Buddha's Little Finger

by Виктор Пелевин

  ‘Of course,’ said Serdyuk, holding out his empty glass to Kawabata.

  ‘But you will not find this void in Western religious painting,’ Kawabata said as he poured. ‘Everything there is filled up with material objects - all kinds of curtains and folds and bowls of blood and God only knows what else. The unique vision of reality reflected in these two works of art is common to only you and us, and therefore I believe what Russia really needs is alchemical wedlock with the East.’

  ‘I swear to God,’ said Serdyuk, ‘only yesterday evening I was…’

  ‘Precisely with the East,’ interrupted Kawabata, ‘and not the West. You understand? In the depths of the Russian soul lies thesame gaping void we find deep in the soul of Japan. And from this very void the world comes into being, constantly, with every second. Cheers.’

  Kawabata drank up, as Serdyuk had already done, and twirled the empty bottle in his fingers.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘most certainly, the value of a vessel lies in its emptiness. But in the last few minutes the value of this particular vessel has increased excessively. That disrupts the balance between value and the absence of value, and that is intolerable. That’s what we must fear the most, a loss of balance.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Serdyuk. ‘Definitely. So there’s none left then?’

  ‘We could go and get some,’ Kawabata replied with a glance at his watch. ‘Of course, we’d miss the football…’

  ‘D’you follow the game?’

  ‘I’m a «Dynamo» fan,’ Kawabata answered, giving Serdyuk a very intimate kind of wink.

  In an old, worn jacket with a hood and rubber boots Kawabata lost all resemblance to a Japanese, becoming instead the absolute picture of a visitor to Moscow from down south - the kind whose appearance alone was enough to prompt suspicions about the real reason for his visit.

  But then Serdyuk had long known that most of the foreigners he encountered on the streets of Moscow were not really foreigners at all, but petty trader riff-raff who’d scrabbled together a bit of cash and then tarted themselves up at the Kalinka-Stockman shop. The genuine foreigners, who had multiplied to a quite incredible extent in recent years, had been trying to dress just (ike the average man on the street, for reasons of personal safety. Naturally enough, most of them got their idea of what the average Moscow inhabitant on the street looked like from CNN. And in ninety cases out of a hundred CNN, in its attempts to show Muscovites doggedly pursuing the phantom of democracy across the sun-baked desert of reform, showed close-ups of employees of the American embassy dressed up as Muscovites, because they looked a lot more natural than Muscovites dressed up as foreigners. And so despite Kawabata’s similarity to a visitor from Rostov - or rather, precisely because of that similarity - and especially because his face didn’t look particularly Japanese, it was really clear from the start that he was actually a pure-blooded Japanese who had just slipped out of his office for a minute into the Moscow twilight.

  Furthermore, Kawabata led Serdyuk along one of those routes that only foreigners ever use - slipping across dark yards, in and out of buildings, through gaps in wire fences, so that after a few minutes Serdyuk was completely disoriented and had to rely entirely on his impetuous companion. Before very long they emerged on to a dark, crooked street where there were several trading kiosks and Serdyuk realized they’d reached their destination.

  ‘What shall we get?’ asked Serdyuk.

  ‘I think a litre of sake would do the job - said Kawabata. ‘And a bit of grub to go with it.’

  ‘Sake?’ said Serdyuk in astonishment. ‘Have they got sake here?’

  ‘This is the place all right,’ said Kawabata. ‘There are only three kiosks in Moscow where you can get decent sake. Why do you think we set up our office here?’

  He’s joking, thought Serdyuk, and looked into the kiosk window. The selection was the usual one, except for a few unfamiliar litre bottles with labels crammed with hieroglyphics visible in among the others.

  ‘Black sake,’ Kawabata spoke gruffly. ‘Two. Yes.’

  Serdyuk was given one bottle, which he stuck in his pocket. Kawabata kept hold of the other one.

  ‘Now just one other thing,’ said Kawabata. ‘It won’t take a moment.’

