by G. Zotov
We will create a world for two,
I'll wait for you the whole night through,
For you, Lili Marlene.
Hans Leip, Norbert Schultze. Lili Marlene
Chapter One
The Tea Ceremony
Tokyo, Shōwa Era Street, Red Sun Tea House.
From a classified audio transcript,
THE SOUND OF POURING WATER and the clutter of bone china breaks the silence.
"With all due respect, Minister," a voice says adamantly, "my lowly position in the light of your presence makes me unworthy of the slightest show of your mercy. What I've committed isn't a mistake. It is a catastrophe. If you be so kind as to allow me to use your presence in order to-"
"In order to do what?" the other voice asks curiously. "Do you purport to wipe away the stain of your mistake by committing hara-kiri?"
"How did you know? It's true that I've already drawn the symbol of honor on the palm of my hand. But-"
"Had you been a Cabinet Minister for as long as I have, dear Marquis, you too would have learned to tell your visitor's intentions the moment he or she enters the room. The Nippon koku may have imbibed quite a few foreign influences but it still sticks to its traditions. Look at this pretty bamboo tea house we're in. Do you know it's quite popular for all sorts of secret encounters? Celebrities from all around Tokyo come here and pay five thousand yen for the pleasure of discussing art and politics with its geishas. I can't deny the fact that the girls have the scent of chrysanthemums about them; they pour tea with the long-forgotten grace of the Fujiwara period, they will expertly arrange an ikebana or play their shamisens for you. It's considered classy — and you're supposed to derive a truly artistic pleasure from their company. And if one of these girls gives you goosebumps, you're free to offer her a sum of money large enough to make her forget the geishas' code of ethics and subject you to her more intimate attentions. Am I right? If I am, do me a favor and offer me an ounce of logic from the shop of your reasoning. You pay a woman for drinking her tea and listening to her playing music (which can be quite a painful experience, I assure you) and then some extra for the luxury of her love, provided you manage to impress her enough to talk her into it? Oh, the joys of an orgasm. In Europe, Marquis, you offer a girl fifty yen and she'll be more than willing to please you any way you want. It's primitive, I agree, but it works. And if you ask her for some shamisen playing or for a parlor game of tora tora tora, you'll have to pay extra as if it's some rare and perverse pleasure."
"If you'll excuse me, Your Excellency," the other voice offers with a hint of indignation, "there's no art in it!"
"Do me a favor. If you shell out fifty yen for a love-making session, at least you get exactly what you pay for. But if you offer five grand for a tea ceremony, you're obliged to derive some sort of perverted secret pleasure from her actions whether you like it or not. You might even write a poem praising the sexy grip of her little fingers on the teapot handle. You'll tell your friends about this incredible feeling of experiencing sakura blossoms touch the bottom of your heart as you gulp your tea. In other words, you'll be looking for any excuse to justify your ridiculous expense without feeling like a total idiot. That's the whole explanation of the geisha phenomenon for you..."
The voice paused. "So what was I talking about? Yes, to err is human. Every other agent I meet in here thinks his mistakes are his fault. So what does he do? He wants to follow the ancient honor code by ripping open his own belly. Had I agreed to every such request, this nice little tea house would have long turned into a butcher's shop and we'd have had no one left willing to work in the civil service. Which is why I'm asking you now: what would make you change your mind, Marquis?"
"Minister," the other man pauses to sip his tea. "It's been twenty years that I've been in charge of the Mikado's intelligence service... even though this last unforgivable failure is enough evidence of my ineptitude to occupy such a high post. If you'll excuse my being so blunt, what else do you expect me to do? My unforgivable error has caused the impending Apocalypse. I haven't slept for forty-eight hours. I know I should die."
"I assure you," there's a smile in the Minister's voice as he watches a geisha bow, "your wish may well come true in the next few days. Instead of beating yourself up, I dare you to do something crazy. Something that's always been lurking in the deep recesses of your mind but you were too scared of facing up to its dark challenge. Eat the heart of a sixteen-year-old virgin, or take a skinny dip in a public fountain, or just drink yourself blind on sake. Who would have the heart to blame you? Here in Tokyo, population doesn't panic which is excellent. We've always had this ability to hope for the best even if our world is being devoured by a ravenous demon. Having said that... what about the late, what's his name, Yamamura Onoda?"
