Buddha's Little Finger

by Виктор Пелевин

  Anna drew deeply on her cigarette. There was a very slight flush on the line of her cheekbones, and I could not help noticing that it suited her pale face remarkably well.

  ‘I am wondering,’ she said, ‘whether or not I should throw I his glass of champagne in your face.’

  ‘I really cannot say.’ I said. ‘In your place I believe I would not do that. We are not as yet sufficiently intimate.’

  A moment later a shower of transparent drops struck me in the face - her glass had been almost full, and she flung the champagne out of it with such force that for a second I was blinded.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Anna said in confusion, ‘but you yourself..’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ I replied.

  Champagne possesses one very convenient quality. If one picks up a bottle, closes off the mouth with one’s thumb and shakes it really well several times, the foam will force its way out in a stream which exhausts virtually the entire contents of the bottle. It seems to me that this method must have been known to the poet Lermontov - he has a line which quite clearly reflects direct experience of a similar kind: ‘thus does the ancient moss-covered bottle yet store its stream of frothing wine’. Of course, it is hard to hypothesize about the inner world of a man who, intending to turn his face towards the Prince of Darkness, wrote as a result a poem about a flying colonel of the hussars. I would not therefore claim that Lermontov did actually spray women with champagne, but I do believe that the probability of his having done so was very high, in view of his continuous obsession with matters of sex and the immodest but entirely inescapable associations which this operation always arouses when its object is a beautiful young woman. I must confess that I fell victim to them in full measure.

  Most of the champagne caught Anna on her tunic and skirt. I had been aiming for her face, but at the final moment some strange impulse of chastity must have forced me to divert the flow downwards.

  She looked at the dark blotch on the chest of her tunic and shrugged.

  ‘You are an idiot,’ she said calmly. ‘You should be in a home for the mentally disturbed.’

  ‘You are not alone in thinking that,’ I said, setting the empty bottle on the table.

  An oppressive silence fell. It seemed to me entirely pointless to engage in any further attempts to clarify our relations, and sitting opposite each other in silence was even more stupid. I think that Anna was feeling the same; probably in the entire restaurant only the fat black fly methodically beating itself against the window-pane knew what to do next. The situation was saved by one of the officers sitting at the next table - by this time I had completely forgotten that they even existed, but I am sure that in the wider sense they also had no idea of what to do next. The one who

  had been injecting himself rose to his feet and approached us.

  ‘My dear sir,’ I heard him say in a voice filled with feeling, my dear sir, would you mind if I were to ask you a question?’

  ‘Not at all, please do,’ I said, turning to face him. I le was holding an open wallet in his hands, which he glanced into as he spoke as though it contained the crib for his speech.

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ he said. ‘Staff Captain Lambovsky. By pure chance I happened to overhear part of your conversation. I was not eavesdropping, naturally. You were simply talking loudly.’

  ‘And what of it?’

  ‘Do you genuinely believe that all women are a dream?’ You know,’ I replied, trying to speak as politely as possiblе, ‘that is really a very complex question. In short, if one regards the entire Universe as no more than a dream, then there is no reason at all for placing women in any kind of special Category.’

  ‘So they are a dream, then.’ he said sadly. ‘I feared as much. But I have a photo here. Take a look.’

  He held out a photograph. It showed a girl with an ordinary face sitting beside a potted geranium. I noticed that Anna also stole a glance at the photograph out of the corner of her eye.

  ‘This is my fiancee, Nyura,’ said the staff captain. ‘That is, she was my fiancee. Where she is now I have not the slightest idea. When I recall those bygone days, it all seems so very real. The skating rink at the Patriarch’s Ponds, or summer out at the estate… But in reality it has all disappeared, disappeared irretrievably - and if it had all never been, what would have been changed in the world? Do you understand how terrible that is? It makes no difference.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I understand, believe me.’

  ‘So it would seem that she is a dream too?’

