Empire V

by Victor Pelevin

  All of a sudden my body executed a sharp manoeuvre which was extremely painful and felt as though my bones had all been crunched sideways, upon which I found myself actually on one of the threads. Then I was moving along it, skewering the cerebral capsules one by one as I passed.

  As far as I could see this had no effect on them. In fact it could not have – because they were not real. The Tongue’s objective was not the capsules themselves but the bright-red drop of hope and meaning germinating within each one. One after the other the Tongue greedily drank down these drops, each time swelling with a dreadful kind of electric exultation, which increasingly filled me with terror.

  I felt like a shade flying among thousands of dreams and feeding from them. The souls of all these people were as an open book to me: I could instantly understand everything about them. I was feeding on the reality of those waking dreams into which a man would lapse unconsciously many times a day, whenever his glance might fall upon a glossy page, a monitor screen, or a face in the crowd.

  The crimson flower of hope could blossom in any soul, and the fact that this hope was wholly without meaning, like the farewell ‘cock-a-doodle-do’ of a broiler chicken, made no difference at all. The flowers themselves were real, and the unseen reaper whom I bore on my foam-lathered back scythed them down with alacrity. A red spiral of energy throbbed in the people, a glowing discharge oscillating between what they imagined was real and what they thought were fantasies. Both poles were delusional, but the sparks flying between them were real enough. The Tongue gulped down these sparks, inflating and shaking my poor skull.

  It became harder and harder for me to keep going in this helter-skelter dash. The pace at which I had to assimilate all that was going on was unsustainable. In some unknown way I was looking into each person through whose mind I flew, and it was physically painful to keep up the tempo. There seemed only one way to step off the hurtling treadmill, and that was deliberately to think human thoughts, at a slow human speed, thoughts composed of clumsy, dependable human words. Doing so went some way to neutralise the effects of the crazily spinning sandpaper in my brain.

  Somewhere children are asleep, I thought, dreaming dreams that seem childish, but in reality they are already producing bablos just as the grown-ups do … Everyone is put to work, from infancy on …

  I was no exception. I could remember this bright-red germ of hope growing in me … We imagine we are just on the point of understanding something important, of figuring it all out at last, of achieving something, after which a new life will begin, the right life, the real life. But this never happens because the red drop of sense and hope always vanishes, and we must begin again to grow it and nurture it from nothing. And then it disappears once again, and so it goes on throughout our life, while we become more and more tired until finally nothing is left to us but to lie on our beds, turn our faces to the wall, and die …

  Now I knew what invariably happens to the red drop of hope. I fell ever more quickly through other lives as my rider was deftly scooping up the last remaining drops of meaning, swallowing them as it sated its inscrutable hunger. Many people I saw were on the brink of understanding what was happening, they guessed it but were incapable of thinking about it. All were deafened by the cry of the Mighty Bat, so that nothing remained for them but a dim memory that once upon a time their head had played host to a crucially important thought that had instantly vanished, never to return.

  We were now nearing the final destination of our journey – the vast, invisible mass of Ishtar. I knew that it would all come to an end at the moment of impact. In the last second of the voyage I remembered that all of this had been familiar to me when I was a child. Then I had seen vampires flying through my dreams and knew that they were taking from me the most important thing in life. But in the real world it is forbidden for humans to know what they can know in dreams – and therefore, on waking, I took for the cause of my terror the fan hanging above my bed like a great bat …

  This last second was followed by the impact. I understood that the Tongue had handed over to Ishtar its accumulated harvest, and after that something happened that I have no words to describe. Indeed, it bore no relation to me – it was connected solely with the Tongue. Then I lapsed into semi-consciousness.

  My mind became calm, as the surface of a lake when a complete lull descends upon it. There was no activity at all. I cannot say how much time elapsed. And then on to the surface of this nothingness fell a single drop.

  I do not know exactly what the drop struck that caused it to shatter. But in an instant the eternal, motionless background against which everything other than itself had taken place broke into movement. It was like the moment when you are looking at the sky and the branches of the trees, and suddenly a ripple passes over them and you realise that what you have been seeing was not the world but its reflection in the water. Before, I had not known that the background was even there. But the moment I saw it, I knew that I had never properly understood all that had been happening. And at once I became easy of mind and cheerful.

  Before, I thought that life consisted of events that happened to me and to others. The events could be either good or bad, and for some reason many more of them seemed to be bad than were good. And all these events take place on the surface of an immense globe to which we are bound by the force of gravity, while the globe itself flies to an unknown destination through the cosmic void.

  That was what I thought I knew. But now I understood that I, and the events, and everything in the universe – Ishtar, vampires, people, fans glued to the wall, jeeps bound to the earth, comets, asteroids, stars and the cosmic void through which they fly – are simply waves dispersing through that invisible background. They were the same waves as the one which a few moments ago had passed through my consciousness following the falling of the drop. One substance makes up everything there is in the whole world. And this substance was myself.

