Buddha's Little Finger

by Виктор Пелевин

  ‘Oh, if they were only about that. As in every dream, everything changes at a most fantastic pace. Last night, for instance, I dreamed about Japan. But the night before I did dream about the clinic, and do you know what happened? That butcher in charge of everything that goes on there asked me to write down in detail what happens to me here. He said he needed it for his work. Can you imagine it?’

  ‘I can.’ said Chapaev. ‘Why don’t you do as he says?’

  I stared at him in amazement.

  ‘You mean to say you would seriously advise me to do it?’

  He nodded.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘You told me yourself that in your nightmares everything changes with fantastic speed. Any consistent activity that you repeatedly come back to makes it possible to create something like a fixed centre to the dream. Then the dream becomes more real. You couldn’t possibly think up any better idea than making notes in your dream.’

  I pondered the idea,

  ‘But what good is a fixed centre to my nightmares if what I really want is to get rid of them?’

  ‘It’s precisely in order to get rid of them - you can only gel rid of something that is real.’

  ‘I suppose so. You mean, then, that I can write down absolutely everything that takes place here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But what should I call you in this journal of mine?’

  Chapaev laughed.

  ‘Petka, it’s no accident you’re dreaming about a mental hospital. What difference does it make what you call me in the notes you make in a dream?’

  ‘That’s true enough,’ I said, feeling like a complete fool. ‘I was simply afraid that… No, there really must be something wrong with my head.’

  ‘Call me any name you like,’ said Chapaev. ‘Even Chapaev, if you like.’

  ‘Chapaev?’ I asked.

  ‘Why not? You can even write,’ he said with a chuckle, ‘that I had a long moustache, and after I said that I twirled it.’

  He twirled his moustache with a gentle, precise movement of his fingers.

  ‘But I think the advice you were given applies more to reality,’ he said. ‘You should start writing down your dreams, and you should try to do it while you can still remember all the details.’

  ‘They are quite impossible to forget,’ I said. ‘Every time I come round, I realize that it was no more than a nightmare… But while I am dreaming, it’s impossible to understand what is real in actual fact - the carriage we are sitting in or that white-tiled hell where demons in white coats torment me at night’

  ‘What is real in actual fact?’ Chapaev repeated after me, closing his eyes again. ‘That’s a question you’re not likely to find an answer to. Because in actual fact there is no actual fact.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Well now, Petka my lad.’ said Chapaev, ‘I once used to know a Chinese communist by the name of Tzu-Chuang, who often dreamed the same dream, that he was a red butterfly fluttering through the grass and the flowers. And when he woke up, he often couldn’t make out whether the butterfly had dreamt it was engaged in revolutionary activity or the underground activist had had a dream about flitting through the air from flower to flower. So when this Tzu-Chuang was arrested in Mongolia for sabotage, what he said at his interrogation was that he was actually a butterfly who was dreaming about what was happening. Now since he was interrogated by Baron Jungern himself, and the Baron is a man of some considerable understanding, the next question was why this butterfly was on the communist side. Fie said he wasn’t on the communist side at all. So then they asked him why the butterfly was engaged in sabotage, and his answer was that all the things people do are so monstrous, it doesn’t make any difference whose side you’re on.’

  ‘And what happened to him?’

  ‘Nothing. They just stood him up in front of a firing squad and woke him up.’

  ‘And then what?’

  Chapaev shrugged.

  ‘He carried on flitting around the flowers, I suppose.’

  ‘I understand, Vasily Ivanovich, ‘I understand.’ I said thoughtfully.

  The road made another looping turn, and a dizzying view of the town opened up on our left. I spotted the yellow dot of our manor-house and the bright green patch of low trees which it had taken us so long to traverse. The shallow mountain slopes on all sides came together at their base to form a kind of chalice-shaped depression, and lying on the very bottom of the chalice was Altai-Vidnyansk.