  ‘So it would seem.’ I echoed,

  ‘Aha!’ he said with satisfaction, and glanced round at his companion who was smiling as he smoked. ‘Then must I understand you to be saying, my dear sir, that my fiancee Nyura sucks?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, now,’ said Staff Captain Lambovsky, glancing round once more at his companion, ‘if life is but a dream, then all women are also no more than visions in dreams. My fiancée Nyura is a woman, and therefore she is also a vision in a dream.’

  ‘Let us assume so. What of it?’

  ‘Was it not you who only a moment ago said that the word «suck» in the idiom «all women suck» is derived from the word «succubus». Let us assume that Nyura excites me as a woman, and is at the same time a vision in a dream - does it not inevitably follow that she also sucks? It does. And are you aware, my dear sir, of the consequences of speaking words of this kind in public?’

  I looked closely at him. He was about thirty years old, he had a mousy moustache, a high forehead with a receding hairline and blue eyes; the impression of concentrated provincial demonism produced by the combination of these features was so powerful that I experienced a distinct sense of irritation.

  ‘Now listen,’ I said, imperceptibly slipping my hand into my pocket and taking hold of the handle of my Browning, ‘you really are taking things too far. I have not had the honour of being acquainted with your fiancee, so I cannot possibly possess any opinions regarding her.’

  ‘Nobody dares to make assumptions,’ said the staff captain, ‘from which it follows that my Nyura is a bitch. It is very sad, but I can see only one way out of the situation which has arisen.’

  Fixing me with a piercing gaze, he placed his hand on his holster and slowly unbuttoned it. I was about to fire, but I remembered that the holster contained his syringe-box. It was all actually becoming rather funny.

  ‘Did you wish to give me an injection?’ I asked. ‘Thank you, but I cannot tolerate morphine. In my opinion it dulls the brain.’

  The staff captain jerked his hand away from the holster and glanced at his companion, a plump young man with a face that was red from the heat, who had been following our conversation closely.

  ‘Stand back Georges,’ he said, rising ponderously from the table and drawing his sabre from its scabbard. ‘I will give this gentleman his injection myself.

  God only knows what would have happened next. In another second I should probably have shot him, with all the less regret since the colour of his face clearly indicated a tendency towards apoplexy, and he could hardly have been fated to live long. But at this point something unexpected occurred.

  I heard a loud shout from the direction of the door.

  ‘Everybody stay right where they are! One movement and I shoot!’

  I looked round. Standing in the doorway was a broad-shouldered man in a grey two-piece suit and a crimson Russian shirt. Strength of will was stamped on his powerful face - if it had not been spoiled by his short, receding chin, it would have looked magnificent in an antique bas-relief. His head was completely shaven, and he was holding a revolver in each hand. The two officers froze where they stood; the shaven-headed gentleman approached our table and stopped, setting his revolvers to their heads. The staff captain began blinking rapidly.

  ‘Stand still,’ said the stranger. ‘Stand still… Easy now…’

  Suddenly his face was distorted by a grimace of fury and he pressed the triggers twice. T
hey clicked and misfired.

  ‘Have you heard of Russian roulette, gentlemen?’ he asked. Hey?’

  ‘Yes.’ answered the officer with the red complexion.

  ‘You may regard yourselves at the present moment as playing that game, and that I am your croupier. I can inform you confidentially that the third chamber in each drum holds a live round. Please indicate whether you understand what I have said as quickly as possible.’

  ‘How?’ asked the staff captain.

  ‘Raise your hands.’ said the shaven-headed gentleman.

  The officers raised their hands; the clatter of the sabre falling to the floor made me wince.

  ‘Get out of here,’ said the stranger, ‘and please do not look behind you on your way. I cannot tolerate that.’

  The officers gave him no reason to repeat himself - they half-drunk glasses of champagne and a papyrosa smoking in the ashtray. When they had left, the stranger placed his revolvers on our table and leaned towards Anna; it seemed to me that there was something very favourable in the way she returned his gaze.

