Babylon

by Виктор Пелевин

  The projectionist stuck his head into the hall. ‘Hey, are you guys going to stay there much longer?’

  ‘We’re discussing the clips,’ Morkovin whispered.

  Tatarsky cleared his throat.

  ‘If I’ve grasped the difference correctly,’ he said in an unnaturally loud voice, ‘then an ordinary advertisement and what we’ve seen are like straight pop-music and the alternative music scene?’

  ‘Precisely,’ Morkovin replied just as loudly, rising to his feet and glancing at his watch. ‘But just what exactly is alternative music - and what is pop? How would you define it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tatarsky answered. ‘From the feel, I suppose.’

  They walked past the projectionist loitering in the doorway and went towards the lifts.

  ‘There is a precise definition,’ said Morkovin didactically. ‘Alternative music is music the commercial essence of which consists in its extreme anti-commercial ethos. Its anti-pop quality, so to speak. Which means that, in order to get this quality right, an alternative musician must first of all be a really shrewd merchant, and those are rare in the music business. There are plenty of them, of course, but they’re not performers, they’re managers… OK, relax. Have you got the text with you?’

  Tatarsky nodded.

  ‘Let’s go to my office. I’ll give you a co-author, just like Azadovsky ordered. And I’ll stick the co-author three grand so he won’t spoil the scenario.’

  Tatarsky had never gone up to the seventh floor where Morkovin worked. The corridor they entered on leaving the lift looked dull and reminded him of an old Soviet-period office building - the floor was covered with scuffed and dirty wooden parquet and the doors were upholstered with black imitation leather. On each door, though, there was an elegant metal plaque with a code consisting of numbers and letters. There were only three letters - ‘A’, ‘0’ and ‘D’, but they occurred in various combinations. Morkovin stopped beside a door with a plaque marked ‘i - A-D’ and entered a code in the digital lock.

  Morkovin’s office was imposingly large and impressively furnished. The desk alone had obviously cost several times as much as Tatarsky’s Mercedes. This masterpiece of the furniture-maker’s art was almost empty - there was a file containing papers and two telephones without number pads, one red and one white. There was also a strange device: a small metal box with a glass panel in its top. Hanging above the desk was a picture that Tatarsky took at first for a cross between a socialist realist landscape and a piece of Zen calligraphy. It showed a bushy corner of a shady garden depicted with photographic precision, but daubed carelessly across the bushes was a giant hieroglyph covered with identical green circles.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The president out walking,’ said Morkovin. ‘Azadovsky presented it to me to create an air of responsible authority. Look, you see, the skeleton’s wearing a tie. And some kind of badge as well - it’s right on top of a flower, so you have to look closely. But that’s just something the artist dreamed up.’

  Turning away from the picture, Tatarsky noticed they weren’t alone in the office. At the far end of the spadous room there was a stand with three flat monitors and ergonomic keyboards, with their leads disappearing into a wall covered with cork. A guy with a ponytail was sitting at one of the monitors and grazing his mouse with lazy movements on a small grey mat. His ears were pierced by at least ten small earrings, and there were two more passing through his left nostril. Remembering Morkovin’s advice to prick himself with something sharp whenever he began thinking about the lack of any general order of things in the Universe, Tatarsky decided this wasn’t a case of excessive enthusiasm for piercing; it was the result of close proximity to the technological epicentre of events - the guy with the ponytail simply never bothered to remove his pins.

  Morkovin sat at the desk, picked up the receiver of the white phone and issued a brief instruction.

  ‘Your co-author’ll be here in a minute,’ he said to Tatarsky. ‘You haven’t been here before, have you? These terminals are linked into the main render-server. And this man here is our head designer, Semyon Velin. You realise what a responsibility that is?’

  Tatarsky deferentially approached the guy at the computer and glanced at the screen, which showed a trembling grid of finely spaced blue lines. The lines were linked up in the form of two extended hands, the palms held close together with the middle fingers touching. They were slowly revolving around an invisible vertical axis. In some elusive fashion the picture reminded Tatarsky of a shot from a low-budget science-fiction movie of the eighties. The guy with the ponytail moved his mouse across the mat, stuck the arrow of the cursor into a menu that appeared at the top of the screen and the angle between the palms of the hands changed.

