from Russian Nostalgia which was lachrymose and dripping in mineral resources – a big vein of gold, which generations of capable salesmen of swampy mirages have mined and continue to mine. Bulgarian Nostalgia was dusty and baked like a disused threshing-floor. It was fed with cheese from Finsbury Park Turkish markets and greasy Spanish bacon from Asda; it was stuffed with beans and lentils and drowned in a glass of Rakia spirit, for free if you could get away with it. It had no ambition to rule over the soul; you could easily relegate it to some solitary corner. It was too economical to be economically significant. That was why the Bulgarian restaurant was condemned to stay forever in the womb of the Matryoshka like a nameless and illegitimate embryo, fighting to be born, struggling to get out, and straining at the umbilical leash through which it sucked vital juices.
The Russian restaurant had a well-polished, decadent interior: plush red damask, candles in champagne bottles, some dusty balalaikas on the walls, a big decorative samovar – all this, although seeming exotic to western eyes, nevertheless to some extent lived up to expectations fed by references from the vast corpus of Russian literature. In the Russian restaurant they played Russian romances, served ice-cold vodka and steaks à la Kiev; you could cry your eyes out, quarrel with God or the Devil, fall in love or blow your brains out with a revolver, if you felt so inclined.
The Bulgarian saloon did not offer such romantic extras. You reached it via a narrow tortuous staircase, as though descending into Tartarus
On the walls hung traditional ‘koukeri’ masks and dried corncobs, as well as a shield forged from copper with something like a horseman carved on it. Here a kaval and bagpipe tune could often be heard, or the bang of a drum and as for the customers, they sat right next to each other as if they were all boiling in a common pot. Wine and Rakia spirit were poured lavishly and simple peasant dishes were served. These last could be better described as fakes than as realistic reproductions of the originals. But the emigrants were easily pleased; they had forgotten the taste of the original dish, remembering only the look of the thing. It was not difficult for them to imagine they were eating the authentic Bulgarian tomato and roast pepper delicacy, lyutenitsa, whilst what they were really consuming was an ordinary salsa with onions. That made the management of the kitchen easy, but somewhat diminished the profits. Regular clientele was missing – the local gourmands passed it by, and misguided tourists did not have the courage to venture beyond the Russian section. The restaurant filled up only for special occasions – once or twice a month. Then the owner would invite Kosta to spice up the menu with some more sophisticated specialties. The cook had nothing against that – his salary was miserable and he was constantly on the lookout for ways to make an additional pound or two on the side.
On the evening in question there was no special occasion and ‘Borscht & Tears’ was half-empty. Not only the Bulgarian section, but also the widely advertised Russian one. It was Wednesday – a day that marked the apogee of the business week – and Londoners were saving their energy for stunts on the stock market. Only two or three couples who looked like tourists from Australia or New Zealand were picking at their plates in the hope of finding a small grain of the great Russian soul. A glum waiter, Polish no less, was observing them cynically, as he leant against the wooden column by the stairs. Kosta’s appearance caused a slight lifting of spirits, as though the long awaited fictional hero had appeared on stage at last and was preparing to do something suitably unhinged, which would instantly reveal the meaning of life to them. Kosta, though, did nothing so exciting; he headed quietly down the stairs, nodding to the waiter on his way past.
In the empty Bulgarian salon two men were seated. They had taken the table at the far end and Kosta saw them only when they waved at him. One of them combined the physique of an ex-bodybuilder with the droopy blond moustache of a Polish nobleman fallen on hard times. This was Chavdar Tolomanov, the man he had spoken to that afternoon. The other was a stranger.
Chavdar invited him to take a seat and made the introductions. “This is Batushka. Batushka, this is our guy.”
The Batushka in question, was a tall leathery individual with an angular Asiatic face and dark skin. He was wearing a loose designer-label training top, which revealed a prodigious, hairy torso. A massive gold chain sparkled on his wrist. Kosta was seeing the man for the first time, but immediately realised that it would have been far healthier to have never met him.
Batushka had a hard, ruthless handshake.
“We’re drinking vodka here,” said Chavdar. “Will you have one for starters?”
Kosta did not have much choice. The vodka was icy and smooth like a snowdrop at Christmas. He munched on a piece of lardy bacon. Tasty.
“And…?” growled Batushka, his voice a bass rumble.
Kosta glanced at Chavdar.
“Relax,” the latter raised his hand. “Batushka is an insider. He is the one I told you about. Everything goes through him.”
That was exactly what was worrying the cook the most at that moment. He suddenly realized that he was in something, and up to his neck. He had believed Chavdar and let the waster drag him into the depths. “Don’t get involved with those scoundrels!” Norka had yelled at him, but who paid attention? She might not be a lady, but she was by no means slow on the uptake.
Chavdar Tolomanov was a former film actor. In the past, in the time of darkest, deepest socialism, he had played a few roles that made him famous at a local level. And that was his misfortune: this popularity (specifically popularity, not fame!) was too little for him, compared to the dazzling summit of greatness, being reached by such stars as De Niro, Kevin Costner, Michael Douglas and even that bed-wetter, Brad Pitt. Chavdar, naturally, was not going to lose out to them; the problem was that some several thousand miles away from the place where the stars were growing, cruel destiny had dumped him in an entirely different climate in which only shapeless potatoes grew. For this reason he had decided that he must act to correct this entirely unfair situation, by moving to a more favourable place. Afterwards, having been denied an American visa for no apparent reason, he found himself in London, armed with a brilliant CV and two demo-tapes. He launched an assault on all the casting agencies in the city, as well as on all the producers. The English, being, in principle, a polite people, received him warmly, although with some slight surprise; they nodded, seemingly with some respect at his artistic CV, but then politely declined to employ him. The reason was simple – his Slav accent. He made big efforts to cure that cruel disease, and had even made some progress. Unfortunately, this progress made itself heard during the final auditions for the roleofa malicious computer maniac of Russian descent, who had penetrated the allies’ security system. The producers decided that his accent was not expressive enough and gave the part to someone else, who was 100% English and made it sound far more sinister. That proved a heavy setback for Chavdar. From that moment onwards his life became chaotic, a typical state of affairs for people who have lost the firm ground from beneath their feet. He tried different jobs that brought him neither money nor any other satisfaction. He was kidding himself that these were only temporary jobs – a process of adaptation to his new environment. But the currents of life were carrying him implacably away from his vocation, involving him in more and more absurd enterprises that were not always entirely on the right side of the law. His depression turned into gluttony, which, given the prevailing conditions in the abundant western market, was not difficult to satisfy. Very soon his well-trained body lost shape and became fat and ugly. He was aware of his gradual decline, but was too afraid to go back to his country, where, he guessed, only venom and spite awaited him. His compatriots, like typical Eastern Europeans, were inclined to forgive the people who were leaving the country, but not the people who were coming back, because they tarnished the image of The West – the last hope of desperate souls, who had inherited the debris that was the post-communist era.
“So, what being happening?” said Batushka in his Russian version of English, leaning his body forward like an interrogator.
“The
