The Sacred Book of the Werewolf

by Victor Pelevin

  ‘So what you’re saying is that words can’t reflect the truth?’

  I shook my head in confirmation.

  ‘Two times two is four,’ he said. ‘That’s the truth, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, for instance, you’ve got two bollocks and two nostrils. Two times two. But I don’t see any four in that.’

  ‘What if we add them up?’

  ‘How are you going to add nostrils to bollocks? Leave that sort of thing to humans.’

  He thought about it. Then he asked: ‘And when’s the superwerewolf supposed to come?’

  ‘The super-werewolf comes every time you see the truth.’

  ‘And what is the truth?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘What is it?’ he repeated.

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘Eh?’

  I rolled my eyes up. That’s a facial gesture that really suits me.

  ‘I asked you a question, Ginger.’

  ‘Surely it’s clear enough? My silence is the answer.’

  ‘But can you answer in words? So that I could understand?’

  ‘There’s nothing there to understand,’ I replied. ‘When you’re asked the question “what is truth?” there’s only one way you can answer it without lying. You must see the truth within yourself, on the inside. But on the outside you must keep silent.’

  ‘And do you see this truth within yourself?’ he asked.

  I said nothing.

  ‘All right, I’ll put it a different way. When you see this truth within yourself, what exactly do you see?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said.

  ‘Nothing? And that’s the truth?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘If there’s nothing there, then why do we talk about truth at all?’

  ‘You’re confusing the cause and the effect. We don’t talk about truth because there’s something there. On the contrary, we think there must be something there because the word “truth” exists.’

  ‘Exactly. The word exists, doesn’t it? Why?’

  ‘Just because. Forever wouldn’t be long enough to untangle all the cunning tricks words play. You can think up an infinite number of questions and answers - you can put the words together this way and that way, and every time some kind of meaning will stick to them. It’s pointless. That sparrow over there doesn’t have any questions for anybody. But I don’t think he’s any further away from the truth than Lacan or Foucault.’

  I thought he might not know who Lacan and Foucault were. Although they supposedly had that counter-brainwashing course . . . But in any case I knew I ought to express myself more simply.

  ‘In short, it’s all because of words that the humans are stuck up shit creek. And the were-creatures with them. Because even though we are were-creatures, we speak their language.’

  ‘But words exist for a reason, don’t they?’ he said. ‘If people really are stuck up shit creek, we need to understand why, don’t we?’

  ‘When you’re up shit creek, there are two things you can do. First - you can try to understand why you’re up there. Or second - you can get out of there. The mistake that individuals and entire nations make is to think these two actions are somehow interconnected. But they aren’t. And getting out of shit creek is a lot easier than understanding why you’re stuck up it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You only have to get out of shit creek once, and after that you can forget about it. But to understand why you’re stuck up it takes a lifetime. Which you’ll spend stuck up there.’

  We sat in silence for a while, gazing into the darkness.

  Then he asked: ‘But even so. What do people have language for, if it gives them nothing but grief?’

  ‘In the first place, so they can lie. In the second place, so they can wound each other with the barbs of venomous words. In the third place, so they can discuss what doesn’t exist.’

  ‘And what does exist as well?’

  I raised one finger.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked. ‘Why are you giving me the finger?’

  ‘I’m not giving you the finger, I’m pointing. There’s no need to discuss what does exist. It’s right there in front of you anyway. It’s enough just to point to it.’

  We didn’t talk any more that evening, but I knew the first seeds had fallen on fertile ground. All I could do now was wait for the next opportunity.

  In case anyone thinks our way of making love is a perversion (tailechery, he’d called it eh? You couldn’t forget that in a hurry) I advise them to take a closer look at what people do to each other. First they wash their bodies and remove the hairs from them, then they spray liquids on themselves to kill their natural smell (I remember Count Tolstoy was particularly outraged by that) - and all in order to make themselves fuckable for a short while. And after the act of love they immerse themselves once again in the humiliating details of personal hygiene.

  Even worse than that, people are ashamed of their own bodies or dissatisfied with them: men pump up their biceps, women go to any lengths to lose weight and they have silicone breast implants put in. The plastic surgeons have even invented an illness, ‘micromastia’ - that’s when the breasts are smaller than a pair of watermelons. And they’ve started elongating men’s penises and selling special tablets so that they’ll still work afterwards. If there were no market in illnesses, there wouldn’t be any market in medicines - that’s the Hippocratic secret that doctors swear a solemn oath never to reveal.

  Human amorous is an extremely unstable feeling. It can be killed by a few stupid words, a bad smell, sloppily applied make-up, a chance intestinal spasm, or absolutely anything at all. Moreover, this can happen instantaneously, and no human being has any control over it. And this impulse typically contains - to an even greater degree than everything else that is human - a bottomless absurdity, a tragicomic abyss, which the mind only finds so easy to bridge because it doesn’t even see it.

