Виктор Пелевин - Buddha's Little Finger

‘Pyotr just would not understand,’ he replied. ‘It even reached the point where I had resigned myself to staying there.’

‘But has he understood now?’

Chapaev looked at me.

‘He didn’t understand a thing,’ he said. ‘It was just that the shooting started up back there…’

‘Now, listen here, Chapaev,’ I began, but he stopped me with an imperious gesture.

‘Is everything all right?’ he asked Anna.

‘Yes.’ she said, handing him the crank-handle.

I suddenly realized that Chapaev was right, as always; there had not been anything that I could be said to have understood.

Chapaev rapidly swept aside the hay covering the armoured car’s inclined bonnet, inserted the crank-handle in the opening in the radiator and turned the magneto several times. The engine began to purr quietly and powerfully.

Anna opened the door and got in, and Chapaev and I followed her. Chapaev slammed the door and clicked a switch, and the light, quite blindingly brilliant after the underground darkness, revealed a familiar interior: the narrow leather-upholstered divans, the landscape bolted to the wall, and the table, on which lay a volume of Montesquieu with a bookmark and a packet of ‘Ira’ papyrosas. Anna quickly clambered up the spiral staircase and sat on the machine-gunner’s revolving chair, the upper half of her body concealed in the turret.

‘I’m ready,’ she said. ‘Only I can’t see anything because of the hay.’

Chapaev caught hold of the speaking-tube that communicated with the driver’s compartment - I guessed that the Bashkir was there - and spoke into it.

‘Scatter the haystack. And don’t get a wheel stuck in any hole.’

The armoured car’s motor began to roar, the heavy vehicle shuddered into motion and moved forward several yards. There was some kind of mechanical noise above us - I looked up and saw that Anna was turning something like the handle of a coffee-mill, and the turret and seat were turning together around their axis.

‘That’s better now,’ she said.

‘Switch on the floodlights,’ Chapaev said into the tube.

I put my eye to the spy-hole in the door. The floodlights turned out to be installed around the entire perimeter of the armoured car, and when they came on, it was as though someone had switched on the street lights in some shadowy park.

It was a strange vista indeed. The white electric light falling on the trees was a great deal brighter than the glow from the fire; the dancing shadows which had looked like people darting through the darkness disappeared, and I could see that there was no one near us.

But our solitude did not remain inviolate for long. Weavers with rifles in their hands began appearing at the edge of the pool of light. They stared at us in silence, shielding their eyes from the blinding glare of the searchlights. Soon the armoured car was trapped in a living circle bristling with rifle barrels. I could even hear snatches of shouting: ‘So that’s where they are… nah, they won’t get away… they’ve already run away once… put that grenade away, you fool, it’ll blast our own lads to bits.’

They fired several shots at the armoured car and the bullets bounced off the armour-plating with a dull clanging sound. One of the searchlights burst, however, and a roar of delight ran through the crowd around us.

‘Well, then.’ said Chapaev, ‘everything comes to an end some time. Make ready, Anna.’

Anna carefully removed the cover from the machine-gun. A bullet struck the door close beside the spy-hole, and just to be on the safe side I moved away from it. Leaning over the machine-gun, Anna put her eye to the sights, and her face distorted itself in a grimace of cold fury.

‘Fire! Water! Earth! Space! Air!’ Chapaev shouted.

Anna rapidly twirled the rotational handle, and the turret began revolving around its axis with a quiet squeaking. The machine-gun was silent, and I looked at Chapaev in amazement. He gestured reassuringly. The turret made a single complete revolution and came to a halt.

‘Has it jammed?’ I asked.

‘No.’ said Chapaev. ‘It’s all over already.’

I suddenly realized that I could no longer hear any shots or voices. All the sounds had disappeared, and only the quiet purring of the motor remained.

Anna climbed down out of the turret, sat herself on the divan beside me and lit a papyrosa. I noticed that her fingers were trembling.

‘That was the clay machine-gun.’ said Chapaev. ‘Now I can tell you what it is. It isn’t really a machine-gun at all. It’s simply that many millennia ago, long before the Buddha Dipankara and the Buddha Shakyamuni came into the world, there lived the Buddha Anagama. He didn’t waste any time on explanations, he simply pointed at things with the little finger of his left hand, and their true nature was instantly revealed. When he pointed to a mountain, it disappeared, when he pointed to a river, that disappeared too. It’s a long story, but in short it all ended with him pointing to himself with his little finger and then disappearing. All that was left of him was that finger from his left hand, which his disciples hid in a lump of clay. The clay machine-gun is that lump of clay with the Buddha’s finger concealed within it. A very long time ago in India there lived a man who tried to turn that piece of clay into the most terrible weapon on earth, but no sooner had he drilled a hole in it than the finger pointed at him and he himself disappeared. After that it was kept in a locked trunk and moved from place to place until it was lost to the world in one of the monasteries of Mongolia. But now, for a whole series of reasons, it has found its way to me. I have attached a butt-stock to it and I call it the clay machine-gun. And we have just made use of it.’

Chapaev stood up, opened the door and jumped out. I heard his boots striking the earth. Anna climbed out after him, but I went on sitting there on the divan, gazing at the English landscape on the wall. A river, a bridge, a sky covered in clouds and some indistinct ruins; could it possibly be, I wondered, could it?

‘Petka.’ Chapaev called, ‘what are you doing still sitting in there?’

I got up and stepped out.

We were standing on a perfectly level circular surface covered with hay, about seven yards in diameter. Beyond the bounds of the circle there was nothing at all - nothing was visible except an indistinct, even light, which it would be hard to describe in any way. At the very edge of the circle lay half a rifle with a bayonet attached. I suddenly recalled the moment in Blok’s ‘Circus Booth’ when Harlequin jumps through the window and breaks the paper with the view of the horizon drawn on it and a grey void appears in the tear. I looked round. The engine of the armoured car was still working.

‘But why is this island left?’ I asked.

‘A blind spot.’ said Chapaev. ‘The finger pointed at everything there was in the world beyond the bounds of this area. It’s like the shadow from the base of a lamp.’

I took a step to one side, and Chapaev grabbed me by the shoulders.

‘Where do you think you’re going… Don’t get in front of the machine-gun! All right, Anna, put it out of harm’s way.’

Anna nodded and carefully made her way to stand under the short protruding barrel.

‘Watch carefully, Petka,’ said Chapaev.

Anna squeezed her papyrosa tight in her teeth, and a small round mirror appeared in her hand. She raised it to the level of the barrel, and before I could understand what was going on, the armoured car had vanished. It happened instantaneously and with unbelievable ease, as though someone had switched off a magic lantern, and the picture on the linen sheet had simply disappeared. All that was left were four shallow hollows from the wheels. And now there was nothing to disturb the silence.