Buddha's Little Finger

by Виктор Пелевин

  ‘I do not remember a thing,’ I said, and felt my head again. ‘Absolutely nothing. I can only remember a dream I had that in some dark hall in St Petersburg I am being beaten on the head with a bust of Aristotle, and every time it shatters into fragments. But then it happens all over again - pure Gothic… But now I understand what was going on.’

  ‘Your ravings were really quite intriguing.’ said Anna. ‘You spent half of yesterday remembering some Maria who had been hit by a shell. It was a rather incoherent tale, though, and I never did understand just what relationship you had with the girl. I suppose you must have been thrown together by the whims of war?’

  ‘I have never known anyone called Maria. Excluding, that is, a recent nightmare.’

  ‘Please do not be concerned,’ said Anna, ‘I have no intention of being jealous.’

  ‘That is a shame.’ I replied, then I sat up and lowered my legs to the floor. ‘Please, do not think that I am trying to shock you by talking to you in nothing but my underwear.’

  ‘You must not get up.’

  ‘But I feel perfectly well,’ I replied. ‘I would like to take a shower and get dressed.’

  ‘Quite out of the question.’

  ‘Anna,’ I said, ‘if I command a squadron, I must have an orderly.’

  ‘Certainly you have one.’

  ‘While you and I are talking here, he is most probably swinishly drunk yet again. Do you think you could send him to me? And another thing - where is Chapaev?’

  The strange thing was that my orderly (he was a taciturn, yellow-haired, stocky individual with a long body and the short, crooked legs of a cavalryman - a ridiculous combination which made him look like an inverted pair of pincers) really was drunk. He brought me my clothes: a greyish-green military jacket with no shoulder-stripes (but with one sewn on to (he arm for my wound), blue breeches with a double red stripe down the side and a pair of excellent short boots made of soft leather. Also thrown on to the bed were a fuzzy black astrakhan hat, a sabre with the inscription ‘To Pyotr Voyd for valour’, a holster containing a Browning and Vorblei’s travelling bag, the very sight of which suddenly made me feel unwell. All of its contents were still in place, except that there was a little less cocaine in the tin. In addition, I discovered in the bag a small pair of binoculars and a notebook about one-third lull of writing which was undoubtedly my own. I found most of the notes quite incomprehensible - they dealt with horses, hay and people whose names meant nothing to me. But apart from that, my eyes did encounter a few phrases which resembled those which I had been in the habit of noting down:

  ‘Christianity and other religs. can be regarded as a totality of variously remote objects radiating a certain energy. How blindingly the figure of the crucified God shines! And how stupid it is to call Chr. a primitive system! If one thinks about it, it was not Rasputin who plunged Russia into revolution, but his murder.’

  And then, two pages further on:

  ‘In life all «successes» have to be measured against the period of time over which they are achieved; if this interval is excessively long, then most achievements are rendered meaningless to a greater or lesser degree; the value of any achievement (at least, any practical achievement) is reduced to zero if the effort extends throughout the length of one’s life, because after death nothing any longer has any meaning. Do not forget the inscription on the ceiling.’

  Despite this last exhortation, I seemed to have forgotten the inscription on the ceiling quite irretrievably. There had been times when I would use up an entire notebook every month on jottings of this kind, and every one of them had seemed genuinely significant and filled with a meaning which would be required in the future. But when this future arrived, the notebooks had been misplaced, life outside had completely changed, and I had found myself on the dank and miserable Tverskoi Boulevard with a revolver in my coat pocket. It was a good thing, I thought, that I had happened to meet an old friend.

  Once I was dressed (the orderly had not brought any foot-bindings, and I was obliged to tear up the sheet to make some) I hesitated for some time before eventually donning the astrakhan hat - it smelt of something rotten - but my shaven head seemed to me to present an extremely vulnerable target. I left the sabre on the bed, but extracted the pistol from its holster and hid it in my pocket. I cannot bear to upset people’s nerves with the sight of a weapon, and in any case it made it easier to reach the weapon quickly if necessary. When I took a look at myself in the mirror above the wash-basin I was quite satisfied - the astrakhan hat even lent my unshaven face a certain crazed haughtiness.

