lest something happen that might confirm the Premier’s suspicions. On the other hand, like all true careerists, he felt a pathological attraction to people in positions of power, and threw himself ferociously towards them, taking on all the risks that came with such dangerous proximity. For the moment, however, he had to be careful not to be dazzled by the Premier’s aura, which would, without doubt, attract the hatred of the other two ministers, who could easily harm him. He also strained to keep an eye on his staff, who circled like hyenas around those currently in power, and were only waiting for the right moment to discredit him. The task was daunting.

The Conference was being held in Lancaster House — the most imposing element of the St James’ Palace complex. The place was breath-taking in its lavish splendour, but contributed nothing to the spiritual comfort of the Eastern European government representatives. Beneath the heavy gilded ceilings hovered feelings of both victory and defeat. Victory, they had all tasted; whereas defeat was something no-one was suffering from, visibly at least. But if the victory was for all, then why were all of its fruits gathered on one side, leaving only the stalks on the other? This new division of the old continent was what the leaders of the new democracies strove to understand and internally complained about. Even between themselves, however, there remained too little brotherly love. The simple and obvious fact that they were so similar that they could see themselves reflected in each other, infuriated them. They preferred to see themselves reflected in their rich Western relatives with their aristocratic habits and noble manners. They were envious and suspicious of one another, inclined to take the advancement of their neighbour as their own personal failure. They scrambled desperately to get out of the communal manure, without looking where they trod. The big competition for Europe had begun. The favoured countries celebrated the fact that they had come out a whisker ahead of their former allies, but their joy was overshadowed by the knowledge that between themselves and the developed European countries there lay many miles yet. The remainder, which included Varadin’s fatherland, were happy that they had so much as made it into the competition at all. They did not put much effort into drawing level with the West, because an old adage, from some unknown Balkan sage, lived on in their subconscious: Even sprinting, we aren’t going to catch them. Their pride thrived on the fact that there were even worse cases, such as Moldova or Yugoslavia. These had not so much as found a seat at the negotiating table.

The western diplomats looked with reluctance at this cloudy cocktail of vodka, palinka and rakia, which they were being forced to swallow. At the end of the day, what they would like to do was to tip it under the table, without anyone noticing. But they could not — everyone’s gaze was fixed on them — and any false move might bring with it unforeseen repercussions. It was unavoidable!

For Varadin, the Conference was an excuse to make official contacts at every possible level: from foreign Ambassadors and high-level employees of the Foreign Office, to Foreign Ministers and Heads of State. He did not allow himself to be carried away by the fact that he performed all this communication with ease. He stayed alert, trying to analyse the possibilities that each new contact opened for him. But he always remained disappointed with the low horizon and narrow perspective of their potential development. The infertility of those ephemeral introductions now seemed like the spark of an empty lighter. They lacked the depth and the resources to be worthwhile contacts. Their names slipped out of his mind as easily as their visiting-cards into his pocket. Conversing with these people required no more than three hundred words, and for the first time in his career, he came to realise that a well trained imbecile could quite easily carry out this function! And perhaps he was precisely that imbecile.

He lifted his anxious gaze towards the Premier. What if he had heard his thoughts? People with power usually possessed a well-developed intuition regarding their inferiors. For the time being, though, the entire attention of the Premier was focused on the President of the European Commission’s speech. The little headset running the simultaneous translation was buzzing persistently in his ear, but did he hear a word of what was said? It was impossible to tell. For the last few years, Varadin had been observing the people at the head of the government closely, and had caught on to the processes they underwent internally, almost without exception. Power sucked them from the inside: like shrimps, their faces tightened onto their skulls, their eyes became round and bulged, ready to jump out of their sockets like bullets. Their senses also changed: the old ones atrophied, and in their place new ones developed, akin to those of lizards or insects. First they lost their ability to listen, as though they no longer grasped the meaning of words, and then they stopped seeing — they looked through people as though they were made of glass. They trusted only in the vibrations they gave off in all directions to gain information about the world around them.

The vibrations of power were universal and had no need of an interpreter; they warily scanned every body they met: they examined it for form and consistency, they checked its durability and colour, they searched for irregularities and cracks, and they gauged the strength of its vibrations, if it had any. Then they reported back. The bodies were either animate or inanimate. The animate ones were divided into subdued and non-subdued. The non-subdued were subdivided into hostile and neutral. The hostile were subdivided into strong and weak.