Silence. Looks, overflowing with devotion.
“As you all know, the European conference opens on Monday,” he continued. “The Prime Minister himself will be participating, along with various members of the Cabinet. It is expected that the EU will announce a new integration strategy. I assume that you are all up to speed on this.”
The diplomats nodded energetically. For just that reason, a dozen faxes had been exchanged between the Embassy and the Ministry. The details of the program had been approved, and speeches and memoranda regarding the intentions of the Cabinet, on any subject, frenziedly translated. The program and the speeches, however, were constantly undergoing some change or other and thus needed to be approved and translated again and again. It was hell on earth, lavishly spiced with hysteria that wafted in clouds from the kitchens of power.
“I am warning you that from now on…” he raised his finger. “I will tolerate no gaffes!”
Gaffes — everyone lived with that nightmare, which often assumed reality. The diplomats were so frightened and overburdened by the system, that they dared not make any independent decisions. The tension often degenerated into apathy, bordering on catatonic stupor at its most decisive. It was at such moments that the nightmares came true.
“What is happening with Mrs. Pezantova’s concert?” asked the Ambassador suddenly, once he was convinced that the previous subject had run its course.
“We are working on it,” called out Counsellor Danailov with the agitated tone of an electrical engineer working on a hopelessly damaged cable. “We are doing everything that’s possible at our end!”
“Then why has it already been postponed twice?” Varadin played the severe inquisitor, narrowing his eyes.
Panic appeared on the faces of the diplomats.
The technical staff observed the inquisition maliciously. Fortunately Tania Vandova was able to explain, “We still cannot ensure a representative from the Palace.”
“Are you inviting them at all?”
“Naturally,” Tania Vandova responded calmly.
Her mandate was coming to an end during the summer, so she did not have much to lose.
“Who is dealing with this?” he enquired coldly.
“Kishev!” they all chorused.
“Does he so much as know that we are here?” asked the Ambassador sharply.
“I don’t know,” shrugged Tania Vandova, “I haven’t seen him since this morning.”
“Go and find him!” he ordered.
This doesn’t look good for Kishev, she thought and quickly left the room.
Oppressive silence reigned.
“The post office workers’ union promised to buy 50 tickets,” the Consul, Mavrodiev, broke in totally inappropriately and at exactly the wrong moment, though probably with the secret hope of gaining the boss’s goodwill.
Big mistake. The Ambassador threw him a look full of hostility.
“As it seems, you are not entirely up to speed!” he spat bitterly, “The idea is not to gather a bunch of riff-raff. We want only the most select audience — aristocrats, world celebrities — the cream of society.”
What am I doing sitting here explaining to this savage?! he said to himself angrily. He imagined Mrs. Pezantova’s address: Dear Ladies and Gentlemen, in front of a crowd of postmen and drivers — unthinkable! It immediately struck him that lying beneath this seemingly well-intentioned proposal lurked a deeper plot: to discredit him in the eyes of those presently in power. From that moment onwards, in his eyes, the good-hearted, clumsy Consul was transformed into Enemy Number One, whose destruction was not to be delayed. With their delicate receptors the others immediately sensed that something bad was happening (danger, danger!) and did not utter another word.
The name of Mrs. Pezantova was a source of worry and agitation for everyone, including Varadin Dimitrov. In fact especially for him. Devorina Pezantova was the wife of an influential Bulgarian politician. She could not possibly accept the secondary role handed to her by history and hungered for her own aura as a woman of social significance. As often happens with such simple folk, lifted suddenly by some twist of fate to the very peak of the social hierarchy, her head was a murky vortex of boundless ambition and grandiose 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!