Mission London

12

Varadin popped up into the Embassy just after nine. He had met Kosta in the street, coming back from his night-shift, carrying a nylon bag in one hand and with an anxious sticky look on his face. This encounter curdled the Ambassador’s mood instantly; as if a bogie had unexpectedly dropped into his milk that morning. They greeted each other dryly.

Behind the reception window another low-spirited employee faced him; she was meditating over an old Bulgarian newspaper. He crossed the official entrance hall and tried to go through the door, which led to the Embassy interior. It turned out he had forgotten its security code. He tried in vain for several minutes. In the end, the Consul appeared and without any sign of noticing his troubles (although he was laughing inside!), carefully greeted him and keyed in the code. Varadin rushed to slip into the lift and pressed the button for the second floor. Leaving the lift, he looked to the right, where he had noticed a particularly dirty spot on the carpet the previous day, and noted with pleasure that it had been cleaned.

Tania Vandova was behind her desk, in the front office, feverishly sorting out the usual pile of correspondence that arrived every morning.

“Good morning,” she greeted him without interrupting her work.

He mumbled something incomprehensible and slammed the door behind him.

A short conversation on the phone followed, after which the accountant galloped in, carrying an armful of folders.

“Is the list of tenants ready?” he asked.

She nodded in confirmation and gave him the list. Varadin sighed heavily, like a man set the task of moving mountains.

The Embassy was overcrowded, although recently the personnel had been drastically cut, thanks to the permanent economic crisis. The clothes of the former dinosaur state were not the same size as those of its inheritor. Nature, however, did not leave empty spaces, and the living quarters were filled up to the last attic by suspicious subjects, apparently protected under the terms of ‘Balkan Common Law’. Varadin knew the delicacy of this problem, but he also knew that he had to clear them out one by one. Living space was a powerful tool in the hands of any ruler: one can manoeuvre and trade with it. This resource belonged to him by right and it was he, and only he, who should decide who was to occupy it.

“Why do all these people live here?”

“Weeell….” Bianca Mashinska drawled, while she grumbled to herself, why do you pretend you don’t know anything, you asshole? “It’s an inherited situation!” she spat out at last, happy to have found the exact formula.

“Mm-hmm, inherited situation!” It was disgusting. “But they cannot stay here anymore,” he added sharply.

“Of course, especially those who do not pay their rent. Like the Bobevs for example…”

“And why haven’t they already been evicted?!”

“Because they have filed a lawsuit. Rasho Bobev, the ex-attaché for trade and commerce, is suing the Ministry. He has filed for unlawful dismissal.”

“And so what?” Varadin exploded “He can go back to Sofia and sue them as much as he wants from there!”

“He does not want to go back. He says that he is waiting for the court’s decision. He hopes they are going to reinstate him.”

“As if they would reinstate him!” Varadin pursed his lips. “He calculated it quite well. Those court proceedings go on for months. Throw him out!”

Bianca Mashinska said nothing.

“What is the matter? Are there no police in this country?”

“But then the whole thing will blow up in our faces and that will hit our reputation again.”

“Yes, correct. That is not a good idea,” he sighed, massaging the base of his nose. The sort of idiocy he was forced to deal with! A feeling of rage overcame him, “Then think of something else,” he spat out with a hissing voice. “Cut his electricity. Stop his water. I want him out!”

“I’ll inform the housekeeper,” she nodded indifferently.

“Work on it!”

Very well, one by one he was going to take them out of the honey-pot like small, repugnant insects — with tweezers. This pretty vision made him grit his teeth with pleasure. He poured himself a glass of water and dropped one fizzy pill into it, which immediately coloured the liquid a poisonous yellow. He swallowed it and burped.

At that very instant one of the telephones on his desk started ringing furiously.

“Hellooo, is that you?” a capricious female voice sounded in his ear.

“It is me,” (without a drop of enthusiasm). “I am very pleased to hear your voice.”

“Don’t be so pleased!” she snarled. “I thought I could rely on you!”

“Of course you can!”

“I can’t, that is the problem. Why you are hiding it from me?”

“What am I hiding?” his adrenaline jumped.

“Are you kidding me? I know everything,” she shouted, then added, heartbroken, “a refusal has arrived!’

“My god, is that your worry?!” he exclaimed. “Don’t even think about it, the situation is under control.”

“Not to worry?!! I am furious! That snail, Kishev, it took him almost half a year!” she exploded. “You have to punish him!”

“I will punish him, of course!” he hurriedly agreed. “I’ll punish him good and proper.”

“Yes, but it is too late now. Who knows what kind of mess he’s caused,” she sighed. “He probably broke with the required etiquette on purpose to annoy her; to make her reject us forever. Saboteur! And you protect him!”

“I do not protect him!” he was indignant.

“I do not want to see his sorry face next time I come around, you hear me!”

“Well, his mandate is nearly over,” he cooed. “And he is not going to see a next one.”

“That is exactly what he deserves,” she grumbled. “And what are we going to do with this situation?”

“I was thinking of hiring a special agency for exactly this purpose.”

A suspicious crackling noise appeared in the line and he suddenly wondered if they were being tapped. They were not discussing something incredibly secret, but he felt really stupid.

“What agency?”

“Public relations.”

“Oooo!” a certain respect entered her voice, as though they were discussing the use of some exceedingly sophisticated domestic appliance.

“Tomorrow, I have an appointment with their director. They look kosher, but I cannot tell you more than that right now,” added Varadin cautiously.