  ‘Didn’t I say we should program in the golden section straightaway?’ he said, turning to face Morkovin.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  "The angle. We should have made it the same as in the Egyptian pyramids. It’ll give the viewer this unconscious feeling of harmony, peace and happiness.’

  ‘Why are you wasting time messing about with that old rubbish?’ Morkovin asked. ‘"Our Home Russia" has no chance.’

  ‘"Our Home Russia" be buggered,’ Velin replied. "They had a good slogan - "The Roof of Your House". We can make this roof out of fingers. The target group will instantly be reminded of bandits’ finger-talk and the works. The message will be clear: we provide protection. We’re bound to come back round to it anyway.’

  ‘OK,’ said Morkovin, ‘put in your golden section. Let the punters relax. Only don’t mention it in the documentation.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because,’ said Morkovin, ‘you and I know what the golden section is. But the accounts department’ - he jerked his head upwards - ‘might not approve the budget. They’ll think if it’s gold it must be expensive. They’re economising on "Our Home Russia" now.’

  ‘I get you,’ said Velin. "Then I’ll just put in the angle. Call to get them to open the root directory.’

  Morkovin pulled over the red phone.

  ‘Hello? This is Morkovin from the anal-displacement department. Open the root directory for terminal five. We’re doing some cosmetic repairs. All right…’

  ‘That’s done,’ said Morkovin. ‘Just a moment. Alla, Semyon wants to ask you something.’

  Velin grabbed the receiver. ‘Alla, hi! Could you check the hair density for Chernomyrdin? What? No, that’s the whole point, I need it for the poster. OK, I’m writing - thirty-two hpi, colour Ray-Ban black. Have you given me access? OK, then that’s the lot.’

  ‘Listen,’ Tatarsky asked quietly, when Velin was back at his terminal, ‘what’s that - hpi?’

  ‘Hairs per inch,’ Morkovin answered. ‘Like dots per inch with those laser printers.’

  ‘And what does that mean - "the anal displacement department"?’

  "That’s what our department is called.’

  ‘Why such a strange name?’

  ‘Well it’s the general theory of elections.’ Morkovin said with a frown. ‘To cut it short, there should always be three wow-candidates: oral, anal and displacing. Only don’t go asking me what that means, you don’t have security clearance yet. And anyway I don’t remember. All I can say is that in normal countries they get by with the oral and anal wow-candidates, because the displacement has been completed; but things are only just getting started here and we need the displacing candidate as well. We give him about fifteen per cent of the votes in the first round. I think I can write you a clearance if you’re that interested.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Tatarsky, ‘forget it.’

  ‘Dead right. Why the fuck should you strain your brains on your salary. The less you know, the easier you breathe.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Tatarsky, noting to himself that if Davidoff started making ultra-lights there couldn’t possibly be a better slogan.
/>   Morkovin opened his file and took up a pencil. Out of a sense of delicacy Tatarsky moved away to the wall and began studying the sheets of paper and pictures pinned to it. At first his attention was caught by a photograph of Antonio Banderas in the Hollywood masterpice Stepan Banderas. Banderas, romantically unshaven, holding a giant balalaika case, was standing on the outskirts of some abstract Ukrainian village and gazing sadly at a burned-out Russian tank in a sunflower chaparral (from the first glance at the crowd of droopy-mustachioed villagers in their cockerel-embroidered ponchos, who were squinting at the reddish-yellow sun, it was obvious that the film had been shot in Mexico). The poster wasn’t genuine - it was a collage. Some anonymous joker had matched up Banderas’ torso in dark leather with a heavy-assed pair of girl’s legs in dark-brown tights. There was a slogan under the image:

  SAN PELEGRINO TIGHTS FASHIONED TO RESIST ANY STRAIN

  Sellotaped directly on to the poster was a fax on the letterhead of Young and Rubicam. The text was short:

  Sergei! Essence correction/or three brands:

  Chubais-green stuff in the bank/green stuff in the jar

  Yavlinsky - think different/think doomsday (‘Apple’ doesn’t object)

  Yeltsin - stability in a coma/democracy in a coffin

  Hi there, Wee Kolya.

