Alek Popov - Mission London

“Aah, you’re just afraid of getting fat. I know you,” he said pointedly.

“Fuck you!”

“You’ll never get fat,” he said with certain note of disappointment in his voice. “The duck’s good, look how that Baroness is stuffing her face! She is not afraid of getting fat!”

“Because she is a Baroness, you wood-head!”

When she heard her title, Baroness Remoulade raised her head and smiled importantly. For the entire evening, she stuck strictly to Barry Longfellow’s instructions and avoided opening her mouth with the exception of certain occasions when she stuffed something tasty into it. Only the Bishop of Neverbury had spoilt the good overall impression. He had Barry throwing lightning glances across the room.

“What a funny Holy Father!” thought Halvadjiev feeling some obscure disquiet, whilst watching the Bishop flirting with Yvonne.

At this moment, Sir De Fazaposte decided to pay a visit to the facilities again. For the third time! This was an operation involving quite a lot of effort, because said facilities were downstairs on the ground floor. Four students lifted the wheelchair and started trundling it down the stairs, huffing and puffing, lots of swearwords hidden behind their silent red faces. This time the self-sacrificing Lady De Viyent showed a surprising coldheartedness. “Aaah, no! That is enough!” she hissed maliciously. “I want to see the next performance. You take care of yourself this time, you clown!”

Sir De Fazaposte, however, could not take care of himself, which led to a lot of additional complications. Samuel Fogg was really having fun.

In the meantime the light in the hall darkened and the table music faded away. More musicians appeared, a big drummer with waxed moustaches amongst them. In the space between the tables, adapted as a stage, some strange woman looking like a Delphic Sybil appeared, “Your Majesty! Ladies and Gentlemen! It gives you great pleasure for me to announce the next performance. It is an ancient ritual, called Molitva za Dusht or Prayer for Rain. This ritual originates the village Kundurli in the South-Eastern part of Bulgaria, and is brought to stage by our famous actress, Larissa Mundeva.”

She paused, then started again in a heart-stopping tone, “It is summer, over the drought-filled Thracian plains, and not a single cloud is being. Inside dry and stony sharp riverbeds only snakes and lizards crawling. Worried peasants round their dry lands walking. Even birds are silent singing! Then the wise village men gathering and deciding to turn to old half-forgotten rituals, from their ancestors inheriting, and to the forces of Nature praying. The most beautiful maiden of the village goes to dancing near the river: it is the ritual dancing for the rain summoning.”

Her last words faded into the sound of the drum.

A skinny bare-foot girl, dressed in a long white robe, flew onto the stage. Brandishing some non-descript hide stretched across an ancient-looking frame, she threw herself into a threateningly frenzied dance around the tables. ‘Bang-bang-bang!’ thundered the drum, awakening pagan sensations in the souls of the people present. The flute trilled first, the bagpipe wailed next, than the rest of the instruments entered. The guests stopped eating, in their eyes little flames started to sparkle and soon after that they all, one after the other, started nodding their heads in time to the beat: bang, bang, bang.

“The call of the wild,” whispered Mrs Cunningham with respect.

From time to time the girl raised her eyes to look at the ceiling and screamed, “Uuuuh! Uuuuh!” imitating a childbirth push.

An atavistic urge made Mr Halvadjiev put his hand on Yvonne’s knee. (My little Yvonne!) Than he shot her a glance out of the corner of his eye, but his action had no visible effect on her. His hand crawled up to the garter of her stocking, swiftly continued over her inner tight and suddenly froze. ‘Bang, bang, bang!’ continued the drum. Yvonne’s face remained still.

The other hand had obviously been there long before his. It was warm and relaxed, soaked in oblivion and pleasure. He squeezed it firmly, before it could escape.

“Yvonne, why are you playing dead?” he whispered in his lowest voice.

She did not react. But the Bishop turned his face in horror. It was the face of a tortured martyr. Halvadjiev had an iron grip. His knuckles cracked and there was no joy in his eyes. What is the world coming to? the big man asked himself bitterly.

“Uuuuh!Uuuuh!” huffed the girl, waving the frame and summoning the elements.

“Aaah!Aaaah!” The Bishop of Neverbury answered and sweat began to stand out on his forehead.

Yvonne, still unmoved by the dramatic action between her legs, dipped her spoon into the dessert.

Outside, important decisions had to be taken.

“The Fire Lady — how does that sound?” asked the artist.

“Good,” nodded Turkeiev. “Why not?”

“So, when I say in the end, ‘Here comes the Fire Lady!’ you light the fuses, understood?” said Spass Nemirov.

“OK, no problem,” the intern agreed. He was moved by any close encounter with Modern Art and took his task very seriously.

The Fire Dancer ran up the stairs and threw a last glance inspectinghis creation. On the marblefloor, exactly 253 metal cups were arranged, each one filled with different flammable liquids and wired up. An extensive imagination was needed to see the contours of a human face in this minefield, but the artist rubbed his hands together contentedly. The bird of luck had finally landed on his shoulder. He had been waiting for this moment for years: years of fire and loneliness, of non-recognition and ridicule. But now — an end to the humiliations! The Queen of England herself was going honour him with Her Royal attention. That could be the turning point of his career. If they liked the demonstration tonight, they could easily throw more orders for new fire performances at him. They would start inviting him to their castles. He licked his dry lips. There was no way they would not like it. He had given everything from himself for this forthcoming illumination. He had calculated everything; he had been experimenting tirelessly for weeks. It was going to be a masterpiece!

“Are you ready Turkeiev!” shouted Spass Nemirov.

The intern sparked his lighter instead of replying.

From the side door the diplomats appeared, well fed and merry. The general accompanied them to the doorstep. Suddenly a worried look appeared on his face. “What are those explosives doing here?” his voice echoed.

“Easy, Sir!” called the Fire Dancer. “The situation is under control.”

“Pyrotechnics!” Turkeiev added with a happy face.

“What pyrotechnics? Does the Ambassador know about this?” the General’s worried eyes were following the wiring across all the metal cups filled with suspicious powder.

“Those are his personal orders,” replied the artist looking down at him.

The three diplomats walked round the installation carefully, tutting. The general continued to stand on the doorstep. He did not like this, at all! He had started his career in the engineering corps of the army and although he had not practiced his speciality for years, he felt now personally disappointed at being left aside. How can he authorise sappers’ activity here without a consultation with a specialist? he thought with indignation.

“Turkeiev!” hissed the military man. “Give me that lighter!”

The intern became confused.

“You stay where you are!” the artist threatened him with his finger.

“Don’t even think of lighting this up!”

“Don’t you dare to screw this up!”

At that moment they all heard the opening of the doors and the guests starting to come out of the hall.