Mission London

20

“Do come in, Mister Mavrodiev,” said the Ambassador in a mock-flattering voice.

The big man walked heavily towards his desk. The Consul had just finished his night-shift: he was unshaven and his tie hung loosely. Scum! thought Varadin.

“I assume that you are aware of this publication?” he disgustedly raised the page of the Evening Standard which lay on his desk. In the upper corner of the page, a not overly large article had been outlined in yellow highlighter, accompanied by a photograph of epic significance. The picture showed a destitute family of four, wrapped in sleeping bags, candles in their hands. The photograph was reminiscent of the suffering of the Bosnian refugees, except that it was set in an apartment in central London.

The headline needed no commentary, Bulgarian Diplomat Stuck in the Stone Age. The article detailed the struggle of the Bobevs to survive for the last two weeks without electricity. ‘This barbaric measure was taken by the new Ambassador, Dimitrov, in an attempt to push the Diplomat onto the streets, after he had been sacked for political reasons.’ The newspaper went on to comment, ‘No one has the right to stop the supply of electricity without the authorisation of the London Electricity Board.’

The material had been published the day before. Varadin sensed the secret delight of his inferiors, and was tortured by the suspicion that they had allowed him to be exposed on purpose.

“What should we do?” asked the worried Consul.

“Why are you asking me? This comes under your remit.”

“We’ll not get out of this one easily,” Mavrodiev shook his head.

“Shall we cut off his water too, then, hey?!” the Ambassador hissed.

“If you say so….” agreed the Consul unconvincingly.

“You’re obviously trying to tar my image,” Varadin said with sinister calm.

Mavrodiev blushed to his neck under the accusation.

“That is what you all want, I know!” The Ambassador’s outburst took his listener by surprise. “Why did you tell the journalists that he doesn’t want to go back to his homeland, why?”

“But isn’t that the whole reason for this circus — about staying here?” said the Consul in confusion.

“The fact that he wants to stay here does not specifically mean that he doesn’t want to go back!” Varadin spelled this out angrily.

“Why would he not want to go back if he doesn’t want to stay?”

“Because he wants to stay!” the Ambassador stamped his foot. “And not: he wants to stay because he doesn’t want to go back, as you made out.”

“So he wants to stay because he wants to stay.”

“Exactly! He wants to stay because he likes it here. But when you say, he doesn’t want to return! People start to ask, why? Why on earth would someone not want to go back to their homeland? Well, simply: because he’ll be thrown out on the street immediately and then be unable to find work. And even if he does find some, he’ll still starve!”

“I didn’t say that,” Mavrodiev sighed heavily.

“Yes, but it’s obvious in context.”

“And? We all know that!” The big man could not restrain himself.

“You have no right to think that way!” shouted the Ambassador. “We are all Europeans here!”

“So shall we put his electricity back on?” the Consul clutched at an unexpected straw.

“What the hell for? He’s already put us in it, hasn’t he? Let him struggle if he’s so obstinate.” Something clicked in his brain, and he suddenly asked, “Why have you always got your hands in your pockets?!”

‘Well, I mean, I’m….’ stumbled the Consul.

‘Not just now, but during the reception as well,’ continued Varadin impatiently, ‘I saw you, don’t deny it! That is not European behaviour!’

‘I’m sorry, if…’ started the other.

‘I want you to throw him out without any more scandal!’ Varadin cut him off, tapping the paper with a finger, ‘Otherwise I’ll throw you out instead! You may go.’

He carefully folded the page and returned it to his drawer. He did not particularly want the article to end up in the press review, but he was certain that some helpful hand had already faxed it to Sofia. And? So what? Varadin massaged his temples. Rubbish! Rubbish everywhere!’ His gaze fell on some small scraps near the foot of the desk, he picked them up and threw them in the bin. The room had not been cleaned for several days.

Fuck it! That little slut — he should have sacked her. His brain told him this. But his brain was helpless in this instance. And all for one very simple reason: he had not had any sex for several months, and whenever he thought of Katya, he had an instant hard on. In a better world, the problem would have been quickly solved by a short trip to the bathroom. But, he was the product of a cruel system: despite the political changes of the last few years, the idea that someone was constantly watching him had driven itself deep into his subconscious and no one would ever get it out now.

His hands were tied.

All that was left for him was to hope that something might actually happen in the real world. That seemed less punishable to him, as well as far less compromising. He was prepared to take that risk, but, for that end, Katya needed to be kept around. Until then every other comfort was forbidden.

He raised his gaze from the bin and noticed the stupid face of Turkeiev, peering around the door. He had not heard him knock. “What is it?” he asked. “Come in then!” “There’s a fax for you…” started the intern, giving him the sheet. Varadin read it angrily.

Sent. 34500456

Town Council, Provadia.

Dear Mr. Ambassador,

From 24/05 to 24/06, on the invitation of the British Museum, the unique exhibition: ‘Hygiene in Bulgarian Lands’ will arrive in London; on which platform the first Water Closet in Human History will be unveiled. The latter was discovered in recent archaeological digs in the territories of the town of Provadia, and dates from 923. The authenticity of the object has been confirmed by such internationally renowned scientists as Professor Van Meis, from Holland, and Professor Charlie Reeds, from Oxford. We believe that the public recognition of this achievement of the ancient Bulgarians will greatly support the new image of our dear Homeland. The exhibition will be opened by the Mayor of Provadia, Mister Firstomaiev. We would be obliged if the Embassy could arrange accommodation for him and involve itself actively in the preparations for the event in question.

“Whaaaaaaat?! To involve ourselves with some toilet?!” Varadin raised his eyes from the fax and stared at the intern with loathing. “This falls on exactly the same day as Mrs Pezantova’s concert! Do you realise what that means?”

“Is there no way to combine the two?” the intern proposed simply. “Concert with Closet, eh?!” spat Varadin sarcastically, “Well, you can try…” “After all, such a discovery!”

“Look, I’ll tell you what,” the Ambassador cut him off brusquely. “We have priorities! And Mister Firstomaiev’s WC is not amongst them.”

“What should I tell them?”

“Nothing for the time being,” he spat. “Why are your hands in your pockets?!”

“What?” the intern threw up his hands in surprise.

“Not now!” explained the Ambassador nervously. “Before, and during the reception, I saw you wandering around with your hands in your pockets like some kind of Director. You and that other one, the Consul. That is not European behaviour!”

For fuck’s sake! the intern swore internally. His contract ran out in two months and he did not see it being extended. “But the English go around with their hands in their pockets.”

“Are you an Englishman, all of a sudden?!” shouted the Ambassador. “When you are an Englishman, then you can talk!”

The intern headed for the door without a word. Varadin stared at the fax once more. That was all he needed, that cretin from Provadia! Pezantova would have a fit. Concert and Closet. Absurd!

“Wait!” he shouted before the intern was out of the door. “Check whether it has the approval of the Ministry of Culture. And of our Ministry too!”

He had a sharp pain at the nape of his neck. It seemed to him monstrously unfair, that, whilst he was flying freely amongst the highest levels of society and creating Foreign Policy, those spiders were still trying, tirelessly and unpunished, to weave together the cobwebs of their domestic idiocies. It was impossible to be rid of them, one could only keep them at a distance, in the corners and holes where they belonged. Ah, but he was very good at that!

“88” he said grimly.