  The best description I ever heard of this abyss was given by a certain red commander in autumn 1919 - after I fed him the magic mushrooms that I had collected right beside the wheels of his armoured train. He put it this way: ‘Somehow I can’t understand any more why it is that just because I like a girl’s beautiful and soulful face I have to fuck her wet, hairy cunt!’ It’s put in a coarse, peasant fashion, but the essential point has been grasped precisely. And by the way, before he ran off forever into the rain-soaked expanse of autumn fields, he expressed another interesting thought: ‘If you think about it, a woman’s attractiveness has less to do with her hairstyle or the lighting than with my balls.’

  But people still indulge in sex - although, of course, in recent years mostly through a little rubber sack, to prevent anything encroaching upon their solitude. This sport, which was dubious enough to begin with, has now become like a downhill slalom: the risk to your life is about the same, except that it’s not the twists and turns in the piste that you have to watch, you have to make sure your ski-suit doesn’t come off. I find anyone who indulges in this activity absurd in the role of a moralist, and it’s not for him to judge what’s perverted and what isn’t.

  Were-creatures’ attraction to each other is less dependent on impermanent external allure. But of course, it does play a part. I guessed that what had happened to Alexander would affect our intimate relations. But I didn’t think the trauma would go so deep. Alexander was as caring with me as ever, but only within strict limits: it was as if a barbed-wire fence had been erected at the point where formerly his affection had spilled over into intimacy. He evidently thought that in his new form I didn’t find him attractive. He was partly right - I couldn’t say that this black dog aroused the same feelings in me as the mighty northern wolf, one glimpse of which was enough to take my breath away. The dog was very cute, it’s true. But no more than that. It could count on my affection. But not my passion.

  Only that was simply not important. We had abandoned
vulgar human-style sex when we realized how far we could be transported into a fairy-tale fantasy by our intertwined tails. And so his metamorphosis was no more serious an obstacle to our passion than, say, the black underwear that he started wearing instead of grey. But he didn’t seem to understand this, imagining that I identified him with his physical receptacle. Or perhaps the sense of shock at what had happened and his irrational feeling of guilt were so intense that he had simply forbidden himself to think about pleasure - after all, men, with or without tails, are far more psychologically vulnerable than we are, for all their show of toughness.

  I didn’t take the initiative. But not because I didn’t find him attractive any more. It’s always nice when the man takes the first step, and I instinctively followed that rule. Perhaps, I thought, he’s feeling miserable, and he needs time to come round. But one day he asked a question that allowed me to guess where his problems lay.

  ‘You were talking about that philosopher Berkeley,’ he said. ‘The guy who thought that everything only exists when it’s perceived. ’

  ‘Yes, I was,’ I agreed.

  I really had tried to explain it to him, and I thought I’d achieved a certain degree of success.

  ‘So then sex and masturbation are the same thing?’

  I was dumbfounded.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If everything only exists by virtue of perception, then making love to a real girl is the same as imagining that girl.’

  ‘Not entirely. Berkeley said that objects exist in the perception of God. The idea of a beautiful girl is simply your idea. But a beautiful girl is God’s idea.’

  ‘Both of them are ideas. Why is it good to make love to God’s idea, and bad to make love to your own idea?’

  ‘And that’s Kant’s categorical imperative.’

  ‘I see you’ve got all the bases covered,’ he muttered, disgruntled, and walked off into the forest.

  After that conversation I realized he was in urgent need of my help. But I had to help him without wounding his pride.

  When he came back from his walk in the forest and lay down on a bamboo mat in the corner of my room, I said:

  ‘Listen, I was going through the DVDs we managed to bring with us. It turns out we have a film that you haven’t seen.’

  ‘And what are we going to watch it on?’ he asked.

  ‘On my notebook. It’s a small screen, but the quality’s good. We can sit close.’

  ‘What’s the film?’

  ‘In the Mood for Love, Wong Kar Wai. A pastiche of nineteen-sixties Hong Kong.’

  ‘And what’s it about?’

  ‘It’s all about us,’ I said. ‘Two people living in rooms next door to each other. And gradually they start feeling fond of each other.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  I picked up the box of the DVD and read the brief blurb out loud:

  ‘“Su and Chow lived in neighbouring rooms. Su’s husband and Chou’s wife are away all the time. Chow recognizes Su’s handbag, a gift from her husband. His wife has one just like it. And Su recognizes Chow’s tie, a gift from his wife. Her husband has one just like it. Though they say nothing, they realize that their marriage partners are being unfaithful with each other. What should they do? Perhaps they should simply surrender to the sweet music of the mood for love?”’

  ‘I didn’t understand a thing,’ he said. ‘All right then, let’s surrender ...’

  I put the laptop on the floor and put the DVD in the disc drive.

  For the first twenty minutes or so he watched the film without saying anything or reacting in any way. I knew the film off by heart, and so I didn’t really watch it, I watched him instead - out of the corner of my eye. He looked relaxed and calm. When I got the chance, I moved closer to him, sank my hand into his fur and turned him over on to his side, so that he was lying with his tail towards me. He growled quietly, still watching the screen, but didn’t say anything.

  That’s a fine little phrase - ‘he growled quietly, but didn’t say anything’. But that’s the way it was. Trying not to startle him, I lowered my jeans, freed my tail and . . .

