Герман Садулаев - The Maya Pill

I was the very image of comme il faut , or so I thought. I floated in the waters of this tastefully dressed and fragrant society like a fish, like that same salmon I’d been consuming, and by the end of the evening I felt as though I’d been washed up onto the shore, onto its scorching sand, into sizzling oil in a red-hot frying pan.

I’m not really a people person.

I staggered out of the hotel and made it somehow to the metro. I descended into its womb and found myself in a car in the company of an entirely different sort of person, hungry-looking, pasty-faced, bad-tempered, reeking exhaustion and beer from plastic bottles. And I realized that I was no better with these people than with the elect.

I’ve always felt like someone from another planet, from some parallel universe. With some effort I’ve learned how to smile and hold up my end of a conversation. I read up on soccer and sports cars, visit a couple of vacation spots, and make a point of following the daily weather reports. So I’ll always have something to talk about, and I won’t appear too antisocial.

I’ve learned how to keep up appearances.

There are only a few people in the whole world, or I only know of a few, anyway, who are on the same wavelength as I. In their company I can blurt out any heresy that comes into my head, the kind of thing that would send any “normal” crowd into a stupor.

We are a secret society. We recognize one another by smell. We have all lost something, and we are seekers.

Blessed are the poor in spirit.

But this isn’t about us. We are on a quest, we are on the verge of discovering some great spiritual treasure; in our pockets we carry spiritual gold cards with no credit limits, as yet unused. The time shall come when we will activate them.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick…

I wonder what kind of man that Hakan is. I’d guess he’s on the wrong side of thirty—anything over thirty is the wrong side—a little overweight, chronically unshaven, and with an unpretentious haircut. Or maybe he’s thin and wears plastic-rimmed glasses like a retiree.

Back when I only read his reports on current events, I sensed—by his smell—that he was someone I could get along with. Then I rummaged around on the Internet and found some more of his work, and it turned out to be completely deranged. And this only confirmed my feelings of kinship.

I found his e-mail address in one of his entries and sent him a short note with my essay about Khazaria attached. I got an answer a week later. Hakan wrote:

Nice work, bro! Dug your credo. First thing I thought was, that’s a helluva lot of words, no way Ill get thru it. But the end was right on—sweet, bro. Score. Flames of Hell! Write back!

PS You ask why I call myself Hakan? Who the fuck knows? Some Armenian guy in tradeschool gave me the name (among other things. Have no idea what, even now). Cause my beard is red and comes in uneven. Like some Khagan. I told him to go fuck himself, banged him up good. Later I was dicking around on the net and realized that there’s nothing wrong with the word. It’s even a compliment. Some big shot Tatar or Viking somebody was named that. Anyway, I don’t dye my beard and I don’t shave, and I go by Hakan. That’s the fucking long and short of it.

P.P.S. I was surfing the web just now and saw something about Khazar chemists on some shitty site. I can’t make sense of the damn thing, but maybe you’ll be interested. Here’s the link:

In thirteenth-century Venice there lived a Khazar by the name of Abongaldyr, who was known as Fish Eye. This nickname was due to a physical deformity; one of his eyes was completely covered by a cloudy film. The name was also due to his profession: This Khazar used to buy fish guts; he’d poke around in them and boil them. Maybe he ate them, maybe they served some other purpose.

This Khazar was believed to be a Jew, most likely because he didn’t wear a cross or attend church. He didn’t associate with Jews, or with good Christians either for that matter, and he didn’t observe Hebraic law. It was whispered that Fish Eye was in fact a sorcerer who practiced black magic.

His eye problem had begun during a time of plague; the black queen of the pox had come to Venice, brought by sailors arriving from distant lands. The sailors infected the harlots working the ports; from them the entire city soon came to know the wrath of God. The people infected with this plague all died because no one knew how to cure the pox. But Fish Eye was different. Though he fell ill, he survived, most likely through some miracle or sorcery. But he retained the mark of Satan, that dead eye, which gave his entire face a ghoulish appearance.

The Jews in Venice were primarily merchants and moneylenders, like the Khazars who fled here from their native land. But Fish Eye didn’t lend money and didn’t engage in trade; he didn’t even own a shop.

But he was wealthy nonetheless. Fish Eye lived in a big house with a garden where he grew brilliant scarlet flowers, which reminded him of his lost homeland. When he went to the market he would buy, in addition to his fish guts, special spices that cost several times their weight in gold, and from the travelers who were always coming and going he bought special stones, which he crushed for some purpose.

Fish Eye wore on his left hand a heavy silver and black enamel ring with a dragon pictured on it, biting his own tail—the sure sign of an alchemist and wizard. It was believed that alchemists could turn any metal into gold. But Fish Eye didn’t make gold from lead; his gold came from merchants.

The merchants came to him secretly at night, bringing bags of gold coins, and when they left they took vessels filled with a slimy gelatinous substance that was known as fish paste.

Fish paste used to be produced only in Khazaria. Fugitive Khazars brought the secrets of their craft along with them to Europe, and of them all Fish Eye was the most notorious and successful.

The merchants who bought the fish paste made huge profits, and their business thrived.

Fish Eye sold his paste to anyone who could afford it, but he kept the formula to himself. One Jew was desperate to get the formula at any price, and he offered a huge sum of money. But Fish Eye refused.

Then the Jew bribed some Christians he knew, and they denounced Fish Eye to the Holy Inquisition. The Khazar was accused of trafficking with the devil, and someone even claimed to have found a contract with the Enemy of Humanity in his house, with all its terms spelled out in great detail and sealed with an imprint of the Khazar’s ring, inked with his blood.

The Khazar was led out to the great cleansing fire. When bound to the stake he raised his arms to the heavens and cursed: “Woe upon ye, inhabitants of Venice and of all cities! Ye will yet come to know the power of the stolen delights, the seductions of the Prince of this world! And ye will lose your eternal souls!”

Before he perished in the flames, Fish Eye had experienced the rack and a multitude of other contrivances utilized by the Holy Church for the purposes of taming the flesh and saving the souls of sinners who had strayed from the path. But whether the Khazar gave up the secret recipe and whether the Jew who had betrayed him got the secret from the church officials—on that subject nothing is known.

A Western pop singer wails on MTV. I can’t remember her name; if I get curious I can watch the whole clip; eventually a credit will show up at the bottom of the screen giving her name and the titles of the song and of the album it’s from. But I’m not that curious. I’m not much of a connoisseur, frankly. I just listen. I just keep it on out of boredom.