  It was not the actual view of the town that made the most powerful impression, but the panorama of the chalice formed by the mountain slopes; the town was rather unkempt and reminded me more than anything of a heap of rubbish washed down into a pit by torrential rain. The houses were still half-concealed by the final lingering wisps of morning mist. I was suddenly astonished to realize that I myself was a part of the world which lay on the bottom of this gigantic drain - where this strange, confused civil war was happening, where people were greedily dividing up the tiny, ugly houses and the crooked patches of vegetable gardens in order to gain a firmer foothold in what was literally the sink of creation. I thought about the Chinese dreamer whose story Chapaev had told me and then looked down again. In the face of the motionless world stretched out around me, beneath the calm gaze of its sky, it became inexpressibly clear that the little town at the bottom of the pit was precisely like every other town in the world. All of them, I thought, lie on the bottom of the same kind of depression, even though it may not be discernible to the eye. They are all stewing in a massive devil’s cauldron on the flame that is said to rage at the centre of the Earth, and they are all simply different versions of one and the same nightmare which nothing can change for the better. The only thing that can be done with this nightmare is to awaken from it.

  ‘If they wake you up from your nightmares the same way they did that Chinaman, Petka.’ Chapaev said without opening his eyes, ‘all that’ll happen is that you’ll drop from one dream into another. You’ve been flitting to and fro like that all eternity. But if you can understand that absolutely everything that happens to you is a dream, then it won’t matter a damn what kind of dreams you have. And when you wake up afterwards, you’ll really wake up - for ever. If you want to, that is.’

  ‘But why is everything that is happening to me a dream?’

  ‘Because, Petka.’ Chapaev said, ‘there just isn’t anything rise.’

  The climb came to an end and we emerged on to a broad plateau. Far away on the horizon, beyond a line of shallow hills, the massive blue, lilac and purple forms of mountains thrust up high into the sky, with an immense open expanse of grass and flowers before them. Their colours were dull and laded, but there were so many of them that the overall tone of the steppe seemed not so much green as straw-coloured. It was so beautiful that for several minutes I forgot all about what Chapaev had said - and about everything else in the world.

  Except, strangely enough, for that Chinese dreamer. As I looked at the faded faces of the flowers drifting past our carnage, I imagined him soaring through the space between them, pausing occasionally out of habit to paste up an anti-

  government broadsheet on a slim shoot of bracken, and then starting in surprise every time he recalled that it was a long

  time since he had had any broadsheets to paste up. And even he had had any, who would read them?

  Soon, however, I was disturbed from my meditations. Chapaev had obviously given our driver some kind of signal. We picked up speed, and everything around the carriage began to blur into stripes of colour. The Bashkir lashed the horses mercilessly, half-standing on the coach-box and shouting guttural sounds in an unfamiliar language.

  The road along which we were travelling could be called that only in name. Perhaps there were fewer flowers growing on it than in the open field, and traces of some ancient rut could still be discerned at its centre, but it was far from easy to guess where it ran. Nonetheless, the surface of the steppe was so ideally eve
n that we were hardly shaken at all. The cavalrymen in black who brought up the rear of our small detachment moved off the road, drew almost level with our carriage and formed into two groups, one on each side, so that now they were hurtling along with us over the grass in the form of an extended arc; it was as though our carriage had sprouted two narrow black wings.

  The machine-gun landau in which Anna and Kotovsky were sitting also picked up speed and drew almost level with us. I noticed Kotovsky prodding his driver in the back with his cane and nodding towards our carriage. They were clearly trying to overtake us, and at one point they very nearly succeeded, hurtling along beside us at a distance of only a few yards. I noticed a design on the side of the tachanka, a circle divided by a wavy line into two halves, one black and one white, each of them with a small circle of the opposite colour at its centre - I thought I recognized it as an Eastern symbol of some kind. Beside it there was a large inscription, crudely daubed in white paint:

  POWER OF NIGHT AND POWER OF DAY SAME OLD GARBAGE ANY WAY

  The Bashkir lashed our horses, and the tachanka fell behind again. It seemed incomprehensible to me that Anna could have agreed to travel in a carriage decorated with words of that kind. But then I suddenly had the feeling, which rapidly hardened into certainty, that she was the very one who had written the inscription on the side of the landau. How little, in actual fact, did I really know about this woman!

