Babylon

by Виктор Пелевин

  ‘A welcome to my guest,’ he said as to he poured the cognac.

  Tatarsky clinked glasses with him and drank.

  ‘What are you up to nowadays?’ asked Hussein.

  ‘Working.’

  ‘Where would that be?’

  He had to say something, and something that meant Hussein couldn’t claim compensation for his withdrawal from the business. Tatarsky didn’t have any money right now. His eyes came to rest on the television screen, where death was advancing yet again. They’ll kill me like that.’ he thought, ‘and no one will even put flowers on my grave…’

  ‘So where is it then?’ Hussein asked again.

  ‘In the flower business,’ Tatarsky blurted out. ‘With the Azerbaidjanis.’

  ‘With the Azerbaidjanis?’ Hussein repeated doubtfully. ‘What Azerbaidjanis?’

  ‘With Rafik" Tatarsky replied, inspired, ‘and Eldar. We charter a plane, fly in flowers and fly out… Well, you know what. I don’t charter the plane, of course. I’m just the gopher.’

  ‘Yeah? So why couldn’t you just explain what was going on? Why’d you just drop off the keys?’

  ‘I was hitting the sauce,’ Tatarsky answered.

  Hussein thought it over. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Rowers are good business. I wouldn’t have said anything, if you’d told me man to man. But now… I’ll have to have a word with this Rafik of yours.’

  ‘He’s in Baku right now,’ said Tatarsky. ‘Eldar too.’

  The pager on his belt bleeped.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Hussein.

  Tatarsky glanced at the screen and saw Khanin’s number.

  ‘Just a friend of mine. He’s got nothing to do…’

  Hussein held out his hand without speaking, and Tatarsky submissively placed his pager in it. Hussein took out his phone, dialled the number and gave Tatarsky a glance filled with meaning. At the other end of the line someone picked up the receiver.

  "Allo" said Hussein, ‘who am I talking to? Khanin? How do you do, Khanin. I’m calling from the Caucasian Friendly Society. My name’s Hussein. Sorry to bother you, but we have your friend Vova here. He has a bit of a problem - he owes us money. Doesn’t know where to get it from. So he asked me to call you and see if you could help out. You’re in the flower business with him, aren’t you?’

  He winked at Tatarsky and then listened without speaking for a minute or two.

  ‘What?’ he asked, frowning. ‘Just tell me if you’re in the flower business with him or not. What’s that mean metaphorical flowers? What rose of the Persians? Which Ariosto? Who? What? Give me your friend then… Right then, I’m listening…’

  Tatarsky realised from Hussein’s expression that someone at the other end of the line had said something unthinkable.

  ‘I don’t care who you are,’ Hussein replied after a long pause. ‘Send anyone you like… Yes… Send an entire regiment of your arsehole troops on tanks. Only you’d better warn them they’re not going to find some wounded boy-scout from the White House in here, get it? What? You’ll come yourself? Come on then… Write down the address…’

  Hussein put down his phone and looked inquiringly at Tatarsky.

  ‘I told you it would be best not to,’ said Tatarsky.

  Hussein chuckled.

  ‘Worried about me? I appreciate that. But there’s no need.’

  He took two grenades out of the safe, half-straightened the whiskers on the detonators and put a grenade in each pocket. Tatarsky pretended to be looking the other way.

  Half an hour later the legendary Mercedes-6oo with dark-tinted glass drew up a few metres away from the trailer, and Tatarsky set his eye to the gap in the curtains at the window. Two men got out of the car - the first was Khanin, his suit looking crumpled and untidy, and the second was someone Tatarsky didn’t know.

  All the wow-indicators suggested he was a representative of the so-called middle class - a typical red-necked, red-faced hitman from some gang down in the Southern Port. He was wearing a black leather jacket, a heavy gold chain and track-suit trousers; but judging from the car, he represented that rare instance when a private gets himself promoted to the rank of general. He exchanged a couple of words with Khanin and came towards the door. Khanin stayed where he was.

  The door opened. The stranger lumbered into the wagon and looked first at Hussein, then at Tatarsky, then at the man chained to the bench. An expression of astonishment appeared on his face. For a second he stood there motionless, as though he couldn’t believe his eyes, then he took a step towards the prisoner, grabbed him by the hair and smashed his face twice against his knee. The prisoner tried to protect himself with his free hand, but he was too late.

