Герман Садулаев - The Maya Pill

Little Kung grew up in the countryside without a birth certificate, leaving no paper trail, like three million other Chinese bastards. His mother and father, and Ni himself, were occasionally able to visit him secretly, taking money to their relatives so that they could feed and clothe the boy.

And now Kung was grown up. On his deathbed, Ni’s father entrusted Kung to his older brother’s care, and Ni Guan could never violate this sacred charge. And indeed, Ni was in his brother’s debt; it was because they had concealed Kung’s existence that his parents were able to retain their position in society and Ni was able to graduate from high school and get a higher education. Now Ni Guan’s salary in the export company was much higher than that of peasants and blue-collar workers. He had already managed to save thousands and thousands of yuan.

Soon he would be able to afford a bribe to pay for Kung’s documents. Kung would gain all the rights of citizenship, would have access to health care, and would be able to marry.

All Ni had to do was keep on working. And observe the utmost thrift in everything he did.

If Ni was to marry and start a family, he would no longer be able to put away money, and his brother would remain only a half-person. Which was why Ni Guan was still a bachelor, even though he was already over thirty—not by much, but still…

Ni Guan thought about Tsin Chi. Tsin was a good girl, nice-looking, full of life. Maybe a little too full of life. Ni knew that she liked him. And he liked her too, but what was the hurry? She had only just turned twenty-two, the age at which Chinese girls were permitted to marry. On the streets you could see posters depicting an older couple holding a newborn baby with the slogan “Better later, and later better!” No need for haste when it came to marrying and procreating.

Ni would do the right thing; Ni would right his parents’ wrong; Ni would give Kung a new, legitimate identity. To realize this goal he would work, and then he would sin before the state, would bribe the official in the registry office.

But that would be the end to it: no more criminal acts. Ni Guan would eventually be able to marry and have a child, but not yet. If Tsin wanted, she could be patient and wait with him. If she wasn’t up to it, then all right; to each his own Tao. Everyone treads their own pathway to hell. She could find another guy to marry.

Still, Ni Guan thought that it would be a good idea to have a talk with Tsin, to explain his situation to her, without revealing, of course, his secret. The poor girl didn’t understand why he was avoiding her, and it hurt her feelings.

Ni Guan decided to go out for a smoke; he felt for the packet of cigarettes in his pocket and got up from his desk.

My egg yolk jiggled and slithered out of Ni’s skull—back into the monitor, and from there into the wires, the way it had come. In the next instant I was conscious again, as though waking from a dream, and found myself back where I’d started, in the Import Department of the Cold Plus Corporation.

The rest of the day passed without incident. I have to admit that until evening I felt as though someone had dumped a bag of dust on my head. That’s how my Khazar grandmother would have put it. Of course, she’d been known to use stronger language too. My brain was foggy, and I saw the world through something like warped bottle glass. If I turned my head, the picture didn’t change right away; the objects in my field of vision left smeared trails of color in their wake as I moved.

The pills were wearing off, presumably.

Without enthusiasm I checked a few invoices from shipping companies, then went out to the Harbin, a Chinese eatery, to utilize fully the lunch hour allotted me by my employment contract.

Why the Harbin? Did it have anything to do with my “business trip” into the head of my distant Chinese colleague?

Maybe yes, maybe no. I often ate Chinese. Not too expensive, and filling, if you get the special, immodestly labeled “Business Lunch,” and ask for a double serving of Hong Kong Fried Rice. I’m good with chopsticks and I use a lot of soy sauce.

In the restaurant, while I sat and waited for my order, my eyes rested on the manager behind the counter, a Chinese man. He worked with sober dignity, writing out the checks with furrowed brow and giving meticulous instructions to the waitresses, Russian girls draped in some colorful garment that was supposed to represent a Chinese national costume. It might have actually been authentic, but on our girls the effect was lost.

The waitresses went from table to table with an expression of excruciating boredom on their faces, taking orders with an air of poorly suppressed annoyance and spite. Russians in general are terrible at service. Griboyedov put it best: “I’m happy to oblige, but serving others makes me sick!” Waiting tables, and service of any kind, makes Russians sick, and they can’t conceal this instinctual nausea even at the prospect of lavish tips.

A trip east gave me the opportunity to experience the difference myself—viscerally, you might say. In an Indian restaurant—I mean, in a real Indian restaurant, in India—a waiter, a young boy, will lick you all over, from head to toe, for a couple of extra rupees. He’ll serve you with enthusiasm; he considers this to be his professional duty. Blame the caste system. The boy is at your beck and call; it wouldn’t cross his mind to dream of becoming a doctor or government official; his father, grandfather, great-grandfather, every last one of them, were in service. He, too, will serve. It is his natural state. If he advances in his career and makes senior waiter by forty, he will consider himself a complete success. He gives practically no thought to the idea of becoming a government minister, say, a deputy, or financier. He might perhaps dream of becoming a movie star; that’s Bollywood at work, poisoning the minds of poor Indians with hopes that can never be fulfilled.

I’m speaking of the hope of becoming someone different here and now, in this life. As far as the next life is concerned, the sky’s the limit; the Indian guy can desire whatever comes into his head.

What is most surprising is that nothing prevents this hereditary servant, this Sudra , from taking pride in his work and respecting himself. He pours his creative spirit into his labors, working with dignity and precision, but without the slightest hint of servility.

Once in India I took a ride with a poor rickshaw driver, negotiating a price beforehand. When I reached my destination, I foolishly gave him more than the sum we had agreed on, just out of spite. The driver took me rather roughly by the sleeve as I was climbing out, and firmly pressed the change into my palm. His entire being said “I need nothing extra, I ask only the set fee established by my union.”

A Russian waiter or waitress, even while serving your food, will always let you know, subconsciously, by way of his or her face or posture, that he or she is doing you an enormous favor. He or she considers his or her current predicament to be a temporary and unnatural state: I may be a student right now, supporting myself by working in this restaurant, but just you wait. I’ll graduate and the moment I do I’ll become a top manager or rich businessman, or at the very least, will marry an oligarch.

Assuming the whole time, of course, that they will achieve this goal in their current lifetime. They have no faith in a future life. It’s not about belief; the possibility of some future life simply doesn’t cross their mind. And at the same time they naively take for the truth the theory that if you “want something badly enough” or if you “just try really hard,” then “everything will work out fine.”