Герман Садулаев - The Maya Pill

Four used condoms, full of semen, lay in a little pile on the doily on the table. And all the temptations of the flesh, all possible aesthetic achievements, even the great works of art from the portrait of Mona Lisa to the verses of Igor Severianin, from the architecture of Versailles to the music of the Beatles, appeared to Maximus in his present state like just so many used rubbers.

Maya’s head slipped off the pillow and gave out a refined, whistling snore. Maximus dressed and left the apartment. The door slammed behind him.

When he came out the front of the building, he found himself surrounded on all sides by identical concrete towers, rising like great cliffs pitted with rows and rows of identical, nest-like apartments. Whenever he found himself in the northern suburbs, Maximus felt as though he’d landed in some strange and alien place—if not a different planet, then at least an unfamiliar city.

Yes, the Cyclopean hulks of the buildings loomed up and blocked the sky. People emerged from the front doors of the towers and merged together to form a great stream, flowing toward the only point of egress, prosvet , sliver of light, sliver of dawn, Prospect of Enlightenment. They resembled the throngs of souls on Judgment Day, destined either to be borne up to Paradise or hurled on a downward spiral through the circles of Hell.

Must be heading for the metro.

Maximus lit up a cigarette and joined the crowd.

Maximus had acquired a new hobby. During the day he obediently carried out his duties at the office: verified accounts, argued with brokers and shippers, persuaded suppliers to extend deadlines and raise credit limits, read e-mail, wrote messages, and drafted contracts and reports for the management. Then, after work, he frequented used bookstores or sat at home at the computer, searching the Internet for information about the history of the Khazar Khaganate. Before long he considered himself to be an expert on the matter and even toyed with the idea of writing an essay on the Khazars.

And there were no repercussions as far as Maya went. Nobody could have been more surprised than she herself at her precipitous decision to sleep with a mid-level manager from the next office over. Her social position, her tactical, technological, and physical specifications—they all made demands Semipyatnitsky couldn’t hope to meet, as a suitor. He’d gone out to dinner with her a couple of times since that night: once at the Barf Bar, another time at the Harbin. They had indulged in empty chatter about trivialities: just friends.

Before long Maximus saw her being picked up from work in a Porsche Cayenne with a conspicuous tricolored government pass on the windshield.

But this didn’t really bother him. He had become preoccupied with Khazaria. He felt that the secrets of that ancient land would hold the key to both his own fate and that of the Fatherland, as well as to a whole range of geopolitical and national problems. At times he would feel that the truth was close at hand, but soon this discovery would get caught up in a mass of contradictory historical facts and interpretations, and slip from his grasp.

Maximus wasted no time over lunch. He could take the elevator down to the first floor, put “today’s special” on a tray, pay, eat, have a smoke, and ride the elevator back up to the office all within the space of a half hour. That left the other half of his lunch hour open.

Semipyatnitsky considered it his right to be idle during that time. He surfed the web, beginning with news sites and gradually switching to chat sites and forums, following links further and further up the Internet’s esoteric asshole.

So it happened that one time he stumbled onto a blog post by someone who signed himself Hakan, with a bearded cartoon avatar instead of a photograph.

From then on Maximus even gave up TV. He could keep up with current events by reading Hakan’s blog: a never-ending flow of opinions on all the most striking and ludicrous events in Russian public life.

When pogroms occurred in the Karelian village of Kondopoga, Hakan posted a stirring manifesto:

The patience of the Karelian nation has reached its limit. The uninvited guests of this beneficent northern land interpret our inherent goodness and our gentle and kind natures as weakness and timidity. Hospitality is a good thing, but when the guest forgets his place and begins to act like the host, and even attempts to crowd the homeowner out of his own space, it’s time to send him packing!

Karelia, of course, is a vast and spacious land, but even here, space is finite. Tens of thousands of strangers have inundated us from the south. And of all the immigrants in Karelia, the Russian diaspora represents the most populous, disrespectful, criminal, and dangerous group.

Wherever we go, schools, workplaces, institutions of all kinds, everywhere we see the same old faces. I’m sick and tired of them, these ugly Slavic faces. These newcomers have infested all of Karelia! Conniving with the local authorities, who are in the hands of the Russians, these tumbleweeds spread their uncivilized ways across our homeland.

Even as they live on our land, they show no willingness to respect our laws and customs. They make no effort to learn the Karelian language, the beautiful, mellifluous tongue of our great epic Kalevala, and instead they force us to study their guttural, incomprehensible lingo, an impoverished mongrel tongue cobbled together from words and concepts stolen from other languages.

Karelia is a land of woods and lakes, a vast virgin wilderness! The indigenous population, the Karelians, always lived in harmony with their environment. In their interactions with nature, they acted with moderation, respecting ancient tradition. Karelians of all walks of life—fishermen, hunters, foresters—took from nature only what they needed, claiming no excess; instead of seeking quick profits, they ensured the preservation and renewal of the natural resources of the land.

Then the aliens, the greedy Russians, came and disfigured the pristine shorelines of our crystal lakes, building cellulose and paper processing plants that spew toxins into the air and water. The Russian timber industries are destroying our precious Karelian forests. These squatters show no inclination or ability to preserve even their own land, so why should they care about anyone else’s? Having long ago poisoned and sold off everything of any value in their own habitat, they now extend their greedy paws toward the riches of the north.

The immigrants’ predatory appetites know no bounds, great or small. And now the original natives of the Republic of Karelia can no longer can find work in their own country; all the jobs have been taken over by Russian gastarbeiter. The immigrants have taken over our stores and markets, so we Karelians can no longer practice our own traditional crafts. As a result, the ancient ways of our native people are falling into wrack and ruin.

Long ago, that great northern race, the Varangians, generously offered their protection to the slumbering Slavic tribes, created a state for them, and brought them into contact with European culture. The savages even took their name from the Varangians’ language, which identified the noble northern race that ruled the backward eastern territories as “Rus.” As such, the word “Russian” answers not the question “who” but rather “whose.” The peoples of Europe called these Slavs the slaves of Rus, of the Varangians. But now they have taken that name for themselves.

Today’s Russians haven’t even preserved the Slavic bloodline, which was improved and enhanced by its contact with the northern gene bank. The real Russians were exterminated during the Mongol invasion, the reign of the Oprichniks, and the Time of Troubles. Thereafter, all the Russian lands were overrun by the survivors, Muscovites, a bastardized mix of Tatars and Jews. And these are the Russians of today: nomads and money-grubbers, lacking any roots to the land.