Buddha's Little Finger

by Виктор Пелевин

  Kawabata screwed up his eyes, moved closer to Serdyuk and smiled, so that just for a moment he really did look like a cunning Japanese.

  ‘You remember, just a little while ago, when we set the horses loose, then forded the Tenzin river and walked on foot to the gates of Rasemon, you were talking of the warmth of another body lying beside you? Surely this is what your spirit was seeking at that moment?’

  Serdyuk shuddered.

  He’s gay, he thought, I should have guessed it right from the start.

  Kawabata moved even closer.

  ‘After all, it is one of the few remaining natural feelings which a man may still experience. And we did agree that what Russia needs is alchemical wedlock with the East, didn’t we?’

  ‘We did,’ said Serdyuk, squirming inwardly. ‘Of course it does. I was just thinking about it only yesterday.’

  ‘Good,’ said Kawabata, ‘but there is nothing that happens to nations and countries that is not repeated in symbolic form in the life of the individuals who live in those countries and make up those nations. Russia, in the final analysis, is you. So if you spoke sincerely, and of course I cannot at all believe otherwise, then let us perform this ritual immediately. Let us, as it were, reinforce our words and thoughts with a symbolic fusion of basic principles…’

  Kawabata bowed and winked.

  ‘In any case, we shall be working together, and there is nothing which brings men so close together as…’

  He winked again and smiled. Serdyuk bared his teeth mechanically in response and noticed that one of Kawabata’s own teeth was missing. But there were other things that struck him as far more significant: first of all, Serdyuk remembered the danger of AIDS, and then he recalled that his underwear wasn’t particularly clean. Kawabata got up and went across to the cupboard, rummaged in it and tossed Serdyuk a piece of cloth. It was a blue cap, exactly like those shown on the heads of the men on the sake glasses. Kawabata put one on his head, gestured for Serdyuk to do the same and clapped his hands.

  Immediately one of the panels in the wall slid to one side and Serdyuk became aware of a rather wild-sounding music. Behind the panel, in a small room that looked more like a broom cupboard, there was a group of four or five girls wearing long colourful kimonos and holding musical instruments. For a moment Serdyuk thought they weren’t actually wearing kimonos, but some kind of long, badly cut dressing-gowns belted at the waist with towels and tucked up so as to look like kimonos, but then he decided that dressing-gowns like that were essentially kimonos after all. The girls waved their heads from side to side and smiled as they played. One had a balalaika, another one was banging together a pair of painted wooden Palekh spoons, and another two were holding small plastic harmonicas which made a fearful, piercing squeaking noise; this was only natural, Serdyuk thought, since harmonicas like that were never actually made to play on, merely to create a happy atmosphere at children’s parties.

  The girls’ smiles were a little forced and the layer of rouge on their cheeks looked a bit too thick. Their features were not even slightly Japanese, either - they were just ordinary Russian girls, and not even particularly beautiful. One of them looked like a student from Serdyuk’s year at college, a girl called Masha.

  ‘Woman, Semyon,’ Kawabata said thoughtfully, ‘Is by no means created for our downfall. In that marvellous moment when she envelops us in her body, it is as though we are transported to that happy land from which we came and to which we shall return after death. I love women and I am not ashamed to admit it. And every time I am joined with one of them, it is as though I…’

  Without bothering to finish, he clapped his hands and the girls danced forward in close formation, gazing straight ahead into empty space as they moved directly towards Serdyuk.

  ‘Sixth rank, fifth rank, fourth rank, and now our horses turn to the left, and the longed-for palace of Suzdaku emerges from the mist,’ said Kawabata as he buttoned up his pants, gazing attentively all the while at Serdyuk.

  Serdyuk raised his head from the floor-covering. He must have fallen asleep for a few minutes - Kawabata was obviously continuing with some story, but Serdyuk couldn’t remember the beginning. He took a look at himself. He was wearing nothing but an old washed-out T-shirt with Olympic symbols; the rest of his clothing was scattered about the room. The girls, tousled, half-naked and passionless, were fussing around the electric kettle that was boiling in the corner. Serdyuk started getting dressed quickly.

