Buddha's Little Finger

by Виктор Пелевин

  ‘Yes. They were big ones all right.’

  ‘Truly,’ said Kawabata, raising the blade to the level of his eyes and gazing at it intently, ‘truly this world is like bubbles on the water. Is that not so?’

  Serdyuk thought that Kawabata was right, and he wanted very much to say something so that his companion would realize how well he understood his feelings and how completely he shared them.

  ‘Not even that,’ he said, raising himself up on one elbow. ‘It’s like… let me think now… It’s like a photograph of those bubbles that has fallen down behind a chest of drawers and been gnawed by the rats.’

  Kawabata smiled once again.

  ‘You are a genuine poet,’ he said. ‘I have no doubt at all about that.’

  ‘And what’s more.’ Serdyuk went on, inspired, ‘it could well be that the rats got to it even before it had been developed.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Kawabata, ‘quite splendid. This is the poetry of words, but there is also the poetry of deeds. I hope that your final poem without words will prove a match for the verses that have brought me so much delight today.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  Kawabata carefully set his sword down on a bamboo mat.

  ‘Life is uncertain and changeable,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘In the early morning no one can say what awaits him in the evening.’

  ‘Has something happened, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes. You know, of course, that business is like war. The Taira clan has an enemy, a mighty enemy - Minamoto.’

  ‘Minamoto?’ echoed Serdyuk, feeling a shiver run down his spine. ‘So what?’

  ‘Today news came that cunning treachery on the Tokyo stock exchange has allowed the Minamoto Group to acquire a controlling interest in Taira incorporated. A certain English bank and the Singapore mafia were involved, but that is not important. We are destroyed. And our enemy is triumphant.’

  Serdyuk said nothing for a while as he tried to work out what this meant. Only one thing was clear, though - it didn’t mean anything good.

  ‘But you and I,’ said Kawabata, ‘we two samurai of the clan of Taira - surely we shall not allow our spirits to be overcast by the shifting shadows of these insignificant bubbles of existence?’

  ‘Er… no,’ Serdyuk answered.

  Kawabata laughed fiercely and his eyes flashed.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Minamoto shall not behold our degradation and dishonour. One should leave this life as the white cranes disappear into the clouds. Let not a single petty feeling remain in our hearts at a moment of such beauty.’

  He swung round sharply where he sat, turning the bamboo mat with him, and bowed to Serdyuk.

  ‘I wish to ask you a favour,’ he said. ‘When I rip open my belly, please cut off my head!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My head, please cut off my head. We call this rendering the final service. And a samurai who is asked to do this may not refuse without covering himself in great dishonour.’

  ‘But I never… That is, before…’

  ‘It’s very simple. One stroke and it’s done. Wh-oo-oosh!’

  Kawabata waved his hands rapidly through the air.

  ‘But I am afraid I won’t manage it,’ said Serdyuk. ‘l don’t have •my experience of that kind of thing.’

  Kawabata pondered for a moment, then suddenly his face darkened as though he had been struck by some exceptionally unpleasant thought. He slapped his hand against his tatami.

  ‘It’s good that I am leaving this life soon,’ he said, looking up guiltily at Serdyuk. ‘What a coarse and ignorant brute I am!’

  He covered his face with his hands and began rocking from side to side.

  Serdyuk quietly stood up, tiptoed over to the screen, silently slid it to one side and went out into the corridor. The cold concrete felt unpleasant under his bare feet, and Serdyuk suddenly realized that while he and Kawabata had been wandering around dark and dubious alleyways in search of sake, his socks and shoes had been standing in the corridor by the door, where he’d left them in the afternoon; he couldn’t remember what he’d been wearing on his feet at all, just as he couldn’t recall how he and Kawabata had got out on to the street or how they’d got back in.

  ‘Split, I’ve got to split right now,’ he thought as he turned the corner in the corridor. ‘First I split, then there’ll be time for a bit of thinking.’

  The security guard rose from his stool as Serdyuk approached.

  ‘And where are we off to at a time like this?’ he asked with a yawn. ‘It’s half past three in the morning.’