The other man sighs. "Only a few finger fragments and a charred skull were located at the scene. A DNA analysis allowed us to identify them as belonging to Onoda. He was posthumously promoted to Colonel and awarded the Supreme Order of the Chrysanthemum. Still, his death weighs heavily on my conscience. This sole failure is enough to describe myself as a hara-no-kuroi-hito, a man with a black soul[xxxi]. It's only through cutting my belly open that I can expose the entire extent of my remorse."
"I'm afraid, the only thing it would expose is your gut," the Minister's voice rings with a subtle smile. "You shouldn't get so upset about the late Colonel Onoda. Events of the last three days show that we're all about to die anyway. You, like many others, have been misinformed. Having studied the contamination's effects, I too tended to believe it would only affect the Third Reich. Which was why I thought it imperative to eliminate Pavel Loktev. None of us thought at the time that if the contamination symptoms indeed only manifested themselves within the area of Moskau, we should have assisted him in his mission, not tried to stop him. Unfortunately, now both Loktev and the trigger agent have gone missing. And I have a funny feeling that there's nothing we can do to stop this catastrophe."
A china cup clinks softly. "Your Excellency, your usual insight colors my face crimson with shame. In these last three days, the contamination has been spreading faster than 'flu. I saw satellite images of Moskau. Aryan Street is gone, razed to the ground! Same has happened to half of Mein Kampf Avenue. The Eiffel Tower has vanished into thin air, and so has Tower Bridge in London. The Shogunet is seething with rumors that all this is the result of Schwarzkopf scientists testing their latest secret weapon. Still, the Schwarzkopfs seem to be just as confused as the Third Reich supporters. The Earth has begun to collapse, whole areas of the globe imploding. The ocean is riddled with vortexes sucking in entire islands. The day before yesterday, the contamination finally reached the Nippon koku, dissolving some wooden houses in Kyoto. And today..."
Calm shamisen music begins to sound as a geisha runs her expert fingers over the instrument. The Minister sighs. "Yes, I know. I made the mistake of turning the car radio on as I headed for our meeting. Mount Fuji, the ancient symbol of the Nippon koku, is gone too. The TV is playing for time, offering believable explanations such as scientific experiments or even testing new camouflage methods in case of a new war. That's the only reason the population isn't panicking yet. This is good news. Our dear Viking TV colleagues in Moskau, however, weren't as prudent. I won't badmouth my friends but their enemies might say that they spent too much time in contemplation without putting their brains in gear. At first Viking maintained a reserved silence as Moskau buildings began to disappear into thin air. And now they describe the contamination as a — imagine! — a mass hallucination triggered by abnormal weather conditions. Gestapo agents dress up in lab coats and impersonate bespectacled professors on television, befuddling the audience with scientific mumbo jumbo. In the meantime, the phantoms of wartime death camps materialize out of nowhere and ghostly gallows begin to rise in city squares. Did you hear that the Jewish mass graves of Babi Yar ravine near Kiev have opened up, revealing the pale faces of the dead? The Forest Brothers' recon battalions have already
entered the outskirts of Moskau, Yekaterinodar and St. Petersburg — apparently, meeting no resistance. The Chinese mercenaries have fled. The Wehrmacht is demoralized; some of its barracks are already contaminated. The Patriarch of the Forest Church has served a mass which was streamed by the Shogunet, praying to 'grant victory to the army of the righteous over the murderous enemy'. The Reichskommissariat Moskau lives on borrowed time."