  Anna was standing downstairs at the foot of the broad curved staircase which I descended after leaving my room.

  ‘What kind of place is this?’ I asked. ‘It looks like an abandoned manor-house.’

  ‘So it is,’ she said. ‘This is our HQ. And not only our HQ - we live here as well. Since you became a squadron commander, Pyotr, a great deal has changed.’

  ‘But where is Chapaev?’

  ‘He is out of town just at the moment,’ Anna replied, ‘but he should be back soon.’

  ‘And what town is this, by the way?’

  ‘It is called Altai-Vidnyansk, and it is surrounded on every side by mountains. I cannot understand how towns appear in such places. Society here consists of no more than a few officers, a couple of strange individuals from St Petersburg and the local intelligentsia. The locals have, at best, heard something about the war and the revolution, while the Bolsheviks are stirring things up on the outskirts. In short, a real hole.’

  ‘Then what are we doing here?’

  ‘Wait for Chapaev,’ said Anna. ‘He’ll explain everything.’

  ‘In that case, with your permission, I shall take a stroll around the town.’

  ‘You must not do that under any circumstances,’ Anna insisted. ‘Think for yourself. You have only just come round -you might suffer some kind of fit. What if you were to faint out on the street?’

  ‘I am deeply touched by your concern,’ I replied, ‘but if it is sincere, you will have to keep me company.’

  ‘You leave me no choice,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Exactly where would you like to go?’

  ‘If perhaps there is some kind of hostelry,’ I said, ‘you know, the usual kind for the provinces - with a wilting palm tree in a tub and warm sherry in carafes - that would do very nicely. And they must serve coffee.’

  ‘There is one such place here,’ said Anna, ‘but it has no palm tree, and no sherry either, I expect.’

  The town of Altai-Vidnyansk consisted for the most part of small wooden houses of one or two storeys set rather widely apart from one another. They were surrounded by tall fences of wooden planks, most of which were painted brown, and were almost totally concealed behind the dense greenery of neglected gardens. Closer to the centre, which Anna and I approached by descending the steep slope of a cobbled street, buildings of brick and stone appeared, also as a rule no more than two storeys high; I noted a couple of picturesque cast-iron fences and a fire-observation tower with something elusively Germanic about its appearance, it was a typical small provincial town, not without a certain unspoilt charm, calm and bright and drowned in blossoming lilac. The mountains towered up around it on all sides; it seemed to lie at the bottom of the chalice which was formed by them - with the central square with its repulsively ugly statue of Alexander II at its very lowest point: the windows of the ‘Heart of Asia’ restaurant to which Anna took me happened to look out on that particular monument. The thought came to me that it was all just begging to be put into some poem or other.

  It was cool and quiet in the restaurant; there was no palm-tree in a tub, but there was a stuffed bear standing in the corner clutching a halberd in its paws, and the room was almost empty. At one of the tables two rather seedy-looking officers were sitting and drinking - when Anna and I walked past they looked up at me and then turned their eyes away with indifference. I must confess that I was not really sure whether my present sta
tus obliged me to open fire on them with my Browning or not, but to judge from Anna’s calm demeanour, nothing of the kind seemed to be required; in any case, the shoulder-straps had been torn off their uniform jackets, Anna and I sat at the next table and I ordered champagne.

  ‘You wanted to drink coffee,’ said Anna.

  ‘True.’ I said. ‘Normally I never drink in the daytime.’

  ‘Then why the exception?’

  ‘It is made entirely in your honour.’

  Anna laughed. ‘That’s very kind, Pyotr. But I want to ask you a favour - for God’s sake, please don’t start courting me again. I do not find the prospect of an affair with a wounded cavalry officer in a town where there are shortages of water and kerosene very attractive.’

  1 had expected nothing else.

  ‘Well, then.’ I said, when the waiter had set the bottle on the table, ‘if you choose to see me as a wounded cavalry officer, who am I to object? But in that case, how shall I regard you?’