  ‘We got a bit involved,’ said Serdyuk. You know, with the interview.’

  ‘Okay then,’ said the security guard. ‘Let’s have your pass.’

  ‘What pass?’

  ‘To get out.’

  ‘But you let me in without any pass.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the security guard, ‘but to get out, you need a pass.’

  The lamp on the desk cast a dim glow on Serdyuk’s shoes standing over by the wall. The door was only a yard away from item, and beyond the door lay freedom. Serdyuk took a small step towards the shoes. Then another one. The security guard cast an indifferent glance at his bare feet.

  ‘And then,’ he said, toying with his rubber truncheon, ‘we’ve got regulations. The alarm’s on. The door’s locked until eight o’clock in the morning. If I open it the pigs’ll be round in a flash. that means hassle, official statements. So I can’t open up. Not unless there’s a fire. Or a flood.’

  ‘All this world,’ Serdyuk began ingratiatingly, ‘is like bubbles en the water.’

  Security guard laughed and shook his head.

  ‘Sure, sure,’ he said. ‘We know what kind of place it is we are in. But you’ve got to understand where I’m coming from, just imagine that along with those bubbles there’s a set of instructions drifting along on the water. And just as long as it’s reflected in one of those bubbles, we lock up at eleven and open tie door at eight. And that’s it.’

  Serdyuk sensed a note of uncertainty in the security guard’s voice and he tried pressing his point home a little harder.

  ‘Мг Kawabata will be very surprised at your behaviour,’ he answered. ‘You’re supposed be responsible for security in a series firm, and you need such simple things explained to you. It m u st be obvious that if the world is only a mirage…’

  ‘A mirage, a mirage,’ said the security guard in a thoughtful voice, and he focused his eyes on a point that was obviously away beyond the wall. ‘We know all about that. We haven’t jut started here, you know. And we have training sessions every week. But I’m not trying to tell you that door’s real. Shall I tell you what I think?’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘That way I reckon, there isn’t any substantial door at all, tlere’s nothing but a provisional totality of essentially empty elements of perception.’

  ‘Precisely!’ said Serdyuk, delighted, and he took another little step in the direction of his shoes.

  ‘But there’s no way I’m opening up that totality before eight o’clock,’ said the security guard, slapping himself on the palm with his rubber truncheon.

  ‘Why?’ asked Serdyuk.

  The security guard shrugged.

  ‘Karma for you,’ he said, ‘dharma for me, but it’s all really just the same old crap. The void. And even that doesn’t really exist’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Serdyuk. ‘That’s some serious training they give you.’

  ‘What’d you expect? The Japanese security forces run it.’

  ‘So what am I supposed to do?’ Serdyuk asked.

  ‘What can you do? Wait until eight. And ask them to write you out a pass.’

  Serdyuk cast a final glance at the security guard’s burly shoulders and the truncheon in his hands, then slowly turned on his heel and started trudging back to Kawabata’s room. He had the unbearable feeling that there were words which would have made the guard give in and open the door, but that he had fa
iled to find them. If I’d read the Sutras, I’d know what was trumps, he thought dejectedly.

  ‘Listen,’ the security guard called out behind him, ‘better not go walking about without your geta. The floor in here’s concrete. You’ll get a chill in your kidneys.’

  When he reached Kawabata’s office again and noiselessly slid the panel open, Serdyuk noticed there was a strong smell in the room of stale drink and female sweat. Kawabata was still sitting there on the floor, his face in his hands, rocking from side to side, as though he hadn’t even noticed that Serdyuk had gone out.

  ‘Mr Kawabata,’ Serdyuk called quietly.

  Kawabata lowered his hands.

  ‘Are you feeling bad?’

  ‘I feel terrible,’ said Kawabata, ‘I feel absolutely terrible. If I had a hundred bellies, I would slit them all without a moment’s delay. Never in my life have I felt such shame as I am feeling now.’

  ‘Why, what’s the problem?’ Serdyuk asked sympathetically, kneeling down to face the Japanese.

  ‘I made bold to ask you to render me the final service without thinking that there would be no one to render the service to you if I commit seppuku first. Such monstrous dishonour.’

