Виктор Пелевин - Buddha's Little Finger

‘Is there something on your mind?’ Chapaev asked as he tossed the dice. ‘Perhaps there is some thought bothering you?’

‘Not any more,’ I replied. ‘Tell me, was Babayasin keen to transfer me to your command?’

‘Babayasin was against it,’ said Chapaev. ‘He values you very highly. I settled the question with Dzerzhinsky.’

‘You mean.’ I asked, ‘that you are acquainted?’

‘Yes.’

Perhaps, comrade Chapaev, you are acquainted with Lenin as well?’ I asked with a gentle irony.

‘Only slightly.’ he replied,

‘Can you demonstrate that to me somehow?’ I asked.

‘Why not? This very moment, if you wish.’

This was too much for me to take in. I gazed at him in bewilderment, but he was not embarrassed in the slightest. Moving aside the board, he drew his sabre smoothly from its scabbard and laid it on the table.

The sabre, it should be said, was rather strange. It had a long silver handle covered in carvings showing two birds on either side of a circle containing a hare, with the rest of the surface covered in the finest possible ornament. The handle ended in a jade knob to which was tied a short thick cord of twisted silk with a purple tassel at the end. At its base was a round guard of black iron; the gleaming blade was long and slightly curved. Strictly speaking, it was not even a sabre, but some kind of Eastern sword, probably Chinese. However, I did not have time to study it in detail, because Chapaev switched off the light.

We were left in total darkness. I could not see a single thing, I could only hear the low, level roaring of the engine (the soundproofing on this armour-plated vehicle, I noticed, was quite excellent - not a single sound could be heard from the street), and I could feel a slight swaying motion.

Chapaev struck a match and held it up above the table. ‘Watch the blade,’ he said.

1 looked at the blurred reddish reflection that had appeared on the strip of steel. There was a strange profundity to it, as though I were gazing through a slightly misted pane of glass into a long illuminated corridor. A gentle ripple ran across the surface of the image, and I saw a man in an unbuttoned military jacket strolling along the corridor. He was bald and unshaven; the reddish stubble on his cheeks merged into an unkempt beard and moustache. He leaned down towards the floor and reached out with trembling hands, and I noticed a kitten with big sad eyes cowering in the corner. The image was very clear, and yet distorted, as though I were seeing a reflection in the surface of a Christmas-tree ball. Suddenly a cough rose unexpectedly in my throat and Lenin - for undoubtedly it was he - started at the sound, turned around and stared in my direction. I realized that he could see me. For a second his eyes betrayed his fright, and then they took on a cunning, even guilty look. He gave a crooked smile and wagged his finger at me threateningly.

Chapaev blew on the match and the picture disappeared. I caught a final glimpse of the kitten fleeing along the corridor and suddenly realized that I had not been seeing things on the sabre at all, I had simply, in some incomprehensible fashion, actually been there and I could probably have reached out and touched the kitten.

The light came on. I looked in amazement at Chapaev, who had already returned the sabre to its scabbard.

‘Vladimir Ilyich is not quite well,’ he said.

‘What was that?’ I asked.

Chapaev shrugged. ‘Lenin,’ he said.

‘Did he see me?’

‘Not you, I think,’ said Chapaev. ‘More probably he sensed a certain presence. But that would hardly have shocked him too much. He has become used to such things. There are many who watch him.’

‘But how can you… in what manner… Was it hypnosis?’

‘No more than everything else.’ he said, and nodded at the wall, evidently referring to what lay beyond it.

‘Who are you really?’ I asked.

‘That is the second time you have asked me that question today.’ he said. ‘I have already told you that my name is Chapaev. For the time being that is all that I can tell you. Do not try to force events. By the way, when we converse in private you may call me Vasily Ivanovich. «Comrade Chapaev» sounds rather too solemn.’

I opened my mouth, intending to demand further explanations, when a sudden thought halted me in my tracks. I realized that further insistence from my side would not achieve anything; in fact, it might even do harm. The most astonishing thing, however, was that this thought was not mine - I sensed that in some obscure fashion it had been transferred to me by Chapaev.

The armoured car began to slow down, and the voice of the driver sounded in the speaking tube:

‘The station, Vasily Ivanovich!’

‘Splendid,’ responded Chapaev.

The armoured car manoeuvred slowly for several minutes until it finally came to a halt. Chapaev donned his astrakhan hat, rose from the divan and opened the door. Cold air rushed into the cabin, together with the reddish light of winter sunshine and the dull roar of thousands of mingled voices.

‘Bring your bag.’ said Chapaev, springing lightly down to the ground. Screwing up my eyes slightly after the cosy obscurity of the armoured car, I climbed out after him.

We were in the very centre of the square in front of the Yaroslavl Station. On every side we were surrounded by an agitated, motley crowd of armed men drawn up in the ragged semblance of a parade. Several petty Red commanders were striding along the ranks, their sabres drawn. At Chapaev’s appearance there were shouts, the general hubbub grew louder and after a few seconds it expanded into a rumbling ‘Hoorah!’ that resounded around the square several times.

The armoured car was standing beside a wooden platform decorated with crossed flags, which resembled, more than anything else, a scaffold. There were several military men standing on it, engaged in conversation: when we appeared they began applauding. Chapaev quickly ascended the squeaky steps; I followed him up, trying not to lag behind. Exchanging hurried greetings with a pair of officers (one of them was wearing a beaver coat criss-crossed with belts and straps), Chapaev walked over to the railing of the scaffold and raised his hand with the yellow cuff in a gesture calling for silence.

‘Now, lads!’ he shouted, straining his voice to make it sound hoarse. ‘Y’all know what you’re here for. No bloody shilly-shallying about the bush… You’re all stuck in there and you’ve got to get your fingers out… Ain’t that just the way of things, though? Once you get down the front you’ll be up to your neck in it and get a bellyful soon enough. Didn’t reckon you was in for any spot of mollycoddling, did you?’

I paid close attention to the way Chapaev moved - as he spoke, he turned smoothly from side to side, incisively slicing the air in front of his chest with his extended yellow palm. The meaning of his ever more rapid speech escaped me, but to judge from the way in which the workers strained their necks to hear and nodded their heads, sometimes even grinning happily, what he was saying made good sense to them.

Someone tugged at my sleeve. With an inward shiver, I turned round to see a short young man with a thin moustache, a face pink from the frost and voracious eyes the colour of watered-down tea.

‘Fu fu.’ he said.

‘What?’ I asked him.

‘Fu-Furmanov,’ he said, thrusting out a broad hand with short fingers.

‘A fine day.’ I replied, shaking the hand.

‘I'm the co-commissar with the weavers’ regiment,’ he said. ‘We’ll b-be working together. If you’re go-going to speak, k-keep it short if you can. We’re boarding soon.’

‘Very well.’ I said.

He glanced doubtfully at my hands and wrists. ‘Are you in the p-p-party?’