  Our detachment hurtled on across the steppe to the accompaniment of wild whistles from the cavalrymen. We must have covered five or six miles like that - the hills on the horizon had moved so much closer that I could clearly distinguish their large rocks and the trees that grew on them. The surface of the steppe across which our carriage was racing at such speed was now less even than when we had begun our gallop; sometimes the carriage was thrown high into the air, and I began to feel afraid that the excursion would end in a broken neck for some of our company. Then Chapaev drew his Mauser from its holster and fired into the air.

  ‘Enough!’ he roared. ‘Walk on!’

  Our carriage slowed its pace. The horsemen, as though afraid of crossing the invisible boundary of a line projected from the rear axle of our carriage, began dropping out of view behind us one by one. The landau with Anna and Kotovsky also fell back, and within a few minutes we were again far ahead of them.

  Ahead of us I noticed a vertical column of smoke rising from behind the hills. It was dense and white, like the smoke I mm grass and damp leaves thrown on to a fire; the strangest thing about it, however, was that it scarcely widened out at all as it rose, which made it appear like a tall white pillar propping up the sky. It was no more than a mile ahead of us, with its fire concealed by the hills. We continued our advance for a few more minutes and then halted.

  The road came to an end at two low, steep-sided hillocks with a narrow path running between them. They were like gateposts to some natural gateway, and were so symmetrical that they looked like a pair of ancient towers which had sunk down into the ground many centuries ago. They seemed to mark a boundary, beyond which the landscape changed, with foothills beginning to merge into the mountains on the horizon. It seemed, too, that it was not only the landscape that was different on the far side; feeling a gust of wind on my tace, I looked up in amazement at the column of smoke which rose absolutely straight from a source which must now be very close at hand. ‘Why are we standing here?’ I asked Chapaev. ‘We’re waiting,’ he replied. ‘For whom? The enemy?’

  Chapaev did not answer. I suddenly realized that I had left my sabre behind and only had my Browning with me, so that I would find myself in a somewhat uncomfortable position if we had to deal with cavalry. But then, judging from the calm manner in which Chapaev carried on sitting in the carriage, we were not in any immediate danger. I glanced behind me.md saw the landau with Kotovsky and Anna standing beside us. I noticed Kotovsky’s white face; sitting there on the back seat with his arms folded across his chest, he looked rather like an opera singer poised to make his entrance. I could see Anna’s back as she fiddled with the machine-guns, but she seemed to be doing it less in order to prepare the guns than to relieve her irritation at sitting beside the insufferably solemn Kotovsky. Our mounted escort, apparently afraid of approaching the earthwork gateposts, kept a good distance, and I could make out no more of them than their dark silhouettes

  ‘But who are we waiting for?’ I asked again.

  ‘We have a meeting with the Black Baron,’ replied Chapaev. ‘I expect, Pyotr, that this will be an acquaintance you will remember.’

  ‘What kind of terrible nickname is that? I suppose he has a name of his own?’

  ‘Yes.’ said Chapaev, ‘his real surname is Jungern von Sternberg.’

  ‘Jungern?’ I repeated. ‘Jung-ern… That sounds familiar… Does he have something to do with psychiatry? Has he not done some work on the interpretation of symbols?’

  Chapaev looked me up and down in amazement.

  ‘No.’ he said. ‘As far as I can judge, he despises all manner of symbols, no matter what they might refer to.’

  ‘Ah, now I remember. He is the one who shot that Chinese of yours.’

  ‘Yes,’ Chapaev answered. ‘He is the defender of Inner Mongolia. They say he is an incarnation of the god of war. He used to command the Asian Cavalry Division, but now he commands the Special Regiment of Tibetan Cossacks.’

  ‘I have never heard of them.’ I said. ‘And why do they call him the Black Baron?’

  Chapaev thought for a moment.

  ‘A good question,’ he said. ‘I really don’t know. Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’s already here.’