  ‘Anna.’ he said, raising her hand to his lips, ‘what a great joy it is to see you here.’

  ‘Hello, Grigory,’ said Anna. ‘Have you been in town long?’

  ‘I have just this moment arrived,’ he answered.

  ‘Are those your trotters outside the window?’

  ‘They are.’ said the shaven-headed gentleman.

  ‘And do you promise to take me for a ride?’

  The gentleman smiled.

  ‘Grigory.’ said Anna, ‘I love you.’

  The gentleman turned to me and held out his hand. ‘Grigory Kotovsky.’

  ‘Pyotr Voyd,’ I replied, shaking his hand.

  ‘So you are Chapaev’s commissar? The one who was wounded at Lozovaya? I have heard a great deal about you. I am truly glad to see you in good health.’

  ‘He is not entirely well yet.’ said Anna, casting a brief glance in my direction.

  Kotovsky sat at the table.

  ‘And what exactly happened between you and those gentlemen?’

  ‘We had a quarrel concerning the metaphysics of dreams.’ I replied.

  Kotovsky chortled. ‘That is what you deserve for discussing such matters in provincial restaurants. Which reminds me, did I not hear that at Lozovaya everything started from a conversation in the station buffet too?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘He remembers nothing about it,’ said Anna. ‘He has partial amnesia. It happens sometimes with serious concussion.’

  ‘I hope that you will soon be fully recovered from your wound.’ said Kotovsky, picking up one of the revolvers from the table. He slipped the drum out to one side, then raised and lowered the hammer several times, swore under his breath and shook his head in disbelief. I was astonished to see that there were rounds set in all the chambers of the drum.

  ‘God damn these Tula revolvers,’ he said, looking up at me. You can never trust them. On one occasion they got me into such a pickle

  He tossed the revolver back on to the table and shook his head, as though he were driving away dark thoughts. ‘How is Chapaev?’

  Anna gestured with her hand.

  ‘He drinks.’ she said. ‘God knows what is going on, it really is quite frightening. Yesterday he ran out into the street with his Mauser, wearing nothing but his shirt, fired three times at I he sky, then thought for a moment, fired three times into the ground and went to bed.’

  ‘Stunning, absolutely stunning,’ muttered Kotovsky. ‘Are you not afraid that in this state he might bring the clay machine-gun into action?’

  Anna gave me a sideways glance, and I instantly felt that my presence at the table was superfluous. My companions evidently shared this feeling - the pause lasted so long that it became unbearable.

  ‘Tell me, Pyotr, what did those gentlemen think about the metaphysics of dreams?’ Kotovsky asked eventually.

  ‘Oh, nothing significant,’ I said. ‘They weren’t very intelligent. Excuse me, but I feel a need for some fresh air. My head has begun to ache.’

  ‘Yes, Grigory,’ said Anna, ‘let us see Pyotr home, and then we can decide what to do with the evening.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I said, ‘but I can manage on my own. It is not very far, and I remember the way.’

  ‘Until later then.’ said Kotovsky.

  Anna did not even look at me. I had scarcely left the table before they launched into an animated conversation. On reaching the door I glanced round: Anna was laughing loudly and tapping Kotovsky’s hand with her open palm, as though she was begging him to stop saying something unbearably funny.

  Stepping outside I saw a light-sprung carriage with two grey trotters harnessed to it. It was obviously Kotovsky’s equipage. I turned the corner and set off up the slope of the street along which Anna and I had so recently been walking.

  It was about three o’clock in the afternoon and the heat w a s unbearable. I thought of how everything had changed since the moment of my awakening - there was not a trace left of my pacific mood; most unpleasant of all was the fact that I simply could not get Kotovsky’s trotters out of my head. It seemed absurd that such a petty detail could have depressed me so much - or rather, I wished to regain my normal state, in which such things appeared absurd to me, but I could not. I was in fact deeply wounded.