  ‘So that’s where you got to, you bastard!’ the newcomer yelled, squatting down, his face turning more scarlet than ever. ‘We’ve been looking for you all over town for two weeks now. Wanted to hide, did you? Keeping out of sight, were you, you fucking merchant?’

  Tatarsky and Hussein exchanged glances.

  ‘Hey now, don’t get carried away,’ Hussein said uncertainly. ‘He’s a merchant, OK, but he’s my merchant.’

  ‘What?’ the stranger asked, letting go of the bloody head. ‘Yours? He was my merchant when you were still herding cows in the mountains.’

  ‘I didn’t herd cows in the mountains, I herded bulls,’ Hussein replied and nodded at the TV screen. ‘And bulls like you don’t bother me any more than they did. I’ll soon set a ring through your nose, better believe it.’

  ‘What did you say?’ the stranger asked with a frown, unbuttoning his jacket, where there was an interesting bulge under the left flap. ‘What ring?’

  ‘This one,’ said Hussein, taking a grenade out of his pocket. The sight of the straightened whiskers had an instant calming effect on the stranger.

  ‘This bastard owes me money,’ he said with emphasis.

  ‘Me too,’ said Hussein, putting away the grenade.

  ‘He owes me first.’

  ‘No. He owes me first.’

  ‘All right,’ said the stranger. ‘We’ll meet tomorrow to discuss it. Ten o’clock in the evening. Where?’

  ‘Just come back here.’

  ‘You’re on,’ said the stranger and jabbed his finger in Tatarsky’s direction. ‘I take the young guy. He’s one of mine.’

  Tatarsky looked inquiringly at Hussein, who smiled affectionately.

  ‘I’ve no more claims on you. Your friend here’s in the firing line now. Call round some time, as a friend. Bring some flowers. Some roses. I like them.’

  Hussein followed the two of them out on to the street, lit a cigarette and leaned back against the wall of the trailer. Tatarsky took two steps and then turned back.’

  ‘I forgot my beer,’ he said.

  ‘Go and get it,’ Hussein answered.

  Tatarsky went back into the wagon and took the last can of Tuborg from the table. The man chained to the bench moaned and raised his free hand. Tatarsky noticed the small rectangle of coloured paper in it. He took it and hastily shoved it into his pocket. The prisoner gave out a quiet groan an octave higher, dialled an invisible phone with his finger and pressed his open hand to his heart. Tatarsky nodded and went out. Hussein was still smoking on the porch and didn’t seem to have noticed anything. The stranger and Khanin were already in the car. As soon as Tatarsky got into the front seat, it moved off.

  ‘Let me introduce you,’ said Khanin. ‘Babe Tatarsky, one of our best specialists. And this’ - Khanin nodded in the direction of the stranger who was driving the car out on to the road - ‘is Wee Vova, almost your namesake. Also known as the Nietzschean.’

  ‘Ah, that’s all a load of crap,’ Wee Vova mumbled, blinking rapidly. ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘This man,’ Khanin continued, ‘performs an extremely important economic function. You might call him the key link in the liberal model in countries wit
h a low annual average temperature. D’you understand at least a bit about the market economy?’

  ‘About that much,’ Tatarsky replied, bringing his thumb and forefinger together until there was just a millimetre gap left between them.

  ‘Then you must know that in an absolutely free market by definition there must be services provided by the limiters of absolute freedom. Wee Vova here happens to be one of those limiters. In other words, he’s our protection…’

  When the car braked at a traffic light. Wee Vova raised his small expressionless eyes to look at Tatarsky. It was hard to see why he should be called ‘wee’ - he was a man of ample dimensions and advanced years. His face had the vague meat-dumpling contours of the typical bandit physiognomy, but it didn’t inspire any particular revulsion.

  He looked Tatarsky over and said: ‘So, to cut it short, tell me, you into the Russian idea?’

  Tatarsky started and his eyes gaped wide.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve never thought about that theme.’

  ‘All the better,’ Khanin interrupted. ‘A fresh approach, as they say.’

  ‘A fresh approach to what?’ Tatarsky asked, turning to face him.

  ‘You’ve got a commission to develop a concept,’ answered Khanin.

  ‘Who from?’

  Khanin nodded in the direction of Wee Vova.

