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 new Ambassador arrived, that’s what!” retorted the cook shortly, pouring himself more vodka and drinking it.
“So it’s true then!” Chavdar exclaimed as he turned to Batushka and nodded, “He has arrived.”
“That’s what I’m having tell you!” Batushka nodded.
“And so?” asked the actor. “What’s that to do with our business, anyway?”
“What do you mean what?” the cook exploded. “He’ll immediately start digging everything up now, sniffing about the place, reorganising everything. It’s impossible! It’s…”
“Nonsense!” Chavdar broke in. “He hasn’t found his feet yet, he needs time to sort things out. Before he figures out what’s what, we’ll be done, isn’t that right, Batushka?”
Batushka nodded dryly.
“You can talk,” Kosta nodded. “But you haven’t met him. He’s insane. He just appears out of the blue. Anything could come into his head.”
“There, there, he has other things to do,” the actor calmed him. “He’ll not start his digging in the fridges.”
“You never know,” sighed the cook. “How can I put it? You better find yourself somewhere else.”
“You can’t pull out now, at the last minute!” Chavdar exploded. “We’ve already invested in this project! Isn’t that right, Batushka?”
“Hmm!” Batushka began to frown darkly.
“Batushka’s opinion is that is too late now to turn back,” continued the actor. “The whole thing’s already going at full tilt!”
Kosta scratched his neck sceptically, “You’re going to have to think of something. There are loads of other places.”
“What’s he be saying?” Batushka raised his voice.
“Nothing, nothing!” Chavdar sought a hurried translation. His forehead was shining with sweat and now really agitated, he turned to the cook, “Listen, Kosta, we’re going to be in deep shit! I’ve vouched for you and now you’re losing it!”
“They’ll send me back!” was Kosta’s curt comment.
“What?”
“If they catch us, they’re going to send me back to Bulgaria, on the first plane.”
“My God!” Chavdar cried out. “We’re risking our necks here, and he’s worried they’re going to send him back. What a fool. What do you say, Batushka? Send him back – that’s his worry!”
Batushka shook back his head and showed his straight white teeth. “Ho-ho-ho!” he laughed with his bass voice.
“Listen, you Pastry!” started Chavdar. “You have two possibilities here – to behave like a pussy or like a man. If you behave like a pussy, this one here – Batushka, will make sure you regret the moment you ever set foot in London! But, if you behave like a man you’re going to get your juicy part of the deal plus the advance payment and we’re all laughing. So, which do you choose?”
Silence fell around the table. The bottle was sweating. A random individual came down the stairs, looked around and sat at the other end of the hall.
“Only for one week,” Kosta sighed at last. “And a hundred pounds up front,” he reminded them.
Batushka placed his hand on his shoulder. “Molodets! You the man.”
8
A piercing howl welcomed him – in one of the corners of the office the grey belly of an enormous Hoover-monster loomed like a communist mausoleum. The hose twisting across the floor ended in the hands of some girl, her nose facing the carpet. Varadin knitted his brows: she really had picked the wrong moment to clean, the idiot! The idea of waiting outside until the noisy process was over did occur to him, but then he remembered the gang of employees shunting in at the entrance downstairs and quickly reaffirmed his intentions. He stepped in quietly and sat down in an armchair. He had heard people say that if you stare at someone for long enough, something started itching in their brain and they would turn around. This obviously did not apply to her, or maybe the howling instrument created some barrier that dispersed the fluids