Buddha's Little Finger

by Виктор Пелевин

  ‘I jabbed my finger upwards and was suddenly contorted by a spasm of irrepressible laughter - ‘they think that they are weavers

  ‘Quiet.’ said Chapaev. ‘Stop neighing like a mad horse. They’ll hear you.’

  ‘No, that’s not it.’ I gasped, choking on the words, ‘they don’t even think that they are weavers… They know it…’

  ‘Forward.’ he said, prodding me with his boot.

  I took several deep breaths to recover my senses and began edging my way ahead again. We covered the rest of the dis tance without speaking. No doubt it was because the tunnel was so narrow and cramped that it seemed to be incredibly long. Underground there was a smell of dampness, and also, for some reason, of hay, which grew stronger the further we went. At last the hand I was holding out in front of me came up against a wall of earth. I rose to my feet and straightened up, banging my head against something made of iron. Feeling around in the darkness that surrounded me, I came to the conclusion that I was standing in a shallow pit underneath some kind of flat metal surface. There was a gap of two feet or so between the metal and the ground; I squeezed into it and crawled for a yard or two, pushing aside the hay that filled it, and then I bumped against a broad wheel of moulded rubber. I immediately remembered the huge haystack beside which the taciturn Bashkir had mounted his permanent guard, and I realized where Chapaev’s armoured car had gone to. A second later I was already standing beside it - the hay had been pulled away to one side to expose a riveted metal door, which stood slightly ajar.

  The manor-house was enveloped in flames. The spectacle was magnificent and enchanting, much the same, in fact, as any large fire. About fifty yards away from us, among the trees, there was another, smaller fire - the blazing bathhouse where only recently Chapaev and I had been sitting. I thought that I could see figures moving around it, but they could easily have been the dappled shadows of the trees shifting every time the fire swayed in a gust of wind. But whether I could see them or not, there were undoubtedly people there: I could hear shouting and shooting from the direction of both conflagrations. If I had not known what was actually happening there, I might have thought it was two detachments waging a night battle.

  I heard a rustling close beside me, and I pulled out my pistol.

  ‘Who goes there?’ I whispered nervously.

  ‘It’s me.’ said Anna.

  She was wearing her tunic, riding breeches and boots, and in her hand she had a bent metal lever similar to the crank-handles used for starting automobile engines.

  ‘Thank God,’ I said, ‘You have no idea how worried I was about you. The mere thought that this drunken rabble…’

  ‘Please don’t breathe onion on me.’ she interrupted. ‘Where’s Chapaev?’

  ‘I’m here,’ he answered, crawling out from underneath the armoured car.

  ‘Why did you take so long?’ she asked. ‘I was beginning to get worried.’

  ‘Pyotr just would not understand,’ he replied. ‘It even reached the point where I had resigned myself to staying there.’

  ‘But has he understood now?’

  Chapaev looked at me.

  ‘He didn’t understand a thing,’ he said. ‘It was just that the shooting started up back there…’

  ‘Now, listen here, Chapaev,’ I began, but he stopped me with an imperious gesture.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked Anna.

  ‘Yes.’ she said, handing him the crank-handle.

  I suddenly realized that Chapaev was right, as always; there had not been anything that I could be said to have understood.

  Chapaev rapidly swept aside the hay covering the armoured car’s inclined bonnet, inserted the crank-handle in the opening in the radiator and turned the magneto several times. The engine began to purr quietly and powerfully.

  Anna opened the door and got in, and Chapaev and I followed her. Chapaev slammed the door and clicked a switch, and the light, quite blindingly brilliant after the underground darkness, revealed a familiar interior: the narrow leather-upholstered divans, the landscape bolted to the wall, and the table, on which lay a volume of Montesquieu with a bookmark and a packet of ‘Ira’ papyrosas. Anna quickly clambered up the spiral staircase and sat on the machine-gunner’s revolving chair, the upper half of her body concealed in the turret.

  ‘I’m ready,’ she said. ‘Only I can’t see anything because of the hay.’

