The Maya Pill

by German Sadulaev

  “How could they have told it to anybody if they couldn’t talk?”

  “It was only later on they didn’t know how to speak, but they used to be able to. How could they have maintained their great state without language? Anyway, the rusalki kept the secret of their fish paste to themselves. And that gunk ruined them. They died from malnutrition, from exposure, from wars. One of them would eat some paste and suddenly think he’s holding a sword in his hand, and he would wave his hand around in the air, and some Cossack just looks on and laughs, then goes up and stabs him to death.”

  “Were the Cossacks really that mean?”

  “What else would they be? Those rusalki were just taking up space, doing nothing. They scared off the livestock, destroyed orchards, and even started harassing good Christian people in disgusting ways.”

  “How did they . . . harass them?”

  “You’re too young to know about that.”

  “Tell me, Grandma. Just skip over the details.”

  “Well, let’s say, for example, that the rusalka was a male. He’d go out and stand in the street, right in front of our girls. And he’d start strutting around, making crazy faces. He would think that he was decked out in his finest clothes, with striped trousers, a Circassian coat with an ammunition belt, a fur hat, a saber in a scabbard, and that he was mounted on a fine horse to boot—but he’s just a stoned rusalka! Had too much fish paste. And what the girls see is a naked man out there in the road, and his shame is poking right out at them, saints alive! The girls take off running, and he chases after them, just like that, without a stitch on! And now the Cossacks come out of their huts, the girls’ fathers, brothers, and fiancés, that is, and of course they hack the shameless infidel to death.”

  “Wow!”

  “And if the rusalka was a female, then she’d go up to the Cossacks when they were hauling in their nets or were busy with some other gainful employment, and start striking poses! It would be obvious that she’d licked some paste—she’d look into the water and see her reflection: an elegant princess, pure as the driven snow, all in silks and pearls, her face veiled like an innocent bride’s. But in fact, she has no more shame than the so-called horseman—she’s naked and dirty. The Cossack men, at least the ones who were weak of faith, licked their chops. So the Cossack women kept a close watch on them. They would slap the men in the back of the head, and would flog the she-devil with pokers and drive her out into the Terek, into the middle, where it’s deep, and drown her.”

  “That’s so cruel!”

  “No it’s not, vnuchek. That’s life. And that’s how come there aren’t any rusalki anymore.”

  “Grandma, your stories are amazing! There’s nothing like them in any books! Especially the ones about the rusalki. They’re more like the abominable snowman! So why do you call them rusalki?”

  “What do you mean, why? All they could do was bleat and grunt. Khy-khy, zy-zy, ry-ry. Khy-zyry . . . Kha-zary . . . they just babbled. Didn’t even know their own name. We had to call them something. Every creature needs a name . . . ”

  CONCLUSION

  On one of those nights when I couldn’t get to sleep, there was a knock on my door; the doorbell was broken. I opened up immediately, without asking who was there. I knew. Who else would come knocking at this time of night?

  “Well, let’s get comfortable, shall we, Mack?”

  “My name is Maximus. Only one person ever had the right to call me Mack. But she left. Like all the others.”

  Maximus came in and sat down on the edge of my folded-out sofa bed.

  “Want her back? I can do that. Or should I make it so she never left?”

  I sat down on the swivel chair in front of my desk, the one with the computer I was using to enter my text.

  “No, everything is as it should be. I’m meant to be alone.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “I want you to answer a few questions. They’ve been piling up. How did you find me?”

  He smirked and silently showed me my own business card. There was only one word on it: “Creator.”

  “I feel that things must be coming to a close. You’ve posed too many riddles. Burdened me with all of your own doubts. Now you need to give me some answers.”

  “Go ahead, ask.”

  “May I smoke?”

  “No. You quit. So, what’s your second question?”

  Not paying any attention, he got out a cigarette, lit it using his silver lighter, and inhaled deeply.

  “I’ll begin with the easiest thing. White and black Khazars, Slavs and Rus, elves and other fairy-tale bullshit . . . who cares what they’re called, in the end: Do the elite truly differ in any essential way from ordinary people? Are they different in terms of race, blood, who the hell knows what else, or are they just the same thugs as you or I, just thugs who’ve simply managed to grab fortune by the tail?”

  “Yes and no. It’s an illusory distinction, really. Every elite, in order to preserve its place at the top, is faced with two opposing tasks: first, to prove that they’re the same as everybody else, and then to prove that they’re different. They need to assure the subjugated population that they are of the same flesh and blood, that they identify with them and are concerned about their welfare. But they also have to justify why they, and not some other poor random bastards, occupy their privileged place in society. This is why you see so many contradictory things about them in print . . . the sources just record what was said at any given time when the elite, reacting to whatever situation was at hand, happened to emphasize one argument over another.”

  “All right then. Here’s a different kind of question: Does God love me?”

  “The Lord doesn’t feel love or hatred for anybody, though it might seem that way sometimes.”

  “Somehow I knew that that was exactly what you were going to say.”

