plans. Mrs. Pezantova frantically aimed to join the exclusive club of the world elite, without sparing resources – above all state resources. She dreamed of seeing herself amongst the shiny entourage of celebrities, who filled the chronicles of those fat western publications. In this unequal battle for prestige, Devorina Pezantova had stubborn and ubiquitous opponents – her own compatriots, who inhabited the hopeless space between hunger and darkness. It seemed they could not, or would not, comprehend how important it was that they look good (comme il faut!) at this decisive moment. They failed her at every step and did it energetically too, in a typical Balkan way. Ungrateful tribe! The lady did not give in easily, though. The misery of the masses at large was a good reason for the fine people from all over Europe to gather together, listen to some music, and eat some canapés. Proceeding in the light of that noble logic, she started with great élan to organize charitable events in all those European capitals which sported Bulgarian embassies. This was a heavy task for the missions concerned. The lady was rigorous and was not prepared to acknowledge the limited social effect of her humanitarian activity. She saw treachery, sabotage and conspiracy everywhere. The diplomats were not up to the job and did not take her work to heart; they wanted, more or less, to get the whole thing out of the way and withdraw once more into the swamp of their pitiful existence. Varadin Dimitrov had perspicaciously caught on to her trials and tribulations and managed to persuade her that he was not indifferent to them. For months he was constantly at her side suggesting that he was just the man to bring her dreams to fruition in this Mecca of all snobbery. She had played a more than significant role in his appointment. He owed her.
His gaze slid across the faces of the staff, but it only found downcast eyes. A good sign. He was doing well. A guilty employee was a good employee. Who had said that…?
Carried away by his triumph over those crushed souls, he permitted himself some distraction and his thoughts crawled off in different directions. Dr Pepolen did not have a cure for that ailment. Maybe the only salvation would be to put down poison in all the nooks and crannies of his brain. But there was the risk that the leading thought might die. Which one was it? They were looking frighteningly similar. Which one to choose…?
After a while he said, “The windows are not clean,” with a deep sigh.
The faces of the diplomats showed some relief at the expense of those of the technical staff. Several long, sticky seconds passed. The accountant, Bianca Mashinska, struggled to come up with some sensible explanation, but could not find anything.
Tania Vandova appeared and informed them that Kishev had not come to work at all. She had spoken with his wife: he had heart problems and had been taken into hospital for tests.
Helpless fury overcame the new Ambassador’s heart; he blinked quickly several times and snapped, “You may go!”
6
During that day, many of the employees tried to contact him, but he resolutely refused to see anyone. He wanted to play with their nerves; to leave them with the impression that he knew everything about them and their doings, and that he had no intention of listening to their pitiful explanations. Let them tremble in expectation of his call!
Varadin threw himself into the thorough exploration of the multitudinous drawers and cupboards in his office; the cashbox, the wardrobe and all the other little places where he supposed the spirit of his predecessor might be hiding. Not much was left. People in his profession were secretive and erased all traces behind them, where possible. In the library, the Encyclopaedia Britannica and the ‘Who’s Who’ of 1986 feigned an air of dusty importance. In the draw of the desk lay three lonely paperclips and one used marker. In the safe he found a half-disintegrated washing-up sponge. That looked to be everything. He examined the toilet, tested it and sat behind the big boss’s desk, twisted around this way and that in the armchair to get used to the feel of it. He was almost feeling at home when the red phone rang.
He stared fearfully at it and picked up the receiver.
“Hello!” said a serene female voice. “Already in your workplace, eh? Bravo! Well done!”
“Thank you!” his ingratiating response conveyed little enthusiasm.
He knew the voice well and clearly he could not tell it to go to hell.
“You haven’t forgotten about me, have you?” He sensed an edge of suspicion.
“How could If or get you!” his voice filled with sincere indignation.
“Easily! Some people immediately forget everything, as soon as they land themselves a little mandate,” the subtle accusation rang from the receiver.
“I am not one of them. You know me.”
“We-ell, I’ve been let down so many times,” sighed the voice. “You think you know somebody but when they go abroad – they prove to be a completely different person. Ungrateful people! They imagine they have become untouchable. But they are mistaken.”
“They certainly are mistaken.”
“You are not one of them though, are you?” the voice quavered hopefully. “You know how the things are. You are experienced; that’s to say, you know how to prioritise.”
“I’ve learned that well.”
“I hope so,” there was a pause before the decisive question: “And, how are things going?”
“I don’t know yet. People here don’t look to be on the straight and narrow.”
“I had no doubts about that. They are a bunch of crooks. You must report to me every week.”
“Agreed,” Varadin nodded. “Do not worry.”
“Don’t be so relaxed. You don’t know her yet. She is so solemn! Every time I pass through London, I invite her properly for lunch or breakfast, but she always plays dumb. She is busy. And how is she so busy, if you please? Counting her coins, I suppose. The humiliation I have to endure.”
“We mustn’t lose hope, the stakes are high!”
“Yes, we have to draw her in somehow!”
“Leave it to me,” said Varadin authoritatively.
“If you betray me …”
“Not chance of that, of course not,” he assured her.
“Oh, well in that case, goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
The first number that burst into his mind was 98. For some moments he stared blankly at the phone, then quietly, but passionately, he pronounced, “73!”
7
‘Borscht & Tears’ was a famous Russian restaurant, situated in South Kensington. It was run by descendants of White Guardsmen. An important peculiarity, which very few people knew about and which was entirely absent from any advertising, was the fact that underneath the Russian restaurant, in the basement, was another restaurant – a Bulgarian one. This Bulgarian restaurant, carefully stored away within the belly of the big Russian doll, had been conceived fairly recently, due to the simple fact that the owners’ daughter had married a Bulgarian. An enterprising patriot, he had taken the risk of investing in nostalgia, whilst lacking a decent working knowledge of the peculiarities of its native version.
Bulgarian