  ‘As a machine-gunner.’ said Anna. ‘Or if you prefer to be more accurate, as a Lewis gunner. I prefer the disc-loading Lewis.’

  ‘As a cavalry officer, of course, I detest your profession. Nothing could be more depressing than the prospect of at-lacking a machine-gun emplacement in mounted formation. But since we are talking about you, I raise my glass to the profession of gunner.’

  We clinked glasses.

  ‘Tell me, Anna.’ I asked, ‘whose officers are those at the next table? Who actually holds this town?’

  ‘Broadly speaking,’ said Anna, ‘the town is held by the Reds, but there are some Whites here as well. Or you might say it is held by the Whites, but there are some Reds here as well. So it is best to dress in a neutral style - much as we are dressed now.’

  ‘And where is our regiment?’

  ‘Our division, you mean. Our division has been dissipated in battle. We now have very few men left, a third of a squadron at the most. But since there are no enemy forces of any substance here we can regard ourselves as safe. This is the backwoods, everything is perfectly quiet here. You walk along the streets, you see yesterday’s enemies and you think to yourself is the reason for which we were trying to kill one another only a few days ago real?’

  ‘I understand you.’ I said. ‘War coarsens the sinews of the heart, but one only has to glance at the lilac blossom and it seems that the whistling of shells, the wild whooping of cavalrymen, the scent of gunpowder mingled with the sweet smell of blood are all unreal, no more than a mirage or a dream.’

  ‘Exactly.’ said Anna. ‘The question is, how real is the lilac blossom? Perhaps it is just another dream.’

  Well, well, I thought to myself, but I refrained from expanding any further on the theme.

  Tell me, Anna, what is the present situation at the fronts? In general, I mean.’

  ‘To be quite honest, I do not know. Or as they say nowadays, I’m not posted on that. There are no newspapers here and the rumours are all different. And then, you know, I have had enough of all that. They take and lose towns one has never heard of with wild-sounding names like Buguruslan, Bugulma and… what is it now… Belebei. And where it all goes on, who takes the town and who loses it, is not really clear and, more importantly, it is not particularly interesting either. The war goes on, of course, but talking about it has become rather mauvais genre. I would say the general atmosphere is one of weariness. Enthusiasm has slumped badly.’

  I sat in silence, thinking about what she had said. Somewhere far away a horse neighed in the street, followed by the long-drawn-out yell of the coachman. One of the officers at the next table finally managed to get the needle into his vein: he had been trying unsuccessfully for the past five minutes, leaning far back in his chair to get a good view of his arms concealed under the table all this time his chair had been balanced on its two back legs and there were moments when I thought he was certain to fall. Putting the syringe back into its nickel-plated box, he hid it in his holster. Judging from the oily gleam that immediately appeared in his eyes, the syringe must have contained morphine. For a minute or two he sat swaying on his chair, then he slumped forward on to the table with his elbows, took his comrade by the hand and in a voice filled with a sincerity beyond my power to convey, he said:

  ‘I just thought, Nikolai… D’you know why the Bolsheviks are winning?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because their teaching contains a vital, passionate…’ he closed his eyes and shuffled the fingers of one hand as he searched agonizingly for the right word, ‘a love of humanity, a love full of ecstasy and bliss. Once you accept it fully and completely, Bolshevism is capable of kindling a certain higher hope that lies dormant in the heart of man, don’t you agree?’

  The second officer spat on the floor.

  ‘You know what, Georges,’ he said sullenly, ‘if it was your auntie they’d hanged in Samara, I’d like to hear what you had to say about higher hopes.’

  The first officer closed his eyes and said nothing for several seconds. Then suddenly he went on: ‘They say Baron Jungern was seen in the town recently. He was riding on a horse, wearing a red robe with a gold cross on the chest, and acting is though he wasn’t afraid of anyone…’

  At that moment Anna was lighting a cigarette - when she heard these words she started and the match almost slipped out of her fingers. I thought it would be best to distract her by making conversation.

