Alek Popov - Mission London

“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!

“What’s wrong with you, Mitche?!” called a frightened voice.

The back door opened. Miladin stepped on the brakes. A tragic wail followed, together with the expulsion of a huge volume of liquid.

“My God!!!” shouted Pezantova, covering her face in horror.

From the neighbouring cars surprised faces emerged. The door slammed and Mitche (there was no way of forgetting her name now!) slumped back into her seat, wiping her chin with a handkerchief. Her not particularly intelligent plump face trembled in horror.

“I feel awful.” she spluttered from the back of her throat.

Devorina Pezantova’s lips compressed into a thin line. Varadin opened the window a little. The rest of the journey passed in heavy silence.

“Is that the artist?” asked Turkeiev, peering through the window of the duty-room.

The receptionist nodded. Turkeiev sighed. He had been punished by being left behind at the Embassy whilst the others went to the airport to meet Mrs Pezantova. After the cock-up with the WC, the Ambassador had taken a final decision to keep the intern as far away as possible from all official events. In fact, Turkeiev was not all that upset; the incident had taught him that the less attention he drew to himself the less he risked his hide.

The fire-dancer sat carelessly in the foyer of the Embassy, looking like an Indian warrior waiting for a sign from the spirits of fate. He had shoulder-length, thick, straight hair. His face was swarthy and angular, with thick, bushy brows. He was wearing a black leather jacket and thigh-length, red cowboy boots. On the table nearby lay his wallet, tucked into a big leather album.

He was used to waiting. They would not scare him by making him wait. In the years he had been in London, he had crossed the threshold of many offices, both big and small. His backside had become as hard as the soles of a Dobrudjan peasant. Usually they listened to him, politely took his card and never called. But there were exceptions, which made it worth continuing. His art needed sponsors and social gatherings. He believed that one fine day his project would be approved and then he would wow the world. He dreamed of being Christo. Just like all the rest.

It was not clear how exactly Mrs Pezantova had come by his coordinates — who had recommended him, and why. Only the man himself did not wonder about this — as far as he was concerned, it was entirely natural that people would know about him.

“You’re Spass Nemirov, right?” said Turkeiev politely, and introduced himself.

The artist looked sceptically at his freshly shaven, welcoming face. “I have an appointment with Mr Varadin Dimitrov,” he murmured.

“He’s at the airport,” said Turkeiev. “But I am at your disposal, should you need anything. I understand that you will be a part of Mrs Pezantova’s concert.”

“Yes, I’ve been invited,” the artist nodded self-importantly.

“What will you be exhibiting?” asked the intern.

“Well, an installation.” There was a noticeable softness in Spass’s way of speaking.

“An installation?!” Turkeiev twitched; he had become somewhat wary of such things of late.

“Yep. Shall I show you some of my work?” he said, quickly opening the album.

Strange faces, people, animals and occult symbols stared out from the pages of the album, somehow reminiscent of Nascar drawings. Their contours were outlined in fire. To achieve that effect, Maestro Spass used a variety of flammable and inflammable materials: from the simplest candles and ropes soaked in petrol, to high-tech products such as napalm, thermite, sulphur-carbon derivatives or white phosphorus. Turkeiev knew nothing about chemistry and was deeply impressed. In spite of this, his basic instinct told him that these things were not without danger.

“I haven’t had a single accident so far!” protested the artist energetically.

“And you’re certain that the area is big enough?” asked the intern carefully. “Your works are quite sizeable.”

“That’s right,” agreed the other happily, “especially this one!” He quickly leafed through the pictures and stopped, his finger pointing to a picture of a large blaze on a beach.

“What’s that?” jumped Turkeiev.

“It’s called the Night of Neptune. Napalm on sand. Can you see the trident?”

The intern nodded in silence.

“I created it last summer when I was in Bulgaria, on the Arapia beach,” added the artist proudly. “It burned all night. They wrote about it in all the papers. I wanted to make a copy here in Brighton, but they wouldn’t allow it. Various eco-groups protested against it, as usual! And napalm is expensive! Over here I mainly use candles.” Spass suddenly became more talkative, “They’re more economical and they don’t leave such a mess. This is one I did last month in Covent Garden. With the Local Council’s permission. See — it was even in the Times!”

He extracted a sheet of paper, with a photocopy of the newspaper on it. It consisted of a picture and text: ‘Fire-dancer — The Bulgarian artist Spass Nemirov offers tourists an unusual attraction.’

“Wonderful!” Turkeiev nodded in approval.

“Sooner or later recognition comes.”

“And what are you thinking of putting on here?” asked the intern politely.

“I know that space is limited,” said the fire-dancer. “That’s why I’ve prepared something a little more delicate for you.”

He put his battered cardboard suitcase on the table and opened its lid as though it was Pandora’s Box itself.

“Well?” he raised his eyebrows as he gave Turkeiev a piece of card.

“But that’s Princess Diana!” exclaimed the intern as he stared at the rough sketch.

“In pink flames,” said Spass dreamily. “Just think of it…”

“Mmmmmm,” mooed Turkeiev, scratching his ear.

“I’m thinking of using a new technique.” The artist was inspired. “Magnesium oxide. They have it in Chinese shops but it’s a bit expensive. You’ll need to give me quite a bit of money.”

Just then the door opened and Varadin himself appeared in the foyer. He threw a vague glance in the direction of the two men sat around the table and continued to drift further into the Embassy.

“Mr Ambassador!” He was stopped by the hated voice of Turkeiev.

He had difficulties understanding what exactly what was going on at first. Who was this accursed artist and where in hell had he come from? Obviously the heavy smell of fish had damaged various important brain-centres. Slowly, along with the fresh air, his senses returned. He snatched the album, looked over the sketch of the Princess and nodded. “Interesting.”

The aesthetic side of the whole thing was of little interest to him. If Mrs Pezantova said it was interesting, that was good enough for him. The sum in question caused a small tic in his right temple, but he tamed it easily. It was not going to break the bank. He ordered the intern to fill out the necessary invoices and take it out of the Petty Cash.