Buddha's Little Finger
Виктор Пелевин
Buddha’s Little Finger
by VICTOR PELEVIN
translated by Andrew Bromfield
Gazing at the faces of the horses and the people, at this boundless stream of life raised up by the power of my will and now hurtling into nowhere across the sunset-crimson steppe, I often think: where am I in this flux?
GHENGIS KHAN
PREFACE
For numerous reasons the name of the true author of this manuscript, written during the early 1920s in one of the monasteries of Inner Mongolia, cannot be mentioned, and it is published here under the name of the editor who prepared it for publication. This version does not include the descriptions of a number of magical procedures which figured in the original, nor does it retain the narrator’s rather lengthy reminiscences of his life in pre-revolutionary St Petersburg (the so-called Petersburg Period). The author’s definition of the genre of the work as ‘a peculiar flight of free thought’ has also been omitted: it would seem quite clear that it can only be regarded as a joke.
The story narrated by the author is of interest as a psychological journal which, while it undoubtedly possesses a number of artistic virtues, makes absolutely no claim to anything beyond that, although at times the author does undertake to discuss topics which, in our view, are in no need of discussion. The somewhat spasmodic nature of the narrative reflects the fact that the intention underlying the writing of this text was not to create a ‘work of literature’, but to record the mechanical cycles of consciousness in such a way as to achieve a complete and final cure for what is known as ‘the inner life’. Furthermore, in two or three places, the author actually attempts to point directly to the mind of the reader, rather than force him to view yet another phantom constructed out of words; unfortunately this is far too simple a task for his attempts to prove successful. Literary specialists will most likely perceive nothing more in our narrative than yet another product of the critical solipsism which has been so fashionable in recent years, but the true value of this document lies in the fact that it represents the first attempt in the history of culture to embody in the forms of art the Mongolian Myth of the Eternal Non-Return.
Let us briefly introduce the main hero of the book. The editor of this text once read me a tanka written by the poet Pushkin:
And yet this year of gloom, which carried off
So many victims brave and good and beautiful,
Is scarce remembered even
In some simple shepherd’s song
Of sweet and soft lament.
In translation into Mongolian the phrase ‘brave victim’ has a strange ring to it; however, this is not the proper place to explore that theme, and we merely wished to point out that the final three lines of this verse could well be a reference to the story of Vasily Chapaev.
What is now known about this man? As far as we are able to judge, in the memory of the common people his image has assumed the features of pure myth, and Chapaev is now Russian folklore’s closest equivalent of the famous Khadji Nasruddin: he is the hero of an infinite number of jokes derived from a famous film of the 1930s, in which Chapaev is represented as a Red cavalry commander fighting against the White army, who engages in long, heart-to-heart conversations with his adjutant Petka and his machine-gunner Anka and finally drowns while attempting to swim across the Ural river during a White attack. All this, however, bears absolutely no relation whatsoever to the life of the real Chapaev - or if there is some relation, then the true facts have been distorted beyond all recognition by conjecture and innuendo.
This tangled web of confusion originated with the book Chapaev, which was first printed in French by a Paris publishing house in 1923 and then reprinted with unaccountable haste in Russia: we shall not waste any time on demonstrating the book’s lack of authenticity. Anyone who wishes to make the effort will discover in it a mass of discrepancies and contradictions, while the very spirit of the book is the best possible proof that the author (or authors) had absolutely no involvement with the events which they endeavour in vain to describe. In addition, it should be noted that although Mr Furmanov did meet the historical Chapaev on at least two occasions, he could not possibly have been the author of this book, for reasons which will emerge in the course of our narrative. It is therefore hard to credit that even now many people regard the text ascribed to him as virtually a documentary account.
In fact, it is not difficult to detect behind this forgery, now more than seventy years old, the activity of well-financed and highly active forces which were interested in concealing the truth about Chapaev from the peoples of Eurasia for as long as possible. However, the very discovery of the present manuscript seems to us a clear indication that the balance of power on the continent has shifted.
To conclude, we have altered the title of the original text (which was ‘Vasily Chapaev’) precisely in order to avoid any confusion with the aforementioned fake. The title ‘Buddha’s Little Finger’ has been chosen as being adequately indicative of the major theme, while not overly suggestive, although the editor did suggest another alternative, ‘The Garden of the Divergent Petkas’.
We dedicate the merit created by this text to the good of all living creatures.
Gate Gate Paragate Parasamgate Bodhi Svaha
–Urgan Jambon Tulku VII
Chairman of the Buddhist Front
for Full and Final Liberation (FFL (b))
1
Tverskoi Boulevard was exactly as it had been when I last saw it, two years before. Once again it was February, with snowdrifts everywhere and that peculiar gloom which somehow manages to infiltrate the very daylight. The same old women were perched motionless on the benches; above them, beyond the black latticework of the branches, there was the same grey sky, like an old, worn mattress drooping down towards the earth under the weight of a sleeping God.
