Alek Popov - Mission London

Her skinny neck was armoured with several rows of pearls.

“Come along!” he put an arm around her waist and towed her away.

Two students rushed to show them to their seats. Pezantova waited for them to be out of earshot and remarked spitefully, “Sponsors, what can you do!?”

How had such a man become so wealthy? In Socialist times, he had just happened to be in charge of a large manufacturing company. When after the fall of the old regime, the Privatization Agency offered the company up, all its records mysteriously disappeared, leaving him as the only shareholder, managing director and president. On the few occasions that he talked of the matter, Halvadjiev liked to use phrases such as: ‘saved from bankruptcy’ or ‘protected from dissolution’. The rumours back in Bulgaria tended to disagree, often vehemently, with his terminology. As a result he tended to sponsor events, especially when members of the government were involved. His buying of indulgences continued, full steam ahead.

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.”