Victor Pelevin - The Sacred Book of the Werewolf

But people still indulge in sex - although, of course, in recent years mostly through a little rubber sack, to prevent anything encroaching upon their solitude. This sport, which was dubious enough to begin with, has now become like a downhill slalom: the risk to your life is about the same, except that it’s not the twists and turns in the piste that you have to watch, you have to make sure your ski-suit doesn’t come off. I find anyone who indulges in this activity absurd in the role of a moralist, and it’s not for him to judge what’s perverted and what isn’t.

Were-creatures’ attraction to each other is less dependent on impermanent external allure. But of course, it does play a part. I guessed that what had happened to Alexander would affect our intimate relations. But I didn’t think the trauma would go so deep. Alexander was as caring with me as ever, but only within strict limits: it was as if a barbed-wire fence had been erected at the point where formerly his affection had spilled over into intimacy. He evidently thought that in his new form I didn’t find him attractive. He was partly right - I couldn’t say that this black dog aroused the same feelings in me as the mighty northern wolf, one glimpse of which was enough to take my breath away. The dog was very cute, it’s true. But no more than that. It could count on my affection. But not my passion.

Only that was simply not important. We had abandoned vulgar human-style sex when we realized how far we could be transported into a fairy-tale fantasy by our intertwined tails. And so his metamorphosis was no more serious an obstacle to our passion than, say, the black underwear that he started wearing instead of grey. But he didn’t seem to understand this, imagining that I identified him with his physical receptacle. Or perhaps the sense of shock at what had happened and his irrational feeling of guilt were so intense that he had simply forbidden himself to think about pleasure - after all, men, with or without tails, are far more psychologically vulnerable than we are, for all their show of toughness.

I didn’t take the initiative. But not because I didn’t find him attractive any more. It’s always nice when the man takes the first step, and I instinctively followed that rule. Perhaps, I thought, he’s feeling miserable, and he needs time to come round. But one day he asked a question that allowed me to guess where his problems lay.

‘You were talking about that philosopher Berkeley,’ he said. ‘The guy who thought that everything only exists when it’s perceived. ’

‘Yes, I was,’ I agreed.

I really had tried to explain it to him, and I thought I’d achieved a certain degree of success.

‘So then sex and masturbation are the same thing?’

I was dumbfounded.

‘Why?’

‘If everything only exists by virtue of perception, then making love to a real girl is the same as imagining that girl.’

‘Not entirely. Berkeley said that objects exist in the perception of God. The idea of a beautiful girl is simply your idea. But a beautiful girl is God’s idea.’

‘Both of them are ideas. Why is it good to make love to God’s idea, and bad to make love to your own idea?’

‘And that’s Kant’s categorical imperative.’

‘I see you’ve got all the bases covered,’ he muttered, disgruntled, and walked off into the forest.

After that conversation I realized he was in urgent need of my help. But I had to help him without wounding his pride.

When he came back from his walk in the forest and lay down on a bamboo mat in the corner of my room, I said:

‘Listen, I was going through the DVDs we managed to bring with us. It turns out we have a film that you haven’t seen.’

‘And what are we going to watch it on?’ he asked.

‘On my notebook. It’s a small screen, but the quality’s good. We can sit close.’

‘What’s the film?’

‘ In the Mood for Love , Wong Kar Wai. A pastiche of nineteen-sixties Hong Kong.’

‘And what’s it about?’

‘It’s all about us,’ I said. ‘Two people living in rooms next door to each other. And gradually they start feeling fond of each other.’

‘Are you kidding?’

I picked up the box of the DVD and read the brief blurb out loud:

‘“Su and Chow lived in neighbouring rooms. Su’s husband and Chou’s wife are away all the time. Chow recognizes Su’s handbag, a gift from her husband. His wife has one just like it. And Su recognizes Chow’s tie, a gift from his wife. Her husband has one just like it. Though they say nothing, they realize that their marriage partners are being unfaithful with each other. What should they do? Perhaps they should simply surrender to the sweet music of the mood for love?”’

‘I didn’t understand a thing,’ he said. ‘All right then, let’s surrender ...’

I put the laptop on the floor and put the DVD in the disc drive.

For the first twenty minutes or so he watched the film without saying anything or reacting in any way. I knew the film off by heart, and so I didn’t really watch it, I watched him instead - out of the corner of my eye. He looked relaxed and calm. When I got the chance, I moved closer to him, sank my hand into his fur and turned him over on to his side, so that he was lying with his tail towards me. He growled quietly, still watching the screen, but didn’t say anything.

That’s a fine little phrase - ‘he growled quietly, but didn’t say anything’. But that’s the way it was. Trying not to startle him, I lowered my jeans, freed my tail and . . .

Ah, what an evening that was! Never before had we plunged so deep into the abyss. During our previous erotic hallucinations I had always remained conscious of what was happening and where. But this time the feelings were so intense that there were moments when I completely lost all idea of who I really was - a Hong Kong woman with the Russian name Su, or a Russian fox with the Chinese name A Hu-Li. There were several occasions when I felt genuinely afraid, as if I’d bought a ticket for a roller-coaster that was too fast and too steep.

The reason for this lay in Alexander - the hypnotic fluence that emanated from him now was so powerful that I was unable to resist it. If only for a short while, I myself fell victim to suggestion and became completely immersed in the illusion. Once he bit me gently on the lobe of my ear and said:

‘Don’t scream.’

I hadn’t even realized I was screaming . . . In short, it was a total blast. I realized now what our clients went through every time we put our tails to work. People had good reason to be wary of us. On the other hand, if I’d known what far-out feelings we gave them, I would have charged at least twice as much.

When it was all over, I was left lying beside him on the bamboo mat, gradually coming round. It felt like I had pins and needles all over my body - I had to wait for the circulation to restore itself. Eventually I felt strong enough to speak. By that time he had already become human.

‘Did you like it?’ I asked.

‘Not bad. Good surveillance work. I mean, camera work. And the director’s no slouch either.’

‘No, I didn’t mean the film.’

‘What did you mean then?’ he asked, raising one eyebrow.

I realized he was feeling more cheerful.

‘You know what, Sasha, you know what.’

‘If you mean you know what, then I liked the song a lot. Let’s put it on again, shall we?’

‘Which song exactly?’

‘About the bandit Los Dios.’

I wrinkled up my forehead.

‘What?’

‘It’s got this name in it,’ he said in a slightly embarrassed voice. ‘Maybe this Los Dios is not a bandit, I just thought so for some reason.’

‘Bandit Los Dios? Where’s that? Ah, I understand: “ Y asi pasan los dias y yo desperando . . .” That’s Spanish. “And so the days pass by, and I am in despair . . .”’