  Chapaev caught hold of the speaking-tube that communicated with the driver’s compartment - I guessed that the Bashkir was there - and spoke into it.

  ‘Scatter the haystack. And don’t get a wheel stuck in any hole.’

  The armoured car’s motor began to roar, the heavy vehicle shuddered into motion and moved forward several yards. There was some kind of mechanical noise above us - I looked up and saw that Anna was turning something like the handle of a coffee-mill, and the turret and seat were turning together around their axis.

  ‘That’s better now,’ she said.

  ‘Switch on the floodlights,’ Chapaev said into the tube.

  I put my eye to the spy-hole in the door. The floodlights turned out to be installed around the entire perimeter of the armoured car, and when they came on, it was as though someone had switched on the street lights in some shadowy park.

  It was a strange vista indeed. The white electric light falling on the trees was a great deal brighter than the glow from the fire; the dancing shadows which had looked like people darting through the darkness disappeared, and I could see that there was no one near us.

  But our solitude did not remain inviolate for long. Weavers with rifles in their hands began appearing at the edge of the pool of light. They stared at us in silence, shielding their eyes from the blinding glare of the searchlights. Soon the armoured car was trapped in a living circle bristling with rifle barrels. I could even hear snatches of shouting: ‘So that’s where they are… nah, they won’t get away… they’ve already run away once… put that grenade away, you fool, it’ll blast our own lads to bits.’

  They fired several shots at the armoured car and the bullets bounced off the armour-plating with a dull clanging sound. One of the searchlights burst, however, and a roar of delight ran through the crowd around us.

  ‘Well, then.’ said Chapaev, ‘everything comes to an end some time. Make ready, Anna.’

  Anna carefully removed the cover from the machine-gun. A bullet struck the door close beside the spy-hole, and just to be on the safe side I moved away from it. Leaning over the machine-gun, Anna put her eye to the sights, and her face distorted itself in a grimace of cold fury.

  ‘Fire! Water! Earth! Space! Air!’ Chapaev shouted.

  Anna rapidly twirled the rotational handle, and the turret began revolving around its axis with a quiet squeaking. The machine-gun was silent, and I looked at Chapaev in amazement. He gestured reassuringly. The turret made a single complete revolution and came to a halt.

  ‘Has it jammed?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’ said Chapaev. ‘It’s all over already.’

  I suddenly realized that I could no longer hear any shots or voices. All the sounds had disappeared, and only the quiet purring of the motor remained.

  Anna climbed down out of the turret, sat herself on the divan beside me and lit a papyrosa. I noticed that her fingers were trembling.

  ‘That was the clay machine-gun.’ said Chapaev. ‘Now I can tell you what it is. It isn’t really a machine-gun at all. It’s simply that many millennia ago, long before the Buddha Dipankara and the Buddha Shakyamuni came into the world, there lived the Buddha Anagama. He didn’t waste any time on explanations, he simply pointed at things with the little finger of his left hand, and their true nature was instantly revealed. When he pointed to a mountain, it disappeared, when he pointed to a river, that disappeared too. It’s a long story, but in short it all ended with him pointing to himself with his little finger and then disappearing. All that was left of him was that finger from his left hand, which his disciples hid in a lump of c
lay. The clay machine-gun is that lump of clay with the Buddha’s finger concealed within it. A very long time ago in India there lived a man who tried to turn that piece of clay into the most terrible weapon on earth, but no sooner had he drilled a hole in it than the finger pointed at him and he himself disappeared. After that it was kept in a locked trunk and moved from place to place until it was lost to the world in one of the monasteries of Mongolia. But now, for a whole series of reasons, it has found its way to me. I have attached a butt-stock to it and I call it the clay machine-gun. And we have just made use of it.’

  Chapaev stood up, opened the door and jumped out. I heard his boots striking the earth. Anna climbed out after him, but I went on sitting there on the divan, gazing at the English landscape on the wall. A river, a bridge, a sky covered in clouds and some indistinct ruins; could it possibly be, I wondered, could it?

  ‘Petka.’ Chapaev called, ‘what are you doing still sitting in there?’

