The Hall of the Singing Caryatids

by Victor Pelevin

  Lena thanked her sardonically and started reading. . . .

  •

  She learned a lot of interesting things from the article:

  It recalled the absolutely prehistoric rumor that Botvinik had smashed Jean-Claude Van Damme’s face in at a disco in Monte Carlo during the nineties, and how he supposedly couldn’t go abroad again for a long time, because he was wanted by Interpol. She didn’t really believe it — at that time Lena’s older sister was having a fling with a thug from Orekhovo-Zuevo, so ever since she was just a kid, Lena had known how difficult it was to find a thug from Orekhovo-Zuevo who hadn’t smashed Jean-Claude Van Damme’s face in at a disco in Monte Carlo (many of them used to hint with an obscene sneer that things had gone further than that). If Interpol had ever been looking for Botvinik then, of course, it was for something else — but the overworked rumor, on which all the serious political pundits had eagerly commented (“The West has been given yet another reason to gnash its teeth in frustration”), was itself an indication of such vast financial resources that it was far classier than actually smashing Jean-Claude Van Damme’s face in.

  And the article hinted at that. One of the photos showed the oligarch on a deserted beach, with a tattoo of a bat clearly visible on his shoulder (that section of the shot was reproduced, greatly enlarged, alongside).

  There was a shady story to that bat. . . .

  According to one version, Botvinik had served in the paratroopers (one photograph showed him in uniform, with his arms around some guys in blue berets outside the entrance to Gorky Park on Army Day), and the symbol had been tattooed on him following the paratroopers’ tradition. But according to another version he had simply been the first Russian oligarch to consider what later became known as PR, and invested in his public image before anyone else. So during the loans-for-shares auctions, articles in the Kommersant newspaper about his financial operations were actually titled “The Paratroopers Have Landed.” Supposedly, however, he actually had the bat tattoo done later, when a exposé appeared on Dirt.ru about him never having been in the army.

  The subject of “Russian machismo” derived from the same origin — the author of the article commented on the irony that Botvinik was not naturally suited to this role, having been raised by his parents as a decent, cultured individual. But even so, a specially assembled team of cultural analysts, psychologists, and specialists in neurolinguistic programming (NLP) had helped him achieve a total self-transformation, in the process developing for him the technique of “Crypto-Speak” — a conversational strategy that implants special microcommands in another person’s consciousness. These microcommands were harmless enough in themselves, but in the context of a precisely calibrated phrase they effectively constituted a binary linguistic weapon. In combination with rigorously exact gestures, they affected the subconscious in such a way that a few minutes of interaction was enough for Botvinik to subjugate any typical Russian to his will.

  Not much was known about Crypto-Speak. It was believed that, in addition to exploiting traditional cultural codes, it made use of command-memes assembled in accordance with kabbalistic principles out of letter-and-digit combinations disguised as everyday speech. This tool of psychological influence had proved stunningly effective — so effective that it had been classified and added to the armory of the major political technologists, many of whom regarded Botvinik as their guru.

  Crypto-Speak’s greatest secret was the specific technology Combat NLP — but all information on this subject had been hidden away so securely that the author of the article didn’t even try to guess at the meaning of the term. Botvinik was the pioneer in this area — a mastery of Crypto-Speak in combination with Combat NLP was believed to be one of the main reasons for his devastating business success. Another was that Botvinik supposedly held the rank of colonel in the KGB (the author of the article doubted the accuracy of this rumor, but he was sure that Botkin managed the state security slush fund through a subsidiary company in the City of London.

  “It might seem strange to a nonprofessional that the Litvinenko scandal and the conflict in the Caucasus have had little impact on all these circumstances,” the magazine article said. “In fact, the financial integration of various elite groups is one of the concealed balance beams that prevent the world from tipping over into total chaos: no antiballistic missile system can better defend you against a rusty nuclear bomb than a convivial understanding of the way things work.”

