(Translations from the original Russian supplied by Mr. Georgio of Rome. When reading important state documents translated in confidentiality in Rome, think of Mr. Georgio.)
Two senior bureaucrats were waiting anxiously in a black room deep within the heart of the Politburo. One was a KGB operative, unbeknownst to the other. They were the nameless, faceless types bureaucracies are supposed to be peopled with.
For purposes of this narrative, they shall be known as Sergei and Anatole. Sergei (who, at 53, was the younger of the two men) paced the room awkwardly; Anatole joylessly smoked a thin cigar of vague Cuban descent.
“Why did you call me here so early in the morning?” Anatole wearily asked. His mistress had not been amused.
Sergei momentarily stopped puffing. “I have already told you that a package from one of our operatives in Ottawa will arrive here soon.”
“We have operatives in Ottawa?”
“Of course. Everybody knows that…”
“Nobody tells me anything,” Anatole grumbled. “What is in this package?”
“I am not certain,” Sergei admitted with a shrug. “We are looking for a tin pot with a broken handle. It left Ottawa for Montreal in a green garbage bag. In Montreal, the entire bag was put into a crate marked “Art – Fragile” and sent on by private plane to Cairo. The crate was partially dismantled there, and rebuilt as -“
“Is there a point to this story?” Anatole interrupted.
“Just trying to make spy-type exposition while we’re waiting,” Sergei, slightly hurt, said.
“I’m sorry,” Anatole apologized. “That is proper procedure. Please…continue…”
“In Cairo,” Sergei said, gaining enthusiasm with each new twist, “the crate was rebuilt as a wooden miniature Taj Mahal, and was sent on to London. There, another box was built around the small building. This was labeled: “SMALL ANIMALS.” A tape recorder with small animal sounds was put into the box, which arrived in Moscow a few minutes ago…”
As if on cue, a box labeled “SMALL ANIMALS” was carried into the conference room. A strange mooing sound came out of the box, as if a cow on qualudes was inside. Sergei signed for the thing, and started looking it over with Anatole.
“This is a tape of a small animal?” Sergei asked, wryly. “A three foot tall cow, perhaps?”
Anatole ignored him, starting to pull planks out of the crate. Soon, a miniature Taj Mahal rested in front of them. It was made of wood, as expected. “Aah,” Anatole said, “what would a miniature Taj Mahal be without tiny sacred cows, eh, Sergei?”
Sergei threw the tape recorder against a wall.
The Taj Mahal was deconstructed (in the modernist sense – with hammers and screwdrivers – rather than the postmodernist sense – with words) and the two men were left with a garbage bag. Sergei enthusiastically opened the garbage bag, only to find it full of garbage. “Wha…?” he exclaimed.
Anatole, who was always able to pretend he was enjoying a situation no matter how untrue it was – and it was invariably untrue – said: “Garbage, my friend. What else would one find in a garbage bag?”
“A…tin pot…with…a broken handle,” Sergei responded.
“It is undoubtedly there,” Anatole consoled him, “because our operatives in Ottawa would not mislead us. Look.”
This last command was spoken grimly, and Sergei knew he could not disobey. He looked.
He looked through the first layer of trash in the bag, which looked, felt and smelled like the remains of a salad. (Garbacologists would have been able to identify it as a Caesar salad, light on the croutons, but neither Sergei nor Anatole had been trained in that august profession.)
Sergei looked through dozens of tin cans on the off chance that whatever they were looking for had accidentally found its way into one of them. He sifted through coffee grounds.
He looked hopefully at a filthy copy of a book about Rene Levesque. Anatole looked the book over, but it did not appear marked in any way; although he would send it out to be decoded, he doubted anything of interest would be found there.
Sergei desperately started looking through shredded boxes, more coffee grounds and discarded underwear (the gender of the owner of which he could not determine, although it would have been child’s play for a garbacologist.) When he thought the garbage bag could hold no more refuse, he came, at last, upon a broken tin pot.
It was empty.
Anatole was not amused. “Find out who is responsible for this stupidy,” he ordered, “and have them recalled.”
“Right away,” Sergei, somewhat soiled, agreed. He was trying to figure out a way the tin pot itself could be the message. He was not succeeding.
“Oh, and Sergei,” Anatole added.
“Yes?”
“Clean up this mess.”