Alek Popov - Mission London

There was a short silence. Ziebling started clapping and all the others followed him. Yes shouted Pezantova in her mind I knew they would be pleased! A professional literary sycophant, who had been taken on by her husband directly from the school of the previous communist leaders, had written her speech. He was good, one had to admit.

“Now I am sure you will join me in the pleasure of welcoming Her Majesty, Elizabeth II,” announced Pezantova ceremoniously.

“Thank you,” nodded Queen Cunningham in a business-like manner. “The cause of the brown bears has always been close to our heart. That is the reason we think that the present initiative represents a valuable contribution to ecological balance of the continent of Europe.”

A shadow of doubt crossed Devorina’s face.

“What the Hell is she is on about!” hissed Varadin in Ziebling’s ear, “The concert is to raise money for the orphans. It’s written on the invitations!”

“What’s the difference?” whispered the other. “They are all endangered species, aren’t they?”

Behind the mask of not giving a damn, a brutal flow of obscenity filled his mind, that fuck-wit Munroe! How could he screw everything up like that! I will dock his bloody wages!

“The brown bears are our friends,” ended Queen Cunningham importantly. “Respectively, the friends of the brown bears are also our friends.”

She raised her glass, “To the health of all the bears in the world!”

“Fuck you Munroe!” Ziebling sighed. Frenetic applauses echoed.

“You’ll pay me for this!” hissed the Ambassador.

“It’s only human to make mistakes!” Ziebling shrugged.

“What is the big deal,” thought Mrs Pezantova whilst applauding the Queen’s speech. With all those engagements one must get mixed up. She knew it from experience. The words are ephemeral, the facts remain. The main thing is, she is sitting here, at this very table.

The concert opened with the song from the folk singer, Radka Madjurova. The starter was served: chicken livers with a salad of fresh radishes à la Pastricheff.

“Mmm, delicious!” exclaimed Mrs Cunningham, but her compliment remained unheard.

Radka Madjurova was a natural phenomenon, examined many times by physicists. Her voice had a huge drilling power. In order to demonstrate this undeniable fact, a little demonstration was arranged in front of the public. They placed a crystal glass at a metre’s distance in front of the singer’s mouth, which the singer shattered with several vibratos. Pezantova threw a quick glance at the horrified Queen as though to demand, Do you have such wonders?

The intense frequency of her voice managed to disturb some device in the duty room and it started squeaking. The general stood up and switched off.

“What on earth is going on in there?” he mumbled.

“They are having fun,” said Danailov in a bitter voice, whilst chewing a piece of crispy duck skin.

The defence attaché was on duty. He was casually dressed in his tracksuit-bottoms and trainers and feeling far more comfortable than the diplomats, who had been mobilised to fulfil porter’s duties. On top of that, he was well provided for the evening: in a strange surge of remarkable generosity and solidarity they had sent him a huge tray, overflowing with dark duck meat and banitsa. He had added to these two bottles of red from Assenovgrad and six cans of Becks. The general was not stingy and he could not manage such a quantity on his own, so he had invited his dejected colleagues to share it with him. The men sat around the low table, stuffing their faces with pieces of meat and drank in a mood that could best be described as ‘pissed off with life’. From time to time they threw a distracted glance at the television. At around 8pm Turkeiev and the artist appeared, carrying various flammable materials, and started preparing the foyer for the forthcoming pyrotechnics.

“Look, they are showing the Queen!” exclaimed counsellor Mavrodiev.

The others automatically turned their heads to the screen. BBC1 was showing a report of the Queen’s visit to Matrongo. This afternoon Her Majesty Elizabeth II had a meeting with President Dr Michael Sesseto Loko. The visit coincides with the third year celebrations of the first democratic elections in the former British colony. Tomorrow the Queen will be visiting the National park ‘Tete’ and will have talks with the Head of the Matrongan Anglican Church, Bishop Brian Mega-to-Longo. Next to Queen a tall black man walked importantly, dressed in a traditional handmade golden robe; in the background palm-trees, barefoot children and military men in their parade uniforms could be seen.

“Well, well!” the general opened his eyes wide. “Isn’t she here, the Queen?”

Nobody said anything; the television was spewing forth data about the economic development of Matrongo over the last decade, which was not very joyful despite the successes of the democracy.

“Come on, why you are all pretending you don’t know!” said Danailov suddenly. “She has her own double, that woman! Like Brezhnev and Yeltsin. They all had their doubles, even our old president, Todor Zhivkov. She’s not that stupid, you know!”

“So you think that’s a double?” Mavrodiev pointed to the screen unconvinced.

“And what the hell do you think it is?” exploded Danailov, who was a fervent supporter of conspiracy theory. “Do you actually think that they are going to send the real Queen to meet some African? Don’t be ridiculous! Why do you think she arrived here incognito without her carriage or any of her official entourage? Why won’t they allow any pictures? Because she is officially in Matrongo. If you phone the Palace now and ask them, where the Queen is, the last thing that they are going to tell you is that she is here. They will laugh at you if you confront them!”

“But they are in the shit now because we saw her!” said the general cunningly.

“Like they give a damn!” Danailov waved disparagingly.

He looked at the tray and frowned; the meat had disappeared.

“What about Clinton when he visited Bulgaria,” asked Kishev with a guilty expression on his face, whilst cleaning his greasy fingers. “Was that him?”

“Are you nuts?” nodded Danailov. “At that time they wouldn’t have let him out of the States at all, because of the Lewinski trial.”

An uneasy silence followed.

“Are we gonna watch Leeds-Manchester?” the general prompted cleverly, giving them all a way out.

They all nodded with relief.

Back upstairs, the main course was accompanied by a little musical performance. A pleasant duet, flute and guitar, with its fourteenth century troubadour motifs provided the accompaniment to the prosaic clicking and clacking of cutlery.

“I want to assure you, my dear, that you have an excellent cook!” whispered Queen Cunningham to Pezantova, “The duck is simply delicious!”

Pezantova blushed with pleasure and threw Varadin a glance full of gratitude. She had tasted almost nothing herself. Her senses had gone numb because of the nervous pressure; she had the feeling she was chewing a piece of cardboard. She had no need of this rough material substance, called food! She was more than content with simply absorbing the aristocratic vibrations, which filled the atmosphere of the hall. Varadin, on the other hand, was swallowing her vibrations and his stomach felt full. That was not true of Ziebling though, or of the other guests. Who had said that exquisite people eat very little?

On the other table, Mr Halvadjiev was having an argument in Bulgarian with his wife, “Yvonne, stop playing with your food and eat it!”

“I swallowed something nasty, some little bone, there might be more,” she said staring at the plate and not looking up.