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 chair, to his right, a tiny old man was seated, with a pinkish face and tight brown suit. On the piece of paper in front of him was written: Douglas Smack, followed by a mysterious line of letters, which reminded Varadin of the notes on the labels of bottles of old brandy. Mr. Smack, half drowsing, was listening to the mumbling of a large, impressive lady, with a pearl necklace wrapped around her wrinkly neck.
Opposite them sat a monster of such over-inflated ego as to make Varadin look like a genuinely pleasant, good-hearted individual in comparison. The white hair was carefully brushed back like a mane. The posturere vealeda decisive man in charge of an important economic conglomerate. Said monster was wearing an immaculate DJ and tie, and his chest glowed with diamante buttons.
What on earth am I doing here? Varadin asked himself. Down the whole length of that long table, he could not see a single familiar face, not a single familiar voice rang in his ear. He was completely alone. His spirits dropped still further when the scanty hors d’oeuvre suddenly appeared in front of him. Two ribbons of red fish, some little rose of butter and a leaf of lettuce. Because he had nothing better to do, he started rolling up the fish onto his fork, at which point a gentleman flumped his large body down in the empty seat next to his. He was fiftyish, in a chic dark blue suit with fine stripes and flashy orange tie. A strong, almost overpowering scent of eau-de-Cologne surrounded him. He had yellowish straggling hair, carefully slicked onto his reddish skull. A silver ring with a red stone decorated his fleshy little finger.
He slid his eyes to Varadin’s side, read the card in front and his mouth opened into a big smile.
“Mr. Varadin Dimitrov!? Nice to meet you! Dean Carver, M.P.” He offered his hand. “How long have you been in London?”
“Only a few days,”
“Fresh indeed!” grinned Carver, as if he was talking about the fish on his plate. “I know Bulgaria quite well. Magnificent place! I’ve been there several times, in ‘86 and ‘87, at the invitation of your agricultural Minister, what was his name…?”
“Petar Tanchev?”
“A-ha! That’s the one,” Mr. Carver agreed with verve. “Good old times! Your old leaders, they had some style, you know! Real barons! I’ll tell something in confidence: not everything was so bad, ha-ha!”
Shocked, Varadin
