Mission London

36

At exactly 6.45pm, a pink hat, shaped like a gigantic éclair, passed triumphantly through the Embassy’s official entrance. Behind it stepped a neurotic Varadin and the two ladies-in-waiting. The foyer shone as if freshly licked. The crystal chandelier sparkled festively. At the threshold, they were greeted greasily by Mr Kishev. Another two diplomats hovered nearby, looking like coppers. None of them had been honoured with a place at the Concert. Their task consisted of guarding the front-line of the gathering. The technical staff had been pulled back far into the reserve, owing to ‘technical incompatibility’.

Devorina Pezantova did not deign to notice the diplomat; she swirled out of her fur cape and deposited it on his arm, as though he were some strange mobile coat rack. Her dress was a sequined nightmare, which instantly caught the light and shone like a garish Christmas display. She was wearing a wide blue band with a medallion at the lower end over one shoulder — a trophy from a visit to some faraway country. She thought that that particular decoration made her look grand, and never passed up an occasion to wear it, especially if said occasion came under the heading ‘ceremonial’.

The giant éclair made its way to the main staircase, followed by its entourage. They slowly ascended the stairs, like people making their way to Heaven. The red carpet smelled freshly of lilac. The doors to the reception room had been opened wide; between the tables smartly dressed students hovered, wearing white gloves that had been bought especially for the occasion. An approving smile appeared on Devorina’s lips. Then disappeared, far faster.

“What is that stall doing there?” She demanded peevishly.

Her gaze had fallen on a small table to the left of the door. Varadin shrugged. The table was covered with an assortment of articles, each with its own little price tag. He had no idea where the cursed little stand had come from. Only an hour before, when he last did a round to check up on things, it had been nowhere to be seen. The goods gave the general impression of souvenirs everywhere: a catalogue of icons printed way back in 1971 (£7), a pile of CD’s of folk songs (£5 each), a few pairs of knitted woollen socks (£5), decorative folk-slippers (£15), towels with folk motifs (£6), plaited straw bag (£10), as well as other odds and ends amongst which the little bronze dog frolicked, its collar showing the respectable sum of £150.

The shady artistic director slid out of the corridor leading to the service area. His long hair was tied back into a ponytail. He was wearing a black, woollen suit and a loose-fitting collarless shirt, which made him look a little like a vicar.

“Did you put this here?” the disapproving voice of Mrs Pezantova greeted his arrival.

“Umm, well, the artists asked me to,” he mumbled, looking guiltily at the traditional wooden horse-comb in his hands (£4).

“I don’t like it at all, remove it at once!”

The artistic director did not move, however. So timid on an institutional level, he was ready to risk his life for his interests on a domestic level. Mrs Pezantova was not in the habit of paying her artists. Her speciality was spiritual reward. He knew that if no one bought the little dog, he would be going home empty-handed. And the winter heating bills required more than spiritual well-being.

“Can you put those tapes as well,” a melodic voice sang. “They are left over from our Argentinean trip.”

The voice belonged to one of the singers. She appeared like ghost from the dark corridor, her heavily decorated costume chiming. Her thickly made-up face had playful dimples.

“We were waiting for you, Mrs Pezantova,” she said casually. “You don’t disapprove of our little display, do you? People like our things, and a few levs on the side will do us good.”

At that particular moment a diplomat ran up the stairs and waved his hands, “They’re coming” he shouted and ran back.

“Fingers crossed!” exclaimed the singer and disappeared into the dark corridor once more, where the make-up rooms had been improvised.

The artistic director looked all business-like. Pezantova looked at Varadin, who merely raised his eyebrows in philosophical resignation. The others rushed to disappear into the background.

A mysterious silence fell. “It’s starting,” said Varadin, his stomach in knots. The hard stitches of his tailcoats were digging into his armpits; that halfwit Miladin had obviously got the wrong size. How could he possibly have sent him to hire his outfit! Underneath the hat’s brim, Pezantova’s eyes were almost popping out of their sockets in anticipation. With a little more luck we might be able to pass off a pig’s ear!

“Why is nobody coming?” mumbled Pezantova staring at the empty staircase.

“Here they come!” exclaimed Mitche behind her.

A lone couple made their way across the red carpet.

