Victor Pelevin - The Sacred Book of the Werewolf

Idiot, I thought, then all the people will come running. But no, they won’t, it’s still too early . . . Even so, it was better not to risk it. I went to the door and said:

‘Vladimir Mikhailovich, quiet! I’ll open up in a moment, just let me get dressed.’

‘I’m waiting.’

I got dressed quickly and glanced round my residence - I did-n’t think there was anything compromising in open view. But how had he managed to find me? Had he trailed me, or what?

‘I’m opening up . . .’

Mikhalich came in and blinked for a few seconds as he got used to the darkness. Then he looked round.

‘You mean to say this is where you live?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘What, in a gas-pipe junction?’

‘It’s not a gas-pipe junction. That sign at the door is just so that people won’t start asking questions.’

‘What’s it supposed to be then?’ he asked.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, every place has a function. What kind of premises is it?’

‘I dislike premises,’ I said. ‘And I don’t like it when people apply their own premises to me. It’s an empty space under the stands. At first there was a storage space in here. Then they boarded everything off, built a transformer substation behind the wall and forgot about this part. Well, they didn’t just happen to forget. Of course, I had to help them along a bit . . .’

I shuffled my fingers to make my point clear. Of course, what I should have done was wave my tail, but I wasn’t about to initiate Mikhalich into all the details of my difficult fate.

‘Do you have heating at least?’ he asked. ‘Aha, I see the radiators over there. But where’s the toilet?’

‘Why, do you want to go?’

‘No, I’m just curious.’

‘You have to go along the corridor. There’s a shower there too.’

‘You really live in this kennel?’

‘Why is it a kennel?’ I said. ‘Its layout’s more like a loft, the kind lawyers and political technologists have. Lofts are very fashionable. The ceiling’s slanting, because the stand runs overhead. It’s romantic.’

‘But how do you manage without any light?’

‘See that little pane of glass just below the ceiling? That’s a window. When the sun rises, a very beautiful beam of light shines straight in here. And anyway, I can see pretty well in the dark.’

He cast another glance round my residence.

‘Is that your junk in those sacks?’

‘You could say that.’

‘And the bike’s yours too?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s a good bike. Disc brakes, and the fork’s made of carbon fibre.’

‘Is the computer made of carbon fibre too?’

‘Don’t joke, you already guessed. It’s a rare model, they only make them for Japan. One of the lightest laptops in the world.’

‘I get it. So that’s why it’s standing on a cardboard box, is it? Instead of a table? Aren’t you ashamed when you have visitors?’

His tone had begun to get under my skin.

‘You know, Vladimir Mikhailovich,’ I answered, ‘to be quite honest, I couldn’t really say what I care less about, the appearance of the things around me or the opinions of the people I meet. Both of them are over and done with far too quickly for me to be bothered.’

‘A dump, that’s what it is,’ he summed up. ‘Does the local militia know about this tramp’s hideaway?’

‘Are you going to tip them off?’

‘I’ll see how you behave. Right, let’s go.’

We walked to the car in silence, apart from two occasions when Mikhalich swore - the first time when he had to squeeze through the narrow gap between two sheets of plywood, and the second time when he had to duck under a low partition.

‘Please don’t swear,’ I said.

‘I tore my sleeve. How do you drag your bicycle through here?’

‘Easy. In summer I leave it outside. Who’s going to bother climbing in here?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s true enough.’

The car was standing outside the gates of the equestrian complex. That meant there was a chance that Mikhalich’s visit would go unnoticed. But what difference did it make now? The local militia could carry on without noticing anything for another hundred years, but Mikhalich and his crowd knew everything. They’d never get off my back. I’ll have to look for a new place to live, I thought, yet again . . .

After we’d driven away from the race track, Mikhalich suddenly handed me a scarlet rose with a long stem. I didn’t even notice where he got it from, it was so unexpected. The rose had only just opened and there was still dew glistening on it.

‘Thank you,’ I said, taking the flower. ‘I’m touched. But I ought to say straight away that the chances of anything between us aren’t . . .’

‘It’s not from me,’ he interrupted. ‘The boss asked me to give it to you. He said you should think about what it means on the way.’

‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’ll think about it. What was that device you could see me on?’

He stuck one hand into his jacket pocket and took out a small object like a cigarette case with a little screen. There were a few buttons on the cigarette case, but overall it looked pretty unimpressive.

‘It’s a locator.’

‘And what does it locate?’

‘Signals,’ said Mikhalich. ‘Give me your handbag.’

I held out my bag. At the next traffic light he took hold of the strap, turned it over and showed me a little circle of dark foil smaller than a kopeck coin. It was very thin and held in place by a layer of glue. I would never have noticed it - or I’d have thought it was some kind of label.

‘And when did you stick that on?’

‘When we were on the way to the room to drink champagne,’ he said with a chuckle.

‘What for? Are you taking such a serious interest in me?’

‘In general, yes,’ he said. ‘But it’s not me any more. Never mind, the boss will soon find out what you’re up to. He’s sorted out trickier specimens than you. By the way, I told him what kind of work you do.’

At this stage I didn’t like what was going on at all, but it was too late to get worked up about it: we were already approaching the familiar building. The car drove into the courtyard and straight in through the metal gates of the garage, which immediately closed, cutting us off from the world.

‘Get out, we’re here.’

As soon as Mikhalich got out, I put the rose on his seat - its long thorny stem was almost the same colour, and there was a good chance that Mikhalich would just plonk his sturdy backside down on it.

‘Take your shoes off,’ he said when I got out after him.

‘What’s this, are you taking me to be shot?’

‘That depends,’ he chuckled. ‘There are slippers over there by the lift.’

I looked around. A round hole in the ceiling, a steel pole, a spiral staircase - we were in a familiar place. But this time there was a light on in the garage and I spotted the door of a lift that I hadn’t noticed the last time. Lying on the floor in front of it there were several pairs of various different slippers. I chose a pair of blue ones with round pompoms - they looked so touchingly defenceless that only a monster could possibly harm any girl who was wearing them.

The lift door opened and Mikhalich gestured for me to go in. There were two large triangular buttons on the panel, combined to form a rhombus. Mikhalich pressed the upper button, and the lift took off with a mighty jerk, carrying us upwards.

When the door opened a few seconds later, I was blinded by light coming from all directions. Alexander was standing there, engulfed in the bright swirling vortex. He was wearing a military uniform and his face was covered with a gauze mask.

‘Hello, Ada,’ he said. ‘Please come in. No, Mikhalich, I’m sorry - I’m not inviting you. Today three would be a crowd . . .’