The other man sets the tea cup onto the tray offered by a kneeling geisha. "Isn't that what we wanted, Minister? Even if the world survives by some miracle, my descendants will be doomed to lay face down in the dust before the Mikado's throne, begging to forgive their unworthy ancestor. Today's reports from the borders of the Nippon koku are like acid to my ears. The dematerialization of the commandant's office building in Uradziosutoku and the disappearance of the city's entire garrison have triggered unrest. Crowds of plunderers strip off their kimonos and, clad in crude embroidered Slavic shirts, go on the rampage, destroying rock gardens, burning Imperial flags and looting the city's cultural centers. The beautiful Amaterasu Temple on Bronze Mirror Street has been pillaged and is burning as we speak. The chopstick museum has been reduced to ashes. The crowd has razed the Geisha College to the ground, calling this excellent institution a whore factory! I didn't tell any of this to my revered father — who's spent fifty years in honorable service under the Mikado's banners — for fear of seeing him reduced to tears. So is this the Russlanders' gratitude for everything we've done for them? After the Mikado, in his eternal grace, was kind enough to grant them citizenship status allowing them to take Japanese names and worship Amaterasu — is this what they're giving us back?"
"I understand your indignation, Marquis," the Minister's voice is filled with the benign smile he casts at the bowing geisha. "But you really shouldn't pay so much heed to all this nonsense. Here's my advice to you: let go of your inhibitions. Set your instincts free and storm your way into the jungle of desire, roaring like a tiger. What a shame I'm eighty-four, otherwise I too would have indulged in a tireless orgy with this house's entire staff. Unfortunately, all I can do is hold this tea cup and wait for the contamination to crumble this world into dust and scatter its gray ashes, mine included. What difference does it make whether we were right or not? It's irrelevant. So let's live these few days the way we've always wanted to."
"Well said, Your Excellency," the other's voice rings with hidden anticipation.
"Would you like some more tea, Marquis?"
"Yes, please. It tastes especially good when you know your moments in this world are already numbered."
Chapter Two
The Occupation
Grünburg, a satellite town in the vicinity of Moskau
I'M BEGINNING TO GET A TASTE of my new life. My fake American passport — courtesy of Doc — is of the highest quality, stashed under a shirt with a loud print known as an "explosion in a pigeon house". I haven't looked inside yet. I have this funny aversion to seeing my own passport pictures — like most people, I suppose. A false Blood ID is sitting in the back pocket of my stovepipe pants. A wig and a pair of shades complete the look of a crazy Californian tourist.
I probably look quite a sight. Sometimes I wonder what I actually look like. I never seem to be able to remember my own face. It must be some kind of condition I have.
We arrived in Moskau on an LA flight. The passport check went without a glitch. We left the airport in a taxi. Apparently, the Gestapo had their hands full without us. The city of Moskau is an unrecognizable wreck. The streets are mangled in places, half-dissolved into nothing like rock salt in soup. I can't believe how fast the contamination is progressing. You could walk past a building and when you go back an hour later, it's already gone! Well, almost: you can still make out the barely visible outlines of its phantom walls.
It's as if someone has flown in on a magic carpet and dropped an enchanted bomb on the city. The Kremlin is reduced to two remaining towers. The Wewelsburg Castle, however, is still in one piece: even Goddess Hel herself might not be strong enough to tackle that monstrosity.
On our way from the airport, Olga contacted some of her Schwarzkopf friends (who were apparently overjoyed to hear of her return from the dead). They took us to their Grünburg safe house on the outskirts of Moskau.
Naturally, Olga knew better than to tell them I was Odin's priest and an SS Standartenführer to boot. That could have complicated matters unnecessarily in all sorts of petty little ways, creating useless squabbles and a smattering of dead bodies in our wake. So she wisely recommended me to them as a Thule Society Archmage, thus putting their minds at rest: who in their right mind would be afraid of a government-hired fortune teller?
Their "safe house" isn't much to write home about: a minimalist Speer-style studio with a kitchenette just big enough to cook a canary. The bathroom is a capsule-style affair where the toilet bowl is fitted inside the bathtub. We're staying there only until next morning, anyway. The Moskau Resistance made an arrangement with the Forest Brothers to give our car safe passage: all main roads out of Moskau are controlled by their guerrilla groups.
Moskau is under military curfew. All ceremonial Wehrmacht garrisons have been rushed from Greater Germany to Russland. At Prussian Station earlier that morning, I saw a truckful of sullen German soldiers wearing helmets and field-gray uniforms. Good decision on the Triumvirate's part. You can never rely on the Russlander Wehrmacht forces. Now Germans, they'll stand to the last even in the face of a global disaster.