  Ah, what an evening that was! Never before had we plunged so deep into the abyss. During our previous erotic hallucinations I had always remained conscious of what was happening and where. But this time the feelings were so intense that there were moments when I completely lost all idea of who I really was - a Hong Kong woman with the Russian name Su, or a Russian fox with the Chinese name A Hu-Li. There were several occasions when I felt genuinely afraid, as if I’d bought a ticket for a roller-coaster that was too fast and too steep.

  The reason for this lay in Alexander - the hypnotic fluence that emanated from him now was so powerful that I was unable to resist it. If only for a short while, I myself fell victim to suggestion and became completely immersed in the illusion. Once he bit me gently on the lobe of my ear and said:

  ‘Don’t scream.’

  I hadn’t even realized I was screaming . . . In short, it was a total blast. I realized now what our clients went through every time we put our tails to work. People had good reason to be wary of us. On the other hand, if I’d known what far-out feelings we gave them, I would have charged at least twice as much.

  When it was all over, I was left lying beside him on the bamboo mat, gradually coming round. It felt like I had pins and needles all over my body - I had to wait for the circulation to restore itself. Eventually I felt strong enough to speak. By that time he had already become human.

  ‘Did you like it?’ I asked.

  ‘Not bad. Good surveillance work. I mean, camera work. And the director’s no slouch either.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean the film.’

  ‘What did you mean then?’ he asked, raising one eyebrow.

  I realized he was feeling more cheerful.

  ‘You know what, Sasha, you know what.’

  ‘If you mean you know what, then I liked the song a lot. Let’s put it on again, shall we?’

  ‘Which song exactly?’

  ‘About the bandit Los Dios.’

  I wrinkled up my forehead.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s got this name in it,’ he said in a slightly embarrassed voice. ‘Maybe this Los Dios is not a bandit, I just thought so for some reason.’

  ‘Bandit Los Dios? Where’s that? Ah, I understand: “Y asi pasan los dias y yo desperando . . .” That’s Spanish. “And so the days pass by, and I am in despair . . .”’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes. I can see now how people get prison terms in this country.’

  ‘Just can’t help teasing, can you,’ he said amiably. ‘So are we going to put it on? Or maybe we should watch the whole film again?’

  The next day we watched the film again, then again and again. And every time that maelstrom reduced my soul to the same sweet desolation as the very first time. We lay side by side for a long time, resting. We didn’t talk, there was nothing to talk about, and we had no strength left.

  I liked to put my feet on him when he curled up into a big, black doughnut - sometimes he growled for effect, but I knew that he liked it just as much as I did. How fondly I recall those days now! It is wonderful when two beings find a way to bring each other happiness and joy. And what a prude you have to be to condemn them for not being like everybody else!

  How many of those blissful moments were there, when we lay on the bamboo mat, relaxing, unable even to move? I think they add up to infinity. On every occasion, time simply disappeared, and we had to wait for it to work back up to its usual speed. How wisely life is arranged, I used to think in lazy contentment, as I listened to Nat King Cole singing our favourite song. He used to be so big, grey and rough. He was going to devour the sun. And he probably would have. But now there was a placid black dog lying at my feet, calm and quiet, and asking me not to tease him. Behold the ennobling influence of the female guardian of hearth and home. Such was the beginning of civilization and culture. And I had never even suspected th
at I could find myself playing this role.

  Ah, dear Sasha, I used to think, you’ve never mentioned it. And I can’t bring myself to ask about it . . . But you don’t miss your old life as a wolf - so lonely and rootless, do you? You’re happier with me than on your own - aren’t you, darling?

  Eh?

  ... Y tú, tú contestando:

  Quizás, quizás, quizás . . .

  I often wondered what sort of dog this was, as far removed from a wolf as a wolf from a fox. There were numerous mythological parallels, but I myself had never come across such a strange variety of were-creature. This blue-black canine seemed to be an inoffensive creature, but I had a gut feeling that there was some terrible secret concealed within him. The truth eventually emerged by accident.

  The day had begun with a slight quarrel. We went out into the forest for a walk and sat down on a fallen tree, and I decided to amuse him by singing Li Bo’s old Chinese song ‘The Moon Above the Mountain Frontier Post’. I actually sang it quite well only, perhaps, in too high a voice - in ancient China that was prized especially highly. But my skill took a tumble at the cross-cultural barrier - when I’d finished singing, he shook his head and muttered:

  ‘How did a Russian officer ever end up living like this?’

  I was so offended I could feel myself flush.

  ‘Don’t give me that, what kind of Russian officer are you? You’re the captain of the hitmen’s brigade.’

  ‘We don’t kill anybody who’s innocent,’ he said icily.

  ‘And who was it that sent the Shakespeare specialist Shitman to his death? Do you think no one knows?’

  ‘What Shakespeare specialist Shitman?’

  ‘And you don’t even remember? The one who used to do blowjobs for a cigarette . . .’

  ‘Listen, I reckon you’ve got psychological problems. First you have a fish head working as a bear, and then some Shitman dies, and I’m to blame for everything.’