The man was well built, with an equally well-built gut and a goatee, which made him look older than he was. He was dressed all in black and to judge from his tie and the handkerchief in his breast pocket, he liked to stare at the window displays on Oxford Street. Next to him a strange ostrich-like creature minced, with feathers to match.

“The Halvadjievs!” hissed Pezantova through her teeth. “For once they’re not late!”

When the duo reached the landing, however, her face was all sweetness and light. “How nice to see you!” she smiled.

“Thank you for the invitation!” neighed the big man shaking hands with them both. Then he turned to his better half and said, “Yvonne, let me introduce Mrs Pezantova! And this is Yvonne.” He added with no little pride.

“I am so glad!” the creature smiled. “Brilliant party!”

Her skinny neck was armoured with several rows of pearls.

“Come along!” he put an arm around her waist and towed her away.

Two students rushed to show them to their seats. Pezantova waited for them to be out of earshot and remarked spitefully, “Sponsors, what can you do!?”

How had such a man become so wealthy? In Socialist times, he had just happened to be in charge of a large manufacturing company. When after the fall of the old regime, the Privatization Agency offered the company up, all its records mysteriously disappeared, leaving him as the only shareholder, managing director and president. On the few occasions that he talked of the matter, Halvadjiev liked to use phrases such as: ‘saved from bankruptcy’ or ‘protected from dissolution’. The rumours back in Bulgaria tended to disagree, often vehemently, with his terminology. As a result he tended to sponsor events, especially when members of the government were involved. His buying of indulgences continued, full steam ahead.

At exactly 7pm a huge tourist-like bus pulled up in front of the Embassy. Its doors swooshed open, and, before the ogling eyes of the diplomats, a crowd of people in evening dress poured out. Robert Ziebling led them.

“Here we are!” he shouted and hurried inside.

Pezantova stood stunned.

The guests started to make their way up the stairs. It snowed smiles and titles: Baroness Remoulade, the Duchess Van Der Brayne, Sir Jay, Lady Marx, and Sir De Vilajidioff. She felt like melting in the social whirlpool. The queue extended all the way to the bottom step. Before proceeding into the room, the guests stopped by the little stand, rummaging amongst the displayed items and asking all sorts of questions. Unfortunately, the artistic director spoke not a word of English and was unable to satisfy their curiosity. He could only look at them with growing anger. No one had thought to get their wallet out. Fucking stingy bastards!

Last to appear were the diplomats struggling with the weight of Sir De Fazaposte’s wheelchair. His head lolled from side to side and his medals clanked. The severe looking Lady De Viyent fussed around them and was shouting demandingly, “For God’s sake, be careful!”

Then a brief moment of silence occurred.

“What if she doesn’t come?” fretted Pezantova.

“There’s no danger of that,” Varadin reassured her, looking at his watch.

Ziebling appeared. “What on earth are you doing here? Why aren’t you downstairs already?” he demanded angrily. “Didn’t you read the protocol? We are not waiting for a mere countess, you know!”

“Oh my God!” exclaimed Pezantova. “I totally forgot!”

She grabbed the Ambassador by the hand and dragged him down the stairs in a mad rush. Ziebling shook his head disdainfully. Barry Longfellow came over and leaned casually on the balustrade, he was presently the Marquis of Mullet.

“A heavy night awaits, eh Sir?”

“Don’t let that rabble out of your sight for an instant!” ordered Ziebling.

“I know my business,” the Marquis replied curtly.

The artistic director stared at them with his beady little eyes. The Famous Connector gave him a cheery wave. “Hey, we come in peace!”

The object of this humour entirely failed to understand and raised one eyebrow suspiciously. Fucking stingy so-and-sos!

The Rolls slid silently up to the porch. It lacked all the usual markings: crests, crowns and flags. The vast black automobile was shrouded in secrecy, as though it travelled not in the human reality, but flew on the invisible motorways between worlds. A huge man in a beige raincoat got out of the front seat, opened the back door and offered his hand to the lady inside.

Christ! They could be twins! Varadin was trembling at the thought.

“Your Majesty!” whinnied Mrs Pezantova, forgetting to curtsy and rushing towards the Lady like a hound on the scent.

“Oh, my dear woman,” exclaimed Queen Cunningham. “Your little charity brings tears to our eyes! Ah, and so good to see you once again, your Excellency!’ she said turning to Varadin. “If you continue to serve your country in this spirit, God himself will reward you.”