  In recent years Botvinik had been living mostly in London (Interpol had clearly dropped its claims about Jean-Claude Van Damme), but he often visited Moscow.

  It was an interesting article, but a bit too highbrow: some phrases seemed like total gibberish to Lena, even though they consisted of words that she understood. For instance: “In modern Russia, ideologies have been displaced by technologies, which means that Botvinik, who fronted the new generation of neurolinguistic technicians, can quite legitimately be called both the supreme technologist for all the ideologists and the supreme ideologist for all the technologists . . .” Lena read this part through again twice, but she still didn’t understand what it was all about.

  “Combat NLP,” she repeated in a whisper and looked at Botvinik’s flushed cheeks.

  It occurred to her that Kima might just be right about talking to a photograph — after all, in ancient times people must have had a reason for drawing on the walls of their caves the prey that they were hoping to run into when they went hunting. If they’d had glossy magazines back then, the Cro-Magnons probably wouldn’t have daubed soot on stone walls with charred sticks, they’d simply have cut out photos of bison and mammoths and jabbed their spears at them during their magical rituals . . . so she might as well try to work a bit of magic with a photo — but surreptitiously, so her friends wouldn’t laugh at her.

  “Hey, Misha Botvinik,” Lena thought to herself. “Can you hear me? You know what women are like nowadays, don’t you? Of course you do. Well then, I’m not like that. Honestly, I’m not . . . I’m . . . well, you can’t even imagine what I’m like. I’ll do the very best thing for you that one creature can do for another. The very, very best thing. Can you hear me? I swear!”

  The minibus braked, the magazine jerked in Lena’s hands, and she thought she saw Botvinik wink at her briefly with his left eye. Then she started feeling stupid, turned over half the pages in the magazine in one go, and came to the section on low-budget eligible bachelors.

  There were ten of them on each page, and to be quite honest, they weren’t very inspiring. The photos were passport format, with strange recommendations printed under them in small type, for instance: “Rapidsher Verbitsky, GQ’s mathematician of the year.” Lena glanced at Rapidsher, sighed, closed the magazine, and put it down quickly on an empty seat — in order not to confuse matters.

  •

  Once, when Lena watched a German film about Hitler’s final days, the thing that struck her most forcibly of all was how nondescript the entrance to the Führer’s underground bunker looked — she couldn’t understand why anyone would make so much fuss over something so dismal.

  The route to her new workplace turned out to pass through an equally inconspicuous concrete structure, like the shelter at a bus stop or the entrance to a public toilet. And furthermore, this entrance was located on a military base, behind a barbed wire fence, with armed soldiers standing all around.

  Nor was she impressed by the elegance of the elevator in which they found themselves after their documents were checked. It was a simple iron cage with a ribbed floor — though it was very spacious. And when they reached the bottom (after riding down for ages), her mood was completely ruined.

  Everything was exactly like in the film about Hitler. Concrete corridors with low ceilings, cables strung along the walls, iron doors, vents, hatchways, cold fluorescent lighting. However, the air was fresh; it even had a kind of forest fragrance.

  The girls were taken to a dressing room with several metal cupboards and a shower, and
told to wait.

  A few minutes later, Uncle Pete entered the room with the major, who collected their signatures on a nondisclosure agreement. The major was still wearing his camouflage uniform and Uncle Pete was in a jaunty t-shirt with a slogan that read:

  HUGO BOSS

  Lena spotted the Nazi runes, but she didn’t get the point at first.

  “That’s because Hugo Boss designed the SS uniform,” Kima whispered.

  “Sounds about right for a place like this,” Lena whispered back.

  “No talking in the ranks!” the major barked.

