Виктор Пелевин - Babylon

‘You probably could put it like that,’ said Berezovsky, and the insert with the wrinkle appeared again on his forehead (Tatarsky had indicated this point in the scenario with the words: ‘Berezovsky senses the conversation is taking a wrong turning.’)

Raduev stroked the rusty brick of his beard.

‘Al-Halladj spoke truly,’ he said, ‘in saying that the greatest wonder of all is a man who sees nothing wonderful around him. But tell me, why does it happen so often? I remember one time when piss came into contact with skin seventeen times in one hour.’

"That was probably to settle up with Galiup Media,’ Berezovsky replied condescendingly. ‘The customer must’ve been a tough guy. So they had to account for his money before his protection could account for them. But what of it? If we sell the time, we show the material.’

Raduev’s skeleton swayed towards the table. ‘Hang on, hang on. Are you telling me that piss comes into contact with skin every time they give you money?’

‘Well, yes.’

Raduev’s skeleton was suddenly covered with a crudely drawn torso dressed in a Jordanian military uniform. He put his hand down behind the back of his chair, pulled out a Kalashnikov and pointed it at his companion’s face.

‘What’s wrong, Salaman?’ Berezovsky asked quietly, automatically raising his hands.

‘What’s wrong? I’ll tell you. There’s a man who gets paid for splashing piss on the skin of Allah, and this man is still alive. That’s what’s wrong.’

The insert with the Jordanian uniform disappeared, the thin lines of the skeleton returned to the screen and the Kalashnikov was transformed into a wavering line of dots. The upper section of Berezovsky’s head, at which this line was pointed, was concealed by an animation patch with a Socratean brow covered with large beads of sweat among sparse hair.

‘Easy, now, Salaman, easy,’ said Berezovsky. ‘Two men with bullets in their heads at one table would be too much. Don’t get excited.’

‘What d’you mean, don’t get excited? You’re going to wash away every drop of piss you’ve spilled on Allah with a bucket of your blood, I’m telling you.’

Furiously working thought was reflected in Berezovsky’s screwed-up eyes. That was what it said in the scenario - ‘furiously working thought’ - and Tatarsky couldn’t even begin to imagine what kind of technology could have allowed the an-imators to achieve such literal accuracy.

‘Listen,’ said Berezovsky, ‘I’ll start getting worried if you keep this up. Of course my head isn’t armour-plated, that’s obvious. But then neither is yours, as you know very well. And my protection are all over the place… Aha… That’s what they told you on your radio?

Raduev laughed. ‘They wrote in Forbes magazine that you grasp everything instantly. Looks like they were right.’

‘You subscribe to Forbes [7]’

‘Why not? Chechnya’s part of Europe now. We should know our clientele.’

‘If you’re so fucking cultured,’ Berezovsky said irritably, ‘then why can’t we talk like two fucking Europeans? Without all this barbarism?’

‘Go on then.’

‘You said I would wash away every drop of piss with a bucket of my blood, right?’

‘Right,’ Raduev agreed with dignity. ‘And I’ll say it again.’

‘But you can’t wash away piss with blood. It’s not Tide, you know.’

(Tatarsky had the idea that the phrase ‘You can’t wash away piss with blood’ would make a wonderful slogan for an all-Russian campaign for Tide, but it was too dark for him to note it down.)

"That’s true,’ Raduev agreed.

‘And then, you agree that nothing in the world happens against Allah’s will?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right then, let’s go further. Surely you don’t think that I could… I could… well, that I could do what I’ve done if it was against the will of Allah?’

‘No.’

‘Then let’s go further,’ Berezovsky continued confidently. ‘Try looking at things this way: I’m simply an instrument in the hands of Allah, and what Allah does and why are beyond understanding. And then, if it wasn’t Allah’s will, I wouldn’t have gathered all the TV towers and anchormen in my three squares. Right?’

‘Right.’

‘Can we stop here?’

Raduev stuck the barrel of the gun against Berezovsky’s forehead. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’ll go a bit further than you suggest. I’ll tell you what the old folks say in my village. They say that according to Allah’s original idea this world should be like a sweet raspberry that melts in your mouth, but people like you with their avarice have turned it into piss coming into contact with skin. Perhaps it is Allah’s wish that people like you should come into the world; but Allah is merciful, and so it is his will too that people like you who stop life tasting like a sweet raspberry should be blown away. After talking to you for five minutes life tastes like piss that’s eaten away all my brains, get it? And in fucking Europe they pay compensation for things like that, get it? Haven’t you ever heard of deprived adulthood?’

Berezovsky sighed. ‘I see you prepared thoroughly for our talk. All right, then. What kind of compensation?

‘I don’t know. You’d have to something pleasing to God.’

‘For instance?’

‘I don’t know,’ Raduev repeated. ‘Build a mosque; but it would have to be a very big mosque. Big enough to pray away the sin I’ve committed by sitting at the same table with a man who has splashed piss on the skin of the Inexpressible.’

‘I’m with you,’ said Berezovsky, lowering his hands slightly. ‘And to be precise, just how big?’

‘I think the first contribution would be ten million.’

‘Isn’t that a lot?’

‘I don’t know if it’s a lot or not,’ said Raduev, stroking his beard pensively, ‘because we can only comprehend the notions of "a lot" and "a little" in comparative terms. But perhaps you noticed a herd of goats when you arrived at my headquarters?’

‘I noticed them. What’s the connection?’

‘Until that twenty million arrives in my account in the Islamic bank, seventeen times every hour they’ll duck you in a barrel of goat’s piss, and it’ll come into contact with your skin, and cause irritation, and you’ll have plenty of time to think about whether it’s a lot or a little - seventeen times an hour.’

‘Hey-hey-hey,’ said Berezovsky, lowering his hands. ‘What’s that? Just a moment ago it was ten million.’

‘You forgot about the dandruff.’

‘Listen Salaman, my dear, that’s not the way business is done.’

‘Do you want to pay another ten for the smell of sweat?’ Raduev asked, shaking his automatic. ‘Do you?’

‘No, Salaman,’ Berezovsky said wearily. ‘I don’t want to pay for the smell of sweat. Tell me, by the way, who is it filming us with that hidden camera?’

‘What camera?’

‘What’s that briefcase over there on the window sill?’ Berezovsky jabbed his finger towards the screen.

‘Ah, spawn of Satan,’ Raduev muttered and raised his automatic.

A white zigzag ran cross the screen, everything went dark, and the the lights came on in the hall.

Azadovsky exchanged glances with Morkovin. ‘Well, what do you think?’ Tatarsky asked timidly. ‘Tell me, where do you work?’ Azadovsky asked disdainfully. ‘In Berezovsky’s PR department or in my dirt squad?’

‘In the dirt squad,’ Tatarsky replied.

‘What were you asked for? A scenario of negotiations between Raduev and Berezovsky, with Berezovsky giving the Chechen terrorists twenty million dollars. And what’s this you’ve written? He’s not giving them money! You’ve got him building a mosque! A fucking good job it’s not the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour. If we didn’t produce Berezovsky ourselves, I might imagine you were being paid by him. And who’s this Raduev of yours? Some kind of professor of theology? He reads magazines even I’ve never heard of.’