Виктор Пелевин - Babylon

Azadovsky and Morkovin had been sitting in the viewing hall since early morning. Outside the entrance several people were walking backwards and forwards, sarcastically discussing Yeltsin’s latest binge. Tatarsky decided they must be copywriters from the political department practising corporate non-action. They were called in one by one; on average they spent about ten minutes with the bosses. Tatarsky realised that the problems discussed were of state significance - he heard Yeltsin’s voice emanate from the hall at maximum volume several times. The first time he burbled:

‘What do we want so many pilots for? We only need one pilot, but ready for anything! The moment I saw my grandson playing with Play Station I knew straightaway what we need…’

The second time they were obviously playing back a section from an address to the nation, because Yeltsin’s voice was solemn and measured: ‘For the first time in many decades the population of Russia now has the chance to choose between the heart and the head. Vote with your heart!’

One project was wound up - that was obvious from the face of the tall man with a moustache and prematurely grey hair who emerged from the hall clutching a crimson loose-leaf folder with the inscription ‘Tsar’. Then music began playing in the hall - at first a balalaika jangled for a long time, then Tatarsky heard Azadovsky shouting: ‘Bugger it! We’ll take him off the air. Next.’

Tatarsky was the last in the queue. The dimly lit hall where Azadovsky was waiting looked luxurious but somewhat archaic, as though it had been decorated and furnished back in the forties. For some reason Tatarsky bent down when he entered. He trotted across to the first row and perched on the edge of the chair to the left of Azadovsky, who was ejecting streams of smoke into the beam of the video-projector. Azadovsky shook his hand without looking at him - he was obviously in a bad mood. Tatarsky knew what the problem was: Morkovin had explained it to him the day before.

‘They’ve dropped us to three hundred megahertz,’ he said gloomily. ‘For Kosovo. Remember how under the communists there were shortages of butter? Now it’s machine time. There’s something fatal about this country. Now Azadovsky’s watching all the drafts himself. Nothing’s allowed on the main render-server without written permission, so give it your best shot.’

It was the first time Tatarsky had seen what a draft - that is a rough sketch before it’s been rendered in full - actually looked like. If he hadn’t written the scenario himself, he would never have guessed that the green outline divided by lines of fine yellow dots was a table with a game of Monopoly set up on it. The playing pieces were identical small red arrows, and the dice were two blue blobs, but the game had been modelled honestly - in the lower section of the screen pairs of numbers from one to six flickered on and off, produced by the random number generator. The players themselves didn’t exist yet, though their moves corresponded to the points scored. Their places were occupied by skeletons of graduated lines with little circles as ball-joints. Tatarsky could only see their faces, constructed of coarse polygons - Salaman Raduev’s beard was like a rusty brick attached to the lower section of his face and a round bullet scar on his temple looked like a red button. Berezovsky was recognisable from the blue triangles of his shaved cheeks. As was only to be expected, Berezovsky was winning.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘in Mother Russia, Monopoly’s a bit dicey. You buy a couple of streets, and then it turns out there are people living on them.’

Raduev laughed: ‘Not just in Russia. It’s like that everywhere. And I’ll tell you something else, Boris: not only do people live there; often they actually think the streets are theirs.’

Berezovsky tossed the dice. Once again he got two sixes.

"That’s not quite how it is.’ he said. ‘Nowadays people find out what they think from the television. So if you want to buy up a couple of streets and still sleep well, first you have to buy a TV tower.’

There was a squeak, and an animated insert appeared in the corner of the table: a military walkie-talkie with a long aerial. Raduev lifted it to his head-joint, said something curt in Chechen and put it back.

‘I’m selling off my TV announcer,’ he said, and flicked a playing piece into the centre of the table with his finger. ‘I don’t like television.’

‘I’m buying,’ Berezovsky responded quickly. ‘But why don’t you like it?

‘I don’t like it because piss comes into contact with skin too often when you watch it,’ said Raduev, shaking the dice in the green arrows of his fingers. ‘Every time I turn on the television, there’s piss coming into contact with skin and causing irritation.’

‘You must be talking about those commercials for Pampers, are you? But it’s not your skin, Salaman.’

‘Exactly,’ said Raduev irritably, ‘so why do they come into contact in my head? Haven’t they got anywhere else?’

The upper section of Berezovsky’s face was covered by a rectangle with a pair of eyes rendered in detail. They squinted in concern at Raduev and blinked a few times, then the rectangle disappeared.

‘Anyway, just whose piss is it?’ Raduev asked as if the idea had only just entered his head.

‘Drop it, Salaman,’ Berezovsky said in a reconciliatory tone. ‘Why don’t you take your move?’

‘Wait, Boris; I want to know whose piss and skin it is coming into contact in my head when I watch your television.’

‘Why is it my television?’

‘If a pipe runs across my squares, then I’m responsible for the pipe. You said that yourself. Right? So if all the TV anchormen are on your squares, you’re responsible for TV. So you tell me whose piss it is splashing about in my head when I watch it!’

Berezovsky scratched his chin. ‘It’s your piss, Salaman,’ he said decisively.

‘How come?’

‘Who else’s can it be? Think it out for yourself. In Chechnya they call you "the man with a bullet in his head" for your pluck. I don’t think anyone who decided to pour piss all over you while you’re watching TV would live very long.’ ‘You think right.’ ‘So, Salaman, that means it’s your piss.’ ‘So how does it get inside my head when I’m watching TV? Does it rise up from my bladder?’

Berezovsky reached out for the dice, but Raduev put his hand over them. ‘Explain,’ he demanded. "Then we’ll carry on playing.’

An animation rectangle appeared on Berezovsky’s forehead, containing a deep wrinkle. ‘All right,’ he said,’ I’ll try to explain.’

‘Go on.’

‘When Allah created this world.’ Berezovsky began, casting a quick glance upwards, ‘he first thought it; and then he created objects. All the holy books tell us that in the beginning was the word. What does that mean in legal terms? In legal terms it means that in the first place Allah created concepts. Coarse objects are the lot of human beings, but in stead of them Allah’ - he glanced upwards quickly once again - ‘has ideas. And so Salman, when you watch advertisements for Pampers on television, what you have in your head is not wet human piss, but the concept of piss. The idea of piss comes into contact with the concept of skin. You understand?’

‘More or less,’ said Raduev thoughtfully. ‘But I didn’t understand everything. The idea of piss and the concept of skin come into contact inside my head, right?’

‘Right.’

‘And instead of things, Allah has ideas. Right?’

‘Right,’ said Berezovsky, and frowned. An animation patch appeared on his blue-shaven cheeks, showing his jaw muscles clenched tightly.

‘That means what happens inside my head is Allah’s piss coming into contact with Allah’s skin, blessed be his name? Right?’