Witch! he hissed internally, taking her hand in turn and bowing low.

The diplomats buzzed around them like a swarm of wasps, only Varadin’s severe look keeping them at a respectable distance. The group wended its way towards the reception room. The Queen leaning on Mrs Pezantova’s arm and repeating tirelessly, “Oh, my dear!”

The bodyguard was her shadow.

Blood pounded in Pezantova’s ears. My God, what an honour! What an honour! If only Kututcheva and Moustacheva could see me now! What did they know? Pathetic little provincial girls! Here She is, leaning on my arm, speaking to me — the Queen of England, herself! Do you hear over there? Do you see? Do you understand? No, nobody gives a damn about you. Awful yokels, you do not deserve a thing. ‘Oh, my dear!’ She said it again. Those are signals. She likes me! The carpet beneath her feet had disappeared; she felt she was walking on air. A miraculous light filled her. You can all go to hell, damn peasants! I am on the other side of the divide. I am not what I used to be. I am different. I do not know you.

“Ah, and what is this?” exclaimed Queen Cunningham.

Oh no! That bloody little stand again, Pezantova swore. The magic disappeared. The Queen attached herself to the table and began to examine the display. The little decorative pigskin folk slippers caught her attention.

“What interesting moccasins!” said the Queen holding them up by their laces.

This time the artistic director felt able to say something. “They call tsarvuli,” he announced in a serious voice, looking all sweaty, “Natsionalen Kostyoom!”

“Oh, tsarvuli!” she said seemingly respectfully. “How wonderful! Tsarvuli!”

“Tsarvuli, tsarvuli!” everyone around her started to nod enthusiastically.

“How sweet!” she said condescendingly. “Might we try them on?”

The Artistic Director gaped blankly.

“She wants to try them!” translated Pezantova in her iciest tones.

Varadin gave Ziebling a withering look; the latter was observing the scene with unhealthy interest, almost indulgent. The diplomats hurried to bring a chair. She sat and removed her white shoes. The director helped her to do the laces.

“Oh, they are so comfortable, these tsarvuli!” said Queen Cunningham as she walked around. “We’ll take them!”

My God, what a lesson She is giving us all, thought Pezantova. Only a Queen could possibly be so diplomatic in such a situation. It is in her blood.

“Your Majesty!” she shouted emotionally. “You look fantastic!”

“Oh, my dear!” Her Majesty waved regally.

Without taking the tsarvuli off, and with a faint slap-slapping sound, she headed into the reception room. All the guests stood up and started to applaud. Then the doors were closed. The faces of the diplomats darkened. Mavrodiev lit a cigarette and put his hands into his pockets. Kishev picked up the Royal shoes from the floor, looked at them with respect and then put them on the table.

“And who is going to pay for the tsarvuli?” the director suddenly remembered.

His question hung in the air. Danailov was prowling in front of the doors, growling like a lion. Sounds of ceremonial pomp were coming from the hall. Kishev, who passed himself off as a classical music buff, listened to it and noted gloomily, “The Ode to Joy.”

‘The Ode to Joy’ was played by a group of Bulgarian students from the Royal College of Music. The guests listened carefully. The waitressing staff rushed quietly between the tables, filling the glasses with wine. When this unique entertainment came to an end and the applause died down, Mrs Pezantova stood up and took a deep breath, filled with scent of power. The world expanded briefly before she brought it back under control, “Your Majesty! Honoured Ladies and Gentlemen!” she started in the bombastic tone of a Girl-Guide Commissioner opening a new camp in the mountains. “It is my great pleasure and honour to welcome you here today. The gathering together of such a large group of so many important people here today is an obvious sign of the worthiness of our charitable cause. I would like to thank you on behalf of the Bulgarian people and to assure you that this historical gesture will be understood and greatly appreciated. This evening you will be given the rare opportunity to scrape only the surface of the eternal cultural values produced by Bulgarian genius. Let me open that priceless spiritual treasure from which radiate the most elevated human ideals, and to convince you that we belong to one and the same cultural family among the realms of Europe. Your Majesty! Ladies and Gentlemen! My heart fills with pride and emotion when I think of the great honour of being the one to present to you the cultural key to my country. I humbly beg you to accept it.”

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.

“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.

“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.

“Ts, ts, ts,” Halvadjiev nodded his head. “We turned this soiree into a total fuck-up, but never mind!”