  ‘Me?’ said Serdyuk, rising to his feet. ‘Me?’

  ‘Why yes,’ said Kawabata, also rising and fixing Serdyuk with his blazing eyes. ‘Who will cut off your head? Not Grisha, I suppose?’

  ‘Who’s Grisha?’

  ‘The security guard. You were just talking to him. He’s no good for anything except breaking heads with his truncheon. The rules say it has to be cut off, and not just any old way, it has to be left hanging on a scrap of skin. Imagine how terrible it would look if it went rolling across the floor! But sit down, sit down.’

  There was such hypnotic power in Kawabata’s gaze that Serdyuk involuntarily lowered himself on to a bamboo mat. It was all he could do to tear his eyes away from Kawabata’s face.

  ‘And anyway, I suspect you don’t know what the doctrine of the direct and fearless return to eternity tells us about seppuku,’ said Kawabata.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you know how to slit open your belly?’

  ‘No,’ said Serdyuk, staring blankly at the wall.

  ‘There are various ways of doing it. The simplest is a horizontal incision. But there’s nothing special in that. As we say in japan, five minutes’ dishonour and Amidha’s your Buddha. Like driving into the Pure Land in an old Lada. A vertical incision is a little bit better, but that’s the lower-middle-class style, and it’s a bit provincial too. You can use crossed incisions, but I wouldn’t advise that either. If you cut vertically, they’ll pick up a Christian allusion, and if you cut on the diagonal, you get the St Andrew’s Cross, which is the Russian naval flag. They’ll think you’re from the Black Sea Fleet - but you’re not a naval officer, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Serdyuk confirmed in an expressionless voice.

  ‘That’s what I’m saying, there’s no point. Two years ago a double parallel incision was all the fashion, but that’s difficult. So what I would suggest is a long diagonal cut from the lower left to the upper right with a slight turn back towards the centre at the end. From the strictly aesthetic point of view it’s quite beyond reproach, and when you’ve done it, I’ll probably do it the same way.’

  Serdyuk attempted to stand up, but Kawabata placed a hand on his shoulder and forced him back down.

  ‘Unfortunately, we shall have to do everything in a rush,’ he said with a sigh. ‘We don’t have any white blinds or anything suitable to smoke. There are no warriors with drawn swords waiting at the edge of the platform… We do have Grisha, I suppose, but then, what kind of a warrior is he? Anyway, they’re not really necessary, they’re only there in case a samurai betrays his oath and refuses to commit seppuku. Then they beat him to death like a dog. There haven’t been any cases like that in my time - but then, it’s really beautiful when there are men with drawn swords standing around the border of the fenced-off area, the sun glinting on i heir steel. Yes, perhaps… Do you want me to call Grisha? And maybe Shura from the first floor as well? To bring it closer to the original ritual?’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Serdyuk.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Kawabata, ‘that’s right. Of course, you understand that the most important thing in any ritual is not the external form, but the internal content that fills it’

  ‘I understand, I understand. I understand everything,’ said serdyuk, staring with hatred at Kawabata.

  ‘I am therefore absolutely certain that everything will proceed excellently.’

  Kawabata lifted the short sword he had bought from the floor, drew it out of its scabbard and sliced through the air a couple of times.

  ‘It will do,’ he said. ‘Now let me tell you something. There are always two problems. Not to fall over on your back after the incision - that’s really most inelegant, but I can help you there -and the other problem is not to catch the spinal column with the blade. Therefore the blade should not be inserted too far. Let’s doit this way…’

  He picked up several sheets of paper with fax messages on them - Serdyuk noticed that the sheet with the drawing of the chrysanthemum was among them - stacked them into a neat pile and then carefully wrapped them round the blade, leaving four or five inches of steel projecting.