  ‘It’s a weak idea for Chubais.’ said Tatarsky, turning towards Morkovin, ‘and where are the communists?’

  ‘They write them in the oral displacement department.’ Morkovin answered. ‘And thank God for that. I wouldn’t take them for twice my salary.’

  ‘Do they pay more over there?’

  ‘The same. But they have some guys who are willing to slave away for free. You’ll meet one of them in a moment, by the way.’

  Hanging beside Banderas was a greetings card produced on a colour printer, showing a golden double-headed eagle clutching a Kalashnikov in one taloned foot and a pack of Marlboro in the other. There was an inscription in gold below the eagle’s feet:

  SANTA BARBARA FOR EVER! THE RUSSIAN IDEA DEPARTMENT CONGRATULATES OUR COLLEAGUES ON ST VARVARA’S DAY

  To the right of the greetings card there was another advertising poster: Yeltsin leaning over a chessboard on which no figures had been moved. He was looking at it sideways on (the setting seemed to emphasise his role as the supreme arbiter). The king and the rook on the white side had been replaced by small bottles labelled ‘Ordinary Whisky’ and ‘Black Label’. Next to the chessboard there stood a small model of a seashore villa looking more like a fortress. The text was:

  BLACK LABEL: THE TIME TO CASTLE

  Tatarsky reached for his notebook - an idea for another poster had suddenly occurred to him.

  He wrote down: ‘A view from inside a car. The president’s sullen face with the window behind it. Outside in the street - poor old women, street urchins, bandaged soldiers, etc. Inscription in large letters at the top of the poster: "How low can we go?" In tiny print at the very bottom: "As low as 2.9 per cent intro. Visa Next."‘

  There was a knock at the door. Tatarsky turned round and froze. So many meetings with old acquaintances in the same day seemed rather unlikely - into the office came Malyuta, the anti-Semite copywriter he’d worked with in Khanin’s agency. He was dressed in a Turkish-made Russian folk shirt with a soldier’s belt supporting an entire array of office equipment: a mobile phone, a pager, a Zippo lighter in a leather case and an awl in a narrow black scabbard.

  ‘Malyuta! What are you doing here?’

  Malyuta, however, gave no sign of being surprised.

  ‘I write the image menu for the whole cabal,’ he replied. ‘Russian style. Have you ever heard of pelmeni with kapusta? Or kvass with khrenok? Those are my hits. And I work in the oral displacement department on half-pay. Are you in dirt?’

  Tatarsky didn’t answer.

  ‘You know each other?’ Morkovin asked with curiosity. ‘Yes, of course, you worked together at Khanin’s place. So you shouldn’t have any problems working together.’

  ‘I prefer working alone.’ Malyuta said drily. ‘What d’you want done?’

  ‘Azadovsky wants you to finish up a project. With Berezovsky and Raduev. Don’t touch Raduev, but you need to boost Berezovsky up a bit. I’ll call you this evening and give you a few instructions. Will you do it?’

  ‘Berezovsky?’ Malyuta asked. ‘And how. When d’you need it?’

  ‘Yesterday, as always.’

  ‘Where’s the draft?’

  Morkovin looked at Tatarsky, who shrugged and handed Malyuta the file with the printout of the scenario.

  ‘Don’t you want to talk with the author?’ Morkovin asked. ‘So he can put you in the picture?’

  ‘I’ll figure it out for myself from the text. It’ll be ready tomorrow at ten.’

  ‘OK, you know best.’

  When Malyuta left the room, Morkovin said: ‘He doesn’t like you much.’

  ‘Nor I him,’ said Tatarsky. ‘We had an argument once about geopolitics. Listen, who’s going to change that bit about the television-drilling towers?’

  ‘Damn, I forgot. A good job you reminded me - I’ll explain it to him this evening. And you’d better make peace with him. You know how bad our frequency problem is right now, but Azadovsky’s still allowed him one 3-D general. To liven up the news. He’s a guy with a future. No one can tell how the market will shift tomorrow. Maybe he’ll be head of department instead of me, and then…’

  Morkovin didn’t finish his train of thought. The door swung open and Azadovsky burst into the room. Behind him came two of the guards with Scorpions on their shoulders. Azadovsky’s face was white with fury and he was clenching and unclenching his fists with such force that Tatarsky was reminded of the talons of the eagle from the greetings card. Tatarsky had never seen him like this.

