Victor Pelevin - The Sacred Book of the Werewolf

‘Yes,’ I said, before I’d even thought about it.

‘Then I’ll send Mikhalich. He’ll call you. I kiss you.’

The door of the lift opened, and Mikhalich and I entered the penthouse. Alexander was sitting in an armchair in his general’s uniform, watching television. He turned towards us, but it wasn’t me he spoke to.

‘Right, Mikhalich, I see your lot’s fucked it up again!’ he said cheerfully, with a nod at the long liquid-crystal panel that was showing two channels simultaneously - on one half of the screen there were red and white footballers running about, and on the other Aslan Udoev, who looked a bit like Bluebeard, with his dark purple beard and a sticking plaster on his forehead: he was muttering something into a microphone.

‘Yes sir, comrade lieutenant general,’ Mikhalich replied, embarrassed. ‘The entire crew’s made a real bollocks of it this time.’

‘Don’t swear in front of the girl.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But what the fuck went wrong?’

‘We can’t tell. Unforeseen interference. Apparently something distorted the precise time signal.’

‘Always the same story,’ said Alexander. ‘As soon as there’s a fuck-up, they blame it all on the technical department.’

‘Yes sir, comrade lieutenant general.’

‘Don’t you regret the waste of an operative?’

‘We’ve got any bloody amount of Shakespeare specialists like that, comrade lieutenant general. But somehow no Shakespeares.’

‘I told you quite clearly, Mikhalich, don’t swear here.’ Mikhalich squinted sideways at me.

‘Yes, sir. Shall I draw up a report?’

‘I don’t want a report. It’s none of my business, the ones who thought it up can take the consequences. I don’t like bits of paper. On paper everything always comes out right, but in life’ - Alexander nodded at the screen - ‘you can see for yourself.’

‘Yes, sir, comrade lieutenant general.’

‘You can go.’

Alexander waited until Mikhalich closed the door, then got up out of his chair and came over to me. I guessed he hadn’t wanted to show his feelings in front of a subordinate, but even so I pretended to be offended and when he put his hand on my shoulder I moved away.

‘You could have said hello to me first. And then you go and chat with that jerk about football. And in general, turn the television off!’

Udoev was no longer on the screen - he had been replaced by a smart young man with a motor-trike, who exclaimed boisterously:

‘Today we’re lighting it up with the Marlboro youth team!’

And then he disappeared in a pool of darkness.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Alexander, tossing the remote control back on to the coffee table. ‘Hello.’

I smiled. We looked at each other in silence for a few seconds.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

‘Better now, thank you.’

‘And what’s that basket you’re holding?’

‘I brought that for you,’ I said shyly.

‘Right, let me have it . . .’

He took the basket out of my hands and tore open the packaging.

‘Pies?’ he asked, looking back up at me in bewilderment. ‘Why pies? What for?’

I looked away.

His face slowly lit up.

‘Wait . . . I was wondering why you were wearing that red hood. Ah-ha-ha-ha!’

He burst into peals of happy laughter, put his arms round me and sat me down beside him on the divan. He made the movement very naturally, too quickly for me push him away, although I’d been intending to play hard to get for a little longer. But then, I’m not sure that I really wanted to.

‘It’s like the joke,’ he said. ‘About Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf. Little Red Riding Hood says: “What big eyes you have, wolf!” And the wolf says: “All the better to see you with.” Little Red Riding Hood says: “What big ears you have, wolf!” “All the better to hear you with,” the wolf replies. And then Little Red Riding Hood says: “What a big tail you have!” “That’s not a tail,” says the wolf, and blushes . . .’

‘Phoo!’

‘Isn’t it funny?’

I shrugged.

‘It’s not realistic. For a wolf to blush. His entire face is covered with fur. Even if he does blush, how can you see it?’

Alexander thought about it.

‘I suppose that’s right,’ he agreed, ‘but it’s a joke.’

‘It’s a good thing you know who Little Red Riding Hood is, at least from jokes,’ I said. ‘I thought you might not get the hint. You don’t look like someone who reads too many books.’

He blushed, just like in his own joke.

‘That’s where you’re wrong. I read every day.’

He nodded towards the coffee table, which had a paperback detective novel lying on it. The title was Werewolves in Shoulder Straps .

‘Is it an interesting book?’ I asked.

‘Not really. Nothing special.’

‘Then why are you reading it?’

‘To understand why it’s called that. We check out every hostile comment.’

‘Who’s “we”?’

‘That’s not important,’ he said. ‘It’s got nothing to do with literature. ’

‘Detective novels don’t have anything to do with literature either,’ I said.

‘You don’t like them?’

I shook my head.

‘Why?’

‘They’re boring to read. You know from the first page who killed who and why.’

‘Yes? If I read you the first page of Werewolves , will you tell me who the killer is?’

‘I can tell you now. The author did it, for money.’

‘Hmmm . . . Well yes, I suppose. But then what is literature?’

‘Well, for instance, Marcel Proust. Or James Joyce.’

‘Joyce?’ he asked, moving closer. ‘The one who wrote Ulysses ? I tried to read it. It’s boring. To be honest, I don’t know what books like that are any good for.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Nobody reads it, that Ulysses . Three people have read it, and then they live off it for the rest of their lives, writing articles and going to conferences. But no one else has ever got through it.’

‘Well now,’ I said, throwing Werewolves on to the floor. ‘Let me tell you that the value of a book doesn’t depend on how many people read it. The brilliance of the Mona Lisa doesn’t depend on how many people file past her every year. The greatest of books have few readers, because reading them requires an effort. But it’s precisely that effort that gives rise to the aesthetic effect. Literary junk-food will never give you anything of the kind.’

He put his arm round my shoulders.

‘I already asked you once, speak more simply.’

‘Speaking in very simple terms, I can say this. Reading is human contact, and the range of our human contacts is what makes us what we are. Just imagine you live the life of a long-distance truck driver. The books that you read are like the travellers you take into your cab. If you give lifts to people who are cultured and profound, you’ll learn a lot from them. If you pick up fools, you’ll turn into a fool yourself. Wasting time on detective novels is . . . it’s like giving an illiterate prostitute a ride for the sake of a blowjob.’

‘And who should I give rides to?’ he asked, slipping his hand under my T-shirt.

‘You should read serious, profound books, without being afraid to spend time and effort on it.’

His open hand froze on my stomach.

‘Aha,’ he said. ‘So if I’m a long-distance truck driver I should take some bald-headed winner of the Schnobel Prize for literature into my cab, so that he can shaft me up the backside for two weeks while I dodge the oncoming traffic? Did I get it right?’

‘Well, you know, you can vulgarize anything like that,’ I said and stopped talking.