  ‘That’s it. So, you take the handle in your right hand, and you hold it here with your left hand. You don’t need to push it in very hard, or it might get stuck and then… All right, and then upwards to the right. And now you probably want to focus your mind. We don’t have much time, but at least there’s enough for that’

  Serdyuk was sitting there in a kind of a trance, staring at the wall. Feeble thoughts ran through his head about pushing Kawa-bata aside and running out into the corridor and… But the door out there was locked, and there was Grisha with his truncheon. And there was supposed to be someone called Shura on the first floor, too. In theory he could phone the police, but Kawabata was right there beside him with his sword… And the police wouldn’t turn out at this hour of the night. But the most unpleasant thing of all was that any such course of action would bring an expression of astonishment to Kawabata’s face, to be followed rapidly by a grimace of fierce contempt. There was something in what had happened that day which Serdyuk didn’t want to betray, and he even knew what it was - it was that moment after they’d tethered their horses, when they recited poetry to each other. And even though, if he really thought about it, there hadn’t actually been any horses or any poems, the moment had been real, and so had the wind from the south that brought the promise of summer, and the stars in the sky. There couldn’t be the slightest doubt that it had all been real - that is, just the way it should have been. But as for the world waiting for him behind that door which was due to be opened at eight in the morning…

  Serdyuk’s thoughts paused briefly, and he could suddenly hear quiet noises all around him. Kawabata’s stomach was gurgling as he sat there beside the fax with his eyes closed, and Serdyuk thought that his companion was sure to complete the entire procedure with brilliant ease. And the world that the Japanese was preparing to quit - if by ‘world’ we mean everything that a man can feel and experience in his life - was certainly far more attractive than the stinking streets of Moscow that closed in on Serdyuk every morning to the accompaniment of the songs of Filipp Kirkorov.

  Serdyuk realized why he’d suddenly thought of Kirkorov - the girls sitting behind the wall were listening to one of his songs. Then he heard the sounds of a brief quarrel, stifled weeping and the click of a switch. The invisible television began transmitting a news programme, but it seemed to Serdyuk that the channel hadn’t realty changed and Kirkorov had simply stopped singing and begun talking in a quiet voice. Then he heard one of the girls whispering agitatedly:

  ‘He is, look! Pissed again! Look at him embracing Chirac! I tell you, he’s pissed as a newt!’

  Serdyuk thought for a few more seconds.
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  ‘Ah, to hell with the lot of it,’ he said decisively. ‘Give me the sword.’

  Kawabata walked quickly over to him, went down on one knee and held out the handle of the sword to him.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Serdyuk, and he unbuttoned his shirt under his jacket. ‘Can I do it through the T-shirt?’

  Kawabata thought for a moment.

  ‘It has been done on occasion. In 1454 after he lost the Battle of Okehajama, Takeda Katsueri slit open his belly through his hunting costume. So it’s okay.’

  Serdyuk took hold of the sword.

  ‘Na-ah,’ said Kawabata, ‘I told you, take the handle in your right hand and use your left hand to grip the blade where it’s wrapped. Like that.’

  ‘So I just cut and that’s all?’

  ‘Hang on a second. I’ll be right with you.’

  Kawabata ran across the room and picked up his big sword, then came back to Serdyuk and stood behind him.

  ‘You don’t have to cut very deep. I’ll have to cut deep though. I won’t have a second to assist. You’re lucky. You must have lived a good life.’

  Serdyuk smiled wanly.

  ‘Just an ordinary life,’ he said. ‘Like all the others.’

  ‘But then, you are dying like a true warrior,’ said Kawabata. ‘I’ m all set. Let’s do it on the count of three. ‘

  ‘Okay,’ said Serdyuk.

  ‘Take a deep breath,’ said Kawabata, ‘and we’re off. One… Two… two and a half… And three!’

  Serdyuk stuck the sword into his belly.

  The paper jammed tight against the T-shirt. It wasn’t particularly painful, but the blade felt extremely cold.

  The fax machine on the floor began to ring.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Kawabata. ‘And now up and to the right. Harder, harder… That’s it, that’s right.’

  Serdyuk’s legs began to tremble.

  ‘Now a quick turn in towards the centre and push it into yourself with both hands. That’s it, that’s it… That’s right… Now just an inch more…’

  ‘I can’t,’ Serdyuk said with a struggle, ‘everything’s on fire!’

  ‘So what did you expect?’ said Kawabata. ‘just a moment’