Alek Popov - Mission London

“We’ll refund the price of the tickets,” said the Ambassador gloomily. “I won’t let you make fools of us.”

“Just don’t kill yourself!” Ziebling interrupted. “I am worried about you, you know? Where on earth are you going to find other guests?” He looked at his watch. “You’ve only got three hours till the concert. I suspect certain people will be unimpressed if the whole room is empty. Especially if they find out why. Where does the buck stop? You can’t pass the buck to the small fry. Think of your career!”

Varadin looked at him blankly. What did it matter now? His career was already up the creek. And not a paddle in sight.

“No, nothing is lost, Sir!” shouted Ziebling, as though reading his mind. “You mustn’t give up hope. After making one mistake, don’t make a second. Let us put on our little show and everything will be all right. They are absolute professionals, especially our Queen. Children have often stopped her in the park to ask her, ‘Excuse me, are you Queen Elisabeth II?’ You know? And the costumes are simply to die for.”

“Are telling me I should try to fool them?”

“I’m offering a way out,” Ziebling lowered his voice. “The only one for a man in your position! I’ll save you and you simply keep to your contract. There won’t be any scandals. Nothing will reach the press. Someone will believe that they’ve dined with Her Majesty and will be happy. You’ll be the hero. And if you want the princess later, you just give me a call. You are quite taken with her, aren’t you? We have large discounts for our regular clients.”

He had gradually moved closer to Varadin, blocking the faint afternoon light from the window. Suddenly, his figure loomed large and its huge shadow fell across the mass of his desk. His lips were almost kissing his ear, as though they were trying to suck the remains of brain out. Terrible warmth encircled his body.

“You’re the Devil himself!” hissed Varadin.

At exactly 6.45pm, a pink hat, shaped like a gigantic éclair, passed triumphantly through the Embassy’s official entrance. Behind it stepped a neurotic Varadin and the two ladies-in-waiting. The foyer shone as if freshly licked. The crystal chandelier sparkled festively. At the threshold, they were greeted greasily by Mr Kishev. Another two diplomats hovered nearby, looking like coppers. None of them had been honoured with a place at the Concert. Their task consisted of guarding the front-line of the gathering. The technical staff had been pulled back far into the reserve, owing to ‘technical incompatibility’.

Devorina Pezantova did not deign to notice the diplomat; she swirled out of her fur cape and deposited it on his arm, as though he were some strange mobile coat rack. Her dress was a sequined nightmare, which instantly caught the light and shone like a garish Christmas display. She was wearing a wide blue band with a medallion at the lower end over one shoulder — a trophy from a visit to some faraway country. She thought that that particular decoration made her look grand, and never passed up an occasion to wear it, especially if said occasion came under the heading ‘ceremonial’.

The giant éclair made its way to the main staircase, followed by its entourage. They slowly ascended the stairs, like people making their way to Heaven. The red carpet smelled freshly of lilac. The doors to the reception room had been opened wide; between the tables smartly dressed students hovered, wearing white gloves that had been bought especially for the occasion. An approving smile appeared on Devorina’s lips. Then disappeared, far faster.

“What is that stall doing there?” She demanded peevishly.

Her gaze had fallen on a small table to the left of the door. Varadin shrugged. The table was covered with an assortment of articles, each with its own little price tag. He had no idea where the cursed little stand had come from. Only an hour before, when he last did a round to check up on things, it had been nowhere to be seen. The goods gave the general impression of souvenirs everywhere: a catalogue of icons printed way back in 1971 (£7), a pile of CD’s of folk songs (£5 each), a few pairs of knitted woollen socks (£5), decorative folk-slippers (£15), towels with folk motifs (£6), plaited straw bag (£10), as well as other odds and ends amongst which the little bronze dog frolicked, its collar showing the respectable sum of £150.

The shady artistic director slid out of the corridor leading to the service area. His long hair was tied back into a ponytail. He was wearing a black, woollen suit and a loose-fitting collarless shirt, which made him look a little like a vicar.

“Did you put this here?” the disapproving voice of Mrs Pezantova greeted his arrival.

“Umm, well, the artists asked me to,” he mumbled, looking guiltily at the traditional wooden horse-comb in his hands (£4).

“I don’t like it at all, remove it at once!”

The artistic director did not move, however. So timid on an institutional level, he was ready to risk his life for his interests on a domestic level. Mrs Pezantova was not in the habit of paying her artists. Her speciality was spiritual reward. He knew that if no one bought the little dog, he would be going home empty-handed. And the winter heating bills required more than spiritual well-being.

“Can you put those tapes as well,” a melodic voice sang. “They are left over from our Argentinean trip.”

The voice belonged to one of the singers. She appeared like ghost from the dark corridor, her heavily decorated costume chiming. Her thickly made-up face had playful dimples.

“We were waiting for you, Mrs Pezantova,” she said casually. “You don’t disapprove of our little display, do you? People like our things, and a few levs on the side will do us good.”

At that particular moment a diplomat ran up the stairs and waved his hands, “They’re coming” he shouted and ran back.

“Fingers crossed!” exclaimed the singer and disappeared into the dark corridor once more, where the make-up rooms had been improvised.

The artistic director looked all business-like. Pezantova looked at Varadin, who merely raised his eyebrows in philosophical resignation. The others rushed to disappear into the background.

A mysterious silence fell. “It’s starting,” said Varadin, his stomach in knots. The hard stitches of his tailcoats were digging into his armpits; that halfwit Miladin had obviously got the wrong size. How could he possibly have sent him to hire his outfit! Underneath the hat’s brim, Pezantova’s eyes were almost popping out of their sockets in anticipation. With a little more luck we might be able to pass off a pig’s ear!

“Why is nobody coming?” mumbled Pezantova staring at the empty staircase.

“Here they come!” exclaimed Mitche behind her.

A lone couple made their way across the red carpet.

The man was well built, with an equally well-built gut and a goatee, which made him look older than he was. He was dressed all in black and to judge from his tie and the handkerchief in his breast pocket, he liked to stare at the window displays on Oxford Street. Next to him a strange ostrich-like creature minced, with feathers to match.

“The Halvadjievs!” hissed Pezantova through her teeth. “For once they’re not late!”

When the duo reached the landing, however, her face was all sweetness and light. “How nice to see you!” she smiled.

“Thank you for the invitation!” neighed the big man shaking hands with them both. Then he turned to his better half and said, “Yvonne, let me introduce Mrs Pezantova! And this is Yvonne.” He added with no little pride.

“I am so glad!” the creature smiled. “Brilliant party!”