  I got up and stepped out.

  We were standing on a perfectly level circular surface covered with hay, about seven yards in diameter. Beyond the bounds of the circle there was nothing at all - nothing was visible except an indistinct, even light, which it would be hard to describe in any way. At the very edge of the circle lay half a rifle with a bayonet attached. I suddenly recalled the moment in Blok’s ‘Circus Booth’ when Harlequin jumps through the window and breaks the paper with the view of the horizon drawn on it and a grey void appears in the tear. I looked round. The engine of the armoured car was still working.

  ‘But why is this island left?’ I asked.

  ‘A blind spot.’ said Chapaev. ‘The finger pointed at everything there was in the world beyond the bounds of this area. It’s like the shadow from the base of a lamp.’

  I took a step to one side, and Chapaev grabbed me by the shoulders.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going… Don’t get in front of the machine-gun! All right, Anna, put it out of harm’s way.’

  Anna nodded and carefully made her way to stand under the short protruding barrel.

  ‘Watch carefully, Petka,’ said Chapaev.

  Anna squeezed her papyrosa tight in her teeth, and a small round mirror appeared in her hand. She raised it to the level of the barrel, and before I could understand what was going on, the armoured car had vanished. It happened instantaneously and with unbelievable ease, as though someone had switched off a magic lantern, and the picture on the linen sheet had simply disappeared. All that was left were four shallow hollows from the wheels. And now there was nothing to disturb the silence.

  ‘That’s it.’ said Chapaev. ‘That world no longer exists.’

  ‘Damn,’ I said, ‘the papyrosas were still in there… And listen - what about the driver?’

  Chapaev started and looked in fright first at me, and then at Anna.

  ‘Damn and blast.’ he said, ‘I forgot all about him… And you, Anna, why didn’t you say anything?’

  Anna spread her arms wide. There was not a trace of genuine feeling in the gesture and I thought that despite her beauty, she was unlikely ever to become an actress.

  ‘No.’ I said, ‘there’s something wrong here. Where’s the driver?’

  ‘Chapaev.’ said Anna, ‘I can’t take any more. Sort this out between the two of you.’

  Chapaev sighed and twirled his moustache.

  ‘Calm down, Petka. There wasn’t really any driver. You know there are these bits of paper with special seals on them, you can stick them on a log, and-’

  ‘Ah.’ I said, ‘so it was a golem. I see. Only please don’t treat me like a total idiot, all right? I noticed a long time ago that he was rather strange. You know, Chapaev, with talents like that you could have made quite a career in St Petersburg.’

  ‘What is there new for me to see in this St Petersburg of yours?’ Chapaev asked.

  ‘But wait, what about Kotovsky?’ I asked excitedly. ‘Has he disappeared too, then?’

  ‘Inasmuch as he never existed.’ said Chapaev, ‘it is rather difficult to answer that question. But if you are concerned for his fate out of human sympathy, don’t worry. I assure you that Kotovsky, just like you or I, is quite capable of creating his own universe.’

  ‘And will we exist in it?’

  Chapaev pondered my words.

  ‘An interesting question.’ he said. ‘I should never have thought of that. Perhaps we shall, but in precisely what capacity I really can’t say. How should I know what kind of world Kotovsky will create in that Paris of his? Or perhaps I should say - what Paris he will create in that world of his?’

  ‘There you go again.’ I said, ‘more of your sophistry.’

  I turned and walked towards the edge of the circle, but I was unable to reach the very edge; when there were still about two yards left to its edge I suddenly felt dizzy and I slumped heavily to the ground.

  ‘Do you feel unwell?’ Anna asked.

  ‘I feel quite wonderful,’ I replied, ‘but what are we going to do here? Conduct a menage a twist’

  ‘Ah, Petka, Petka,’ said Chapaev, ‘I keep on trying to explain to you. Any form is just emptiness. But what does that mean?’

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘It means that emptiness is any form. Close your eyes. And now open them.’

  I do not know how to describe that moment in words.