  In the light of the knowledge I now possessed, the fears that had been building up in my soul for years dissolved instantly. Nothing whatsoever could threaten me in this world, nor could I be a threat to anyone or anything else. Nothing bad could happen to me, nor to others; the world was so arranged as to make this an impossibility. To know this was the greatest happiness that could be imagined. I knew it for an absolute certainty; rapture filled my entire being, and nothing that had ever happened to me before could remotely be compared to it.

  Why had I never seen this before? I asked myself in utter perplexity. And immediately knew the answer. For something to be seen it must have form, colour, volume or dimension. But this background had nothing of the kind. Everything that existed did so as vortices and waves of this substance – but as for the substance itself, there was nothing able to persuade any of the sense organs that it was really there.

  Nothing, that is, except the drop that had fallen from I knew not where, and in a single fleeting moment had wrenched me out of the world of illusion (now I knew for certain that it was a world of illusion, even though everyone else around me believed it was real). Now, I thought with quiet triumph, every aspect of my life would be changed, and never would I forget what I had just understood.

  And at once understood that I had already forgotten it.

  It was all over. Around me was once again the stifling blanket of calcified, imprisoning life, with its fireplaces, its armchairs, its smirking golden sun in the ceiling, its pictures on the walls, and Baal Petrovich in his long red gown. Nothing that I had so recently perceived could help me now, because the moment when it had happened was already in the past. Now I was in the present, where everything was real and concrete, where it made no difference what substance the thorns and prickles of this world were made of. All that mattered was how deeply they would pierce the body. Indeed with every passing second they penetrated ever deeper, until the world became again as it always had been.

  ‘Well, how was it?’ asked Baal Petrovich,
appearing once more in my field of vision. ‘How do you feel now?’

  I was going to say that everything was fine, but instead asked:

  ‘Can we do it again?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hera. ‘I should like to as well. Can we?’

  Baal Petrovich laughed.

  ‘There you are! You have already discovered what Thirst is.’

  ‘So can we or not?’ insisted Hera.

  ‘No. You will have to wait until the next time.’

  ‘Will we have the same experience?’ I asked.

  Baal Petrovich nodded.

  ‘It is always the same as the first time. The whole thing is just as fresh, just as vivid. And just as intangible. You will want to experience these feelings over and over again. And the inconveniences of the first part of the ceremony will be quite irrelevant.’

  ‘Is it possible to recapture the same feelings on one’s own?’ asked Hera. ‘Without bablos?’

  ‘That is a difficult question,’ replied Baal Petrovich. ‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t know the answer. Tolstoyans, for instance, believe it is possible if you achieve sufficient simplicity in your life. But so far as I can judge, none of them has yet managed to do so.’

  ‘What about Osiris?’ I asked.

  ‘Osiris?’ Baal Petrovich frowned. ‘There are all sorts of rumours about him. Some say that in the sixties he injected bablos – shot up, as people called it then. What that did to his head I can’t imagine. As a result everyone today is afraid to bite him. Nobody knows what is in his mind, or what sort of a Tolstoyan he is. Osiris is, in a word, terra incognita. But from another point of view, experiences of this kind may be accessible to saints. Still others say that something similar may be perceived on the highest levels of yogic practice.’

  ‘What are those levels?’ asked Hera.

  ‘That I cannot tell you. No vampire has ever succeeded in biting an advanced yogi master in this particular state. Not to mention saints, of whom there have been no real examples for a very long time. To keep it simple, it is better to think along lines like this: the only true way for a vampire to slake his thirst is to suck bablos. Thirst and bablos together constitute the biological mechanism by which the survival of the Mighty Bat is assured, in much the same way as sexual pleasure ensures the continuation of the species.’

  He jabbed something on the control desk and I heard a low electrical humming sound. The breastplate rose into the air, after which the shackles loosed themselves from my arms and legs.

  I stood up. My head was still spinning, and just in case I held on to the back of the chair for support.

  The courier’s bag lay open and empty near the fireplace. In the ashes behind the bars of the grate could still be seen fragments of partially burned thousand-rouble notes. Baal Petrovich evidently fulfilled his role with an exemplary sense of responsibility. No doubt he approached it as a religious ritual in which he acted as the high priest.

  Hera also got to her feet, her face pale and serious. When she lifted her arm to straighten her hair, I noticed that her fingers were shaking. Baal Petrovich turned to her.

  ‘Just one other little formality,’ he said. ‘Courtesy demands that I begin with the lady.’

  In his hand appeared a gleaming circular object, like a large coin, which he carefully pinned to Hera’s t-shirt. The brooch was heavy, and the shirt immediately sagged.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Hera.

  ‘A commemorative badge for the “God of Money”,’ replied Baal Petrovich. ‘Now you know why we are all named after gods.’

  He turned to me.

  ‘At one time I was a jeweller,’ he explained. ‘I make these badges myself, for old times’ sake. They are all different. For you I made a special one – with wings of oak.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked suspiciously.

