Виктор Пелевин - Buddha's Little Finger

‘But who are we waiting for?’ I asked again.

‘We have a meeting with the Black Baron,’ replied Chapaev. ‘I expect, Pyotr, that this will be an acquaintance you will remember.’

‘What kind of terrible nickname is that? I suppose he has a name of his own?’

‘Yes.’ said Chapaev, ‘his real surname is Jungern von Sternberg.’

‘Jungern?’ I repeated. ‘Jung-ern… That sounds familiar… Does he have something to do with psychiatry? Has he not done some work on the interpretation of symbols?’

Chapaev looked me up and down in amazement.

‘No.’ he said. ‘As far as I can judge, he despises all manner of symbols, no matter what they might refer to.’

‘Ah, now I remember. He is the one who shot that Chinese of yours.’

‘Yes,’ Chapaev answered. ‘He is the defender of Inner Mongolia. They say he is an incarnation of the god of war. He used to command the Asian Cavalry Division, but now he commands the Special Regiment of Tibetan Cossacks.’

‘I have never heard of them.’ I said. ‘And why do they call him the Black Baron?’

Chapaev thought for a moment.

‘A good question,’ he said. ‘I really don’t know. Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’s already here.’

I started and turned my head to look.

A strange object had appeared in the narrow passage between the two hillocks. On looking closely I realized that it was a palanquin of a very ancient and strange design, consisting of a small cabin with a humped roof and four long handles on which it was carried. Both the roof and the handles appeared to be made of bronze which had turned green with age, and were covered with a multitude of minute jade plaques which glinted mysteriously, like cats’ eyes in the dark. There was nobody in the vicinity who could have brought up the palanquin without being noticed, and I could only assume that the unknown bearers whose palms had polished the long handles until they gleamed had already reheated.

The palanquin stood on curved legs, giving it the appearance of something between a sacrificial vessel and a small hut supported on four short piles. Its resemblance to a hut was actually stronger, and the impression was reinforced by blinds of fine green silk netting which covered its windows. Behind them I could just discern a motionless silhouette.

Chapaev jumped out of the carriage and walked over to the palanquin. ‘Hello, baron,’ he said.

‘Good day,’ replied a low voice from behind the blind.

‘I come with another request.’ said Chapaev.

‘I presume that once again you are not asking for yourself?’

‘No.’ said Chapaev. ‘Do you recall Grigory Kotovsky?’

‘I do.’ said the voice in the palanquin. ‘What has happened to him?’

‘I simply can’t explain to him what mind is. This morning he pushed me so far that I reached for my pistol. I’ve already told him everything that can be said, over and over again. What he needs is a demonstration, baron, something he won’t be able to ignore.’

‘Your problems, my dear Chapaev, grow a little monotonous. Where is your protégé?’

Chapaev turned towards the carriage where Kotovsky was siting and waved.

The blind in the palanquin moved aside and I saw a man of about forty, with blond hair, a high forehead and cold, colourless eyes. Despite the drooping Tartar-style moustache and the cheeks covered with several days’ stubble, his features were highly refined. He was dressed in a strange garment halfway between a cassock and a greatcoat, cut in the style of a Mongolian robe with a low, semicircular neck. I would never even have thought of it as a greatcoat if it had not been for the shoulder-straps bearing the zigzag lines of a general’s rank. Hanging at his side was a sabre exactly like Chapaev’s in every respect, except that the tassel attached to its handle was not purple, but black. And on his breast there were no less than three silver stars, hanging in a row. He climbed quickly out of the palanquin - he proved to be almost a full head taller than me - and looked me up and down inquiringly.

‘Who is this?’

‘This is my commissar, Pyotr Voyd.’ Chapaev replied. ‘He distinguished himself in the battle of Lozovaya Junction.’

‘I have heard something of that.’ said the baron. ‘Is he here for the same reason?’

Chapaev nodded. Jungern held out his hand to me.

‘Pleased to meet you, Pyotr.’

‘The feeling is mutual, general.’ I replied, squeezing his powerful, sinewy hand in mine.

‘Just call me baron,’ said Jungern, turning to face Kotovsky as the latter approached. ‘Grigory, how very long… ‘

‘Hello, baron.’ Kotovsky replied. ‘I am very glad to see you.’

‘Judging from the pallor of your cheeks, you are so very glad to see me that all your blood has rushed to your heart.’

‘Why, not at all, baron. That is because I think so much about Russia.’

‘Ah, the same old thing. I cannot approve. However, let us not waste any time. Let us take a walk, shall we?’ Jungern nodded towards the earthwork gateposts.

Kotovsky swallowed hard. ‘I should be honoured,’ he replied.

Jungern turned inquiringly towards Chapaev, who held out a small paper package to him.

‘Are there two here?’ asked the baron.

‘Yes.’

Jungern put the package into the pocket of his robe, put his arm round Kotovsky’s shoulders and literally dragged him in the direction of the gateway. They disappeared into the opening, and I turned to face Chapaev.

‘What lies beyond that gateway?’

Chapaev smiled. ‘I wouldn’t like to spoil your first impression.’

The dull report of a revolver shot rang out. A second later the solitary figure of the baron appeared.’

‘And now you, Pyotr,’ he said.

I cast a glance of inquiry at Chapaev, who screwed up his eyes and nodded with an unusually powerful movement of his chin, as though he were forcing an invisible nail into his own chest.

I walked slowly towards the baron.

I must confess that I was afraid. It was not that I felt any real threat of danger hanging over me - or rather, it was precisely a sense of danger, but not of the kind felt before a duel or a battle, when you know that even the very worst that can happen can only happen to you. At that moment I had the feeling that the danger was not threatening me, but my very conception of myself. I was not expecting anything terrible to happen, but the ‘I’ who was not expecting anything terrible suddenly seemed to me like a man walking a tightrope across an abyss who has just sensed the first breath of a burgeoning breeze.

‘I will show you my camp,’ the baron said when I reached him.

‘Listen, baron, if you are intending to awaken me in the same way as you did the Chinese…’

‘Oh, come now,’ he interrupted with a smile. ‘Chapaev must have been telling you all sorts of horror stories. That’s not what I’m really like.’

He took me by the elbow and turned me to face the earthwork gateposts.

‘Let us take a stroll around the camp-fires.’ he said, ‘and see how our lads are getting on.’

‘I do not see any camp-fires.’ I replied.

‘You don’t?’ he said. Try looking a bit harder.’

I looked once again into the gap between the two sunken earthen mounds, and at that very moment the baron pushed me from behind. I flew forward and fell to the ground; the sheer rapidity of his movement was such that for a second I felt as though I were a gate that he had kicked off its hinges. A moment later I felt a strange spasm run across my entire field of vision; I screwed up my eyes, and bright spots appeared in the darkness ahead of me, as though I had pressed my fingers into my eyes or made too sudden a movement with my head. However, when I opened my eyes and rose to my feet, the lights still did not disappear.