Виктор Пелевин - Buddha's Little Finger

‘I just thought, Nikolai… D’you know why the Bolsheviks are winning?’

‘Why?’

‘Because their teaching contains a vital, passionate…’ he closed his eyes and shuffled the fingers of one hand as he searched agonizingly for the right word, ‘a love of humanity, a love full of ecstasy and bliss. Once you accept it fully and completely, Bolshevism is capable of kindling a certain higher hope that lies dormant in the heart of man, don’t you agree?’

The second officer spat on the floor.

‘You know what, Georges,’ he said sullenly, ‘if it was your auntie they’d hanged in Samara, I’d like to hear what you had to say about higher hopes.’

The first officer closed his eyes and said nothing for several seconds. Then suddenly he went on: ‘They say Baron Jungern was seen in the town recently. He was riding on a horse, wearing a red robe with a gold cross on the chest, and acting is though he wasn’t afraid of anyone…’

At that moment Anna was lighting a cigarette - when she heard these words she started and the match almost slipped out of her fingers. I thought it would be best to distract her by making conversation.

‘Tell me, Anna, what has actually been going on all this time? I mean, since the day when we left Moscow?’

‘We have been fighting,’ said Anna. ‘You gave a good account of yourself in battle and became very close to Chapaev - you would spend several nights in a row in conversation with him. And then you were wounded.’

‘I wonder what it was we talked about.’

Anna released a fine stream of smoke in the direction of the ceiling.

‘Why not wait for him to get back? I can guess at the approximate content of your discussions, but I would not like to go into any detail. It really concerns nobody but the two of you.’

‘But give me at least a general indication, Anna.’ I said.

‘Chapaev,’ she said, ‘is one of the most profound mystics that I have ever known. I believe that he has found in you a grateful audience and, perhaps, a disciple. I suspect, furthermore, that the misfortune which you have suffered is in some way connected with your conversations with him.’

‘I do not understand a thing.’

‘That is hardly surprising,’ said Anna. ‘He has attempted on several occasions to talk with me, and I have also failed to understand a thing. The one thing of which I am sure is that he is capable of reducing a credulous listener to total insanity within the space of a few hours. My uncle is a very unusual man.’

‘He is your uncle then.’ I said. ‘So that’s it! I was beginning to think that you and he must be bound by ties of a different nature.’

‘How dare you… But then, you can think what you like.’

‘Please, I beg you, forgive me.’ I said, ‘but after what you just said about a wounded cavalry officer I thought that perhaps you might be more interested in healthy cavalry officers.’

‘One more boorish outburst of that kind and I shall entirely lose interest in you, Pyotr.’

‘So you do at least feel some interest. That is comforting.’

‘Do not go clutching at words.’

‘Why may I not clutch at words if I like the sound of them?’

‘Out of simple considerations of safety,’ said Anna. ‘While you were lying unconscious you put on a lot of weight, and you might find the words are not able to support you.’

She was obviously quite capable of standing up for herself. But this was going just a little too far.

‘My dearest Anna,’ I said, ‘I cannot understand why you are trying so hard to insult me. I know for certain that it is a pretence. You are not, in actual fact, indifferent to me, I realized that immediately I came round and saw you sitting there beside my bed. And you have no idea of how deeply I was touched.’

‘I am afraid that you will be disappointed if I tell you why I was sitting there.’

‘What do you mean? What other motive can there be for sitting beside the bed of a wounded man, apart from sincere… I don’t know - concern?’

‘Now I really do feel embarrassed. But you asked for it yourself. Life here is boring, and your ravings were most picturesque. I must confess that I sometimes came to listen - but I came out of nothing but boredom. I find the things you are saying now far less interesting.’

I had not expected this. I counted slowly to ten as I attempted to recover from the blow. Then I counted again. It was no good -I still felt the same bright flame of hatred, a hatred pure and unadulterated.

‘Would you mind giving me one of your cigarettes?’

Anna proffered her open cigarette case.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You make very interesting conversation.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yes,’ I said, feeling the cigarette trembling in my fingers, and becoming even more irritated. ‘What you say is very thought-provoking.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, for instance, several minutes ago you cast doubt on the reality of the lilac in which this town is enveloped. It was unexpected - and yet at the same time very Russian.’

‘What do you see in the remark that is specifically Russian?’

‘The Russian people realized very long ago that life is no more than a dream. You know what a succubus is?’

‘Yes,’ said Anna, with a smile. ‘A demon that takes female form to seduce a sleeping man. But what’s the connection?’

I counted to ten again. My feelings had not changed.

‘The most direct one possible. When they say in Russian vernacular that all women suck, the word «suck» as used in I he phrase is actually derived from the word «succubus». An association which came to Russia via Catholicism. No doubt you remember - the seventeenth century, the Polish invasion, m other words, the Time of Troubles. That’s what it goes back to. But I am wandering. All I wished to say was that the very phrase «all women suck»,’ - I reiterated the words with genuine relish - ‘means in essence that life is no more than a dream. And so are all the bitches. That is, I meant to say, the women.’

Anna drew deeply on her cigarette. There was a very slight flush on the line of her cheekbones, and I could not help noticing that it suited her pale face remarkably well.

‘I am wondering,’ she said, ‘whether or not I should throw I his glass of champagne in your face.’

‘I really cannot say.’ I said. ‘In your place I believe I would not do that. We are not as yet sufficiently intimate.’

A moment later a shower of transparent drops struck me in the face - her glass had been almost full, and she flung the champagne out of it with such force that for a second I was blinded.

‘I’m sorry.’ Anna said in confusion, ‘but you yourself..’

‘Think nothing of it,’ I replied.

Champagne possesses one very convenient quality. If one picks up a bottle, closes off the mouth with one’s thumb and shakes it really well several times, the foam will force its way out in a stream which exhausts virtually the entire contents of the bottle. It seems to me that this method must have been known to the poet Lermontov - he has a line which quite clearly reflects direct experience of a similar kind: ‘thus does the ancient moss-covered bottle yet store its stream of frothing wine’. Of course, it is hard to hypothesize about the inner world of a man who, intending to turn his face towards the Prince of Darkness, wrote as a result a poem about a flying colonel of the hussars. I would not therefore claim that Lermontov did actually spray women with champagne, but I do believe that the probability of his having done so was very high, in view of his continuous obsession with matters of sex and the immodest but entirely inescapable associations which this operation always arouses when its object is a beautiful young woman. I must confess that I fell victim to them in full measure.