Виктор Пелевин - Buddha's Little Finger

‘What rumpus?’

Volodin was busy negotiating a complicated section of the road and didn’t answer. The Jeep shuddered once, then again. For several seconds its engine roared strenuously as it clambered up a steep hillock, then it turned and drove on along an asphalt surface, quickly picking up speed. An old Zhiguli came hurtling towards them, followed by a column of several military trucks. Volodin switched on the radio, and a minute later the four people sitting in the Jeep were enveloped in the old, familiar world whose every detail was clear and familiar.

‘So what rumpus was that you was talking about?’ Shurik asked again.

‘Okay,’ said Volodin, ‘we’ll run through all that later. You’ll have some homework to do. But for now let’s think about what we’ve got to show Slav-East.’

‘You think about it,’ said Shurik. ‘We’re only the cover round here. You’re the one pushes the wheels round.’

He was silent for a few seconds.

‘All the same, I just can’t get my head round it,’ he said. ‘Just who is that fourth guy?’

‘Indeed, who could this fourth person have been? Who can tell? Could it perhaps have been the devil ascended from the realms of eternal darkness in order to draw a few more fallen souls down after him. Or perhaps it was God who prefers, following tertain events, to make His appearance here on earth incognito, most often associating exclusively with tax-collectors and sinners. Or perhaps - and surely most likely - it was someone quite different, someone far more real than any of the men sitting by the fire, because while there is not and cannot be any guarantee that Volodin, Kolyan and Shurik, and all these cocks, gods, devils, neo-Platonists and Twentieth Congresses ever actually existed, you, who have just been sitting by the fire yourself, you really do exist, and surely this is the very first thing that exists and has ever existed?’

Chapaev put the manuscript down on the top of his bureau and looked out for a while through the semicircular window of his study.

‘It seems to me, Petka, that the writer occupies too large a place in your personality.’ he said eventually. ‘This apostrophe to a reader who does not really exist is a rather cheap trick. Even if we assume that someone other than myself might possibly wade through this incomprehensible narrative, then I can assure you that he won’t give a single moment’s thought to the self-evident fact of his own existence. He is more likely to imagine you writing these lines. And I am afraid…’

‘But I am not afraid of anything.’ I interrupted nervously, lighting up a papyrosa. ‘I simply do not give a damn, nor have I for ages. I simply wrote down my latest nightmare as best I could. And that paragraph appeared… How shall I put it… By force of inertia. After that conversation I had with the baron.’

‘Yes, by the way, what did the baron tell you?’ Chapaev asked. ‘Judging from the fact that you came back wearing a yellow hat, the two of you must have had quite an emotional exchange.’

‘Oh, yes, indeed.’ I said. ‘I could sum it up by saying that he advised me to discharge myself from the hospital. He likened this world of constant alarms and passions, these thoughts about nothing and all this running nowhere, to a home for the mentally ill. And then - assuming I understood him correctly - he explained that in reality this home for the mentally ill does not exist, and neither does he, and neither do you, my dear Chapaev. There is nothing but me.’

Chapaev chuckled.

‘So that’s what you took him to mean. That is interesting. We shall come back to that, I promise you… But as for his advice to discharge yourself from the madhouse, that seems to me a suggestion which it is quite impossible to improve on. I really don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself. Yes, indeed, instead of being terrified by each new nightmare, these nightly creations of your inflamed consciousness…’

‘I beg your pardon, I do not think I quite understand,’ I said. ‘Is it my inflamed consciousness that creates the nightmare, or is my consciousness itself a creation of the nightmare?’

‘They are the same thing.’ said Chapaev with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘All these constructs are only required so that you can rid yourself of them for ever. Wherever you might be, live according to the laws of the world you find yourself in, and use those very laws to liberate yourself from them. Discharge yourself from the hospital, Petka.’

‘I believe that I understand the metaphor,’ I said. ‘But what will happen afterwards? Shall I see you again?’

Chapaev smiled and crossed his arms.

‘I promise that you will.’ he said.

There was a sudden crash, and fragments of the upper window-pane scattered across the floor. The stone that had crashed through it struck against the wall and fell to the floor beside the bureau. Chapaev went over to the window and glanced cautiously out into the yard.

‘The weavers?’ I asked.

Chapaev nodded.

‘They are completely wild from drink now,’ he said.

‘Why do you not have a word with Furmanov?’ I asked.

‘I have no reason to believe he is capable of controlling them.’ Chapaev replied. ‘The only reason he remains their commander is because he always gives them exactly the orders that they wish to hear. He only has to make one single serious mistake, and they will find themselves another leader soon enough.’

‘I must confess that I am seriously alarmed on their account.’ I said. ‘The situation appears to me to be completely out of control. Please do not think that I am beginning to panic, but at some fine moment we could easily all find ourselves… Remember what has been going on for the last few days.’

‘It will all be resolved this evening,’ Chapaev said, fixing me with his gaze. ‘By the way, since you declare yourself to be concerned at this problem, which really is genuinely aggravating, why not make your own contribution? Help us to amuse the bored public and create the impression that we have also been drawn into their Bacchanalian revels. They must continue to believe that everyone here is of one mind.’

‘A contribution to what?’

‘There is going to be a concert of sorts today - you know the kind of thing, the men will show each other all kinds of ee-er… acts, I suppose. Everyone who has a trick will show it off. So perhaps you could perform for them as well, and recite something revolutionary? Like that piece you gave at the «Musical Snuffbox»?’

I was piqued.

‘But you must understand, I really am not sure that I shall be able to fit in with the style of such a concert. I am afraid that

‘But you just told me you are not afraid of anything.’ Chapaev interrupted. ‘And then, you should take a broader view of things. In the final analysis, you are one of my men too, and all that is required of you is to show the others what sort of tricks you can turn yourself.’

For just an instant it seemed to me that Chapaev’s words contained an excessive element of mockery; it even occurred to me that it might be his reaction to the text he had just been reading. But then I realized that there was another possible explanation. Perhaps he simply wished to show me that, when viewed from the perspective of reality, no hierarchy remains for the activities in which people engage - and no particular difference between one of the most famous poets of St Petersburg and a bunch of crude regimental talents.

‘Very well then,’ I said, ‘I shall try.’

‘Splendid.’ said Chapaev. ‘Until this evening, then.’

He turned back to his bureau and busied himself with studying the map laid out on it. A pile of papers was encroaching upon the territory of the map, and amongst them I could make out several telegrams and two or three packages sealed with red sealing-wax. Clicking my heels (Chapaev paid not the slightest attention to the sarcasm with which I invested this act), I left the study and ran down the stairs. In the doorway I ran into Anna as she came in from the yard. She was wearing a dress of black velvet which covered her breasts and her throat and reached down almost to the floor: none of her outfits suited her so well.