Some things, however, were different. This winter the avenues were scoured by a blizzard straight off the steppes, and I should not have been in the least surprised to have come face to face with a pair of wolves during the course of my walk. The bronze Pushkin seemed a little sadder than usual -no doubt because his breast was covered with a red apron bearing the inscription: ‘Long Live the First Anniversary of the Revolution!’. I felt not the slightest inclination for ironical comment on the fact that the cheers were intended for an event which could not by definition last longer than a single day - just recently I had been afforded more than ample opportunity to glimpse the demonic face concealed behind such lapidary absurdities inscribed on red.
It was beginning to get dark, but I could still make out Strastnoi Monastery through the snowy haze. On the square in front of it were two open trucks, their tall side walls tightly strung with bright scarlet material; there was a crowd jostling around them and the orator’s voice carried to where I stood. I could scarcely make out anything of what he said, but the general meaning was clear enough from his intonation and the machine-gun rattle of the V in the words ‘proletariat’ and ‘terror’. Two drunken soldiers walked past me, the bayonets on their rifles swaying behind their shoulders. They were hurrying towards the square, but one of them fixed his brazen gaze on me, slowed his pace and opened his mouth as though about to say something; fortunately - for him and for me - his companion tugged him by the sleeve and they walked on.
I turned and set off down the incline of the boulevard, guessing at what it was in my appearance that constantly aroused the suspicions of all these scum. Of course, I was dressed in outrageously bad taste; I was wearing a dirty coat cut in the English style with a broad half-belt, a military cap (naturally, without the cockade) like the one that Alexander II used to wear, and
officer’s boots. But it did not seem to be just a matter of my clothes. There were, after all, plenty of other people around who looked far more absurd. On Tverskaya Street, for instance, I had seen a completely insane gentleman wearing gold-rimmed spectacles holding an icon ahead of him as he walked towards the black, deserted Kremlin, but no one had paid him the slightest attention. Meanwhile, I was all the time aware of people casting sidelong glances at me, and on each occasion I was reminded that I had neither money nor documents about my person. The previous day, in the water-closet at the railway station, I had tried sticking a red bow on my chest, but I removed it as soon as I caught sight of my reflection in the cracked mirror; with the ribbon I looked not merely stupid, I looked doubly suspicious.
It is possible, of course, that no one was actually directing their gaze at me any more than at anyone else, and that my tight-strung nerves and the anticipation of arrest were to blame for everything. I did not feel any fear of death. Perhaps, I thought, it had already happened, and this icy boulevard along which I was walking was merely the threshold of the world of shadows. I had realized long before that Russian souls must be fated to cross the Styx when it is frozen, with their fare collected not by a ferryman, but by a figure garbed in grey who hires out a pair of skates - the same spiritual essence, naturally.
Suddenly I could picture the scene in the finest of detail: Count Tolstoy in black tights, waving his arms about, skates over the ice towards the distant horizon - his movements are slow and solemn, but he makes rapid progress, and the three-headed dog barking soundlessly in pursuit has no chance of overtaking him. I laughed quietly, and at that very moment a hand slapped me on the shoulder.
I stepped to one side and swung round sharply, feeling for the handle of the revolver in my pocket, when to my amazement I saw before me the face of Grigory Vorblei, an aquaintance from childhood. But, my God, his appearance! He was dressed from head to toe in black leather, a holster with a Mauser dangled at his hip, and in his hand he was clutching a ridiculous kind of obstetrician’s travelling bag.
T’m glad you’re still capable of laughter,’ he said.
‘Hello, Grisha.’ I said, ‘how strange to see you.’
‘Why strange?’
‘It just is strange.’
‘Where have you come from?’ he asked in a cheerful voice. ‘And where are you going?’
‘From Petersburg.’ I replied. ‘As for where I’m going, I’d be glad if I knew that myself
‘Then come to my place,’ said Vorblei, ‘I’m living just near by, with an entire flat all to myself
As we walked on down the boulevard we exchanged glances, smiles and meaningless snatches of conversation. Since the time of our last meeting, Vorblei had grown a beard which made his face look like a sprouting onion, and his cheeks had grown weathered and ruddy, as though his health had benefited greatly from several consecutive winters of ice-skating.
We had studied in the same grammar school, but since then we had seen each other only rarely. I had encountered him a couple of times in the literary salons of St Petersburg - he had taken to writing verse in a contrary style which was only heightened by its obvious self-satisfaction. I was rather irritated by his manner of sniffing cocaine in public and his constant hints at his connections in social-democratic circles; however, to judge from his present appearance, the hints must have been true. It was instructive to see someone who at one time was quite adept at expounding the mystical significance of the Holy Trinity now sporting the unmistakable signs of belonging to the hosts of evil. But then, of course, there was really nothing surprising in this transformation: many decadents, such as Mayakovsky, sensing the clearly infernal character of the new authority, had hastened to offer their services to it. As a matter of fact, it is my belief that they were not motivated by conscious satanism - they were too infantile for that - but by aesthetic instinct: after all, a red pentagram does complement a yellow blouse so marvellously well.
‘How are things in Petersburg?’ asked Vorblei.
