Mission London. Alek Popov
Street.
But what made him even happier was the fact that today he was going back to his hometown, Provadia – a town with a glorious history and fertile land.
“Ola-la-la,” he sang full throatedly. “La-la-laaaa.”
The water gushed from all directions like a waterfall, and a feeling of satisfaction and calm suffused the Mayor’s soul. “Lalaa-lala-lalalalaaa!”he continued his little singsong, while thoroughly soaping his short hair.
He did not notice, could not have noticed, the slim tongue of water that had begun to slide under the door and soak the carpet.
Meanwhile, the Ambassador took his suitcase and headed for the first floor without a word. Judging by the greenish hue of his face, Kosta concluded that the magic of love at first sight had failed. The prospects looked ever grimmer.
Halfway up the stairs, the Ambassador stopped and listened.
“There is somebody up there.” The Ambassador pointed up the stairs.
“Ah, the Mayor…” From the tone of the cook’s voice one might presume that this was some sort of pet who had been in the residence for as long as anyone could remember.
The child, twisting in his hands with unexpected strength, started tearing and biting. The cook squeezed him tightly and hissed through his teeth, “You shitty little good for nothing, you’re just like your mother!”
“Mayor?!” asked the Ambassador anxiously.
“The Mayor of Provadia.” The cook elaborated with a hint of condolence.
“And how does he happen to be here this … man from Provadia?” asked the Ambassador queasily.
“They accommodated him. There was no space in the hotel.”
The Ambassador said nothing. He stared at the carpet, which was malignantly soaking up water, as though on board the Titanic. He heard the slap of feet and swearing overhead. The Mayor of Provadia sprang out onto the upper landing, wrapped nonchalantly in a small towel beneath which his Herculean attributes bulged.
“Look at those stupid English!” he started shouting. “They forgot to make one little hole in the bathroom floor! One simple little hole! What’s the big deal? A hole! A drain!”
He rolled up his fingers to make a little hole and looked though it to demonstrate the obviousness of that idiotic omission. Immediately his eyes lit upon the gloomy gentleman, who was inspecting the wet path on the carpet with a pained look on his face.
“Good morning,” said the Mayor and threw a quick glance at Kosta.
“This is the new Ambassador,” said the cook without too much enthusiasm.
“Brilliant!” boomed the Mayor in his loud voice. “Congratulations!”
The gentleman visibly jumped.
“I am very pleased to meet you!” shouted the big man with the Tartar face. “Excuse my appearance. It’s really good we’ve met. It’s a shame I’m going back today, otherwise I could tell you more about these hypocrites. But, I want you to remember one thing: there is no democracy in England! This is not a real democracy!”
Signs of real panic appeared on the Ambassador’s face.
“There is no need for me to explain that to you, of course,” continued the Mayor brusquely. “You’re going to see it for yourself. And don’t forget to remind them about the bathroom. They put in a carpet and forgot the pipe! You must tell them at the first official meeting! And about the W.C.: Did you know that the ancient Bulgarians invented the water closet? I didn’t know myself but, recently, some archaeologists came to report to me. They found it in the dig. A whole 600 years before the Europeans! In the town of Provadia!”
Happy with the effect that his words had visibly had on the important man, the Mayor of Provadia leaned over the banister and shouted to Kosta, “Mate, is there any more of that tasty pig’strotter jelly?”
“There is,” said the cook. “Do you want me to reheat it?”
“Will you have some pig’s-trotter jelly for breakfast with a nice ice-cold beer?” The Mayor turned affably to the Ambassador. “A very healthy way to start the day.”
“Hardly,” the man nodded his head stiffly. The corner of his mouth trembled malevolently. His last words were to Kosta, “I intend to go for a walk. Do not expect me for dinner. And clean out this pigsty!”
He turned sharply and hurried to the doorway, leaving his suitcase on the stairs. Just in front of the doorstep, he stopped, stood rigidly in the entrance and shouted in a squeaky voice, “93!”
“What’s wrong with that lad…?” The Mayor of Provadia shrugged.
3
Varadin Dimitrov left the residence under the influence of a volatile cocktail of contradictory feelings – anger, ecstasy, disdain, and shame. Half in a daze, he crossed the two hundred yards that separated him from the bustle of High Street Kensington and froze in front of the rivers of cars and buses running in both directions. Opposite him, the grass of Kensington Gardens was a tender green. People were roller-blading quietly along the paths like creatures from some distant utopia. Varadin Dimitrov headed to the nearest traffic lights. Leaning on the railings, an elderly English lady was waiting to cross. Without even looking at her Varadin hissed through his teeth, “74!”
The woman looked at him speechless and then quickly looked away, pretending she had not noticed him, as if strictly following the instructions of the famous pocket guide How to avoid troublesome acquaintances. The pedestrian light went green. The traffic had stopped and Varadin Dimitrov crossed the road with long, slow strides like a pair of dividers. The old lady followed him at a careful distance.
The park was full of running dogs and small children. The day wasdry, people from all parts of the world were scattered across the grass, some of them already chewing their lunchtime sandwiches. Varadin Dimitrov took the main path past Kensington Palace – home of the late Princess Diana. Here and there on the railings dangled bouquets of flowers or postcards with messages from the endless stream of the princess’ fans. He walked indifferently around those touching signs of people’s love and stopped for a second in front of the Queen Victoria memorial. It seemed to him that the late Queen bore an astonishing resemblance to one of his relatives who had given him many a drubbing in the past. Then he turned towards the duck pond and followed the water’s edge, sown with bird droppings. He found a free bench and sat down. A goose browsing nearby stretched its neck towards his leg and screeched piercingly.
“55,” he said out loud.
Varadin Dimitrov stayed on the bench for nearly half an hour, without any particular thoughts in his head, gazing at the flat surface of the pond, on which white down floated. The geese and the ducks slowly lost interest in him. Then, totally unexpectedly, he mumbled, “One.”
And smiled, relieved.
The ‘Numerical Therapy’ of Doctor Pepolen was delivering astonishing results. As a man always exposed to nervous stress, Varadin Dimitrov could appreciate that. Doctor Pepolen’s system was based on a few very simple principles. He claimed that human emotions (similar to earthquakes) could be arranged on a scale from 1 to 100, according to their intensity. Registering your emotion – taught Pepolen – is a step towards overcoming it. He conducted specialised workshops, with unstable, easily excited individuals, in which he instructed them in how to measure the level of their emotions. The method comprised the following: when the patient felt he was losing control of his nerves, he had to shout the first number to come into his head, between 1 and 100. After a certain interval, he had to say a further random number, with the proviso that it be smaller than the first. The next time, the number should decrease again. And so on and so forth until the number reached one. At that particular moment, according to Doctor Pepolen, the emotions would be completely conquered, encapsulated and neutralized and the individual would have regained his psychological balance.
Varadin