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 stared at him. The other filled his glass with red wine.
“Cheers!” Dean Carver took a large sip and winked at him, “It’s not so bad, considering it’s Bulgarian!”
In the meantime the VIPs had taken their places around the table. Someone tapped a glass and the hall fell silent. Some bald, wrinkly old man, decorated with a huge necklace was about to speak – a Lord Basterbridge, as it became clear later.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the annual dinner of our modest society. I am very pleased to announce the presence here of Mr. Morel – Her Majesty’s Minister for Defence.”
A murmur of approval circled the hall.
Mr. Morel had the radiant looks of an educated working class man who had made a career in the Unions. He thanked the people present and bowed to the old man, who was apparently the object of deep respect for all present. After the Minister, it was the lecturer’s turn. He was a Jonathan Cragg – a tall, dark man with liberal views on life. He was head of the current government’s strategic international research team – a key post reporting to the Cabinet. Jonathan Cragg was an agile quack: his expressions were complicated and he built an extensive construction of scientific-like clichés to befuddle the audience. Without doubt his work was well paid. The representatives of his parasitic caste travelled relentlessly around Eastern Europe and in the guise of experts swallowed the largest slice of the funding pie, designed for the revival of this deeply problematic region. Varadin was enraptured by Cragg’s speech for some five minutes, and then realised that he had lost the gist of it completely. Only separate words started to have meaning as the whole speech became akin to a verbal salad. Despite the helpless condition of his mind, he made sure the look on his face remained that of an attentive listener until the end, when he enthusiastically joined the chorus of applause.
‘That does not explain the differences in the exchange rates,’ mumbled the old man to his right.
He felt a bit uneasy that he had until now ignored this probably quite important person. He tried to introduce himself, but Smack V.S.O.P.C.R., was already snoozing, which was apparently his usual state.
When the official part was over, people became livelier. Dean Carver filled his glass with wine again and his memories from Bulgaria came back to him. Unforgettable days! As a young lobbyist for the left, with prospects, he had dared to pass through the iron curtain…They received him like a king! Helicopter flights, hunting parties, night feasts in the residences! And what women!
“In ’93 I brought some Arab investor to Bulgaria,” he continued. “He wanted to build a lift in the ski resort of Bansko, but then he backed out when he saw what was going on…I haven’t visited since.”
The fact that Carver was sat next to him was hardly a coincidence, thought Varadin. To arrange the guests around the table so they have something in common to talk about was an art-form – one that the English certainly possessed.
“I really want to revive my connections with your magnificent country…” Carver sighed, after a long sip from his glass. “I heard you have a new government. How’s it going?”
“Very well, thank you,” Varadin replied without thinking.
“Then why were the papers writing about those orphans that were dying from hunger? Was that true?”
Varadin made an involuntary grimace. Apparently Carver had seen the advertisement which was in circulation in the British press. It had a picture of a hungry, disabled child wrapped in rags. The advertisement was printed under the name of some Eastern European fund, which was gathering money for the orphans in need in Bulgaria.
“The period of transition to a market economy is not an easy one…” the Ambassador’s response was edgy. He thought a little and then added, “It is a shame that people tend to speculate on other people’s misfortune.”
“Ah, those do-gooders…” sighed Carver. “There is nothing more damaging for the image of a country. Those humanitarian parasites are like fleas in the rags of a beggar. They feed themselves on the misery of others and have no interest whatsoever in seeing that misery removed. The only thing they care about is how to expose it sufficiently to reach sponsors. I know them quite well: the worse your condition is, the happier they are! Do you know that the charity business is the third biggest, after drugs and pornography?”
Varadin’s brain was feverishly trying to process all this information and was struggling to put it into a report format. He was having difficulties with it and that made him feel uneasy: everything that could not be put into a report was either too dangerous or too insignificant. He could not grasp which of the two he was dealing with. Third options did not feature in his mind.
“But you’re not drinking at all!” exclaimed Carver, fixing his full glass with a contemptuous stare. “I raise a toast to Bulgarian wines. Especially the reds!”
And he downed his brimming glass in one. Original man thought Varadin and took a more generous sip for appearance’s sake.
“The solution to all your problems lies in decent PR,” resumed Dean Carver with authority. “Someone to take care of your image. Do you know how much money other countries are throwing into that sort of thing?”
Varadin nodded; there were certain rumours that this latest tear-jerking campaign was being organized by the intelligence services of a neighbouring Balkan country, whose aim was to discredit his government’s political efforts, at a time when the discussions about European Union enlargement were reaching their climax. “Quite recently, the government decided to invest more money in this direction,” he conceded.
“And it’s doing the right thing,” exclaimed Carver. “You have to keep your eyes open though, London is full of identical agencies. To my regret most of them are crooks. They’ll wrap you up in all sorts of ‘concepts’ and ‘strategies’, and then present you such a bill that it’ll make you