  “What do you mean, you knew?”

  “That you wouldn’t give an answer.”

  “It’s basically from the Vedanta Sutra. There are a lot of commentaries on the subject.”

  “I see that you’re working on one yourself.”

  “Vedanta means ‘the end of knowledge.’ The end of all knowledge. All subsequent books are merely commentaries upon the Vedanta Sutra.”

  “Let’s come back down to earth. To our sinful, fallen world. All the material goods that we use these days are cultivated, produced, and assembled in ‘third world’ countries. But all the ideas and dreams continue to be produced in the ‘first world.’ The only country remaining in the ‘second world’ is Russia. And Russia doesn’t do anything. Just eats and sleeps. Eats other people’s food and dreams other people’s dreams. How long can this go on? Until all the oil and gas is used up? And then what? I’m concerned, I guess, about Russia’s fate.”

  “Oh, the fate of Russia’s not the most important thing, believe me! What’s more important is to make sure that your liver doesn’t start acting up and that your teeth don’t rot.”

  “Very funny.”

  “It’s not funny at all. People lose their sense of humor when they have a toothache. Personally, I’d rather deal with a debilitating level of anxiety about the fate of Russia than an average level of anxiety about pulpitis or periodontal disease. Not to mention something like indigestion. That kind of thing can really ruin your life.”

  “Don’t pretend to be a doctor. You’re only a creator.”

  “Touché. But since we’ve started in on the notion of creation, I’ve recently come to the conclusion that Russia doesn’t exist at all. What, in your opinion, is this Russia you’re so worried about? This empty wasteland, pustyr?”

  “Pustosh.”

  “This emptiness, pustosh, was here long before it was given the name Russia. And when Russia is no more, this pustosh will continue to exist, so there’s no need to be concerned for its sake. If ‘Russia’ does come to an end, other people will come and settle the land and give it a different name. Is the name all that important to you? Plus, yo
u’re not even a Russian, so why are you so concerned about Russia? What’s it ever done for you?”

  “Ah, so now you’ll start in on my Khazar identity. The same old xenophobia—it’s an old joke that’s not funny anymore, and hasn’t been for a long time now. I’m a citizen of my country.”

  “Oh, if only you knew, my dear friend, what you’re really a citizen of . . . no, I’m not talking about how your soul is one little particle in the Supreme, in Brahman, which is greater than the whole universe. But, look, if you need to hide behind the illusion of some country or other, help yourself. Nothing to it. Maya!”

  “Could you repeat that? In Russian, this time?”

  “All of Russia is between your two ears. And, by the way, that’s where China and Holland are too. Take Nils and Guan, they’re just concerned about their respective countries’ fates. Everyone worries about the future. But as far as what’s used up first—oil, rice, or dreams—that’s anyone’s guess. That’s the plain and simple truth.”

  “I learned the plain and simple truth from my grandma: Don’t pick up hitchhikers, don’t talk to strangers, don’t open your door to anyone knocking in the night. But if you do, at least try to give your visitor some clear answers.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Next: How is all of this connected: the pills, Holland, the Khazars . . . ?”

  “You haven’t figured it out yet?”

  “No.”

  “Not too bright, are you?”

  He stubbed his cigarette out unceremoniously and mashed it under his heel onto my freshly washed floor—he hadn’t taken his shoes off at the door—and snapped:

  “But you’re the creator here, not me. Author, writer. What I am is only image and likeness.”

  “All right, here it is, The Maya Pill for Dummies. The Khazars came up with the drug. They made a goo out of fish guts—like the powder from poisonous fish that voodoo doctors feed their victims to turn them into zombies—and mixed it with a poppy-based opiate in whatever special way. The concoction had a slimy, sticky consistency, hence the name “fish paste.” The toxic fish extract paralyzes the will and enhances suggestibility, while the opium causes a pleasurable narcotic effect and brings on hallucinations. Soon the Khazars realized that the fish paste could serve as a substitute for actual goods, or, at least, could change the properties of said goods as perceived by the user.”

  “Wait! So can this mixture actually replace material goods for the user, or does it only create incorrect conceptions of the value of whatever it is?”

  “The answer to that question depends on which position you adhere to in that Hindu dispute about the nature of reality—the first or the second.”

  “Personally, I prefer the third school, the one with the singing and dancing. But you’re apparently a secret follower of those luckless philosophers who were poisoned with fly agaric before the dispute began. I can tell that your answers won’t lead to anything of substance. Let’s close the subject. Go on about the Khazars.”