  When they stopped talking, Uncle Pete said:

  “All right, girls, today is just an introductory day — there won’t be any clients. Presently we are in your dressing room. This is where you’ll get changed. Then you will proceed along the corridor, through the metal detector, to the place where you’ll be working. The dressing room is located in the technical zone of this complex and there’s a cafeteria nearby where you can always purchase refreshments. Now for the specifics. You are the Caryatids of the Malachite Hall. Which means that before your shift, you will smear yourselves with malachite paste. It’s absolutely harmless — a tinting cream developed especially for you. And you have wigs — they’re lying over there. The wigs can be put on before the injection, a special opening has been left at the back. . . . Right, what are we gawking at, my little daisies? Let’s get naked and smeared up!”

  Lena didn’t find the procedure difficult, she had long ago accustomed herself to the idea that on the path to success she would often have to undress in front of strangers. Although the “malachite paste” was repulsive gunk — it looked like green, pearly shampoo — on the skin it turned into a fine, glossy film with a pattern that really did resemble a polished slab of malachite.

  “Rub it on thoroughly,” said Uncle Pete. “On the eyelids too, because you’ll be standing with your eyes closed.”

  “Does it let the skin breathe?” asked Asya.

  “Yeah, sure it does,” Uncle Pete replied. “And by the way, next time your mound has to be shaved, just remember. . . .”

  Asya blushed, but she didn’t say anything

  When she finished smearing herself, Lena pulled a wig of green dreadlocks onto her head. The dreadlocks were woven out of something like bast fibres and gathered together into a pharaoh-like hairstyle. The wig was large and luxuriant, yet so light that she could hardly even feel it on her head.

  “All right girls, down on your knees,” said the major, and the familiar injection gun appeared in his hand. “Let’s pretend we’re at Katyn. Don’t worry,” he snickered, “it doesn’t hurt.”

  And it really didn’t.

  The injection felt like a cool fountain suddenly spurting at full power into the back of Lena’s head. (Lena thought she had experienced this feeling before, either in her childhood or in a dream). The fountain struck her brain, bathing it in a cold stream that washed away the seething mass of anxieties and thoughts that Lena hadn’t noticed until they revealed themselves by disappearing.

  It was strange. After the injection nothing drastic occurred. It simply became clear that before it Lena had been in a state of extreme agitation — a kind of fidgety, frightened panic for which there was no reason except that it was her usual condition. But as soon as this internal commotion passed off and tranquillity descended, the nervous trembling of her body, which Lena hadn’t noticed before either, came to a halt. Everything became calm and very clear.

  When Lena looked at herself in the mirror, she was dumbfounded.

  Gazing out at her from the gleaming rectangle was a stone idol. Those were the first words that came to her mind.

  Of course, there was no comparison with the crude, weathered carvings of the Siberian steppe — this idol was made of polished malachite, and its hair seemed to be carved, rather coarsely, out of the same material. Only its eyes were still alive. Lena tried closing them and looking at herself through her eyelashes. That made the similarity to a statue complete.

  Lena held her hand out in front of her and looked at her green fingers. They were absolutely unfaltering. It looked as if any one of them would break off if it was tapped with a hammer, and the others would carry on jutting out into the air in the same motionless way for thousands and thousands of years.

  •

  The Malachite Hall turned out to be a large square room faced with malachite and decorated with frescoes on spiritual subjects. Uncle Pete explained that it was a free adaptation of one of the halls in the Hermitage, the empress’s former reception room.

  There was no furniture in the room apart from a huge sofa shaped like a bagel. Standing in the empty center of this sofa was a retractable table — a round slab of malachite on a hefty telescopic leg that ran down through the floor. The sofa was upholstered in brightly patterned silk, with numerous cushions of various colors and shapes scattered about on it. On the table, crystal and glass sparkled and glinted green.

  In each corner of the hall there was a malachite base or pedestal. Above each of them was a prop for the Caryatids’ hands (they were supposed to support the ceiling), and the height of the props could be adjusted by a special mechanism so that when little Aysa and tall Vera climbed up onto their pedestals, they could assume exactly the same pose, with their arms raised to meet the upper malachite slab at exactly the same angle. In this pose their elbows pointed forward, exposing their armpits, which they had to shave thoroughly before every shift.