  ‘Who edited Lebed the last time?’

  ‘Semyon Velin, as usual,’ Morkovin replied in fright. ‘Why, what’s happened?’

  Azadovsky turned towards the young guy with the ponytail.

  ‘You?’ he asked. ‘Did you do this?’

  ‘What?’ asked Velin.

  ‘Did you change Lebed’s cigarettes? From Camel to Gitanes?’

  ‘Yes I did,’ said Velin. ‘What of it? I just thought it would be better stylistically. After we rendered him together with Alain Delon.’

  ‘Take him away,’ Azadovsky commanded.

  ‘Wait, wait,’ said Velin, thrusting his hands out in front of him in fear. ‘I’ll explain everything…’ But the guards were already dragging him out into the corridor.

  Azadovsky turned to face Morkovin and stared intensely at him for several seconds.

  ‘I knew nothing about it.’ said Morkovin, ‘I swear.’

  "Then who is supposed to know about it? Me? D’you know where I just got a call from? J. R. Reynolds Tobacco - who paid us for Lebed’s Camels two years in advance. You know what they said? They’re going to get their congressman to drop us fifty megahertz; and they’ll drop us another fifty if Lebed goes on air next time with Gitanes again. I don’t know how much this asshole was raking in from black PR, but we stand to lose a lot, an awful rucking lot. Do we want to ride into the twenty-first fucking century on a hundred megahertz? When’s the next broadcast with Lebed?’

  ‘Tomorrow. An interview on the Russian Idea. It’s all rendered already.’

  ‘Have you watched the material?’

  Morkovin clutched his head in his hands. ‘I have,’ he replied. ‘Oh, God… That’s right. He’s got Gitanes. I noticed it, but I thought it must have been approved upstairs. You know I don’t decide these things. I couldn’t imagine.’

  ‘Where are his cigarettes? On the table?’

  ‘If only! He waves the pack around all through the interview.’

  ‘Can we undo?’

  ‘Not the whole thing.’

  ‘Change the design on the pack then?’


  ‘Not that either. Gitanes are a different size; and the pack’s in shot all the time.’

  ‘So what are we going to do?’

  Azadovsky’s gaze came to rest on Tatarsky, as though he’d only just noticed him there. Tatarsky cleared his throat.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said timidly, we could put in a patch with a pack of Camel on the table? That’s quite simple.’

  ‘And then what? Have him waving one pack around in the air and the other one lying in front of him? You’re raving.’

  ‘And we put the arm in plaster,’ Tatarsky went on, giving way to a sudden wave of inspiration. ‘So we get rid of the pack.’

  ‘In plaster?’ Azadovsky repeated thoughtfully. ‘But what’ll we say?’

  ‘An assassination attempt,’ said Tatarsky.

  ‘You mean they shot him in the arm?’

  ‘No,’ said Tatarsky, ‘they tried to blow him up in his car.’

  ‘And he’s not going to say anything about the attempt to kill him in the interview?’ Morkovin asked.

  Azadovsky thought for a moment. ‘That’s actually OK. Imperturbable -’ he waved his fist in the air - ‘never even said a word. A real soldier. We’ll put the attack out in the news. And we won’t just patch in a pack of Camel on the table, we’ll patch in a whole block. Let the bastards choke on that.’

  ‘What’ll we say in the news?’

  ‘As little as possible. Clues pointing to Chechens, the Islamic factor, investigations proceeding and so forth. What car does Lebed’s legend say he drives? An old Mercedes? Get a film crew sent out into the country straightaway, find an old Mercedes, blow it up and film it. It’s got to be on the air by ten. Say the general left immediately to get on with his work and he’s keeping up with his schedule. Yes, and have them find a fez at the site of the crime, like the one Raduev’s going to have. Is the idea clear?’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Morkovin. ‘It really is brilliant.’

  Azadovsky gave a crooked smile that was more like a nervous twitch.

  ‘But where’ll we get an old Mercedes?’ asked Morkovin. ‘All ours are new.’