Виктор Пелевин - Buddha's Little Finger

‘That’s it.’ said Chapaev. ‘That world no longer exists.’

‘Damn,’ I said, ‘the papyrosas were still in there… And listen - what about the driver?’

Chapaev started and looked in fright first at me, and then at Anna.

‘Damn and blast.’ he said, ‘I forgot all about him… And you, Anna, why didn’t you say anything?’

Anna spread her arms wide. There was not a trace of genuine feeling in the gesture and I thought that despite her beauty, she was unlikely ever to become an actress.

‘No.’ I said, ‘there’s something wrong here. Where’s the driver?’

‘Chapaev.’ said Anna, ‘I can’t take any more. Sort this out between the two of you.’

Chapaev sighed and twirled his moustache.

‘Calm down, Petka. There wasn’t really any driver. You know there are these bits of paper with special seals on them, you can stick them on a log, and-’

‘Ah.’ I said, ‘so it was a golem. I see. Only please don’t treat me like a total idiot, all right? I noticed a long time ago that he was rather strange. You know, Chapaev, with talents like that you could have made quite a career in St Petersburg.’

‘What is there new for me to see in this St Petersburg of yours?’ Chapaev asked.

‘But wait, what about Kotovsky?’ I asked excitedly. ‘Has he disappeared too, then?’

‘Inasmuch as he never existed.’ said Chapaev, ‘it is rather difficult to answer that question. But if you are concerned for his fate out of human sympathy, don’t worry. I assure you that Kotovsky, just like you or I, is quite capable of creating his own universe.’

‘And will we exist in it?’

Chapaev pondered my words.

‘An interesting question.’ he said. ‘I should never have thought of that. Perhaps we shall, but in precisely what capacity I really can’t say. How should I know what kind of world Kotovsky will create in that Paris of his? Or perhaps I should say - what Paris he will create in that world of his?’

‘There you go again.’ I said, ‘more of your sophistry.’

I turned and walked towards the edge of the circle, but I was unable to reach the very edge; when there were still about two yards left to its edge I suddenly felt dizzy and I slumped heavily to the ground.

‘Do you feel unwell?’ Anna asked.

‘I feel quite wonderful,’ I replied, ‘but what are we going to do here? Conduct a menage a twist’

‘Ah, Petka, Petka,’ said Chapaev, ‘I keep on trying to explain to you. Any form is just emptiness. But what does that mean?’

‘Well, what?’

‘It means that emptiness is any form. Close your eyes. And now open them.’

I do not know how to describe that moment in words.

What I saw was something similar to a flowing stream which glowed with all the colours of the rainbow, a river broad beyond all measure that flowed from somewhere lost in infinity towards that same infinity. It extended around our island on all sides as far as the eye could see, and yet it was not an ocean, but precisely a river, a stream, because it had a clearly visible current. The light it cast on the three of us was extremely bright, but there was nothing blinding or frightening about it, because it was also at the same time grace, happiness and infinitely powerful love. However, those three words, so crudely devalued by literature and art, were quite incapable of conveying any real impression of it. Simply watching the constant emergence of new multicoloured sparks and glimmers of light in it was already enough, because everything that I could possibly think of or dream of was a part of that rainbow-hued stream. Or to be more precise, the rainbow-hued stream was everything that I could possibly think of or experience, everything that I could possibly be or not be, and I knew quite certainly that it was not something separate from myself. It was me, and I was it. I had always been it, and nothing else.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Nothing,’ replied Chapaev.

‘No, not in that sense,’ I said. ‘What is it called?’

‘It has various names,’ Chapaev replied. ‘I call it the Undefinable River of Absolute Love. Ural for short. Sometimes we become it, and sometimes we assume forms, but in actual fact neither the forms nor we ourselves, nor even the Ural exists.’

‘But why do we do it?’

Chapaev shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘But what if you try to explain?’ I asked.

‘One has to do something to occupy oneself in all this eternal infinity,’ he said. ‘So we’re going to try swimming across the river Ural, which doesn’t really exist. Don’t be afraid, Petka, dive in!’

‘But will I be able to dive out again?’

Chapaev looked me over from head to toe.

‘Well, you obviously could before.’ he said. ‘Since you’re standing here.’

‘But will I be myself again?’

‘Now, Petka,’ Chapaev asked, ‘how can you not be yourself when you are absolutely everything that possibly can be?’

He was about to say something else, but at this point Anna, having finished her papyrosa, carefully ground it out under her foot, and without even bothering to look our way, threw herself into the flowing stream.

‘That’s it,’ said Chapaev. ‘That’s the way. What’s the point of all this shilly-shallying?’

Fixing me with a treacherous smile, he began backing towards the edge of the patch of earth.

‘Chapaev.’ I said, frightened, ‘wait. You can’t just leave me like this. You must at least explain…’

But it was too late. The earth crumbled away under his feet, he lost his balance and flung out his arms as he tumbled backwards into the rainbow-hued radiance. It parted for a moment exactly like water and then closed over him, and I was left alone.

For a few minutes I stared, stunned, at the spot where Chapaev had been. Then I realized that I was terribly tired. I scraped together the straw scattered around the circle of earth and gathered it into a single heap, lay down on it and fixed my gaze on the inexpressibly distant grey vault of the sky.

Suddenly the thought struck me that since the very beginning of time I had been doing nothing but lie on the bank of the Ural, dreaming one dream after another, and waking up again and again in the same place. But if that were really the case, I thought, then what had I wasted my life on? Literature and art were no more than tiny midges hovering over the final pile of hay in the Universe. Who, I wondered, who would read the descriptions of my dreams? I looked at the smooth surface of the Ural, stretching out into infinity in all directions. The pen, the notepad and everyone who could read those marks made on its paper were now simply rainbow-coloured sparks and lights which appeared and disappeared and then appeared again. Will I really simply fall asleep again on this river bank, I wondered.

Without giving myself even a moment’s pause for thought, I leapt to my feet, ran forwards and threw myself headlong into the Ural.

I hardly felt anything at all; the stream was simply on every side of me now, and so there were no more sides. I saw the spot from which this stream originated - and immediately recognized it as my true home. Like a snowflake caught up by the wind, I was born along towards that spot. At first my movement was easy and weightless, and then something strange happened; I began to feel some incomprehensible friction tugging at my calves and my elbows, and my movement slowed. And no sooner did it begin to slow than the radiance surrounding me began to fade, and at the very moment when I came to a complete standstill, the light changed to a murky gloom, which I realized came from an electric bulb burning just under the ceiling.

My arms and legs were belted tight to the chair, and my head was resting on a pillow covered in oilcloth.