The thought of the phone tap had upset him.

“When are they going to bring her out?” Her question caught him on the hop.

“She isn’t a cow!” his anger threatened all his safety valves.

“I don’t care!” she shouted. “In two months time she should be on line! You owe it to me, damn it!”

“I’ll do what I can,” he groaned, half-suffocated by resentment.

“That would be best for all concerned!”

The connection was cut.

“94!” he shouted pathetically.

For the next several seconds he stayed motionless. The internal telephone rang several times, but Varadin did not react. Somebody knocked on the door and Tania Vandova’s head appeared.

“Major Potty is waiting tobe received,” was her edgy explanation.

“48,” he said with a stony face. “Show him in.”

The lanky figure of the Major appeared behind the small body of the secretary.

“Seventy seven!” shouted Major Potty, entering into the room like a gale-force storm but with his hand stretched in front of him.

“What?” Varadin flinched.

“Nice to meet you!” the major squeezed his hand fiercely. “I’ve no time to lose. I have arranged 77 crates of humanitarian aid, which need to be exported to Bulgaria immediately. People there are starving!” he ended on a note of pathos.

Varadin looked at him fearfully. Major Potty was an ex-colonial officer, who radiated an inexhaustible desire to slap down any naughty aboriginal. He was a tall bony old man, well past his sixties, with a shiny bald pate and a grey, bristly moustache. He was wearing a dark blue suit without a tie and spit-shined dress shoes — as if he did not have to walk on the streets at all, but moved from one office to the next like a spirit. He was carrying the ID-card of the organization he was representing on a chain around his neck.

Throwing himself onto the sofa, he started pulling various brochures from his bag. Varadin stood warily opposite him. A little later, Tania Vandova appeared carrying the coffee-tray.

For the first ten minutes the major jabbered incoherently about his organization, and the various celebrities on the board of governors. When he had piled up enough titles and crests to stand on, he looked down at the Ambassador and asked why, in principle, Bulgarians were so unresponsive to humanitarian aid.

“What do you mean?” Varadin raised his eyebrows.

“What do I mean?” repeated the Major sarcastically. “Well, we are moving heaven and earth to gather these essentials together and apparently nobody gives a damn!”

Varadin tactfully kept quiet.

“I have received information to the effect that a large quantity of this aid so selflessly donated is aging away down in the storerooms of the Embassy. Is that correct?” the ex-soldier asked harshly.

“I have no idea,” the Ambassador raised his arms. “I’ve only been here a week.”

“They tell us, would you believe it, that we must arrange the transportation for ourselves! As if the items we are sending were not worth the cost to transport them,” said Major Potty with disgust. “As far as I’m concerned, if you carry on like this, you’ll upset the entire charitable community. Think of your image!”

“Our new image will be my first concern!” the Ambassador assured him, feeling the first symptoms of his migraine.

“It had better be,” exclaimed the Major. “I wouldn’t want my seventy seven crates to be left to rot in some godforsaken storeroom.”

Varadin decided he would make a good impression if he showed some concern about the subject and asked politely, “And what do the crates contain?”

This was a serious mistake. The Major flinched as though stung by a wasp, “You ask what is in there! What is the content of my crates! Oh, My Lord!” He threw up his arms and let them drop enervated. “Oh, Jesus!” He repeated the same movement, expressing his deep despair at the insolence and audacity of this aboriginal. “Are we going to play Customs Officers here? Or do you think we are sending you any old rubbish, eh?”

“I said no such thing!” objected Varadin fearfully.

The migraine was already thrashing his brain cells.

“But your sneaky curiosity is implying just that, isn’t it?” spat Major Potty. “Either way, I am not ashamed of the content of my crates! Inside, you will find only simple yet sturdy objects, which served my compatriots for a long time and will serve your impoverished denizens honestly for the same long period of time!”

“I don’t doubt it!” Varadin hurried to agree.

“Prove it!” boomed the Major. “Those crates have to reach their destination as soon as possible.”

“I will personally see to it that they do!”

“Excellent! Because then I will send you another hundred crates of…” the Major paused before adding solemnly “bedpans.”

“What?!” the Ambassador blinked quickly.

“The Saint Barnabas Infirmary in North Hampshire closed recently,” Major Potty was happy to explain. “They are auctioning everything, but they are donating the bedpans to us. And we, in turn, will donate them to you. If you deserve them, of course!” he waggled his finger jokingly at the Ambassador.

“I really do not know how to express my gratitude,” mumbled Varadin.

“Gratitude and charity are two sides of the same coin,” concluded the Major sagely and quickly stood up. “Unfortunately, I cannot stay a second longer. Lady Broad-Botham awaits me. We are expediting ten tons of winter clothes to Bombay, or Mumbai as they call it these days.”

He shook the hand of the dazed Ambassador and walked straight out with a decisive step as though impelled by some mechanical aid.

Varadin crawled back into his chair; leaned his head on the back and closed his eyes.

He quietly pronounced the number 95.

But he felt no relief. His skull was pulsing with pain, rubbery and soft like a bladder. It was only noon. A lunch in the French Embassy awaited him and he expected it to be formal and cold because of the well-known dislike of the French for anyone who did not speak their language. In the afternoon he had to see a line of clerks in the Foreign Office. In the evening he had to attend a reception at the Carlton for some occasion his brain categorically refused to retain. It was under attack from the intrusive image of that student that cleaned his office. Obviously there was nothing stopping him from taking her to bed. The question was: what would it cost him?