Герман Садулаев - The Maya Pill

“What do you mean, why? All they could do was bleat and grunt. Khy-khy, zy-zy , ry-ry . Khy-zyry… Kha-zary … they just babbled. Didn’t even know their own name. We had to call them something . Every creature needs a name…”

On one of those nights when I couldn’t get to sleep, there was a knock on my door; the doorbell was broken. I opened up immediately, without asking who was there. I knew. Who else would come knocking at this time of night?

“Well, let’s get comfortable, shall we, Mack?”

“My name is Maximus. Only one person ever had the right to call me Mack. But she left. Like all the others.”

Maximus came in and sat down on the edge of my folded-out sofa bed.

“Want her back? I can do that. Or should I make it so she never left?”

I sat down on the swivel chair in front of my desk, the one with the computer I was using to enter my text.

“No, everything is as it should be. I’m meant to be alone.”

“So what do you want?”

“I want you to answer a few questions. They’ve been piling up. How did you find me?”

He smirked and silently showed me my own business card. There was only one word on it: “Creator.”

“I feel that things must be coming to a close. You’ve posed too many riddles. Burdened me with all of your own doubts. Now you need to give me some answers.”

“Go ahead, ask.”

“May I smoke?”

“No. You quit. So, what’s your second question?”

Not paying any attention, he got out a cigarette, lit it using his silver lighter, and inhaled deeply.

“I’ll begin with the easiest thing. White and black Khazars, Slavs and Rus, elves and other fairy-tale bullshit… who cares what they’re called, in the end: Do the elite truly differ in any essential way from ordinary people? Are they different in terms of race, blood, who the hell knows what else, or are they just the same thugs as you or I, just thugs who’ve simply managed to grab fortune by the tail?”

“Yes and no. It’s an illusory distinction, really. Every elite, in order to preserve its place at the top, is faced with two opposing tasks: first, to prove that they’re the same as everybody else, and then to prove that they’re different. They need to assure the subjugated population that they are of the same flesh and blood, that they identify with them and are concerned about their welfare. But they also have to justify why they, and not some other poor random bastards, occupy their privileged place in society. This is why you see so many contradictory things about them in print… the sources just record what was said at any given time when the elite, reacting to whatever situation was at hand, happened to emphasize one argument over another.”

“All right then. Here’s a different kind of question: Does God love me?”

“The Lord doesn’t feel love or hatred for anybody, though it might seem that way sometimes.”

“Somehow I knew that that was exactly what you were going to say.”

“What do you mean, you knew?”

“That you wouldn’t give an answer.”

“It’s basically from the Vedanta Sutra. There are a lot of commentaries on the subject.”

“I see that you’re working on one yourself.”

“ Vedanta means ‘the end of knowledge.’ The end of all knowledge. All subsequent books are merely commentaries upon the Vedanta Sutra.”

“Let’s come back down to earth. To our sinful, fallen world. All the material goods that we use these days are cultivated, produced, and assembled in ‘third world’ countries. But all the ideas and dreams continue to be produced in the ‘first world.’ The only country remaining in the ‘second world’ is Russia. And Russia doesn’t do anything. Just eats and sleeps. Eats other people’s food and dreams other people’s dreams. How long can this go on? Until all the oil and gas is used up? And then what? I’m concerned, I guess, about Russia’s fate.”

“Oh, the fate of Russia’s not the most important thing, believe me! What’s more important is to make sure that your liver doesn’t start acting up and that your teeth don’t rot.”

“Very funny.”

“It’s not funny at all. People lose their sense of humor when they have a toothache. Personally, I’d rather deal with a debilitating level of anxiety about the fate of Russia than an average level of anxiety about pulpitis or periodontal disease. Not to mention something like indigestion. That kind of thing can really ruin your life.”

“Don’t pretend to be a doctor. You’re only a creator.”

“Touché. But since we’ve started in on the notion of creation, I’ve recently come to the conclusion that Russia doesn’t exist at all. What, in your opinion, is this Russia you’re so worried about? This empty wasteland, pustyr ?”

“ Pustosh .”

“This emptiness, pustosh , was here long before it was given the name Russia. And when Russia is no more, this pustosh will continue to exist, so there’s no need to be concerned for its sake. If ‘Russia’ does come to an end, other people will come and settle the land and give it a different name. Is the name all that important to you? Plus, you’re not even a Russian, so why are you so concerned about Russia? What’s it ever done for you?”

“Ah, so now you’ll start in on my Khazar identity. The same old xenophobia—it’s an old joke that’s not funny anymore, and hasn’t been for a long time now. I’m a citizen of my country.”

“Oh, if only you knew, my dear friend, what you’re really a citizen of… no, I’m not talking about how your soul is one little particle in the Supreme, in Brahman, which is greater than the whole universe. But, look, if you need to hide behind the illusion of some country or other, help yourself. Nothing to it. Maya !”

“Could you repeat that? In Russian, this time?”

“All of Russia is between your two ears. And, by the way, that’s where China and Holland are too. Take Nils and Guan, they’re just concerned about their respective countries’ fates. Everyone worries about the future. But as far as what’s used up first—oil, rice, or dreams—that’s anyone’s guess. That’s the plain and simple truth.”

“I learned the plain and simple truth from my grandma: Don’t pick up hitchhikers, don’t talk to strangers, don’t open your door to anyone knocking in the night. But if you do, at least try to give your visitor some clear answers.”

“I’ll try.”

“Next: How is all of this connected: the pills, Holland, the Khazars…?”

“You haven’t figured it out yet?”

“No.”

“Not too bright, are you?”

He stubbed his cigarette out unceremoniously and mashed it under his heel onto my freshly washed floor—he hadn’t taken his shoes off at the door—and snapped:

“But you’re the creator here, not me. Author, writer. What I am is only image and likeness.”

“All right, here it is, The Maya Pill for Dummies . The Khazars came up with the drug. They made a goo out of fish guts—like the powder from poisonous fish that voodoo doctors feed their victims to turn them into zombies—and mixed it with a poppy-based opiate in whatever special way. The concoction had a slimy, sticky consistency, hence the name “fish paste.” The toxic fish extract paralyzes the will and enhances suggestibility, while the opium causes a pleasurable narcotic effect and brings on hallucinations. Soon the Khazars realized that the fish paste could serve as a substitute for actual goods, or, at least, could change the properties of said goods as perceived by the user.”

“Wait! So can this mixture actually replace material goods for the user, or does it only create incorrect conceptions of the value of whatever it is?”