Alek Popov - Mission London

“Lights!” shouted Spass Nemirov dramatically.

Danailov helpfully turned the light switch behind his back and the big chandelier darkened. Soon afterwards, the big staircase was packed with people. In front of everybody Mrs Pezantova and Queen Cunningham importantly stepped out, accompanied by Varadin and Ziebling. Behind them the pale face of the Bishop could be seen, while Sir De Fazaposte was still swaying his body in his wheelchair like a Chinese mandarin.

“Lovely evening!” noted Ziebling casually.

“Hum,” muttered the Ambassador and said to himself, When things go too well it’s not for the best.

The Fire Dancer greatly appreciated the iconic system of the Wild West. Especially for this occasion he had chosen the best from his wardrobe: a new denim shirt with all sorts of picturesque labels on the pockets and the collar, all in Willy Nelson’s style, together with his usual leather trousers and reddish cowboy boots. At his waist a vast buckle sparkled.

The artist waited for the audience to gather, silently standing up in the middle of the foyer with his long hair loose and face down like a shaman reaching into the depths of his soul. He was concentrating on words he had to say in English. Damn words! He was afraid they would run away at the last minute, even though he had spent all morning memorising his speech. Languages were not his strong point. How was the beginning, Respectable guests? damn it! The drummer appeared in the upper part of the stairs and started banging invitingly.

Respectable guests, dear Queen? No, no you couldn’t say it like that! But how? In a minute you will witness a unique demonstration conceived in the womb of the most primary element — fire! But how to say all that in English? Fuck my head! How did I end up with all this? I am an artist, not an orator, he concluded in the end. Let my work speak instead of me!

The Fire Dancer raised his head and announced clearly, “Here, The Fire Lady comes!”

Everybody felt sudden strange cold wrapping their senses as they were awaiting the Second Coming. The intern, who did not expect such a sudden beginning, feverishly started looking for the lighter in his pockets. The Fire Dancer strained his ears to hear the familiar hissing of the fuses but nothing of the sort followed.

“Here comes the Fire Lady!” he repeated suggestively.

At that very moment Turkeiev produced the sacred spark. The general instinctively stepped back, closed the door behind his back and ran to the duty room.

The fire spread up to the fuses with its small sparkling flames, hissing maliciously. Then they suddenly disappeared and above the cups thin lines of smoke started to swirl. The smell of sulphur swam in the air. The faces of the guests strained. Varadin and Pezantova exchanged concerned looks. She decided to say something but the words stuck to her mouth like flakes of dry skin on chapped lips. She started chewing her lips. Suddenly a shower of red sparks flew up to the ceiling. The real illumination followed. Within the flames the contours of a human face emerged, which were immediately swallowed by the smoke. The sensors of the smoke alarm reacted instantly. The shrieking of the alarm brought people out of their stupefaction. Confusion reigned. Water poured from the sprinkler system.

“As though Hell opened its gates,” remembered old Mrs Cunningham till the end of her life and particularly in her last days, when a devoted priest was coming to give her soul consolation. “Yes, I saw Hell. I know what awaits me, because of my way of life, because I dared to imitate Her Majesty. (Pause) When the flames exploded in front of us, the ugly face of a daemon appeared, calling out to us from Purgatory. And the most sinister thing was that he had the features of the late Princess Diana. Good Lord, I still see it in front of my eyes. In the place of his eyes he had blue flames. Suddenly from his mouth a purple tongue appeared and licked the chandelier. Then a thick, acrid smoke started spewing from his mouth. The smoke filled the whole foyer! From the ceiling water gushed like rivers, as though the Lord had heard the prayer for rain. Ziebling grabbed my hand and dragged me out. The car was waiting in front of the Embassy. We quickly got inside and drove away. I stopped playing the queen after that incident. I got frightened. I feel the beast near me waiting for me to close my eyes for the last time. What is going to happen to me, Father?”

“But where is everyone?” shouted Pezantova in her screechy voice, as she was looking around with her eyes full of tears. “Your Majesty!!!”

The éclair-hat was as wet as a sponge. A thick, yellowish smoke was still spreading low above the floor level. From the ceiling the sprinklers were still spraying water. Varadin was coughing into his fist. He was trying desperately to hide the malicious satisfaction burning deep inside his soul, Now You are responsible for the whole mess, you stupid cow!

The Fire Dancer had disappeared like a spirit from the prairies. The intern Turkeiev was touching his singed eyebrows stupidly. Devorina Pezantova hurried over to him and grabbed him by his collar, “You! You pathetic little worm, you’re going to pay me for this!”

“Mitche fainted!” came Veronika’s crying voice from the other end, but nobody paid any attention to it.

Mavrodiev and Danailov were running around as though drugged in the foyer, stumbling carelessly over the metal cups. Kishev was crawling to go to the toilet, fumbling in the dark, and groaning helplessly, “My eyes! I can’t see…”

“Where is my dog?” exclaimed the artistic director worriedly, after the last patches of smoke cleared away from his stand.

The place of the little sculpture was empty. His glance landed on the Queen’s white shoes and did not move from them from a long time. ‘Where the hell did those stupid shoes come from?’ he desperately tried to remember. Then he looked at the sculpture’s place, left empty. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Thieves, everywhere! Then he looked at the shoes again and an acute social protest filled his heart, They didn’t even pay for their shoes! Damn it!

Suddenly he realised that he was not the only one looking at the royal shoes. Mr Halvadjiev had his little eyes on these grand royal objects, too.

“Give them to me!” he hissed.

His face was covered with small sweaty drops. Yvonne was coughing and sniffling next to him, her nose was bleeding.

“E-e-e-r!” the director instinctively pulled the shoes to his chest.

“I’ll give you twenty quid,” said Halvadjiev and his eyes narrowed. Those are royal shoes, one day they will cost millions… his mind had become a calculator.

“Weeeell,” the director scratched his head. “Those are Royal shoes…..”

“Fifty quid!” Halvadjiev interrupted him.

Wow said the director to himself. You’ll not getting them for less than 200!

A wailing noise filled the street outside. Three fire engines with flashing lights stopped in front of the Embassy, which was still shrouded in smoke. Who had called the fire station, nobody knew. The general persistently denied being the one, despite the fact that all the evidence was pointing to the duty room. Despite the late hour, some people came out of the hotel to watch the action.

“Two hundred and not a penny more!” groaned Halvadjiev, his face getting red.

“They are yours,” the director looked around and stuffed the shoes into a plastic bag with a Bulgarian advert on it. Halvadjiev’s wallet looked like a Christmas piglet.

“Come on Yvonne!” he said and counted ten brand new twenty notes.

The foyer was filled with men in helmets and gasmasks. Pezantova sat on a chair, weeping, her feet trailing in the pool of water that had replaced the usual floor. Nearby a man in yellow protective overalls was speaking some incomprehensible words though his mask. Two others were rescuing Mitche. Varadin was dealing with some enthusiast with a hose, who was insisting on going inside the building.