  ‘Further on, by the left wing of the castle,’ Kawabata continued, ‘we take a turn to the right, and there are the gates of Blissful Light rushing towards us… And now everything depends on which poetic style is in closest harmony with your soul at this moment. If you are inwardly attuned to simplicity and joy, you will gallop straight forward. If your thoughts are far removed from this frail and perishable world, then you will turn to the left and see before you the gates of Eternal Peace. And finally, if you are young and hot-headed and your soul thirsts for delights, you will turn to the right and enter in at the gates of Enduring Joy.’

  Squirming under Kawabata’s unwavering gaze, Serdyuk pulled on his trousers, his shirt and his jacket, and began knotting the tie round his neck, but his fingers got tangled up in the knots and he gave up, dragged the tie off over his head and shoved it back into his pocket.

  ‘But then,’ Kawabata continued, raising one finger in a solemn gesture - he seemed so absorbed in what he was saying that Serdyuk realized there was no need to feel embarrassed or hurry - ‘then, whatever gateway you may have chosen to enter the imperial palace, you find yourself in the same courtyard! Think what a revelation this is for a man accustomed to reading the language of symbols! Whatever road your heart has followed, whatever route your soul may have mapped out, you always return to the same thing! Remember what is said - all things return to the one, but where does the one return to? Ah?’

  Serdyuk raised his eyes from the floor.

  ‘Well, where does the one return to?’ Kawabata repeated, and his eyes narrowed into two slits.

  Serdyuk coughed and opened his mouth to say something, but before he could speak Kawabata had clapped his hands in delight.

  ‘Oh.’ he said, ‘profound and accurate as always. And especially for those rare horsemen who have risen to the height of this truth, growing in the first courtyard of the imperial palace there is an orange-blossom tree and a… What would you plant to pair with an orange blossom?’

  Serdyuk sighed. There was only one Japanese plant he knew.

  ‘What’s it called… Sakura,’ he said. ‘A blossoming sakura.’

  Kawabata took a step backwards and added yet another bow to the long sequence he had already made that evening. There seemed to be tears gleaming in his eyes,

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Kawabata. ‘Precisely so. Orange blossom and cherry blossom in the first courtyard, and further on, by the Chambers of the Drifting Scents there is a wistaria, by the Chambers of the Frozen Flowers there is a plum tree, by the Chambers of the Reflected Light there is a pear tree. Oh how ashamed i am that I have subjected you to the insult of this interrogation! Please believe me, I am not to blame for this. Such are…’

  He glanced across at the girls sitting round the electric kettle and clapped his hands twice. The girls gathered up the kettle and their scattered clothes and quickly disappeared into the broom cupboard from which they had emerged; the screen closed behind them and nothing, apart perhaps from a few spots of something white on the fax machine, was left to remind Serdyuk of the bonfire of passion that had been blazing in the room only a few minutes earlier.

  ‘Such are the rules of our firm,’ Kawabata finished his sentence. ‘I’ve already told you that when I use the word «firm» I am not translating absolutely accurately. In actual fact it would be more correct to say «clan». But if this term is used too early, it may arouse suspicion and fear. We therefore prefer first to find out what kind of man we are dealing with and then go into the details. Even though in your case the answer
was clear to me from the moment when you recited that magical poem…’

  Kawabata stood absolutely still and closed his eyes, and for several seconds his lips moved silently. Serdyuk guessed that he was repeating the phrase about the stars in the sky, which Serdyuk couldn’t remember exactly himself.

  ‘Quite remarkable words. Yes, from that moment on everything was absolutely clear to me. But there are rules, very strict rules, and I was obliged to ask you the required questions. Now I must tell you the following,’ Kawabata continued. ‘Since I have already mentioned that our firm is in reality more like a clan, it follows that our employees are more like members of a clan. And the obligations which they take upon themselves are also different from the usual obligations that hired hands accept. To put it simply, we accept you as a member of our clan, which is one of the most ancient in Japan. The title of the vacant post which you will occupy is «Assistant Manager for the Northern Barbarians’’. I understand that the title might possibly seem offensive to you, but this is a tradition older than the city of Moscow. It is a beautiful city, by the way, especially in summer. This is a post for a samurai, and a layman may not occupy it. Therefore, if you are willing to accept the post, I will make you a samurai.’

