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  MISSION LONDON

  MISSION LONDON

  Alek Popov

  Translated from the Bulgarian by Daniella and Charles Gill de Mayol de Lupe

  First published in 2014 by

  Istros Books

  London, United Kingdom

  www.istrosbooks.com

  © Alek Popov, 2001, 2014

  First edition in Bulgarian: Zvezdan Press, Sofia, 2001

  Artwork & Design@Milos Miljkovich, 2013

  Graphic Designer/Web Developer – [email protected]

  Cover photo @Anthony Georgieff

  Typeset by Octavo Smith Publishing Services

  The right of Alek Popov to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  Edited by Christopher Buxton http://christopherbuxton.com

  ISBN: 9781908236-18-0 (print edition)

  ISBN: 978-1-908236-99-9 (eBook)

  Printed in England by

  CMP (UK), Poole, Dorset

  www.cmp-uk.com

  This book has been selected to receive financial assistance from English PEN’s “PEN Translates!” programme, supported by Arts Council England. English PEN exists to promote literature and our understanding of it, to uphold writers’ freedoms around the world, to campaign against the persecution and imprisonment of writers for stating their views, and to promote the friendly co-operation of writers and the free exchange of ideas. www.englishpen.org

  “Even if we achieve tremendous successes in our work, there is no reason to be complacent and arrogant. Modesty helps people to advance, while vanity pulls them back. This is a truth we must always have in mind!”

  – Mao Ze Dung, Greeting to the delegates of the 8th National Conference of the Chinese Communist Party

  1

  Kosta Pastricheff was counting the aeroplanes flying over South Kensington. It was a delicate spring morning only slightly overcast. The forsythia in the corner of the garden was covered in bright blooms. Kosta was sitting on the stairs, barefoot, in just jeans and a jumper. An empty bottle of Becks lay at his feet and between his fingers a forgotten cigarette still burned. Planes were flying overhead about every two minutes. The drone of each lingered until it merged with the noise of the next flight. He had counted over twenty. The sound reminded him of the wash of the sea. The windows of the house were wide open and a strong breeze carried with it the fragrance of old fags, swirling the thin curtains around like the veils of a drunken actress. In the dining room on the ground floor, there remained the detritus of the previous night’s party. It was getting on for eleven but Kosta was in no hurry to tidy up. He had the whole afternoon at his disposal.

  Meanwhile, another three planes flew over.

  A persistent ringing brought him out of his blissful equanimity. At first, Kosta told himself that there was no power that could make him open the door. Then he softened, realizing that such moods are bad for one’s curriculum vitae. He pushed the fag-butt into a gap between the tiles and unwillingly dragged himself to his feet. As he trundled across the foyer, the enormous crystal mirror balefully reflected his figure as if hurrying to expel his scrawny reflection from its gold-plated frame. The ringing began anew – this time shorter and faster.

  “Coming, coming…” muttered Kosta and thought to himself, Fuck you!

  A tall gloomy gentleman, wearing a greenish raincoat, suitcase in hand, jutted from the doorstep. Behind him, a black-cab was executing complicated manoeuvres to get out of the narrow little street. For a few seconds they inspected each other suspiciously.

  “Who you are looking for?” asked Kosta in Bulgarian.

  A bitter smile lit up he gentleman’s worn face.

  “I am the new Ambassador,” he said, gazing at the bare feet. “And who are you?”

  “Umm, me, well…” stuttered Kosta. “I’m the cook”. (The ex-cook – the painful premonition transfixed him.)

  “Very well,” nodded the Ambassador. “Might I come in?”

  Kosta mechanically moved out of the way; he felt an inexplicable chill as the man passed him. His faint hope that this was a practical joke arranged by the Bulgarian immigrants he had been hanging out with recently, slowly started to evaporate. The man put his suitcase on the floor, looked around and raised his eyebrows in disgust. The cook felt he had better say something first.

  “We weren’t expecting you for another two days.” There was just a hint of reproach in his voice.

  “It shows.” The Ambassador’s response was cutting and followed a glance into the dining room.

  “If we’d known you were coming today…”

  “I changed my plans.”

  Then blame yourself thought Kosta.

  From all those many years spent around the dining-tables of his so-called superiors, the cook had developed a special psychological intuition. Instinctively he knew that his new boss belonged to that extensive and many-branched cretinous family of jobsworths. Yet, there was something else, something behind this man’s idiotic glassy look, which made him unpredictable and dangerous. Suddenly, Kosta realized that this guy intended to settle here. Even more, this was his home now and he – Kosta – was about to become his servant. And that seemed infinitely unjust to him.