  “So Khazaria became a transit center for trade between east and west, north and south. Anything with fish paste added sold much better everywhere. This made Khazaria wealthy and prosperous, but only for a while. The fish paste eventually destroyed the underlying economy. Nothing was as profitable as making fish paste. Gradually the Khazars stopped doing anything else, and concentrated all their efforts on mixing the drug and using the paste to cement their trade relationships. Soon the wealth of Khazaria started attracting attention from hostile nations, and the Khazars were powerless to resist. They had already forgotten how to plow, and make war, and build. In fact, it was the Byzantines who built their last fortress, Serkel. Instead of their native warriors they used mercenaries, and the mercenaries had no particular desire to give their lives for someone else’s country. Khazaria fell under enemy attack: Rus from the west, nomads from the east. After their cities were destroyed, many Khazars fled to Europe, taking with them the recipe for the fish paste. In Europe the concoction was modified and refined for specific needs, either by the Khazars themselves or by people who had managed one way or another to get their hands on the recipe. Since the time of the great Khazar migration to Europe, trade began to develop, towns grew into great cities, the bourgeoisie emerged, and capitalism was born. When the mysticism of the Middle Ages fell into decline, sorcerers and alchemists gave way to other pseudo-scientists specializing in such fields as marketing and management. These sciences are essentially the same as their predecessors: They’re merely research into the most effective ways to use fish paste. And how to turn everything into money.”

  “So what did they come up with? How did they use the paste?”

  “Every way you can imagine. The Europeans were far more talented and inventive, and made considerably more progress, than the ancient Khazars, who had never managed to turn their product into anything more than a disgusting and smelly slime. As you know, in the Netherlands, which has always been a strong country in the chemical industry, they figured out how to produce the stuff in the form of neat little pink pills with no taste or smell.”

  “Yes, the pills. I have some. Want a try?”

  “No thank you. I have some of my own.”

  “Fair enough. What happened then?”

  “It just took off. At first the chemists were mostly interested in the actual recipe—that is, the specific ingredients that went into it and their proper proportions. Later on, some brilliant thinkers realized that the really important ingredients were actually the four principles of the gunk’s effect: suppression of the will, an increase in suggestibility, arousal of pleasure, and the inducement of a hallucinatory state. Here too, of course, you need to know in what proportions to combine these effects: to what degree ought the will be suppressed, ought suggestibility be enhanced, ought the pleasure centers of the brain be activated, and then which particular hallucinations ought to be induced for whatever specific purpose. Once they saw that the paste’s value was in these states of mind, not so much in the goo itself, they discovered that they could reproduce them by other means in just about any form you could think of. Those same principles go into every TV broadcast or election speech. Books too, for example. Books are also pills!”

  He had no more questions. He just stood up and went out the open door. Didn’t even say good-bye.

  It was already light outside. I’d managed to get a couple of hours of sleep. Then I woke up, all by myself, without the alarm clock. It had been a long time since I’d set it; what was the point?

  I washed, shaved carefully, brushed my teeth, and took a shower. I looked in the cupboard and chose an outfit that would make a good impression, professional but not too formal. And headed for Nevsky Prospect.

  Nevsky was already crowded with people and cars. Amid the dense fabric of the city’s usual noise I heard a strange sound, something like little bells ringing. I looked down the street in the direction of the noise, and saw a sparse but exotic-looking little procession approaching. Girls wearing bright Indian saris and men draped in what looked like white and saffron-colored sheets. They were all singing and dancing. One boy was beating a drum that hung on a strap around his neck; some of the others were tapping miniature copper cymbals. It was the cymbals’ thin, bell-like sound that I had heard from a distance. I thought, there they are, the philosophers of the third school.

  The procession came closer and soon drew even with me. Alongside the singers walked a very pretty girl with a red dot on her forehead. She was holding a tray with some round pinkish sweets arranged on it. I stood on the edge of the sidewalk and watched the philosophers of song and dance go by.

  She came up to me and held out the tray:

  “Take one!”

  “What is it?”

  “Imagine that it’s a pill that will relieve you of doubt and suffering forever.”

  “But how?”

  “It will end your material existence, which is the source of both doubt and suffering.”

  Well now. So they hav
e pills too. To help one lead a purely spiritual existence. But she’s a nice, normal-looking girl! What got her so involved in . . . philosophy? And she’s not shy about preaching, apparently—just comes right out with it. Must be new at this.

  “No, I’m sorry. I’ve already heard about you. And I like you, really. I far prefer your methods to those of other schools. But . . . I’m not ready yet.”

  The walk light turned green and I started across the street. The procession continued on its own way. Within a few minutes, all I could hear was that thin, bell-like sound, mixed in with the noise of the cars and people. And then it faded away, dissolved into the din of the great city.

  I walked down the canal embankment that ran perpendicular to Nevsky Prospect, and stopped in one of my favorite cafés, one that was relatively quiet for this part of the city. I waited briefly in line and ordered an espresso.

  I didn’t really want any coffee.

  I needed to gather my thoughts.

  Though I had already made my decision.

  I needed to find the business card.

  And that wasn’t difficult.

  I knew that it wouldn’t be.

  Not the kind of business card that you stick in your pocket at some point, and then you decide you need it for some reason and so turn everything inside out looking for it, upending your briefcase, shaking everything out onto the floor, rummaging through your whole apartment, even checking inside books to see if you might have stuck it between the pages. And you still can’t find it.