Виктор Пелевин: Babylon

Gireiev turned off the sound.

‘Did you come to watch the television, then?’ he asked.

‘Course not. It’s just strange - what’s it doing upside down?’

"That’s a long story.’

‘Like the one with the cucumbers, is it? Has to be properly conferred?’

‘No, not that,’ Gireiev said with a shrug. ‘It’s open information, but it’s part of the practice of true dharma, so if you ask someone to tell you about it, you take on the karmic obligation to adopt the practice yourself. And I don’t think you will.’

‘Maybe I will. Try me.’

Gireiev sighed and glanced at the tall umbrellas swaying outside the window.

‘There are three Buddhist ways of watching television. In essential terms, they’re all the same way, but at different stages of training they appear different. First you watch television with the sound turned off. About half an hour a day, your favourite programmes. When you get the idea they’re saying something important and interesting on the television, you become aware of the thought at the moment it arises and so neutralise it. At first you’re bound to give way and turn on the sound, but gradually you’ll get used to it. The main thing is not to allow a feeling of guilt to develop when you can’t restrain yourself. It’s like that for everybody at first, even for lamas. Then you start to watch the television with the sound switched on but the picture off. And finally you start watching the television completely switched off. That’s actually the main technique and the first two are only preparatory. You watch all the news programmes, but you don’t turn the television on. It’s very important to keep your back straight while you do this, and it’s best to fold your hands across your belly, right hand underneath, left hand on top - that’s for men; for women it’s the other way round - and you mustn’t be distracted even for a second. If you watch the television like that for ten years at least an hour a day, you can come to understand the nature of television. And of everything else as well.’

‘So then why do you turn it upside down?’

"That’s the fourth Buddhist method. It’s used when you really do need to watch the television after all. For instance, if you want to know the dollar exchange rate, but you don’t know exactly when or how they’re going to announce it - whether they’ll read it out loud or show one of the boards outside the bureaux de change.’

‘But why turn it upside down?’

"That’s another long story.’

‘Try.’ Gireiev ran his palm across his forehead and sighed again.

He seemed to be searching for the right words.

‘Have you ever wondered where that heavy, piercing hate in the anchormen’s eyes comes from?’ he eventually asked.

‘Come off it,’ said Tatarsky. "They don’t even look at the camera; it just seems like they do. There’s a special monitor right under the camera lens that shows the text they’re reading out and special symbols for intonation and facial expression. I think there are only six of them; let me just try to remember… irony, sadness, doubt, improvisation, anger and joke. So nobody’s radiating any kind of hate - not their own or even any official kind. That much I know for certain.’

‘I’m not saying they radiate anything. It’s just that, when they read their text, there are several million people staring straight into their eyes, and as a rule they’re very angry and dissatisfied with life. Just think about what kind of cumulative effect it generates when so many deceived consciousnesses come together in a single second at the same point. D’you know what resonance is?’

‘More or less.’

‘Well then: if a battalion of soldiers marches across a bridge in step, then the bridge can easily collapse - there have been cases - and so when a column crosses a bridge, the soldiers are ordered to march out of step. When so many people stare into this box and see the same thing, can you imagine what kind of resonance that sets up in the noosphere?’

‘Where?’ Tatarsky asked, but at that moment the mobile phone in his pocket rang and he raised a hand to halt the conversation. He could hear loud music and indistinct voices in the earpiece.

‘Babe!’ Morkovin’s voice cut through the music. ‘Where are you? Are you alive?’

‘I’m alive,’ replied Tatarsky. ‘I’m in Rastorguevo.’

‘Listen,’ Morkovin went on merrily, ‘we’ve given those fucking tossers a good working over, and now we’ll probably send them off to jail, give them ten years. After the interrogation Azadovsky was laughing like mad! Said you’d released all his stress. Next time you’ll get a medal together with Rostropovich. Shall I send some wheels round for you?’

No, they’re not going to fire me, Tatarsky thought, feeling a pleasant warm glow spreading through his body. Definitely not. Or do me in me either.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll go home. My nerves are shot.’

‘Yeah? I can understand that,’ Morkovin agreed. ‘Away with you then, get yourself fixed up. But I’ve got to be going - the bugle’s sounding loud and clear. Only don’t be late tomorrow - we have a very important occasion. We’re going to Ostankino TV headquarters. You’ll see Azadovsky’s collection there, by the way - the Spanish section. Cheers for now.’

Tatarsky hid the phone in his pocket and looked around the room with unseeing eyes. ‘So they take me me for a hamster, then,’ he said pensively.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. What was that you were saying?’

‘To keep it short,’ Gireiev continued, ‘all the so-called magic of television is nothing but psychoresonance due to the fact that so many people watch it at the same time. Any professional knows that if you do watch television-’

‘I can tell you, professionals never do watch it,’ Tatarsky interrupted, examining a patch he’d only just noticed on his friend’s trouser-leg.

‘-if you do watch television, you have to look at a point somewhere in the corner of the screen, but never under any circumstances into the eyes of the announcer, or else you’ll start to develop gastritis or schizophrenia. But the safest thing is to turn it upside down the way I do. That’s the same thing as not marching in step; and in general, if you’re interested, there’s a fifth Buddhist method for watching television, the highest and the most secret one of all…’

It often happens: you’re talking with someone, and you kind of like what he’s saying, and there seems to be some truth in it. Then suddenly you notice he’s wearing an old tee shirt, his slippers are darned, his trousers are patched at the knee and the furniture in his room is worn and cheap. You look a bit closer and all around you you see signs of humiliating poverty you didn’t notice before, and you realise everything your interlocutor has done and thought in his life has failed to lead him to that single victory that you wanted so badly on that distant May morning when you gritted your teeth and promised yourself you wouldn’t lose, even though it still wasn’t really very clear just who you were playing with and what the game was. And although it hasn’t become the slightest bit clearer since then, you immediately lose interest in what he’s saying. You want to say goodbye to him in some pleasant fashion, get away as quickly as possible and finally get down to business.

That is how the displacing wow-factor operates in our hearts; but when Tatarsky was struck by its imperceptible blow, he gave no sign that he’d lost interest in the conversation with Gireiev, because an idea had struck him. He waited until Gireiev stopped speaking; then he stretched, yawned and asked as though it was a casual question: ‘By the way, have you got any of those fly-agarics left?’