  ‘Here, take this pen and this notepad,’ he said, ‘listen carefully to what he has to say and make notes. You can use them to write it up later.’

  ‘No listening needed,’ Wee Vova blurted out. ‘It’s obvious enough. Tell me. Babe, when you’re abroad, d’you feel humiliated?’

  ‘I’ve never been abroad,’ Tatarsky confessed.

  ‘And good for you. ‘Cause if you do go you will. I tell you straight - over there they don’t reckon we’re people at all, like we’re all shit and animals. Of course, like when you’re in some Hilton or other and you rent the entire floor, they’ll all stand in line to suck your cock. But if you’re out at some buffet or socialising, they talk to you like you’re some kind of monkey. Why d’you wear such a big cross, they say, are you some kind of theologian? I’d show them some fucking theology if they was in Moscow…’

  ‘But why do they treat us like that?’ Khanin interrupted. ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘The way I reckon it,’ said Wee Vova, ‘it’s all because we’re living on their handouts. We watch their films, ride their wheels, even eat their fodder. And we don’t produce nothing, if you think about it, ‘cept for mazuma… Which is still only their dollars, whichever way you look at it, which makes it a mystery how come we can be producing ‘em. But then somehow we must be producing ‘em - no one’d give us ‘em for free. I ain’t no economist, but I got a gut feeling something’s rotten here, somehow something somewhere don’t add up.’

  Wee Vova fell silent and started thinking hard. Khanin was about to make some remark, but Wee Vova suddenly erupted: ‘But they think we’re some kind of cultural scumbags. Like some kind of nig-nogs out in Africa, get it? Like we was animals with money. Pigs, maybe, or bulls. But what we are, is Russia! Makes you frightened to think of it! A great country!’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Khanin.

  ‘It’s just that we’ve lost our roots for the time being ‘cause of all this crap that’s going down. You know yourself what life’s like now. No time for a fart. But that don’t mean we’ve forgot where we come from, like some half-baked golly-wogs…’

  ‘Let’s try to keep feelings out of it,’ said Khanin. ‘Just explain to the boy here what you want him to do. Keep it simple, without the trimmings.’

  ‘OK, listen up and I’ll lay it out for you just like counting on my fingers,’ said Wee Vova. ‘Our national business is expanding into the international market. Out there there’s all kinds of mazuma doing the rounds - Chechen, American, Columbian - you get the picture. And if you look at them like mazuma, then they’re all the same; but in actual fact behind every kind of mazuma there’s a national idea. We used to have Orthodoxy, Autocracy and Nationality. Then came this communism stuff. Now that’s all over, and there’s no idea left at all ‘cept for mazuma. But there’s no way you can have nothing but mazuma behind mazuma, right? ‘Cause then there’s just no way to understand why some mazuma’s up front and some’s in behind, right?’

  ‘Spot on,’ said Khanin. ‘Listen and learn, Babe.’

  ‘And when our Russian dollars are doing the rounds somewhere down in the Caribbean,’ Wee Vova continued, ‘you can’t even really figure why they’re Russian dollars and not anyone else’s. We don’t have no national i-den-ti-ty…’

  Wee Vova articulated the final word syllable by syllable.

  ‘You dig it? The Chechens have one, but we don’t. That’s why they look at us like we’re shit. There’s got to be some nice, simple Russian idea, so’s we can lay it out clear and simple for any bastard from any of their Harvards: one-two, tickety-boo, and screw all that staring. And we’ve got to know for ourselves where we come from.’

  ‘You tell him what the job is" said Khanin, and he winked at Tatarsky in the driving mirror. ‘He’s my senior creative. A minute of his time costs more than the two of us earn in a week.’

  ‘The job’s simple.’ said Wee Vova. ‘Write me a Russian idea about five pages long. And a short version one page long. And lay it out like real life, without any fancy gibberish, so’s I can splat any of those imported arseholes with it - bankers, whores, whoever. So’s they won’t think all we’ve done in Russia is heist the money and put up a steel door. So’s they can feel the same kind of spirit like in ‘45 at Stalingrad, you get me?’

  ‘But where would I get?…’ Tatarsky began, but Khanin interrupted him:

  ‘That’s your business, sweetheart. You’ve got one day, it’s a rush job. After that I’ll be needing you for other work. And just bear in mind we’ve given this commission to another guy as well as you. So try your best.’