  ‘But what kind of work is it?’

  ‘Oh, nothing complicated,’ said Kawabata. ‘Papers, clients. From the outside it all looks just the same as in any other firm, except that your inner attitude to events must match the harmony of the cosmos.’

  ‘And what’s the pay like?’

  ‘You wilt receive two hundred and fifty koku of rice a year,’ said Kawabata, and frowned as he calculated something in his head. ‘That’s about forty thousand of your dollars.’

  ‘In dollars?’

  ‘However you wish,’ Kawabata said with a shrug.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ said Serdyuk.

  ‘As I expected. Now tell me, are you ready to accept that you are a samurai of the Taira clan?’

  ‘I should say so.’

  ‘Are you willing to link your life and your death with the destiny of our clan?’

  All these crazy rituals they have, thought Serdyuk. Where do they find the time to make all those televisions?

  ‘I am,’ he said.

  ‘Will you be prepared, as a real man, to cast the ephemeral blossom of this life over the edge of the abyss and into the void if this is required of you by your giri?’ Kawabata asked with a nod in the direction of the print on the wall.

  Serdyuk took another look at it.

  ‘I will,’ he said, ‘of course. Chuck the blossom down the abyss - no problem.’

  ‘You swear?’

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Kawabata, ‘splendid. Now there is only one small formality left, and we’ll be finished. We must receive confirmation from Japan. But that will only take a few minutes.’

  He sat down facing the fax machine, rummaged through a pile of papers until he found a clean sheet, and then a brush appeared in his hand,

  Serdyuk changed his position. His legs had gone numb from sitting too long on the floor and he thought it would be a good idea to ask Kawabata whether he would be allowed to bring a stool - just a small one - to work with him. Then he looked around for the remains of the sake, but the bottle had disappeared. Kawabata was busy with his sheet of paper and Serdyuk was afraid to ask - he couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t disrupt the ritual. He remembered the oath he had just taken. God almighty, he thought, the number of oaths I’ve sworn in my life! Promised to struggle for the cause of the Communist Party, didn’t I? Half a dozen times, probably, going back to when I was just a kid. Promised to marry Masha, didn’t I? Sure I did. And yesterday, after the Clear Ponds, when I was drinking with those idiots, didn’t I promise we’d get another bottle on me? And now look where it’s got me - chucking blossoms down an abyss.

  Meanwhile Kawabata finished pushing his brush around the sheet of paper, blew on it and showed it to Serdyuk. It was a large chrysanthemum drawn in black ink.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Serdyuk.

  ‘Oh,’ said Kawabata, ‘it’s a chrysanthemum. You understand, when a new member joins us, it is such a great joy for the entire Taira clan that it would be inappropriate to entrust it to marks on paper. In such cases, we usually inform our leaders by drawing a flower. What’s more, this is the very flower of which we were just speaking. It symbolizes your life, which now belongs to the Taira clan, and at the same time it testifies to your final awareness of its fleeting ephemerality…’

  ‘I get it,’ said Serdyuk.

  Kawabata blew on the sheet of paper once more, then set it in the crack of the fax machine and began dialling some incredibly long number.

  He got through only at the third attempt. The fax hummed into life, a little green lamp on its corner lit up and the page slowly slid out of sight into the black maw.

  Kawabata stared fixedly at the fax machine, without moving or changing his pose. Several long and weary minutes went by, and then the fax began to hum again and another sheet of paper slid out from underneath its black body. Serdyuk understood immediately that this was the reply.

  Kawabata waited until the full length of the page had emerged and then tore it out of the fax, glanced at it and looked slowly round at Serdyuk.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said, ‘my sincere congratulations! The reply is most propitious.’

