Victor Pelevin - The Sacred Book of the Werewolf

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‘Yes?’

‘Yes. I can see now how people get prison terms in this country.’

‘Just can’t help teasing, can you,’ he said amiably. ‘So are we going to put it on? Or maybe we should watch the whole film again?’

The next day we watched the film again, then again and again. And every time that maelstrom reduced my soul to the same sweet desolation as the very first time. We lay side by side for a long time, resting. We didn’t talk, there was nothing to talk about, and we had no strength left.

I liked to put my feet on him when he curled up into a big, black doughnut - sometimes he growled for effect, but I knew that he liked it just as much as I did. How fondly I recall those days now! It is wonderful when two beings find a way to bring each other happiness and joy. And what a prude you have to be to condemn them for not being like everybody else!

How many of those blissful moments were there, when we lay on the bamboo mat, relaxing, unable even to move? I think they add up to infinity. On every occasion, time simply disappeared, and we had to wait for it to work back up to its usual speed. How wisely life is arranged, I used to think in lazy contentment, as I listened to Nat King Cole singing our favourite song. He used to be so big, grey and rough. He was going to devour the sun. And he probably would have. But now there was a placid black dog lying at my feet, calm and quiet, and asking me not to tease him. Behold the ennobling influence of the female guardian of hearth and home. Such was the beginning of civilization and culture. And I had never even suspected that I could find myself playing this role.

Ah, dear Sasha, I used to think, you’ve never mentioned it. And I can’t bring myself to ask about it . . . But you don’t miss your old life as a wolf - so lonely and rootless, do you? You’re happier with me than on your own - aren’t you, darling?

Eh?

... Y tú, tú contestando:

Quizás, quizás, quizás . . .

I often wondered what sort of dog this was, as far removed from a wolf as a wolf from a fox. There were numerous mythological parallels, but I myself had never come across such a strange variety of were-creature. This blue-black canine seemed to be an inoffensive creature, but I had a gut feeling that there was some terrible secret concealed within him. The truth eventually emerged by accident.

The day had begun with a slight quarrel. We went out into the forest for a walk and sat down on a fallen tree, and I decided to amuse him by singing Li Bo’s old Chinese song ‘The Moon Above the Mountain Frontier Post’. I actually sang it quite well only, perhaps, in too high a voice - in ancient China that was prized especially highly. But my skill took a tumble at the cross-cultural barrier - when I’d finished singing, he shook his head and muttered:

‘How did a Russian officer ever end up living like this?’

I was so offended I could feel myself flush.

‘Don’t give me that, what kind of Russian officer are you? You’re the captain of the hitmen’s brigade.’

‘We don’t kill anybody who’s innocent,’ he said icily.

‘And who was it that sent the Shakespeare specialist Shitman to his death? Do you think no one knows?’

‘What Shakespeare specialist Shitman?’

‘And you don’t even remember? The one who used to do blowjobs for a cigarette . . .’

‘Listen, I reckon you’ve got psychological problems. First you have a fish head working as a bear, and then some Shitman dies, and I’m to blame for everything.’

‘I just wanted to say that I know what you were doing at work. Yet I still love you.’

‘That’s the root of all my problems,’ he said in a low voice. ‘That you love me.’

I couldn’t believe my ears.

‘What? Just you say that again!’

‘I’m joking, I’m joking,’ he said hastily. ‘You’re always joking, so I thought I’d try it.’

The terrible thing was that what he’d said was absolutely true. And we both realized it. There was a heavy silence.

‘And we didn’t send Shitman to his death, we sent him to glory,’ he said after a minute. ‘And don’t you go besmirching his memory.’

He was right, we had to change the subject.

‘You mean to say he knew?’ I asked.

‘He must have, with some part of his mind.’

‘So you have nothing to reproach yourself with?’

Alexander shrugged.

‘In the first place,’ he said, ‘we have his application, the one he wrote in the insane asylum: “I want to see London and die”, dated and signed. And in the second place, we had an expert consultation on the humanitarian aspect. The consultant said everything was okay.’

‘Was that Pavel Ivanovich?’ I guessed.

Alexander nodded.

‘How did he ever come to work for you? Pavel Ivanovich, I mean.’

‘He felt it was important for him to let us know about his repentance. A strange business, of course, but why turn a man away? Especially if his repentance is sincere. We always need information, you know - about cultural stuff, so we can tell who’s with us and who isn’t. And humanitarian consultations as well. So he became part of the team . . . Okay, let’s drop it. Shitman’s in God’s hands now. That’s if the Imams are telling the truth, of course.’

After that we didn’t say a single word to each other all day until the evening - I was sulking with him and he was sulking with me: both of us had said enough. In the evening, when he was fed up with the silence, he started asking me the clues for a crossword.

That evening he was in his human body, and that made the room feel especially cozy. I was lying on a bamboo mat under a lamp and reading another of Stephen Hawking’s books - The Theory of Everything (no more and no less). Alexander’s questions distracted me from my reading, but I answered them patiently. I found some of them even more amusing than the book.

‘What’s the right spelling - hynaecological or gynaecological?’

‘Gynaecological.’

‘Gynaecological. Then it all fits. And I thought there was an “h” at the beginning.’

‘That’s because subconsciously you think of women as hyenas. ’

‘That’s not true,’ he said, and suddenly started laughing. ‘Well, look at that . . .’

‘Now what have you got there?’

‘Gynaecological stomatology.’

‘What - “gynaecological stomatology”?’

‘There are two words in a line in the crossword. “Gynaecological” and “stomatology”. If you read them together, it’s funny.’

‘You only think it’s funny because you’re ignorant,’ I said. ‘But that particular culturological concept actually exists. There’s an American writer called Camille Paglia. She had this . . . No, it’s not that she had one herself. Let’s put it this way, she operates with the concept of the “vagina dentata”. The vagina with teeth is a symbol of the formless, all-consuming chaos that opposes the Apollonian male principle, which is typified by the urge towards formal precision.’

‘I know,’ he said.

‘Where from?’

‘I’ve read about that. Lots of times.’

‘In Camille Paglia?’ I asked, incredulous.

‘Nah.’

‘Where then?’

‘At the FSB Academy.’

‘Counter-brainwashing?’

‘Nope.’

‘Then where exactly?’ I persisted.

‘In the wall newspaper,’ he said reluctantly. ‘It had a humour section called “smiles of all latitudes”, and there was this joke in it: “What’s scarier than an atom bomb? A cunt with teeth.”’

I’d been expecting something of the sort.

‘But why lots of times?’

‘The wall newspaper was never changed in three years.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I get the picture.’

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