  ‘Tell me, Anna, what has actually been going on all this time? I mean, since the day when we left Moscow?’

  ‘We have been fighting,’ said Anna. ‘You gave a good account of yourself in battle and became very close to Chapaev - you would spend several nights in a row in conversation with him. And then you were wounded.’

  ‘I wonder what it was we talked about.’

  Anna released a fine stream of smoke in the direction of the ceiling.

  ‘Why not wait for him to get back? I can guess at the approximate content of your discussions, but I would not like to go into any detail. It really concerns nobody but the two of you.’

  ‘But give me at least a general indication, Anna.’ I said.

  ‘Chapaev,’ she said, ‘is one of the most profound mystics that I have ever known. I believe that he has found in you a grateful audience and, perhaps, a disciple. I suspect, furthermore, that the misfortune which you have suffered is in some way connected with your conversations with him.’

  ‘I do not understand a thing.’

  ‘That is hardly surprising,’ said Anna. ‘He has attempted on several occasions to talk with me, and I have also failed to understand a thing. The one thing of which I am sure is that he is capable of reducing a credulous listener to total insanity within the space of a few hours. My uncle is a very unusual man.’

  ‘He is your uncle then.’ I said. ‘So that’s it! I was beginning to think that you and he must be bound by ties of a different nature.’

  ‘How dare you… But then, you can think what you like.’

  ‘Please, I beg you, forgive me.’ I said, ‘but after what you just said about a wounded cavalry officer I thought that perhaps you might be more interested in healthy cavalry officers.’

  ‘One more boorish outburst of that kind and I shall entirely lose interest in you, Pyotr.’

  ‘So you do at least feel some interest. That is comforting.’

  ‘Do not go clutching at words.’

  ‘Why may I not clutch at words if I like the sound of them?’

  ‘Out of simple considerations of safety,’ said Anna. ‘While you were lying unconscious you put on a lot of weight, and you might find the words are not able to support you.’

  She was obviously quite capable of standing up for herself. But this was going just a little too far.

  ‘My dearest Anna,’ I said, ‘I cannot understand why you are trying so hard to insult me. I know for certain that it is a pretence. You are not, in actual fact, indifferent to me, I realized that immediately I came round and saw you sitting there
beside my bed. And you have no idea of how deeply I was touched.’

  ‘I am afraid that you will be disappointed if I tell you why I was sitting there.’

  ‘What do you mean? What other motive can there be for sitting beside the bed of a wounded man, apart from sincere… I don’t know - concern?’

  ‘Now I really do feel embarrassed. But you asked for it yourself. Life here is boring, and your ravings were most picturesque. I must confess that I sometimes came to listen - but I came out of nothing but boredom. I find the things you are saying now far less interesting.’

  I had not expected this. I counted slowly to ten as I attempted to recover from the blow. Then I counted again. It was no good -I still felt the same bright flame of hatred, a hatred pure and unadulterated.

  ‘Would you mind giving me one of your cigarettes?’

  Anna proffered her open cigarette case.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You make very interesting conversation.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, feeling the cigarette trembling in my fingers, and becoming even more irritated. ‘What you say is very thought-provoking.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, for instance, several minutes ago you cast doubt on the reality of the lilac in which this town is enveloped. It was unexpected - and yet at the same time very Russian.’

  ‘What do you see in the remark that is specifically Russian?’

  ‘The Russian people realized very long ago that life is no more than a dream. You know what a succubus is?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anna, with a smile. ‘A demon that takes female form to seduce a sleeping man. But what’s the connection?’

  I counted to ten again. My feelings had not changed.

  ‘The most direct one possible. When they say in Russian vernacular that all women suck, the word «suck» as used in I he phrase is actually derived from the word «succubus». An association which came to Russia via Catholicism. No doubt you remember - the seventeenth century, the Polish invasion, m other words, the Time of Troubles. That’s what it goes back to. But I am wandering. All I wished to say was that the very phrase «all women suck»,’ - I reiterated the words with genuine relish - ‘means in essence that life is no more than a dream. And so are all the bitches. That is, I meant to say, the women.’