  The reason, of course, did not lie in Kotovsky and his trotters. The reason lay in Anna, in the elusive and inexpressible quality of her beauty, which from the very first moment had made me invent and ascribe to her a soul of profound and subtle feeling. I could not possibly have dreamed that an ordinary pair of trotters might be capable of rendering their owner attractive in her eyes. And yet it was so. The strangest thing of all, I thought, was that I had assumed that a woman needs something else. But what might that be the riches of the spirit?

  I laughed out loud and two chickens walking along the edge of the road fluttered away from me in fright.

  Now that was interesting, I reasoned, for if I were truthful with myself, that was precisely what I had thought - that there existed in me something capable of attracting this woman and raising me in her eyes immeasurably higher than any owner of a pair of trotters. But the very comparison already involved a quite intolerable vulgarity - in accepting it I was myself reducing to the level of a pair of trotters what should in my view seem of immeasurably greater value to her. If for me these were objects of one and the same order, then why on earth should she make any distinction between them? And just what was this object which was supposed to be of immeasurably greater value to her? My inner world? The things that I think and feel? I groaned out loud in disgust at myself. It was time I stopped deceiving myself, I thought. For years now my main problem had been how to rid myself of all these thoughts and feelings and leave my so-called inner world behind me on some rubbish tip. But even if I assumed for a moment that it did have some kind of value, at least of an aesthetic kind, that did not change a thing - everything beautiful that can exist in a human being is inaccessible tо others, because it is in reality inaccessible even to the person in whom it exists. How could it really be possible to fix it with the eye of introspection and say: ‘There it was, it is and it will be?’ Was it really possible in any sense to possess it, to say, in fact, that it belonged to anyone? How could I compare with Kotovsky’s trotters something that bore no relation to myself, something which I have merely glimpsed in the finest seconds of my life? And how could I blame Anna if she refused to see in me what I have long ago ceased to see in myself? No, this was genuinely absurd - even in those rare moments of life when I have perhaps discovered this most important of things, I have felt quite clearly that it was absolutely impossible to express it. It might be that someone utters a succinct phrase as he gazes out of the window at the sunset, and no more. But what I myself say when I gaze out at sunsets and sunrises has long irritated me beyond all tolerance. My soul is not endowed with any special beauty, I thought, quite the opposite - I was seeking in An
na what had never existed in myself. All that remained of me when I saw her was an aching void which could only be filled by her presence, her voice, her face. So what could I offer her instead of a ride with Kotovsky on his trotters - myself? In other words, my hope that in intimacy with her I might discover the answer to some vague and confused question tormenting my soul? Absurd. Had I been in her position myself, I would have chosen to ride the trotters with Kotovsky.

  1 stopped and sat down on a worn milestone at the edge of the road. It was quite impossibly hot. I felt shattered and depressed; I could not recall when I had ever felt so disgusted with myself. The sour stench of champagne that had permeated my astrakhan hat seemed at that moment truly to symbolize the state of my spirit. I was surrounded on all sides by the indifferent torpidity of summer, somewhere there were dogs barking lazily, while the overheated machine-gun barrel in the sun was strafing the earth in a continuous, never-ending burst of fire. No sooner had this comparison come to mind than I remembered that Anna had called herself a machine-gunner. I felt tears well up in my eyes and I buried my face in my hands.

  A few minutes later I got to my feet and set off up the hill again. I was feeling better; more than that, the thoughts that had just passed rapidly through my mind and seemingly crushed me had suddenly become a source of subtle pleasure. The sadness that had enveloped me was inexpressibly sweet, and I knew that in an hour’s time or so I would attempt to summon it again, but it would not come.

  I soon reached the manor-house. I noticed that there were several horses tethered in the courtyard that had not been there before, and that smoke was rising from the chimney of one of the outhouses. I halted at the gates. The road continued on up the hill and disappeared around a bend into dense greenery; not a single building was visible above me, and it was quite incomprehensible where it might lead to. I did not wish to encounter anyone, so I entered the courtyard and made my way furtively round the house.