  At that moment Kosta’s little son crawled up the stairs from the basement, which was occupied by the cook’s family. The child had escaped his mother’s attention and he was jubilant. Mumbling his baby talk, the child stood up and waddled adroitly towards the little table beneath the vast mirror. A frail object on the table had been annoying his primitive instincts for a long time. Kosta had unfortunately lost his former agility, gained through the practice of various sports in his youth. The little one grasped the table’s corner and quickly tilted it, whereupon the little porcelain basket, inventory number 73, crashed to the floor with an apocalyptic tinkle.

  “Ding-ding” mumbled the little one happily.

  “I’ll give you a ding-ding!” Kosta growled, suppressing his instinctive urge to bash him on the head.

  The Ambassador looked on with a poisoned face.

  “Child’s play,” muttered the cook unconvincingly. He grabbed the child with one arm and leaned over the balustrade. “Nora!” he shouted. There was no answer. “Norraaaa!” he repeated. “Come here at once!”

  “Get stuffed up your shitty ass!” a harsh voice replied.

  2

  The Mayor of Provadia energetically turned on the hot and cold taps and let the shower pour over him from head to toe. The water slapped his wide Tartar face, smacked his massive, hairy chest and bounced over his titanic belly. The Mayor of Provadia was in a tiptop mood, despite the slight hangover-haze wrapped around his brain. With the completion of his mission his self importance was in full flood. He had visited that mystic, faraway island that had once controlled a third of the world. He had done the museums and the shops. He had seen how the people over there lived. He had drawn the necessary conclusions and could bravely declare that he now had an idea of how the reforms were progressing in that developed western country. He was pleased that he had not lost his mind amidst the splendour and vanity of Oxford 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 Dimitrov had the pleasure of meeting Dr Pepolen during his mandate in one of the Scandinavian countries. Under the influence of concerned relatives, he enrolled in the famous workshop and for almost three years had been practicing the ‘Numerical Therapy’ method. It works was the only thing he could say. The proof was that he was here now, and not being fried, so to speak, in the consular section of the Embassy in Lusaka. In his line of work, healthy nerves were like ropes for a mountaineer. If the rope does not hold, you fly briefly and then the Sherpas gather up your remains with a dustpan and brush. He had witnessed many such incidents. He had no intention of being one of them. There was only one path – upwards.

  Now, when the murky stream of his overflowing emotions had drained away, only pure joy remained in his soul, sparkling like a mountain spring. He had achieved his goal. Th
at moment of surprise. The usual mob that populates embassies the world over had been thrown into turmoil. With indescribable pleasure he imagined the feverish scurrying in the residence. The hysterical phone calls. The panic in the Embassy. They surely expected him to appear at any moment. They were already postponing planned meetings. They were tidying up their desks. He had managed to mess up everybody’s plans.

  “Permission to report,” he hissed. “The first stage of Operation Arrival of the Boss, completed with success!”

  4

  To be, or not to be?

  The question repeated itself obsessively in the mind of Second Secretary Kishev as he gazed at the letter on his desk. He dared not open it. The envelope was distinguished by the seal of the Royal Chancellery. The letter had arrived that morning and immediately found itself in his office correspondence drawer. He had no need to open it to guess what was written inside. There were only two possibilities. The first would bury him. The second make him a hero. He was not a gambling type and already cursed himself for taking on this engagement so light-heartedly. This was definitely more than he could handle.

  The man who sits quietly by will miss the miracle as it passes, as they say. But how, how could he sit quietly by when his mandate was relentlessly running out; when the days were draining away, one after the other, like the grains of sand through the hourglass? Maybe that was the reason he had grabbed at that straw in the hope of gaining some brownie points and impressing the power-players of the day. He liked life on the Island. He had spent more than two years here and it seemed a cruel injustice to have to pack his bags just now, just when this life had worked its way under his skin. And what was waiting for him back home? That, no one could say. Much water had passed under many bridges during those two years. The government had changed; people he had done favours for and who had supported him had been thrown out of the Ministry; new and hungry people had replaced them and were certain to be making their own arrangements for him. Panicked by the potential results, he had ditched his healthy bureaucratic instinct (he who does nothing makes no mistakes) and thrown himself into feverish activity. He had taken on this delicate mission, which was obviously beyond his capabilities. He had imagined that as a reward they would allow him another mandate in London. Or a year. Even six months would be something! But what could a small Second Secretary do against an Imperial Establishment, centuries old? How could he influence it? From what position? With what means? Nobody would so much as ask. Quite the opposite in fact, they were bound to make him the guilty party – the worm.