Виктор Пелевин - Buddha's Little Finger

He leafed through the questionnaire. There must have been twenty or thirty pages of it.

‘Sheer bureaucracy, of course, but we get the official circulars here the same as everywhere else. This is required for discharge. And since I can’t see any reason for keeping you here any longer, here’s a pen, and off you go.’

I took the questionnaire from him and sat down at the desk. Timur Timurovich tactfully turned away to face the bookshelves and took down a thick, heavy volume.

There were a number of sections in the questionnaire: ‘Culture’, ‘History’, ‘Politics’ and a few others. I opened the section on ‘Culture’ at random and read:

32. At the end of which of the following films does the hero drive out the villains, waving a heavy cross above his head?

a) Alexander Nevsky

b) Jesus of Nazareth

c) The Death of the Gods

33. Which of the names below symbolizes the all-conquering power of good?

a) Arnold Schwarzenegger

b) Sylvester Stallone

c) Jean-Claude Van Damm

Struggling not to betray my confusion, I turned over several pages at once to a point somewhere in the centre of the history section:

74. What was the target at which the cruiser Aurora fired?

a) the Reichstag

b) the battleship Potyomkin

c) the White House

d) the firing started from the White House

I suddenly recalled that terrible black night in October 1917 when the Aurora sailed into the estuary of the Neva. I had raised my collar as I stood on the bridge, smoking nervously, staring at the distant black silhouette of the cruiser. There was not a single light to be seen on it, but a vague electrical radiance trembled at the ends of its slim masts. Two people out for a late stroll halted beside me, an astonishingly beautiful young schoolgirl and a fat governess chaperoning her, who looked like one of those stout columns intended for displaying posters in the street.

‘Look at it, Miss Brown!’ the young girl exclaimed in English, pointing towards the black ship. ‘This is St Elmo’s fires!’

‘You are mistaken, Katya.’ the governess replied quietly. ‘There is nothing saintly about this ship.’

She peered sideways at me.

‘Let’s go.’ she said. ‘Standing here could be dangerous.’

I shook my head to drive away the memory and turned over a few more pages: 102. Who created the Universe?

a) God

b) the Committee of Soldiers’ Mothers

c) I did

d) Kotovsky

I carefully closed the questionnaire and looked out of the window. I could see the snow-covered crown of a poplar, with a crow perched on it. It was hopping from one foot to the other, and snow was sprinkling down through the air from the branch on which it was sitting. Down below an engine of some kind roared into life and startled the bird. Flapping its wings ponderously, it took off from the branch and flew away from the hospital - I watched it go until it was reduced to an almost invisible black speck. Then I slowly raised my eyes to Timur Timurovich, meeting his own attentive gaze.

‘Tell me, what is this questionnaire needed for? Why did they invent it?’

‘I don’t know that myself,’ he replied. ‘Although, of course, there is a certain logic to it. Some patients are so cunning that they can wind even the most experienced doctor round their little finger. So this is just in case Napoleon decides for the time being to admit that he is mad, in order to obtain permission to leave the hospital and inaugurate the One Hundred Days…’

A sudden startled thought glinted momentarily in his eyes, but he extinguished it immediately with a flick of his eyelids.

‘But then,’ he said, walking over quickly to me, ‘you’re perfectly right. I’ve only just realized I’ve been treating you as though you’re still a patient. As though I didn’t trust you myself. It’s terribly silly, but it’s just my professional reflex response.’

He pulled the questionnaire from my grasp, tore it in half and threw it into the waste-paper basket.

‘Go and get ready,’ he said, turning towards the window. ‘Your documents have already been prepared. Zherbunov will show you to the station. And here is my telephone number, just in case you need it.’

The blue cotton trousers and the black sweater that Zherbunov issued to me smelled of dusty broom cupboards. I was extremely displeased that the trousers were crumpled and stained, but as Zherbunov explained, the domestic services unit had no iron.

‘This isn’t a laundry, you know,’ he said caustically, ‘nor the bleeding Ministry of Culture neither.’

I put on the high boots with the patterned soles, the round fur cap and the grey woollen coat, which would actually have been rather elegant if not for a hole with scorched edges in the back.

‘Got plastered, probably, and one of your mates burnt you with his fag,’ Zherbunov commented as he donned a poisonous-green jacket with a hood.

It was interesting to note that I did not feel in the least bit offended by these boorish outbursts, which he had never permitted himself in the ward. Quite the contrary, they were like music to my ears, because they were a sign of my freedom. In actual fact he was not even being rude, this was merely his usual manner of speaking to people. Since I had ceased to be a patient, and he had ceased to be an orderly, the rules of professional ethics no longer applied to me; everything that had bound us together had been left hanging on that nail crookedly beaten into the wall, together with his white hospital coat.

‘And the travelling bag?’ I asked.

His eyes opened wide in feigned astonishment.

‘There wasn’t any travelling bag,’ he said. ‘You can take that up with Timur Timurovich if you like. Here’s your purse, there were twenty roubles in it, and that’s what’s in it now.’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘So there is no way to get at the truth?’

‘Well, what did you expect?’

I made no attempt to argue any more. It was stupid of me even to have mentioned it. I limited my response to the stealthy extraction of the fountain pen from the side pocket of his jacket.

The doors of freedom swung open in such a banal, everyday fashion that I actually felt slightly disappointed. Beyond them was an empty, snow-covered yard surrounded by a concrete wall; a pair of large green gates, oddly decorated with red stars, stood directly opposite us, and beside them a small lodge with pale smoke rising from its chimney. In any case, I had already seen all of this many times from the window. I went down the steps from the porch and glanced back at the faceless white building of the hospital.

‘Tell me, Zherbunov, where is the window of our ward?’

‘Third floor, second from the end.’ answered Zherbunov. ‘There, you see, they’re waving to you.’

I caught a glimpse of two dark silhouettes in the window. One of them raised his open hand and pressed the palm against the glass. I waved to them in reply and Zherbunov tugged rather rudely at my sleeve.

‘Let’s get going. You’ll miss the train.’

I turned and followed him towards the gates.

It was cramped and hot in the lodge. An attendant in a green peaked cap with two crossed rifles on the cockade was sitting behind a small window; in front of it the passage was blocked by a boom made of painted iron piping. He took a long time to study the documents which Zherbunov passed over to him, several times looking up from the photograph at my face and then down again, and exchanging a few quiet comments with Zherbunov. Finally the boom was raised.

‘See what a serious guy he is,’ said Zherbunov, when we emerged. ‘He used to work in a Top-Secret Facility.’

‘I see.’ I answered. ‘Interesting. And did Timur Timurovich cure him as well?’