Виктор Пелевин - Buddha's Little Finger

The intonation of his shouts changed - when the baron and I first heard them, they had a certain note of feral triumph, but as we drew closer the single syllable ‘me’ became more like a question. Sitting beside the man who was shouting was a skinny type with a quiff, who was wearing something like a sailor’s pea-jacket and staring into the flames as though paralysed. He was quite motionless, and if not for the fact that his lips occasionally moved slightly, one might have assumed that he was unconscious. It seemed as though only the third man, with a shaven head and a neat little beard, was in control of himself - he was shaking both of his companions in turn with all his might as though attempting to bring them around; he was successful to the extent that the skinny blond with the quiff began intoning something and swaying to and fro, as though he were praying. The man with the shaven head was just about to start shaking his second companion awake when he suddenly looked up and saw us. His face was instantly distorted in terror - he shouted something to his companions and leapt to his feet.

The baron swore under his breath. A hand grenade had appeared in his hand; he pulled out the ring and tossed the grenade towards the camp-fire - it fell to the ground about five yards away from our feet. In a reflex response I dropped to the ground and covered my head with my hands, but several seconds went by and still there was no explosion.

‘Get up.’ said the baron,

I opened my eyes to see his figure bending over me. I saw the baron now in a distorted perspective - the hand extended towards me was close beside my face and the eyes gazing attentively at me, in which the multiple reflections of camp fires merged into a single light, seemed like the only two stars in the dark sky of that place.

‘Thank you.’ I said. ‘What happened? Didn’t it detonate?’

‘On the contrary,’ said the baron, ‘everything worked per fectly.’

Glancing at the spot where the fire had been burning, I was astonished to see no trace of anything - neither of the fire it self, nor of those who had been sitting around it.

‘What was that?’ I asked.

‘Oh, nothing,’ said the baron, ‘petty hooligans high on shamanic mushrooms. They had no idea themselves where they had ended up.’

‘And you-’

‘Certainly not.’ the baron reassured me. ‘Of course I didn’t I simply brought them round.’

‘I am almost sure.’ I said, ‘that I have seen the bald one with the little beard somewhere before - in fact, I am absolutely certain.’

‘Perhaps you saw him in your dream.’

‘Perhaps,’ I replied. The shaven-headed gentleman was quite unambiguously associated for me with the white-tiled walls and cold touch of a needle against the skin which were the standard elements of my nightmares. For several seconds I even thought I might be able to recall his name, but then my attention was distracted by other thoughts, Meanwhile Jungern stood beside me without speaking, as though he were weighing the words he was about to say.

‘Tell me, Pyotr,’ he said eventually, ‘what are your political views? I assume you’re a monarchist?’

‘Naturally.’ I replied. ‘Why, have I given you cause for any other…’

‘No, no,’ cut in the baron. ‘I simply wanted to use an example that you would easily understand. Imagine a stuffy room into which a terribly large number of people have been packed, and they are all sitting on various kinds of ugly stools, on rickety chairs, on bundles and anything else that comes to hand. The more nimble among them try to sit down on two chairs at once or to shove someone else aside in order to take his place. Such is the world in which you live. Simultaneously, every one of these individuals has an immense, shining throne of his own, a throne towering up above this world and all the other worlds that exist. This is a truly regal throne, and nothing lies beyond the power of the person who ascends it. And, most important of all, this throne is entirely legitimate. It belongs to everyone by right. But it is almost impossible to ascend it, because it stands in a place that does not exist. Do you understand? It is nowhere.’

‘Yes.’ I said thoughtfully, ‘I was thinking about that only yesterday, baron. I know what «nowhere» means.’

‘Then think about the following,’ the baron went on. Here, as I have already said, both of your obsessive states - with Chapaev and without him - are equally illusory. In order to reach «nowhere» and ascend that throne of eternal freedom and happiness, it is enough to remove the single dimension which still remains - the one, that is, in which you see me and yourself. Which is what my own wards are attempting to do. But their chances are very slim, and after a certain period of time they are obliged to repeat the weary round of existence. Why should you, however, not find yourself in this «nowhere» while you are still alive? I swear to you that this is the very best thing you could possibly do with your life. No doubt you are fond of metaphors - you could compare this to discharging yourself from the mental home.’

‘Believe me, baron…’ I began with emotion, pressing my hand to my heart, but he did not let me finish.

‘And you must do this before Chapaev puts his clay machine-gun to use. Afterwards, as you know, there will be nothing left, not even «nowhere».’

‘His clay machine-gun?’ I asked. ‘But what is that?’

‘Has Chapaev not told you?’

‘No.’

Jungern frowned,

‘Then we won’t go into details. Just keep in mind the metaphor of leaving behind the mental home for freedom. And then perhaps in one of your nightmares you may recall our conversation. But now it is time for us to be going, the lads will be tired of waiting.’

The baron took hold of my sleeve and the chaotic streaks of light began flashing around us once again. By this stage I was accustomed to the fantastic spectacle and it no longer made me feel dizzy. The baron went on ahead, peering into the gloom; I glanced at his receding chin, his ginger moustache and the severe line at the corner of his mouth, and thought that his external appearance was the least likely thing about him to scare anybody.

‘Tell me, baron, why is everyone here so afraid of you?’ I asked, unable to restrain my curiosity. ‘I don’t wish to offend you, but I do not find anything in your appearance particularly frightening.’

‘Not everyone sees what you see,’ replied the baron. ‘I usually appear to my friends in the guise of the St Petersburg intellectual whom I once actually was. But you should not conclude that that is what I actually look like.’

‘What do all the others see?’

‘I won’t bore you with all the details,’ said the baron. ‘Lei me just say that I hold a sharp sabre in each of my six hands.’

‘But which of your appearances is the real one?’

‘I do not have a real one, unfortunately,’ he replied.

I must confess that the baron’s words produced quite a profound impression on me, even though, of course, if I had bothered to think for a while, I might have guessed everything for myself.

‘We’re almost there now,’ the baron said, in almost a casual holidaymaker’s voice.

‘Tell me,’ I said, glancing at him sideways, ‘why do they call you the Black Baron?’

‘Ah,’ said Jungern with a smile, ‘that is probably because when I was fighting in Mongolia the living Buddha Bogdo-Gegen Tutukhtu granted me the right to use a black palanquin.’

‘Then why do you ride in a green one?’

‘Because in exactly the same way I was granted the right to ride in a green palanquin.’

‘Very well. But then why don’t they call you the Green Haron?’

Jungern frowned.