Victor Pelevin - The Sacred Book of the Werewolf

‘We know that the Chechens belong to the Sunni branch of Islam. And the attacker was a Shiite. In this connection, can we say, as many analysts are already doing in their commentaries, that clashes between Shiites and Sunnis are now taking place in London?’

‘We are avoiding any hasty conclusions concerning the motives for the crime and whoever is behind it,’ the police official replied. ‘The investigation has only just begun. And in addition, I should like to emphasize that at the present time we have no concrete information on the programme and goals of any terrorist group called “Same Shiite, Different Fight”, or about any militant Shiite groups in England.’

‘Is it true that the terrorist had wires embedded in his head?’

‘No comment.’

Aslan Udoev appeared on the screen. He was walking along a hospital corridor, squinting hostilely at the camera and holding his bandaged forehead in his hand.

After that they started talking about some footballer’s marriage.

I turned the television off and sat there in a state of prostration for a few minutes, trying to think. It was hard to think - I was in shock. I imagined the possible future: a special clinic, a zombification operation, a command cable installed in your head (I recalled the flesh-coloured wire in the ear of the security guard in the National hotel). And then - your mission. For instance, throw yourself under a tank with a mine on your back - like some heroic German shepherd during the Second World War . . . No, tanks were irrelevant now. Let’s say, under a yellow ‘Hummer’ on Fifth Avenue. That was a more picturesque option, but I didn’t like it much better. As they say, same shite, different Shakespeare specialist . . .

Go away? I could do that - I had a false passport for foreign travel. But where to? Thailand? London? Most likely London . . . I’d been meaning to write a letter to E Hu-Li for a long time, but never got round to it. Now I had a good reason. I sat down at the computer and focused my mind, recalling all the things I’d wanted to tell her just recently. Then I started typing:

Hello, Red,

How are you? Still the same old mischievous smile and those heaps of corpses behind your back? :))) Be careful. But then, you’re the most careful of all of us, so I have nothing to teach you there.

I recently got a letter from our sister U, whom you visited. How I envy her modest, but pure and happy life! She complains that the work makes her tired. It is probably a blissful kind of tiredness - like a peasant’s tiredness after a day’s work in the field. Tiredness like that heals spiritual wounds and helps you to forget your sorrows - it was what Leo Tolstoy was pursuing across the fields with his plough. In the city you get tired in a different way. You know, there are some horses who walk round and round a well, pumping water. If you think about it, you and I are the same kind of beast. The difference is that a well horse drives away the horseflies that feed on it with its tail, but you and I use our tails to lure the horseflies who feed us. And apart from that, the horse contributes to people’s well-being. As for us . . . Well, let’s say people contribute to ours. But I know you can’t stand moralizing.

U Hu-Li wrote that you have a new husband, a lord. Do you at least keep count of them? I’d love to get just a brief glimpse of him while there’s still something to see :)))) From what she said, just recently you’ve been taking a serious interest in the subject of the super-werewolf. And you obviously didn’t ask me about that demolished church out of idle curiosity.

It is true that the prophecy of the super-werewolf says he will appear in a city where a church or shrine will be restored after not a single stone of it was left standing. But the prophecy is about two thousand years old, and at that time similes and metaphors were the common manner, and everything that was important was always expressed allegorically. Prophecy was written in the language of ancient alchemy - ‘city’ means a soul and ‘a shrine that is destroyed and restored’ means a heart that has fallen under the power of evil and then returned to good. Please do not seek for any other meaning in these words.

I will risk making one suggestion - only, please, do not be offended. You have lived in the West for a long time, and the Christian mythologeme has imperceptibly taken root in your mind. Think about it: you are waiting for some super-werewolf to appear, atone for the sins of the foxes and make our souls pure, as they were at the very beginning of time. Listen. No messiah will ever come to us were-creatures. But each of us can change ourselves by exceeding our own limits. That is the meaning of the expression ‘super-werewolf’ — one who has passed beyond his own boundaries, exceeded himself. The super-werewolf does not come from the East or from the West, he appears from within. And that is the atonement. There is only one path that leads to him. Yes, those same old prescriptions that make you sick:

1. compassion;

2. causing no harm to the weak of this world, animals or people - at least not when it can be avoided;

3. most important of all - the striving to understand one’s own nature.

To put it very briefly, in the words of Nietzsche (adapted slightly to suit our case), the secret is simple - transcend the bestial! I have no doubt that you have already transcended the human :)))

Remember the lessons in meditation that we took with the teacher from the Yellow Mountain. Believe me, in the thousand years and more that have passed since then, they still haven’t invented anything better. The atom bomb, Gucci cologne, condoms with ribs and notches, CNN news, flights to Mars - this entire motley array of wonders has not had the slightest effect on the scales in which the essence of the world is weighed. And therefore, return to the practice, and in only a couple of hundred years you will have no need of any super-werewolf. If I have wearied you, forgive me - but I was sincerely thinking of your own good as I wrote these lines.

And now for the most important thing. In recent years things have not been going well for me. My basic earnings used to be provided by a paedophile financier who was certain he could be arrested for what he was doing. A school satchel, a report book with C grades - you understand. He was sentimental - while he was waiting for our meetings, he shuddered every time a siren sounded. Yes, he was repulsive. But I only used to go out to work once a month. And then he was paralysed and I had to look for different options. For more than a year my top spot was the hotel National. But I ran into serious problems there when a certain client slipped off the tail. And now I’m surrounded by problems on every side. I’m not sure that you can understand them. The specifically Russian flavour is too strong. But they are very, very serious.

I realize you have no time for other people’s troubles. But I’d still like to ask for your advice and, perhaps, assistance. Should I move to England? I’m sure I would get on with the English - I’ve seen quite a few of them in the National and they seem like a quite decent people to me. I’m often paid in pounds, so I wouldn’t suffer any culture shock. Write quickly and tell me if there is a quiet spot in London for A Hu-Li.

Heads and tails,

A.

As soon as I sent the letter, my mobile rang. There was no number displayed, and my heart skipped a beat, I guessed who it was before I heard the voice in the phone.

‘Hello,’ said Alexander, ‘you said three days, but that’s too long. Can I see you tomorrow? At least for five minutes?’