Mission London. Alek Popov
to one side and covering her face. Below a light blue working dress, colourless tights and Nike trainers enhanced the muscles of her calves. Her movements betrayed her annoyance, although she was working very hard. She hoovered all the carpet around his desk and then turned off the ugly machine. Their eyes met.
“I’m sorry,” she said, confused. “I did not notice you there.”
He said nothing. In his ears the sound of the Hoover still echoed. The face of the girl seemed familiar to him and he stared at it more than decency allowed. She blushed and lowered her eyes. At the same moment a fickle smile appeared on her lips.
“You must be the new Ambassador?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Katerina, Katya for short,” the girl introduced herself, while she was coiling the cable of the Hoover. “I’ll be cleaning your office if you don’t object.”
He did not but said sternly, “I would be grateful if you don’t come during my office hours.”
“I’m very sorry for the inconvenience,” she started. “I had a paper to write. I’ve been reading all night. I didn’t think you’d be here. I’ll come to clean in the mornings or after six.”
“Agreed,” he nodded and unexpectedly asked “What are you studying?” Don’t go any deeper, his internal monitor pulled him up.
“Design,” she said, with a tone that bordered on the sleazy, while she put the hose over her shoulder and started dragging the Hoover to the door. Then she stopped and turned around. “Do you want me to dust?”
“No, there is no need.”
Katya, though, was not in a hurry to go now that her initial confusion was over. Her wide silver-grey eyes did not look very red.
“Mr. Ambassador, I have one problem,” she seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “Actually this is not only my problem, but one for everyone who cleans here in the Embassy.”
Varadin knitted his brows but let her speak.
“I am talking about this,” she pointed at the Hoover. “Simply, the time has come for its retirement. I wouldn’t take up your time with this, but some people cannot see this fact…”
“Which fact?”
“That it doesn’t suck anymore! What I want to say is it only sucks feebly. It’s a real chore to use…”
“It might be full,” he guessed with little enthusiasm. “Do you clean it often?”
“No it is not full,” she insisted brusquely. “It is old!”
“What do you want from me? A new Hoover?”
“Yes,” the girl nodded. “The accountant said that it depends entirely on you.”
He did not like the way she looked at him: it seemed to him she had guessed the thought, which buzzed in his head like a big, nasty, insolent fly and filled him with gloomy premonitions about future implications of a personal and official nature. His exhilaration at the advantage gained by his surprise appearance disappeared. Heavy strategic decisions were looming. He realized that the advance he had gained was insignificant and would be soon swallowed by the heavy load of duties and nuisances.
“Hum.” he frowned, as though he were about to consider an important offer for fighter planes. “We’ll see.”
“Well then,” she smiled. “Goodbye!”
The end of the grey hose crawled after her like a sinister snout.
A little later, Tania Vandova carefully knocked, listened for a second and stuck her head around the door. Varadin Dimitrov was sitting behind the desk as though turned into a waxwork, staring in front of him without blinking, his eyes fixed. The secretary, terribly frightened, jumped and hurried to close the door. She waited several seconds, gathered her courage once more and looked around the door again. There was nobody behind the desk. The door to the bathroom was wide open, the noise of running water came from there along with some strange noise similar to gargling. What now? she thought, chewing her lip. Quietly she walked with short steps to the desk, deposited a pile of letters and retreated.
“Wait!” his voice, coming from the bathroom, froze her on the doorstep.
Varadin oozed out of the bathroom with his face all wet.
“Did Kishev come back to work?”
“Not yet,” she shook her head.
A short pause followed.
“Are you going to attend the banquet tonight?” asked the secretary.
“Yes,” he replied mechanically, despite the fact that he was hearing of this event for the first time.
“I will call to confirm,” she said quickly and left.
He stared with surprise at the pile of correspondence. Apparently the mundane institutions of the former Empire had caught scent of his arrival from a distance – maybe before the decision for his appointment had even been signed. Some invitations were lying on the top, heavy, large, gilt-edged pieces of paper that could be used for playing table tennis. He randomly picked the first one and read with pleasure his own name written at the top with steady, lop-sided handwriting. Maybe it was not particularly advisable to throw himself immediately into the whirlpool of social life, but he was eager to do a quick round of High Society. To have a sip of that foamy cocktail before diving into it forever. He had no time to lose.
9
The driver came to pick him up from the residence at 6.30 p.m.
Varadin waited for him in the entrance, slightly pale, wearing dinner-jacket and tie. His shoes squeaked neurotically. The insidious smell of cooking was seeping out of the cook’s lodgings and made him feel queasy. During the entire time, as they crept though the congested arteries of the city, Varadin was restlessly sniffing the lapels of his jacket; recognising that sticky national stench which could not be washed out, it nested in the tissue like a cloth nit; it penetrated the skin – into the very marrow and stayed their forever, like the scars from a shameful disease.
‘Buckingham Palace,’ said Miladin, without removing his eyes from the back of the black cab in front of him.
Varadin flinched. How dare he, the idiot?! Did he really imagine he was driving some peasant from Dolno Kamartsi, who didn’t have a clue about landmarks? As if he didn’t know this was Buckingham Palace!…He pursed his lips, while curiosity mingled with anxiety ate away at him. The invitation was enigmatically laconic. The hosts had signed only with some whirly squiggles, which told him nothing. The dinner was to be accompanied by a lecture entitled: The new challenges facing the steady development of Europe. The rain was pouring down on the front windscreen of the car; the wiper-blades were swinging with quick, rapid movements. The car finally got through Trafalgar Square and turned into Pall Mall.
The gloomy front of the club, with its heavy cornices and small windows, placed at a distance from one another, suggested hidden voluminous spaces inside. The entrance had no sign, only a number. Compared to the size of the building, the door, sandwiched between two glowing yellow lights, looked disproportionately small, as if to enhance the exclusive character of the building.
The concierge ushered him in.
Varadin left his coat in the cloakroom, passed along the line of portraits of famous activists and entered the reception. The people present were mostly over sixty, while here and there, a few confused middle-aged individuals stuck out. There were almost no women, apart from some very old, severe, obviously wealthy ladies, perched in different corners of the hall like oracle-birds.
The Major Domo found his name on the guest-list and showed him to his place. ‘Varadin Dimitrov’ was written on the little piece of paper, placed near the cutlery, ‘Ambassador, Bulgaria’ – that gave him a pleasant tingling sensation.
To his left was an empty