  What I saw was something similar to a flowing stream which glowed with all the colours of the rainbow, a river broad beyond all measure that flowed from somewhere lost in infinity towards that same infinity. It extended around our island on all sides as far as the eye could see, and yet it was not an ocean, but precisely a river, a stream, because it had a clearly visible current. The light it cast on the three of us was extremely bright, but there was nothing blinding or frightening about it, because it was also at the same time grace, happiness and infinitely powerful love. However, those three words, so crudely devalued by literature and art, were quite incapable of conveying any real impression of it. Simply watching the constant emergence of new multicoloured sparks and glimmers of light in it was already enough, because everything that I could possibly think of or dream of was a part of that rainbow-hued stream. Or to be more precise, the rainbow-hued stream was everything that I could possibly think of or experience, everything that I could possibly be or not be, and I knew quite certainly that it was not something separate from myself. It was me, and I was it. I had always been it, and nothing else.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Chapaev.

  ‘No, not in that sense,’ I said. ‘What is it called?’

  ‘It has various names,’ Chapaev replied. ‘I call it the Undefinable River of Absolute Love. Ural for short. Sometimes we become it, and sometimes we assume forms, but in actual fact neither the forms nor we ourselves, nor even the Ural exists.’

  ‘But why do we do it?’

  Chapaev shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But what if you try to explain?’ I asked.

  ‘One has to do something to occupy oneself in all this eternal infinity,’ he said. ‘So we’re going to try swimming across the river Ural, which doesn’t really exist. Don’t be afraid, Petka, dive in!’

  ‘But will I be able to dive out again?’

  Chapaev looked me over from head to toe.

  ‘Well, you obviously could before.’ he said. ‘Since you’re standing here.’

  ‘But will I be myself again?’

  ‘Now, Petka,’ Chapaev asked, ‘how can you not be yourself when you are absolutely everything that possibly can be?’

  He was about to say something else, but at this point Anna, having finished her papyrosa, carefully ground it out under her foot, and without even bothering to look our way, threw herself into the flowing stream.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Chapaev. ‘That’s the way. What’s the point of all this shilly-shallying?’

  Fixing me with a treacherous smile, he began backing towards the edge of the p
atch of earth.

  ‘Chapaev.’ I said, frightened, ‘wait. You can’t just leave me like this. You must at least explain…’

  But it was too late. The earth crumbled away under his feet, he lost his balance and flung out his arms as he tumbled backwards into the rainbow-hued radiance. It parted for a moment exactly like water and then closed over him, and I was left alone.

  For a few minutes I stared, stunned, at the spot where Chapaev had been. Then I realized that I was terribly tired. I scraped together the straw scattered around the circle of earth and gathered it into a single heap, lay down on it and fixed my gaze on the inexpressibly distant grey vault of the sky.

  Suddenly the thought struck me that since the very beginning of time I had been doing nothing but lie on the bank of the Ural, dreaming one dream after another, and waking up again and again in the same place. But if that were really the case, I thought, then what had I wasted my life on? Literature and art were no more than tiny midges hovering over the final pile of hay in the Universe. Who, I wondered, who would read the descriptions of my dreams? I looked at the smooth surface of the Ural, stretching out into infinity in all directions. The pen, the notepad and everyone who could read those marks made on its paper were now simply rainbow-coloured sparks and lights which appeared and disappeared and then appeared again. Will I really simply fall asleep again on this river bank, I wondered.

  Without giving myself even a moment’s pause for thought, I leapt to my feet, ran forwards and threw myself headlong into the Ural.

  I hardly felt anything at all; the stream was simply on every side of me now, and so there were no more sides. I saw the spot from which this stream originated - and immediately recognized it as my true home. Like a snowflake caught up by the wind, I was born along towards that spot. At first my movement was easy and weightless, and then something strange happened; I began to feel some incomprehensible friction tugging at my calves and my elbows, and my movement slowed. And no sooner did it begin to slow than the radiance surrounding me began to fade, and at the very moment when I came to a complete standstill, the light changed to a murky gloom, which I realized came from an electric bulb burning just under the ceiling.