  ‘Who, if it’s not a secret?’ Tatarsky asked. ‘Sasha Blo. Ever heard of him?’

  Tatarsky said nothing. Khanin made a sign to Wee Vova and the car stopped. Handing Tatarsky a hundred-rouble bill, Khanin said: ‘That’s for your taxi. Go home and work. And no more drinking today.’

  Out on the pavement Tatarsky waited for the car to leave before taking out the business card from the prisoner of the Caucasus. It looked strange - in the centre there was a picture of a sequoia, covered with leaf-like dollar bills, and all the rest of the space was taken up by stars, stripes and eagles. All of this Roman magnificence was crowned by the following text in curly gold lettering:

  TAMPOKO

  • OPEN JOINT STOCK COMPANY SOFT DRINKS AND JUICES Shares Placement Manager:

  Mikhail Nepoiman

  ‘Aha,’ muttered Tatarsky. ‘I see we’re old acquaintances.’

  He tucked the card in his pocket, turned towards the stream of cars and raised his hand. A taxi stopped almost immediately.

  The taxi-driver was a fat-faced bumpkin with an expression of intense resentment on his face. The thought flashed through Tatarsky’s mind that he was like a condom filled so full of water you barely needed to touch it with something sharp for it to soak anyone nearby in a one-off disposable waterfall.

  ‘Tell me,’ Tatarsky asked on a sudden impulse, ‘you wouldn’t happen to know what the Russian idea is, would you?’

  ‘Ha,’ said the driver, as if he been expecting this very question. ‘I’ll tell you about that. I’m half Mordvinian. So when I was serving in the army, the first year, on training, there was this sergeant there called Harley. Used to say, "I hate Mords and nig-nogs," and he’d send me off to scrub the shit-house with a toothbrush. Two months the bastard took the piss out of me. Then all of a sudden these three Mordvin brothers arrived for their training, and all of them weightlifters, can you imagine that? "So who is it round here doesn’t like Mordvinians?" they said.’

  The d
river laughed happily and the car swerved across the road, almost skipping out into the opposite lane.

  ‘What’s that got to do with the Russian idea?’ Tatarsky asked, hunched down in his seat in fear.

  ‘I’ll tell you what. That Harley got such a belting he spent two weeks on his back with a medical battalion. That’s what. They worked him over another five times until he was fit for nothing but demobbing. But they didn’t just work him over…’

  ‘Can you stop there, please,’ Tatarsky said, not wanting to hear any more.

  ‘I can’t stop here,’ said the driver, ‘I’ve got to find a place to turn. I tell you, if only they’d just beaten him… But, oh no!’

  Tatarsky gave in, and as the car took him home the driver shared the fate of the chauvinist sergeant in a degree of detail that destroyed even the slightest possibility of sympathy - after all, sympathy is always based on a brief instant of identification, and in this case that was impossible - neither heart nor mind would dare risk it. In fact, it was just a typical army story.

  When Tatarsky got out of the car, the driver said to him: ‘As for that idea of yours, I’ll tell you straight: fuck only knows. All I want is the chance to earn enough to keep me in petrol and booze. Yeltsin-Schmeltsin - what do I care, so long as they don’t go smashing my face against a table?’

  Perhaps it was these words that made Tatarsky remember the handcuffed manager who’d dialled the telephone number in the empty air. Inside the entrance-way of his house, he stopped. He’d only just realised what the case really required. He took the card out of his pocket and wrote on its reverse:

  THERE’S ALWAYS SOMEBODY WHO CARES! PUT YOUR TRUST IN TAMPOKO SHARES!

  ‘So it’s a conifer, is it?’ he thought.

  CHAPTER 11. The Institute of Apiculture

  It happens so often: you step outside on a summer’s morning and come face to face with this immense, beautiful world hastening on its way to some unknown destination and filled with mysterious promise, and the blue sky is awash with happiness, and suddenly your heart is pierced by a feeling, compressed into a single split second, that there life is in front of you and you can follow it on down the road without a backwards glance, gamble on yourself and win, go coursing across life’s seas on a white speedboat and hurtling along her roads in a white Mercedes; and your fists tighten and clench of their own accord, and the muscles on your temples stand out in knots, and you promise yourself that you will rip mountains of money out of this hostile void with your bare teeth and you’ll brush aside anybody you have to, and nobody will ever dare to use that American word ‘loser’ about you.