  They walked along the line of kiosks and soon found themselves in front of a large tin-plated pavilion with a door pockmarked with holes, either from bullets or from nails or - as was more usual - from both. Both of the pavilion’s windows were protected with a traditional decorative grating, consisting of a metal rod bent into a semicircle in one bottom corner with rusty rays of iron radiating from it in all directions. The sign hanging above the door said ‘Jack of All Trades’.

  Inside, there were tins of enamel paint and drying-oil on the shelves, with samples of tiles hanging from the walls and a separate counter piled high with various types of gleaming locks for safes. But in the corner, on an upturned plastic bath, there was something that Serdyuk had never seen before.

  It was a black cuirass finished in gleaming lacquer, with small gold encrustations. Beside it lay a horned helmet with a fan of dangling neck-plates, also covered in black lacquer; on the helmet’s forehead there was a gleaming five-pointed silver star. On the wall beside the cuirass were several swords of various lengths and a long, asymmetrical bow.

  While Serdyuk was inspecting this arsenal, Kawabata engaged the salesman in quiet conversation - they seemed to be talking about arrows. Then he asked him to take down a long sword in a scabbard decorated with white diamond shapes. He drew it half-way out of the scabbard and tried the blade with his thumbnail (Serdyuk noticed that Kawabata was very careful about the way he handled the sword and even when he was testing its cutting edge, he tried not to touch the blade with his fingers). Serdyuk felt as though Kawabata had completely forgotten that he existed, so he decided to remind him.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, turning to Kawabata, ‘what could that star on the helmet mean? I suppose it’s a symbol of some sort?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Kawabata. ‘It’s a symbol, and a very ancient one. It’s one of the emblems of the Order of the October Star.’

  Serdyuk chortled.

  ‘What kind of order’s that?’ he asked. ‘One they gave to the milkmaids in the ancient world?’

  Kawabata gave him a long look, and the corner of his mouth turned up in an answering smile.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘This order has never been awarded by anyone to anyone. Certain people have simply realized that they are entitled to wear it. Or rather that they had always been entitled to wear it.’

  ‘But what is it for?’

  ‘There is nothing that it could be for.’

  ‘The world’s full of idiots, all right,’ Serdyuk said vehemently.

  Kawabata slammed the sword back into its scabbard. The air was suddenly thick with embarrassment.

  ‘You’re joking,’ said Serdyuk, instinctively trying to smooth things over. You might as well have said the Order of the Red labour Banner.’

  ‘I have never heard of… that decoration,’ said Kawabata. ‘The Order of the Yellow Flag certainly does exist, but that’s from a quite different area. And why do you think I’m joking? I very rarely joke. And when I do, I give warning by laughing softly.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I said something wrong,’ said Serdyuk. ‘It’s just that I’m drunk.’

  Kawabata shrugged and handed the sword back to the salesman.

  ‘Are you taking it?’ the salesman asked.

  ‘Not this one,’ said Kawabata. ‘Wrap up that one over there, the small one.’

  While Kawabata was paying, Serdyuk went out on to the street. He had a terrible feeling that he’d done something irredeemably stupid, but he soon felt calmer once he’d looked up a few times at the damp spring stars that had appeared in the sky. Then his eye was caught once again by the splayed metal rays of the window gratings and he thought sadly that when it came down to it, Russia was a land of the rising sun too - if only because the sun had never really
risen over it yet. He decided this was an observation he could share with Kawabata, but by the time Kawabata emerged from the pavilion with a slim parcel tucked under his arm, this thought had already been forgotten, its place taken instead by an all-consuming desire for a drink.

  Kawabata seemed to take in the situation at a glance. Moving several steps away from the doorway, he put his bundle down beside the dark, wet trunk of a tree growing out of a hole in the asphalt and said:

  ‘You know, of course, that in Japan we warm our sake before we drink it. And naturally, nobody would ever dream of drinking it straight from the bottle - that would totally contradict the spirit of the ritual. And drinking on the street is deeply dishonourable. But there is a certain ancient form which allows us to do this without losing face. It is called the «horseman’s halt». It could also be translated as the «horseman’s rest».’

