Виктор Пелевин - Buddha's Little Finger

‘Oh God!… The old woman! And I am empty-handed… ‘Having pronounced these final words in an almost inaudible voice, Raskolnikov slumped to the floor from the full height of his buskins.

What followed made me blench. Two violinists leapt out on to the stage and began frenziedly playing some gypsy melody, while the Marmeladov woman threw her tunic over

Raskolnikov, leapt on to his chest and began strangling him, wiggling her lace clad bottom to and fro in excitement.

For a moment I thought that what was happening was the result of some monstrous conspiracy, and that everybody was looking in my direction. I glanced around like a beast, my eyes once again met those of the man in the black military blouse, and I somehow suddenly realized that he new all about the death of Vorblei - that he knew, in fact, far more serious things about me than just that.

At that moment I came close to leaping up from my chair fend taking to my heels, and it took a monstrous effort of will to remain sitting at the table. The audience was applauding idly; several of them were laughing and pointing at the stage, but most were absorbed in their own conversations and their vodka.

Having strangled Raskolnikov, the woman in the wig bounded over to the front of the stage and began dancing wildly to the insane accompaniment of the two violins, kicking her naked legs up towards the ceiling and waving the axe. The four figures in black, who had remained motionless throughout the play, now took hold of Raskolnikov, still covered by the tunic, and carried him into the wings. I had a faint inkling that this was a reference to the very end of Hamlet, where there is a mention of four captains who are supposed to carry away the dead prince. Strangely enough, this thought brought me to my senses straight away. I realized that what was happening was not a conspiracy against me - nobody could possibly have arranged it all in the time which had passed - but a perfectly ordinary mystical challenge. Immediately deciding to accept it, I turned to the two sailors, who had by this time retreated into themselves.

‘Time to call a halt, lads. This is treason.’

Barbolin looked up at me uncomprehendingly.

‘The agents of the Entente are at it again,’ I threw in at random.

These words seemed to have some meaning for him, because he immediately tugged his rifle from his shoulder. I restrained him.

‘Not that way, comrade. Wait.’

Meanwhile the gentleman with the saw had reappeared on the stage, seated himself on the stool and begun ceremoniously removing his shoe. Opening up my travelling bag, I took out a pencil and a blank Cheka arrest order; the plaintive sounds of the saw swept me upwards and onwards, and a suitable text was ready within a few minutes.

‘What’s that you’re writing?’ asked Zherbunov. ‘You want to arrest someone?’

‘No,’ I replied, ‘if we take anyone here, we have to take them all. We will handle this a different way. Zherbunov, remember the orders? We’re not just supposed to suppress the enemy, we have to propound our line, right?’

‘Right,’ said Zherbunov.

‘Well, then,’ I said, ‘you and Barbolin go backstage. I will propound our line from the stage. Once I have finished, I’ll give the signal, and you come out. Then we’ll play them the music of the revolution.’

Zherbunov tapped a finger against his cup.

‘No, Zherbunov,’ I said sternly, ‘you won’t be fit for work.’

An expression somewhat akin to hurt flitted across Zherbunov’s face.

‘What d’you mean?’ he whispered. ‘Don’t you trust me, then? Why I, I’d… I’d give my life for the revolution!’

‘I know that, comrade,’ I said, ‘ but cocaine comes later. Into action!’

The sailors stood up and walked towards the stage with firm, lumbering strides, as if they were not crossing a parquet floor but the heaving deck of a battleship caught in a storm; at that moment I felt something almost like sympathy for them. They climbed up the side steps and disappeared into the wings. I tossed back the contents of my cup, rose and went over to the table where Tolstoy and Briusov were sitting. People were watching me. Gentlemen and comrades, I thought, as I strode slowly across the strangely expanded hall, today I too was granted the honour of stepping over my own old woman, but you will not choke me with her imaginary fingers. Oh, damnation take these eternal Dostoevskian obsessions that pursue us Russians! And damnation take us Russians who can see nothing else around us!

‘Good evening, Valery Yakovlevich. Relaxing?’

Briusov started and looked at me for several seconds, obviously unable to place me. Then a doubtful smile appeared on his emaciated face.

‘Petya?’ he queried. ‘Is it you? I am truly glad to see you. Join us for a minute.’

I sat at the table and greeted Tolstoy with reserve. We had met frequently enough at the Apollo editorial office, but hardlу knew one another at all. Tolstoy was extremely drunk.

‘How are you?’ asked Briusov. ‘Have you written anything lately?’

‘No time for that now, Valery Yakovlevich,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ said Briusov thoughtfully, his eyes skipping rapidly. over my leather jacket and Mauser, ‘that’s true. Very true. I’m the same… But I didn’t know you were one of us, Petya. I always thought highly of your verse, especially your first collection, The Poems of Captain Lebyadkin. And of course, Songs of The Kingdom of I. But I simply couldn’t have imagined… You.always had all those horses and emperors, and China… ‘

Conspiracy, Valery Yakovlevich,’ I said, ‘conspiracy… ‘

‘I understand, ‘ said Briusov, ‘now I understand. But then, I assure you, I always did sense something of the sort. But you’ve changed, Petya. Become so dashing… your eyes are positively gleaming… By the way, have you found time to read Blok’s «Twelve»?’

‘I have seen it,’ I said.

‘And what do you think?’

‘I do not entirely understand the symbolism of the ending,’ I said. ‘What is Christ doing walking in front of the patrol? Does Blok perhaps wish to crucify the revolution?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Briusov replied quickly, ‘Alyosha and I were just talking about that.’

Hearing his name mentioned, Tolstoy opened his eyes and lifted his cup, but it was empty. He fumbled about on the table until he found the whistle and then raised it to his lips, but before he could blow it, his head slumped back on to his chest.

‘I have heard.’ I said, ‘that he has changed the ending, and now he has a revolutionary sailor walking ahead of the patrol.’

Briusov pondered this for a moment, and then his eyes lit up.

‘Yes.’ he said, ‘that’s more correct. That’s more accurate. And Christ walks behind them! He is invisible and he walks behind them, dragging his crooked cross through the swirling blizzard!’

‘Yes.’ I said, ‘and in the opposite direction.’

‘You think so?’

‘I am certain of it.’ I said, thinking that Zherbunov and Barbolin must have fallen asleep behind the curtain at this stage. ‘Valery Yakovlevich, I have something I would like to ask you. Would you announce that the poet Fourply will now present a reading of revolutionary verse?’

‘Fourply?’ Briusov asked.

‘My party pseudonym.’ I explained.

‘Yes, yes,’ Briusov nodded, ‘and so very profound! I shall be delighted to listen to you myself

‘I would not advise that. You had better leave straight away. The shooting will start in a minute or two.’

Briusov turned pale and nodded. Neither of us said another word; when the saw fell silent and the dandified musician had put his shoe back on, Briusov rose from the table and went up on the stage.