Olga has got her wish, then. The unfolding situation can safely be called a new occupation. I can see the fear and resentment in the eyes of old people who still remember the Führer's victorious entrance into Moskau back in 1941. And now when you'd think everything has long been forgotten, the field-gray uniforms flood the streets again, filling the air with the rattling of weapons and the guttural sounds of their barking language.
Younger-generation Moskauers don't seem to care much, though. They walk the streets zombie-like, their smiles frozen, their eyes glazed over. Mechanically they keep going to work without really being sure their office will still be there when they come back from lunch break.
You can't flee the city. Concrete barbed-wire checkpoints have risen overnight, blocking all of Moskau's access roads. Checkpoint guards turn everyone back. It doesn't apply to us: Doc's paperwork opens a secret passage unavailable to anybody else.
The city is rife with rumors about a new secret weapon, an upcoming change of power and the impending street fighting. You can't scare a Moskauer with anarchy. In the turbulent days of the Twenty-Year War, the city's inhabitants grew too used to constant changes of power. One day Moskau would be governed by a tank battalion commander promptly replaced by an SS Oberführer who'd be ousted by a Labor Front leader: a bespectacled nerd in a business suit.
The townspeople seem to be too immersed in virtual reality. Those of the Schwarzkopfs Olga spoke to, mentioned that when their militia groups entered towns, local population seemed to be unable to peel themselves away from the TV screens.
Actually, I too tend to watch the TV whenever obligatory transmissions are on. What else is there to do? I stare at scientists offering explanations for abnormal weather conditions, rod-backed generals alluding to their troops' loyalty to the Triumvirate, famous actors and authors engaging in unhurried haughty discussions about the regime's invincibility and the consequent dangers of rocking the boat. For some reason, I envision their audiences filling dark theaters where they sit in the screen's faint glow, shoulder to shoulder, jaws clenched, nodding at every new statement they hear. You don't think so?
The Triumvirate maintains its silence.
This isn't the kind of reaction I expected. I used to think that people would make a beeline for the temples en masse. In such moments of uncertainty and civil unrest, religion becomes a straw to clutch: a hope for a higher force that will decide everything for you, turning the circumstances to your benefit and advantage.
Nothing of the kind.
Odin's temples are empty while shopping malls are packed with people, restaurants are booked solid and gold dealers have sold out in the first twenty-four hours of unrest. Little wonder: if Bolsheviks enter Moskau, the first thing they'll do is abolish private property, replace Reichsmarks with rubles and introduce ration books. If you can't escape hell, at least you can try and buy it up.
The Shogunet is still up but bound to be taken down soon under the pretext of maintenance. Or whatever.
The car drive takes me down Aryan Street. There's nothing left of my temple, apart from a single scruffy fir tree. You can't seriously call it ruins. The temple has vanished into nothing.
On every street corner, freshly-installed loudspeakers bark their messages,
"People of Moskau! We urge you to stay calm! The situation is under control! It's nothing serious!"
The speaker's German-accented voice is a clever idea. Here, Germans have the reputation of being overzealous control freaks. They won't allow the situation to careen out of control. That's why the city is wallowing in sleepy nonchalance. Television and the field-gray uniforms: a perfect formula. The Triumvirate knows what it's doing. Shogunet forums are plastered with pictures from other parts of the Reich. Strangely enough, they too show little reaction to the events. Buildings keep disappearing, phantoms of gallows loom up through the air — and nobody's saying anything! As some Dresden online user said, "What's the point in panicking? Beer hasn't evaporated yet!"
The only area showing some anxiety is the Reichskommissariat of Ukraine. Their Triumvirate has announced the anomalies the result of "the Moskau Gestapo and their tricks". Mind you, that's their favorite excuse for whatever happens.
I'm really not happy that I've been instrumental in causing the end of the world. I've contributed to it; without me, it wouldn't have worked. I feel like some sort of Victor von Frankenstein breathing life into a monster only to watch it devour our planet, grinning, while I languish in frustration, unable to stop him.