  Keeping his eyes fixed on Serdyuk’s face, Kawabata drew the bottle out of his pocket.

  ‘According to tradition,’ he continued, ‘the great poet Ari-vara Narihira was once dispatched as hunting ambassador to the province of Ise. The road was long, and in those times they travelled on horseback, so the journey took many days. It was summer. Narihira was travelling with a group of friends, and his exalted soul was filled with feelings of sadness and love. When the horsemen grew weary, they would dismount and refresh themselves with simple food and a few mouthfuls of sake. In order not to attract bandits, they lit no fire and drank the sake cold as they recited to each other marvellous verses about what they had seen on the way and what was in their hearts. And then they would set off again…’

  Kawabata twisted open the screw-cap.

  ‘That is where the tradition comes from. When you drink sake In this fashion, you are supposed to think of the men of old, and then these thoughts should gradually merge into that radiant sadness that is born in your heart when you are aware of the fragility of this world and at the same time captivated by its beauty. So let us…’

  ‘With pleasure,’ said Serdyuk, reaching out for the bottle.

  ‘Not so fast,’ said Kawabata, jerking it away from him. ‘This is the first time you have taken part in this ritual, so allow me to explain the sequence of the actions involved and their signifi(ance. Do as I do and I will explain to you the symbolic meaning of what is happening.’

  Kawabata set down the bottle beside his bundle.

  ‘First of all we must tether our horses,’ he said.

  He tugged at the tree’s lowest branch to test its strength and then wove his hands around it as though he were winding a string on to it. Serdyuk realized he was supposed to do the same. Reaching up to a branch a little higher, he roughly repeated Kawabata’s manipulations under his watchful gaze.

  ‘No,’ said Kawabata, ‘he’s uncomfortable like that.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Serdyuk.

  ‘Your horse. You’ve tethered him too high. How will he graze? Remember, it’s not just you that’s resting, it’s your faithful companion as well’

  An expression of puzzlement appeared on Serdyuk’s face, and Kawabata sighed.

  ‘You must understand,’ he said patiently, ‘that in performing this ritual we are transported back, as it were, to the Heian era. At present we are riding through the summer countryside to the province of Ise. I ask you, please, retie the bridle.’

  Serdyuk decided it would be best not to argue. He waved his hands over the upper branch and then wove them around the lower one.

  ‘That’s much better,’ said Kawabata. ‘And now we should compose verses about what we see around us.’

  He closed his eyes and waited in silence for several seconds, then pronounced a long, guttural phrase in which Serdyuk was unable to detect either rhythm or rhyme.

  ‘That’s more or less about what we’ve been saying,’ he explained. ‘About invisible horses nibbling at invisible grass and about how it’s far more real than this asphalt which, in essence, does not exist. But in general it’s all built on word-play. Now it’s your turn.’

  Serdyuk suddenly felt miserable.

  ‘I really don’t know what to say,’ he said in an apologetic tone. ‘I don’t write poems, I don’t even like them very much. And who needs words with the stars up in the sky?’

  ‘Oh,’ Kawabata exclaimed, ‘magnificent! Magnificent! How right you are! Only thirty-two syllables, but worth an entire book!’

  He took a step backwards and bowed twice.

  ‘And how good that I recited my verse first!’ he said. ‘After you I wouldn’t have dared to do it! But where did you learn to write tanka?’

  ‘Oh, around,’ Serdyuk said evasively.

  Kawabata held out the bottle to him. Serdyuk took several large gulps and handed it back. Kawabata also applied himself eagerly, drinking in small sips, holding his free hand behind him - there was obviously some ritual meaning to the gesture, but to be on the safe side Serdyuk avoided asking any questions. While Kawabata was drinking, he lit a cigarette. Two or three drags restored his self-confidence and he even began to feel slightly ashamed of his recent state of timidity.