‘As if you didn’t know.’
‘That’s right.’ agreed Vorblei, suddenly seeming to lose interest. ‘I do know.’
We turned off the boulevard, crossed the roadway and found ourselves in front of a seven-storey apartment house. It was directly opposite the Palace Hotel, in front of which two machine-gun installations were visible; they were manned by sailors smoking cigarettes, and a red flag flapped in the wind at the end of a long stick.
Vorblei tugged at my sleeve. ‘Look over there.’ he said.
I turned my head. On the street outside the entrance to the house stood a black limousine with a tiny cabin for passengers and open front seats, on which the snow had piled up.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘It’s mine.’ said Vorblei. ‘It goes with the job.’
‘Ah.’ I said, ‘congratulations.’
We entered the apartment building. The lift was not working and we had to make our way up a dark staircase, from which the carpet runner had not yet been ripped away.
‘What is it that you do?’ I asked.
‘Oh.’ said Vorblei, ‘it’s not something I can explain in a few words. There’s really a lot of work - too much, in fact. First one thing, then another, and then something else, and all the time you have to try to keep up. First one place, then another. Someone has to do it all.’
‘In the cultural line, is it?’
He inclined his head to one side in a rather indefinite fashion. I did not try to ask any more questions.
When we reached the fifth floor we approached a tall door on which there was a clearly defined lighter coloured rectangular area which showed where a name plaque had once been. He opened the door, and we went into a dark hallway when a telephone on the wall immediately began to jangle.
Vorblei picked up the receiver. ‘Yes, comrade Babayasin,’ he roared into the ebony cup of the mouthpiece. ‘Yes, I remember… No, don’t send them… Comrade Babayasin, I can’t do that, it will look ridiculous… Just imagine - with the sailors, it will be a disgrace… What? I will follow orders, but I must register a vigorous protest… What?’
He glanced sideways at me and, not wishing to embarrass him, I went through into the lounge.
The floor there was covered with newspapers - most of them banned long ago. I supposed there must have been files of them left behind in the flat. Other traces of the place’s former life were also visible: there was a delightful Turkish carpet hanging on the wall and below it stood a secretaire decorated with enamel rhomboids of various colours. As soon as I saw it I realized that a well-to-do bourgeois family must have lived there. A large mirror stood against the opposite wall. Beside it hung a crucifix in the art-nouveau style, and for a moment I pondered the nature of the religious feeling which might correspond to such a work of art. A considerable part of the space was occupied by an immense bed under a yellow canopy. The items that stood on the round table in the centre of the room seemed to me - possibly because of their proximity to the crucifix - to be a still-life composed of esoteric Christian motifs: a large bottle of vodka, a halvah tin shaped like a heart, a staircase leading into emptiness constructed out of pieces of black bread laid one on top of another, three tooth glasses and a cross-shaped can-opener.
Lying on the floor beside the mirror was a pile of packages whose shapes put me in mind of contraband; a sour smell of leg-wrappings and stale drink hung in the air, and there were also a great many empty bottles in the room. I sat on the table.
Shortly afterwards the door squeaked open and Vorblei came in. He took off his leather jacket, exposing an emphatically military tunic. to do.’ he said as he sat down, ‘That was the Cheka on the phone.’
‘You work for them as well?’
‘I avoid them as much as I can.’
‘How did you get involved with such company anyway?’
Vorblei smiled broadly. ‘It couldn’t have been more simple. I had a five-minute telephone conversation with Gorky.’
> ‘And straight away they gave you a Mauser and that limousine?’
‘Listen.’ he said, ‘life is a theatre. That’s a well-known fact. But what you don’t hear said so often is that every day the theatre shows a new play. And right now, Petya, I m putting on a show the like of which you can’t imagine…’
He raised his hands above his head and shook them in the air, as though he were jingling coins in an invisible sack.
‘And it’s not even the play that’s the thing,’ he said. To continue the analogy, in the old days anyone who felt like it could fling a rotten egg at the stage. Today, however, it’s the actors who are more likely to rake the hall with machine-gun fire - they might even toss out a bomb. Think about it, who would you rather be right now? An actor or a member of the audience?’
This was a serious question.
‘What can I say? The action at this theatre of yours starts much further back than you suggest,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Besides, I think that the future really belongs to the cinematograph.’
Vorblei chuckled and nodded. ‘All the same, you think about what I said.’
‘I promise I will,’ I answered.
He poured himself some vodka and drank it.
‘Ah.’ he said, ‘about the theatre. Do you know who the Commissar for Theatres is now? Madame Malinovskaya. Of course, you never knew her, did you?’
‘I don’t remember,’ I replied, a little irritated. ‘Who the hell was she?’
Vorblei sighed. He stood up and walked across the room without speaking.
‘Petya.’ he said, sitting down facing me and gazing up into my eyes, ‘we keep on joking away, but I can see that something’s wrong. What’s happened to you? You and I are old friends, of course, but even setting that aside I could probably help you.’
I decided to risk it.
‘I will be honest with you. Three days ago in Petersburg I had visitors.’
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