Виктор Пелевин - Babylon

‘Let me introduce you,’ said Khanin. ‘Babe Tatarsky, one of our best specialists. And this’ - Khanin nodded in the direction of the stranger who was driving the car out on to the road - ‘is Wee Vova, almost your namesake. Also known as the Nietzschean.’

‘Ah, that’s all a load of crap,’ Wee Vova mumbled, blinking rapidly. ‘That was a long time ago.’

‘This man,’ Khanin continued, ‘performs an extremely important economic function. You might call him the key link in the liberal model in countries with a low annual average temperature. D’you understand at least a bit about the market economy? ’

‘About that much,’ Tatarsky replied, bringing his thumb and forefinger together until there was just a millimetre gap left between them.

‘Then you must know that in an absolutely free market by definition there must be services provided by the limiters of absolute freedom. Wee Vova here happens to be one of those limiters. In other words, he’s our protection…’

When the car braked at a traffic light. Wee Vova raised his small expressionless eyes to look at Tatarsky. It was hard to see why he should be called ‘wee’ - he was a man of ample dimensions and advanced years. His face had the vague meat-dumpling contours of the typical bandit physiognomy, but it didn’t inspire any particular revulsion.

He looked Tatarsky over and said: ‘So, to cut it short, tell me, you into the Russian idea?’

Tatarsky started and his eyes gaped wide.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve never thought about that theme.’

‘All the better,’ Khanin interrupted. ‘A fresh approach, as they say.’

‘A fresh approach to what?’ Tatarsky asked, turning to face him.

‘You’ve got a commission to develop a concept,’ answered Khanin.

‘Who from?’

Khanin nodded in the direction of Wee Vova.

‘Here, take this pen and this notepad,’ he said, ‘listen carefully to what he has to say and make notes. You can use them to write it up later.’

‘No listening needed,’ Wee Vova blurted out. ‘It’s obvious enough. Tell me. Babe, when you’re abroad, d’you feel humiliated?’

‘I’ve never been abroad,’ Tatarsky confessed.

‘And good for you. ‘Cause if you do go you will. I tell you straight - over there they don’t reckon we’re people at all, like we’re all shit and animals. Of course, like when you’re in some Hilton or other and you rent the entire floor, they’ll all stand in line to suck your cock. But if you’re out at some buffet or socialising, they talk to you like you’re some kind of monkey. Why d’you wear such a big cross, they say, are you some kind of theologian? I’d show them some fucking theology if they was in Moscow…’

‘But why do they treat us like that?’ Khanin interrupted. ‘What d’you think?’

‘The way I reckon it,’ said Wee Vova, ‘it’s all because we’re living on their handouts. We watch their films, ride their wheels, even eat their fodder. And we don’t produce nothing, if you think about it, ‘cept for mazuma… Which is still only their dollars, whichever way you look at it, which makes it a mystery how come we can be producing ‘em. But then somehow we must be producing ‘em - no one’d give us ‘em for free. I ain’t no economist, but I got a gut feeling something’s rotten here, somehow something somewhere don’t add up.’

Wee Vova fell silent and started thinking hard. Khanin was about to make some remark, but Wee Vova suddenly erupted: ‘But they think we’re some kind of cultural scumbags. Like some kind of nig-nogs out in Africa, get it? Like we was animals with money. Pigs, maybe, or bulls. But what we are, is Russia! Makes you frightened to think of it! A great country!’

‘That’s right,’ said Khanin.

‘It’s just that we’ve lost our roots for the time being ‘cause of all this crap that’s going down. You know yourself what life’s like now. No time for a fart. But that don’t mean we’ve forgot where we come from, like some half-baked golly-wogs…’

‘Let’s try to keep feelings out of it,’ said Khanin. ‘Just explain to the boy here what you want him to do. Keep it simple, without the trimmings.’

‘OK, listen up and I’ll lay it out for you just like counting on my fingers,’ said Wee Vova. ‘Our national business is expanding into the international market. Out there there’s all kinds of mazuma doing the rounds - Chechen, American, Columbian - you get the picture. And if you look at them like mazuma, then they’re all the same; but in actual fact behind every kind of mazuma there’s a national idea. We used to have Orthodoxy, Autocracy and Nationality. Then came this communism stuff. Now that’s all over, and there’s no idea left at all ‘cept for mazuma. But there’s no way you can have nothing but mazuma behind mazuma, right? ‘Cause then there’s just no way to understand why some mazuma’s up front and some’s in behind, right?’

‘Spot on,’ said Khanin. ‘Listen and learn, Babe.’

‘And when our Russian dollars are doing the rounds somewhere down in the Caribbean,’ Wee Vova continued, ‘you can’t even really figure why they’re Russian dollars and not anyone else’s. We don’t have no national i-den-ti-ty…’

Wee Vova articulated the final word syllable by syllable.

‘You dig it? The Chechens have one, but we don’t. That’s why they look at us like we’re shit. There’s got to be some nice, simple Russian idea, so’s we can lay it out clear and simple for any bastard from any of their Harvards: one-two, tickety-boo, and screw all that staring. And we’ve got to know for ourselves where we come from.’

‘You tell him what the job is" said Khanin, and he winked at Tatarsky in the driving mirror. ‘He’s my senior creative. A minute of his time costs more than the two of us earn in a week.’

‘The job’s simple.’ said Wee Vova. ‘Write me a Russian idea about five pages long. And a short version one page long. And lay it out like real life, without any fancy gibberish, so’s I can splat any of those imported arseholes with it - bankers, whores, whoever. So’s they won’t think all we’ve done in Russia is heist the money and put up a steel door. So’s they can feel the same kind of spirit like in ‘45 at Stalingrad, you get me?’

‘But where would I get?…’ Tatarsky began, but Khanin interrupted him:

‘That’s your business, sweetheart. You’ve got one day, it’s a rush job. After that I’ll be needing you for other work. And just bear in mind we’ve given this commission to another guy as well as you. So try your best.’

‘Who, if it’s not a secret?’ Tatarsky asked. ‘Sasha Blo. Ever heard of him?’

Tatarsky said nothing. Khanin made a sign to Wee Vova and the car stopped. Handing Tatarsky a hundred-rouble bill, Khanin said: ‘That’s for your taxi. Go home and work. And no more drinking today.’

Out on the pavement Tatarsky waited for the car to leave before taking out the business card from the prisoner of the Caucasus. It looked strange - in the centre there was a picture of a sequoia, covered with leaf-like dollar bills, and all the rest of the space was taken up by stars, stripes and eagles. All of this Roman magnificence was crowned by the following text in curly gold lettering:

• OPEN JOINT STOCK COMPANY SOFT DRINKS AND JUICES Shares Placement Manager:

Mikhail Nepoiman

‘Aha,’ muttered Tatarsky. ‘I see we’re old acquaintances.’

He tucked the card in his pocket, turned towards the stream of cars and raised his hand. A taxi stopped almost immediately.

The taxi-driver was a fat-faced bumpkin with an expression of intense resentment on his face. The thought flashed through Tatarsky’s mind that he was like a condom filled so full of water you barely needed to touch it with something sharp for it to soak anyone nearby in a one-off disposable waterfall.