Victor Pelevin - The Sacred Book of the Werewolf

‘Like all that about Little Red Riding Hood and psychoanalysis. It sometimes seems to me that you’re trying to shaft the whole of history and culture in my person.’

‘As far as culture goes, there’s something to that,’ he said. ‘But what’s history got to do with it? What are you, a Sphinx? Just how old are you, anyway? I’d give you sixteen years. But what’s your real age?’

I felt my cheeks getting hot, very hot.

‘Mine?’

‘Yes.’

I had to come up with something to say.

‘You know,’ I said, ‘I once read some poems by a public prosecutor in an obscure journal published by the ministry of justice. There was one about a young defender of the Motherland that began with the words “I would never have given him more than fifteen”.’

‘I get it,’ he said, ‘the son of the regiment. So what have these poems got to do with anything?’

‘I’ll tell you. When a man in your uniform says “I’d give you sixteen years”, the first thing you wonder is - under what article of the criminal code.’ And the second thing is - how big the pay off might be.’

‘If you find this uniform irritating,’ he said, ‘take off your stupid dress, and soon there’ll be soft fur instead of shoulder straps. Yes, that’s nice. What a good girl you are today . . .’

‘Listen, are you going to get them a pass for the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour?’

‘Woo-oo-oo!’

‘No? You’re right, too. We’ve just written a reply to that Brian. Although . . . Do you want to stick it to him in really aristocratic fashion?’

‘Gr-r-r!’

‘If after this letter, where you explained everything to him, you still got him a pass anyway, that would be really high class.’

‘Gr-r-r!’

‘So we’ll do it, then?’

‘Gr-r-r!’

‘Good. I’ll remind you later . . . What a fool you are, eh? I told you not to bite through anything! Buy yourself a plastic bone in the dog shop and chew it as much as you like, when I’m not here. Cutting your teeth, are you. You big bad wolf . . . And get a move on, we have to be in the forest in an hour.’

The car stopped at the edge of the forest, not far from the section-built six-storey house I had noted as my initial reference-point.

‘Where to now?’ asked Alexander.

He was acting in the condescendingly buddy-buddy manner of an adult being drawn into a meaningless game by children. That irritated me. Never mind, I thought, we’ll see what you say in an hour’s time . . .

I picked up the plastic bag with the champagne and glasses and got out of the car. Alexander said something to the driver in a low voice and got out after me. I set off towards the forest at a stroll.

In the forest it was already summer. It was that astonishing period in May when the greenery and the flowers seem immortal, as if now they are victorious for ever. But I knew that in just another two or three weeks there would be a presentiment of autumn in the air.

Instead of admiring the natural surroundings, I watched my feet - my stiletto heels were sinking into the ground, and I had to be careful where I stepped. We reached a bench standing between two birch trees. That was the next reference point. From there it was only a few short steps to the forester’s house.

‘Let’s sit down,’ I said.

We sat down on the bench. I handed him the bottle and he opened it deftly.

‘It’s nice here,’ he said, pouring the champagne. ‘Quiet. It’s still spring, but everything’s in full bloom already. Flowers . . . But up north there’s snow everywhere. And ice.’

‘Why did you suddenly remember the north?’

‘Don’t know, really. What are we drinking to?’

‘To good hunting.’

We clinked glasses. When I finished my champagne, I smashed my glass against the edge of the bench and used the sharp edge to cut through the strap of my dress above my right shoulder. He followed my movements with dour disapproval.

‘Are you going to pretend to be an Amazon?’

I didn’t answer that.

‘And listen, why are you all in black? And dark glasses? Is it a spoof on The Matrix ?’

I didn’t answer that either.

‘Don’t get me wrong. Black really does suit you, only . . .’

‘I’ll go on from here on my own,’ I interrupted.

‘And what do I do?’

‘When I start to run, you can run after me. But somewhere off to one side. And I beg you, please don’t interfere. Not even if you see something you don’t like. Just keep out of it and watch.’

‘Okay.’

‘And keep your distance. Or you’ll frighten the people.’

‘What people?’

‘You’ll see.’

‘I don’t like any of this,’ he said. ‘I’m worried about you. Maybe you shouldn’t do it?’

I stood up with a determined air.

‘No more. We’re starting.’

As I have already said, the goal of chicken hunting is supraphysical transformation, and the correct preparatory procedure is very important. In order to trigger the transformation, we put ourselves in an extremely embarrassing situation, the kind in which your own idiocy is so breathtaking and you feel so ashamed you wish the earth would open and swallow you up. That is precisely what the evening dress and the high-heeled shoes are for. We take the situation to such absurd lengths that we are left with no other option but to transform into an animal. And the chicken is required as a biological catalyst for the reaction - without it the transformation is impossible. It is extremely important for the chicken to remain alive until the very end - if it dies, we rapidly resume our human shape. And so it’s best to select the bird that is healthiest and strongest.

When I reached the chicken coop, I looked at the forester’s house. The sun was reflected in the window, and I couldn’t see if there was anyone there behind the glass. But there were definitely people in the house. I could hear music coming from the open door, with stern male voices (I think it was a monks’ choir) singing: ‘The good night . . . the peace of God . . . the mantle of God above the sleeping earth . . .’

I needed to hurry.

The chicken coop was a planking hut with an inclined roof made of plywood covered with polythene. I drew back the bolt, flung open the door, which scraped across the ground, and immediately spotted my prey in the foul-smelling semi-darkness. She was a brown chicken with a white side - when all the other chickens made a dash for the corners, she was the only one who stayed put. As if she was waiting for me, I thought.

‘Co-co-co,’ I said in a hoarse, insincere voice, then quickly bent down and grabbed her.

The chicken turned out to be very meek - she twitched once to adjust a wing that was caught awkwardly, then froze. It seemed to me, as it always does at such moments, that she understood the nature of what was happening perfectly well, and her own role in it. Pressing her against my chest, I backed out of the chicken coop. One shoe got stuck in the ground, twisted over and slipped off my foot. I kicked the other one off as well.

‘Hey, daughter,’ a voice called to me.

I looked up. There was a man of about fifty, wearing a tattered, old padded work-jacket, standing on the porch. He had a thick, drooping moustache.

‘What do you think you’re up to?’ he asked. ‘Are you off your head?’

A younger man, about thirty years old, appeared behind the first. He had a moustache too - he was obviously the first man’s son. He was wearing a blue tracksuit with the large letters

‘CASC’, for ‘Central Army Sporting Club’. I noted that they were both too thickset to be fast runners.

The moment of truth was nigh. Looking at them with a mysterious smile, I opened the zip on the right side of my dress. Now it was only held on by the left shoulder-strap, and I easily slipped out of it, letting it fall to the ground. I was left in nothing but a short orange nightdress which didn’t hinder my movements at all. A light breeze caressed my semi-naked body.