  I started and turned my head to look.

  A strange object had appeared in the narrow passage between the two hillocks. On looking closely I realized that it was a palanquin of a very ancient and strange design, consisting of a small cabin with a humped roof and four long handles on which it was carried. Both the roof and the handles appeared to be made of bronze which had turned green with age, and were covered with a multitude of minute jade plaques which glinted mysteriously, like cats’ eyes in the dark. There was nobody in the vicinity who could have brought up the palanquin without being noticed, and I could only assume that the unknown bearers whose palms had polished the long handles until they gleamed had already reheated.

  The palanquin stood on curved legs, giving it the appearance of something between a sacrificial vessel and a small hut supported on four short piles. Its resemblance to a hut was actually stronger, and the impression was reinforced by blinds of fine green silk netting which covered its windows. Behind them I could just discern a motionless silhouette.

  Chapaev jumped out of the carriage and walked over to the palanquin. ‘Hello, baron,’ he said.

  ‘Good day,’ replied a low voice from behind the blind.

  ‘I come with another request.’ said Chapaev.

  ‘I presume that once again you are not asking for yourself?’

  ‘No.’ said Chapaev. ‘Do you recall Grigory Kotovsky?’

  ‘I do.’ said the voice in the palanquin. ‘What has happened to him?’

  ‘I simply can’t explain to him what mind is. This morning he pushed me so far that I reached for my pistol. I’ve already told him everything that can be said, over and over again. What he needs is a demonstration, baron, something he won’t be able to ignore.’

  ‘Your problems, my dear Chapaev, grow a little monotonous. Where is your protégé?’

  Chapaev turned towards the carriage where Kotovsky was siting and waved.

  The blind in the palanquin moved aside and I saw a man of about forty, with blond hair, a high forehead and cold, colourless eyes. Despite the drooping Tartar-style moustache and the cheeks covered with several days’ stubble, his features were highly refined. He was dressed in a strange garment halfway between a cassock and a greatcoat, cut in the style of a Mongolian robe with a low, semicircular neck. I would never even have thought of it as a greatcoat if it had not
been for the shoulder-straps bearing the zigzag lines of a general’s rank. Hanging at his side was a sabre exactly like Chapaev’s in every respect, except that the tassel attached to its handle was not purple, but black. And on his breast there were no less than three silver stars, hanging in a row. He climbed quickly out of the palanquin - he proved to be almost a full head taller than me - and looked me up and down inquiringly.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘This is my commissar, Pyotr Voyd.’ Chapaev replied. ‘He distinguished himself in the battle of Lozovaya Junction.’

  ‘I have heard something of that.’ said the baron. ‘Is he here for the same reason?’

  Chapaev nodded. Jungern held out his hand to me.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Pyotr.’

  ‘The feeling is mutual, general.’ I replied, squeezing his powerful, sinewy hand in mine.

  ‘Just call me baron,’ said Jungern, turning to face Kotovsky as the latter approached. ‘Grigory, how very long… ‘

  ‘Hello, baron.’ Kotovsky replied. ‘I am very glad to see you.’

  ‘Judging from the pallor of your cheeks, you are so very glad to see me that all your blood has rushed to your heart.’

  ‘Why, not at all, baron. That is because I think so much about Russia.’

  ‘Ah, the same old thing. I cannot approve. However, let us not waste any time. Let us take a walk, shall we?’ Jungern nodded towards the earthwork gateposts.

  Kotovsky swallowed hard. ‘I should be honoured,’ he replied.

  Jungern turned inquiringly towards Chapaev, who held out a small paper package to him.

  ‘Are there two here?’ asked the baron.

  ‘Yes.’

  Jungern put the package into the pocket of his robe, put his arm round Kotovsky’s shoulders and literally dragged him in the direction of the gateway. They disappeared into the opening, and I turned to face Chapaev.

  ‘What lies beyond that gateway?’

  Chapaev smiled. ‘I wouldn’t like to spoil your first impression.’

  The dull report of a revolver shot rang out. A second later the solitary figure of the baron appeared.’