  ‘It’s all right, no nasty tricks. It just turned out like that. I started making them as wings, but they turned out in the shape of oak leaves. Thank God, though, we’re vampires, not fascists, so they are not oak leaves but oak wings. Take a look. They’re rather lovely, I think.’

  On his palm was a dull platinum disc with two golden wings protruding from it. They did indeed look like oak leaves. The characters ‘R II’ were picked out in small diamonds.

  ‘Do you like it?’ asked Baal Petrovich.

  I nodded my thanks, not so much because I really did like it but out of politeness.

  ‘There is a motto on the back,’ said Baal Petrovich. ‘By tradition, I choose it as well.’

  I turned the badge over. On the reverse was a safety pin and an inscription engraved in a circle round the edge:

  It is not I who must suck it, but all the others. Count Dracula

  Like all sayings of Count Dracula, the meaning may not have been the freshest, but there was nothing to object to in it. Baal Petrovich took his handiwork from me and pinned it on my chest, scratching me with the pin as he did so.

  ‘Now you are true vampires,’ he said.

  ‘Where should it be worn?’ I asked.

  ‘Hang it in your hamlet,’ said Baal Petrovich. ‘That’s what most of our people do.’

  ‘When will the next ceremony be?’ asked Hera.

  Baal Petrovich spread his arms wide.

  ‘It’s not up to me. Enlil draws up the schedule and has it confirmed by the Prima Donna.’

  I understood he was referring to Ishtar Borisovna.

  ‘What is the frequency on average?’ I asked.

  ‘Frequency?’ queried Baal Petrovich. ‘Hmm … interesting point. I’ve never even thought about it. Just a moment.’

  He took a mobile phone from the pocket of his robe and tapped in some numbers.

  ‘The frequency is …’ he said after a long pause, ‘3.086 x 10-7Hz.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘That’s the frequency. So many cycles a second, isn’t it? That is how many. The next ceremony will be in approximately one month.’

  ‘Once a month isn’t very often,’ said Hera. ‘It’s not nearly enough. That’s no good.’

  ‘Talk to the management,’ replied Baal Petrovich. ‘We also have our hierarchy, you see. The lower you hang, the higher you fly. Enlil over there has his own home-based station. He and the Prima Donna can suck bablos every day if they want to. But at the start of your creative path, my dears, you are not likely to get it more than once a month.’

  He looked at his watch.

  ‘Now, are there any more questions? I’ve got to be going.’

  There were no more questions.

  Having made our farewells to Baal Petrovich, Hera and I went out into the passage. I took her hand. Like that we walked all the way to the entrance, but just before the front door she took her hand away.

  ‘Shall we see one another soon?’ I said.

  ‘Not right away,’ she replied. ‘Don’t ring me just yet. I’ll ring you.’

  Seeing us come out, Mithra came to meet us.

  ‘Hera,’ he began, screwing up his eyes against the sun, ‘today is a red letter day for you. I want you to remember it for ever. So I’ve prepared …’

  He fell silent and looked at me.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Rama,’ he said, ‘I like you, but you are somewhat de trop just at the moment.’

  ‘It’s also a red letter day for me,’ I said. ‘Don’t forget that.’

  ‘That’s true,’ agreed Mithra. ‘I really can’t think what’s to be done about it … But here are two suggestions to help you in your battle with loneliness. First, you have Ivan. I bit him while I was waiting for Hera, and he likes you, rest assured of it. The other idea is for you to ring up Loki. He’s a bit past it himself, of course, but if you fancy engaging his friend I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Unlike me …’

  Hera grinned. Again I was lost for words – tr
ue, my head was still going round and round after the ceremony. Mithra put his arm through Hera’s and led her away. She did not look back, not even once. Something strange was happening to her. She was not behaving as she should, not at all. I could not understand what it all meant.

  They got into the car.

  Ring up Loki, I thought. Well, why not? That might indeed be a solution. Of course it was the solution. There was no other, of that I was sure.

  When I got to my car I sat in the back and slammed the door shut.

  ‘Where to, Chief?’ asked Ivan.

  ‘Home.’

  Ivan moved off, but had to brake in order to let Hera’s car through as it emerged from the bushes. Nothing could be seen through its tinted windows – and the opacity inflamed my imagination with a blistering heat, so much so that any lingering doubts about my proposed course of action were dissipated.

  I dialled Loki’s number.

  ‘Rama? Hello. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Do you remember telling me about vampire duels?’

  ‘Of course I do. Why are you asking? Are you planning to challenge someone?’

  It was clear from his lighthearted tone of voice that he did not consider this a serious proposition.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am.’

  ‘You’re not serious, are you?’

  ‘Yes, I am. How do I go about it?’

  ‘All you have to do is tell me,’ replied Loki. ‘I arrange everything; it’s part of my job. But I have to be certain that what you are saying is completely serious.’

  ‘What I am saying is completely serious.’

  ‘Whom are you challenging?’

  ‘Mithra.’

  Loki said nothing for a while.

  ‘May I,’ he said at last, ‘ask the reason?’