  He held out the sheet of paper to Serdyuk, who took it and saw a different drawing - this time it was a long, slightly bent stick with some kind of pattern on it and something sticking out from it at one side.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘lt’s a sword,’ Kawabata said solemnly, ‘the symbol of your new status in life. And since I never had any doubt that this would be the outcome, allow me to present you, so to speak, with your passport.’

  With these words Kawabata held out the short sword he had bought earlier in the tin-plated pavilion.

  Perhaps it was Kawabata’s fixed, unblinking stare, or perhaps it was the result of some chemical reaction in his own alcohol-drenched metabolism, but for some reason Serdyuk became aware suddenly of the significance and solemnity of the moment. He almost went down on his knees, but just in time he remembered that it was the medieval European knights who did that, not the Japanese - and not even the knights, if he thought about it, but only the actors from the Odessa film studios who were playing them in some intolerably dreary old Soviet film. So he just held out his hands and took a cautious grip on the cold instrument of death. There was a design on the scabbard that he hadn’t noticed before: it was a drawing of three cranes in flight - the gold wire impressed into the black lacquer of the scabbard traced a light and dashing contour of exceptional beauty.

  ‘Your soul,’ said Kawabata, gazing into Serdyuk’s eyes again, ‘lies in this scabbard.’

  ‘What a beautiful drawing,’ said Serdyuk. ‘You know, it reminds me of a song I know, about cranes. How does it go, now? «… And in their flight I see a narrow gap, perhaps that is a place for me…»‘

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Kawabata cut in. ‘And why would a man need any greater gap? The Lord Buddha can easily fit the entire world with all its problems into the gap between two cranes. Why, it would be lost in the gaps between the feathers of either of them… How poetical this evening is! Why don’t we have another drink? For the place in the flight of cranes which you have finally occupied?’

  Serdyuk thought he sensed something ominous in Kawabata’s words, but he paid no attention, because Kawabata could hardly have known the song was about the souls of dead soldiers.

  ‘Gladly,’ said Serdyuk, ‘in just a while. I…’

  Suddenly there was a loud knock at the door. Kawabata turned and shouted something in Japanese, the panel slid to one side and a man’s face, also with southern features, appeared in the gap. The face said something and Kawabata nodded.

  ‘I shall have to leave you for a few minutes,’ he said to Serdyuk. ‘It seems there is some ser
ious news coming in. If you wish, please look through any of the print albums while you are waiting,’ - he nodded in the direction of the bookshelf-’or simply amuse yourself

  Serdyuk nodded. Kawabata quickly left the room and closed the panel behind him. Serdyuk went over to the shelves and glanced at the long row of different-coloured spines, then went over to the corner of the room and sat down on a bamboo mat, leaning his head against the wall. He had no appetite left for all those prints.

  It was quiet in the building. He could hear someone hammering on a wall somewhere above him - they must be installing a metal door. Behind the sliding panel he could hear the whispers of the girls swearing at each other; they were very close, but he could hardly make out any of their obscenities, and the muffled voices mingled together to produce a gentle, calming rustling sound, as though there were a garden behind the wall and the leaves of the blossoming cherries were murmuring in the wind.

  Serdyuk was woken by a low moaning. He couldn’t tell how long he’d been asleep, but it must have been quite a long time - Kawabata was sitting in the centre of the room, already changed and shaved. He was wearing a white shirt and his hair, so recently tousled and untidy, was combed back neatly. He was the source of the moaning that had woken Serdyuk - it was some kind of mournful melody, a long-drawn-out dirge. Kawabata was holding the long sword in his hands and wiping it with a white piece of cloth. Serdyuk noticed that Kawabata’s shirt was unbuttoned, and his hairless chest and belly were exposed.

  Kawabata realized that Serdyuk had woken up and turned to face him with a broad smile.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked.

  ‘I wasn’t exactly sleeping,’ said Serdyuk, ‘I just…’

  ‘Had a doze,’ said Kawabata, ‘I understand. All of us are merely dozing in this life. And we only wake when it ends. Do you recall how we forded the brook when we were walking back to the office?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Serdyuk, ‘that stream coming out of the pipe,’

  ‘Pipe or no pipe, that is not important. Do you recall the bubbles on the surface of that brook?’