Герман Садулаев - The Maya Pill

The air over their table filled with silence. The goddess lifted her glass and downed her sixth cocktail in a single swig.

“So, you think I’m some kind of pervert?” she asked after a minute.

“I think that the worst perversion is to be what they call a ‘normal person,’” Maximus replied. “To get up every morning, shave or put on your makeup, go to the office, work all day long, fill your refrigerator and empty it again, spend your nights in front of the TV. People who live that way are the real sickos. That is what I think.”

Maximus lifted his own sixth cocktail and, like the goddess, downed it in one swig.

Outside the bar, Maximus embraced Maya tenderly, and she laid her head trustfully on his shoulder. The excess of emotion overflowing inside him brought Maximus close to tears. It occurred to him that in Russia, true love was actually pity. Perhaps that’s where the Russian soul most reveals its essentially feminine nature. They say that it’s when a woman feels pity that she truly loves. Though admittedly it’s only Russians who say that. Or maybe all love is really made up of pity, compassion. What else can a single, lonely soul, trapped in the cage of the material world and suffering a multitude of sorrows, feel toward another soul like itself? And don’t the Hindus say that all souls are by nature female?

Then, out of the middle of nowhere, he remembered the classic anecdote about Lieutenant Rzhevsky.

Lieutenant Rzhevsky goes into the officers’ club and says: “Gentlemen! What has Russia come to? I was walking down the street just now, and this little girl comes up to me, age twelve or so, a perfect little blue-eyed angel, but skinny as a toothpick and all in rags, and she says: ‘Uncle, give me a piece of bread, and I’ll do anything you want me to!’ And just imagine, gentlemen, I did—I fucked her and cried, fucked her and cried!”

That’s so disgusting, thought Semipyatnitsky. But it’s still pity, isn’t it. Pity and love. Love, Russian style.

And Saat began his new life as the Khagan. First, as the Great Bek had instructed, he had to visit the harem. And in the harem there were ten sevens of women, one from each of seventy different tribes, the seventy peoples that Great Khazaria had united together on the bright path, just as it says in the Khazar national anthem. The Khagan’s couriers had gone out into the towns and villages, the forests and encampments, and requisitioned these women, selecting them in accordance with the ideal anthropological standard that had been set for each tribe. Only the most beautiful were brought to the Khagan’s palace.

At first Saat thought that he would try out a different bedroom each night: that is, one wife per night. But when he sat down and clicked the pearly beads of his silver abacus, he realized that that this wasn’t going to work. At that rate each noble princess would experience the bliss of love only four times a year. Or maybe five, for the ones early in the rotation, and if it was a leap year. The girls would get lonely. So he would have to steel his flesh and sacrifice himself on the altar of the state. Saat resolved to visit four wives every night.

A monumental labor. Every third night or so, of course, the demon in him would fully savor the pleasures of the flesh. But then he wouldn’t be able to stand any more, could not bear to look upon any more, any more breasts or thighs, any more heavy-lidded eyes! And when he again smelled their perfume, or that fishy smell between their legs, he would just get disgusted and feel like throwing up.

But this wasn’t about his pleasure: It was a matter of state. This much Saat learned on the first morning. He dragged himself on rubbery legs back to his gilded bed with its swan-down mattress, hoping to sleep it off until sunset. But a delegation appeared in his room unbidden, four scribes holding waxed slates, and the Bek himself at their head. They arranged themselves around the room, each on a special seat that had been prepared for him, styluses at ready, all ears. And the Great Bek spoke:

“Tell me, O Khagan, how it went with your wives. State first their name, then their tribe of origin and ID number. And spare us no detail!”

Saat hesitated, but the Great Bek encouraged him: “Bear in mind this is not an intimate, personal matter. These are noble maidens serving the welfare of the realm.”

So Saat then told them everything, keeping no secrets; he told how and how many; he told of contortions and positions, of breasts and thighs, of loud moans and passionate climaxes; he told of women who lay still and unresponsive like logs, and of those who craved all manner of debauchery or asked to be whipped, who summoned maidservants to watch, who ordered him to crawl about on all fours and to drink amber-colored urine; he told of the one who said she wanted the stag to drink deeply of her spring, who stroked his hair and called him Grandpa.

Saat told them everything, and the scribes wrote it all down, scratching it into their slates, and the Great Bek rested his head in his hand and thought various thoughts.

Afterward the Great Bek studied the scribes’ slates. He then summoned his ministers and warriors and issued instructions:

“Number One’s people are restless, they must be tamed. Take away their bread and beer—that will make them scrawnier and less likely to cause trouble. Number Two’s people are strong and hostile—bring in some border troops and have them needle away at them with small-scale banditry: Have them beat the men and ravish the maidens, though not so much as to cause any harm to the economy or to the glory of Khazaria in the land beyond the hills. Number Three’s people are lethargic, sleeping even when awake—send our musicians and actors forth to the bazaars, have them play loudly on their flutes and entertain the masses day and night. That may awaken them. As for Number Four’s people: Leave everything as it is. It’s best not to touch them—or you’ll cause a stink on both sides from the River Itil all the way to the Khazar Sea.”

The Bek departed with the scribes and the new Khagan collapsed on his bed, deeply moved: Great is the wisdom of tradition! What better way to get to know a country than by fucking all its crevasses? And to use for that purpose a sweet, noble girl. And by knowing the peoples of the realm in this way, it is easy to maintain power, and to preserve the unity of the mighty Khaganate.

Early the next morning Maximus sat at the open window of an apartment on Enlightenment Prospect, greedily gulping in the fresh air, which hadn’t yet become saturated with poisonous exhaust. Maya lay on the sofa bed, having kicked off the covers, with her arms, legs, hair, and breasts splayed every which way across the sheets.

Maximus looked over at her and felt that he no longer felt anything. Not love, not passion, not even pity. Well, maybe a touch of pity remained, but it was mixed with scorn, not love.

So, thought Maximus, does this mean that there’s no such thing as love? It’s all just pills?

How did we survive before, before the Dutch came up with their drug?

Or were the pills something like insulin—get hooked on them, and before you know it your heart loses the ability to process its own emotions without a fresh dose?

Or have the pills always been with us, just in some other form?

Maybe the girl was in fact beautiful. Yes, sure she was, even very much so. But it was a strange, deathly beauty! The beauty of a corpse. For she would be just as beautiful if she were to die right this minute. Maybe even more beautiful—a little pallor would add the perfect finishing touch.

Beauty is the promise of happiness. Semipyatnitsky had long known this maxim, and had even quoted it somewhere in one of his stories. But now he saw that the promise had become a lie. Everything is mere illusion, and beauty is the delusion that there is happiness to be had tomorrow, when you make it your own. But once you do, it all empties out. And you understand that possessing it wasn’t the point; that it’s impossible, in fact. The girl, fine; you can possess her in a social or physical sense, but not her beauty. Because beauty isn’t something that belongs to her alone. Beauty is from some other, celestial plane. Only there can beauty, and perfection, and happiness be realized.