  ‘And by the way, about the horse,’ he said. ‘I didn’t actually tether him too high. It’s just that recently I’ve been getting tired very quickly, and I take halts of up to three days at a time. That’s why he has a long bridle. Otherwise he’d eat all the grass the first day…’

  Kawabata’s face changed. He bowed once more, walked off to one side and began unfastening the buttons of his jacket over his stomach.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Serdyuk.

  ‘l am so ashamed,’ said Kawabata. ‘I can’t carry on living after suffering such dishonour.’

  He sat down on the asphalt surface, unwrapped the bundle, took out the sword and bared its blade - a glimmering patch of lilac slithered along it, reflected from the neon lamp above their heads. Serdyuk finally realized what Kawabata was about to do and managed to grab hold of his hands.

  ‘Stop that will you, please,’ he said in genuine fright. ‘How can you give such importance to trifles like that?’

  ‘Will you be able to forgive me?’ Kawabata asked emotionally, rising to his feet.

  ‘Please, please, let’s just forget about this stupid misunderstanding. And anyway, a love of animals is a noble feeling. Why should you be ashamed of that?’

  Kawabata thought for a moment and the wrinkles on his brow disappeared.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘l really was motivated by sympathy for a tired animal, not the desire to show that I understood something better than you. There really is nothing dishonourable about that. I may have said something stupid, but I have not lost face.’

  He put the sword back into its scabbard, swayed on his feet and applied himself to the bottle once again.

  ‘If some petty misunderstanding should arise between two noble men, surely it will crumble to dust if they both attack it with the keen edge of their minds,’ he said, handing the bottle to Serdyuk.

  Serdyuk finished off what was left.

  ‘Of course it will,’ he said, ‘That’s as clear as day, that is.’

  Kawabata raised his head and looked dreamily up at the sky.

  ‘And who needs words with stars up in the sky?’ he declaimed. ‘How very fine. You know, I would really like to celebrate this remarkable moment with a gesture of some kind. Why don’t we release our horses? Let them graze on this beautiful plain, and retreat into the mountains during the nights. Surely they have deserved their freedom?’

  ‘You’re a very kind-hearted man,’ said Serdyuk.

  Kawabata walked unsteadily over to the tree, drew the sword from its scabbard and sliced off the lower branch with a movement that was almost invisible, it fell on to the asphalt of the pavement. Kawabata waved his arms in the air and shouted something loud and incomprehensible - Serdyuk realized that he was driving away the horses. Then he came back, picked up the bottle and with disappointment tipped out the last few drops on to the ground.

  ‘I
t’s getting cold,’ Serdyuk observed, looking around and instinctively sensing that any moment now the damp Moscow air would weave itself into the solid shape of a police patrol. ‘Shouldn’t we be getting back to the office?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Kawabata, ‘of course. And we can have a bite to eat there too.’

  Serdyuk didn’t remember the way back at all. He only became aware of himself again when they were back in the same room from which their journey had started. Kawabata and he were sitting on the floor and eating noodles out of soup plates. The second bottle was already half-empty, but Serdyuk realized that he was completely sober and in a distinctly exalted mood. Kawabata must have been feeling good as well, because he was humming quietly and beating time with his chopsticks, sending slim vermicelli snakes flying off in all directions around the room. Some of them landed on Serdyuk, but he didn’t find it annoying.

  When he’d finished eating, Kawabata set his plate aside and turned towards Serdyuk.

  ‘Now tell me,’ he said, ‘what does a man want after returning home from a dangerous journey, once he has satisfied his hunger and thirst?’

  ‘l don’t know,’ said Serdyuk. ‘Round here they usually turn on the television.’

  ‘Nah-ah,’ said Kawabata. ‘In Japan we make the finest televisions in the world, but that doesn’t prevent us from realizing that a television is just a small transparent window in the pipe of a spiritual garbage chute. I wasn’t thinking of those unfortunates who spend their whole lives in a trance watching an endless stream of swill and only feeling alive when they recognize a familiar tin can. I’m talking about people who are worthy of mention in our conversation.’

  Serdyuk shrugged.

  ‘Can’t think of anything in particular,’ he said.