  No normal person could possibly have stood motionless in that pose all day long — but after the injection it wasn’t a problem. Lena’s body seemed like a light glass flask, with some invisible flame of life burning inside it. She knew that an external observer would only notice this flame when she opened her eyes. According to their instructions, they could only open their eyes when they were talking to a client, but Lena had already realized that she could observe her surroundings through her eyelashes and no one would ever know.

  However, there was absolutely nothing to observe.

  During their first shift on the job the hall didn’t have a single visitor. A few times she heard rollicking, drunken voices and laughter from the corridor outside the entrance. And once she caught the smell of a Cuban cigar, which reminded her of Uncle Pete.

  During the two days she stood on the pedestal, Lena was able to study every last detail of the hall.

  The frescoes showed levitating, long-haired angels, dressed in identical white robes with strange-looking watermarks. The angels hovered above a strip of cloud, holding each other’s hands, and seemed to be listening to something quiet. However, the religious theme was not too intrusive. First, the angels were indulgent — that much was clear from their smiles. And second, their eyes were covered by black blindfolds. Even the bearded God the Father wore an identical blindfold. (The inconspicuous door of the staff entrance, through which Lena and her friends had arrived at their workplace, was located in His stomach.) God the Father had His hands raised, but He seemed to be spreading them in protest, as if to say: “Don’t ask for anything more, guys. I’ve already given you everything I could.”

  Evidently the intended meaning was that God is not exactly what the simple, common man is told — and He’s not particularly bothered by the frolics of the elite, whom He Himself has exalted to the pinnacles of power.

  It was rather strange to see clouds one thousand feet underground, but Lena was well aware that the heaven where God and the angels lived was not a physical space: everyone knew that Gagarin and Khrushchev had had a serious falling-out on that score.

  Every few hours the table sank under the floor with a quiet hum and a few moments later rose back up into the hall, freshly laid. It was set with liquor, wine, champagne in an ice bucket, hors d’oeuvres, and fruit. And although no one came into the room during the first shift, the table traveled down and up again eight times — and every time the refreshments on it were replenished.

  Lena felt as if she had been standing on the ped
estal for almost no time at all. Her mind was working in a special kind of way, unusually light and precise, and she was planning to think about a lot more things, when the door in God the Father’s stomach opened and four green female figures entered the hall. They were the new shift — apparently the two days were already over.

  •

  “Did you see him?” Asya asked before the following shift.

  “Who?” asked Lena, puzzled.

  “The praying mantis.”

  At first, Lena thought that Asya meant the praying angel on the main door — he was located opposite the service door in God the Father. But then she recalled the insect from which the Mantis-B serum was made.

  “No,” she answered. “I didn’t see him. Where?”

  Asya shrugged.

  “I don’t know. Inside.”

  “Inside yourself?”

  “I suppose so,” Asya answered, giving her a mysterious glance. “Or maybe inside the mantis.”

  Lena thought Asya was fooling around.

  However in the middle of the next shift something very odd happened. Lena suddenly felt as if her hands were not raised upwards, but folded in prayer in front of her.

  Or rather, it was the other way around. It felt as if for a long, long time, almost from the very beginning of time itself, she had been holding her hands folded in front of her chest, and then she had had the illusion that they were raised above her head and pressed against a slab of stone. And then she realized that the illusion she had had was her real situation. And then it was like when you wake up in the morning and it becomes clear that this absurdly squalid and unconvincing continuation of your dream really is the truth, and now you have to get up, get dressed, and go out into the world to feed yourself.

  Lena thought she must have dozed off while she was working, and she felt frightened, because she could fall off the pedestal if that happened. But when the hallucination was repeated, she realized that it had nothing at all to do with sleep. This time she followed exactly what was happening much more closely.