Buddha's Little Finger

by Виктор Пелевин

  The baron swore under his breath. A hand grenade had appeared in his hand; he pulled out the ring and tossed the grenade towards the camp-fire - it fell to the ground about five yards away from our feet. In a reflex response I dropped to the ground and covered my head with my hands, but several seconds went by and still there was no explosion.

  ‘Get up.’ said the baron,

  I opened my eyes to see his figure bending over me. I saw the baron now in a distorted perspective - the hand extended towards me was close beside my face and the eyes gazing attentively at me, in which the multiple reflections of camp fires merged into a single light, seemed like the only two stars in the dark sky of that place.

  ‘Thank you.’ I said. ‘What happened? Didn’t it detonate?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said the baron, ‘everything worked per fectly.’

  Glancing at the spot where the fire had been burning, I was astonished to see no trace of anything - neither of the fire it self, nor of those who had been sitting around it.

  ‘What was that?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ said the baron, ‘petty hooligans high on shamanic mushrooms. They had no idea themselves where they had ended up.’

  ‘And you-’

  ‘Certainly not.’ the baron reassured me. ‘Of course I didn’t I simply brought them round.’

  ‘I am almost sure.’ I said, ‘that I have seen the bald one with the little beard somewhere before - in fact, I am absolutely certain.’

  ‘Perhaps you saw him in your dream.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I replied. The shaven-headed gentleman was quite unambiguously associated for me with the white-tiled walls and cold touch of a needle against the skin which were the standard elements of my nightmares. For several seconds I even thought I might be able to recall his name, but then my attention was distracted by other thoughts, Meanwhile Jungern stood beside me without speaking, as though he were weighing the words he was about to say.

  ‘Tell me, Pyotr,’ he said eventually, ‘what are your political views? I assume you’re a monarchist?’

  ‘Naturally.’ I replied. ‘Why, have I given you cause for any other…’

  ‘No, no,’ cut in the baron. ‘I simply wanted to use an example that you would easily understand. Imagine a stuffy room into which a terribly large number of people have been packed, and they are all sitting on various kinds of ugly stools, on rickety chairs, on bundles and anything else that comes to hand. The more nimble among them try to sit down on two chairs at once or to shove someone else aside in order to take his place. Such is the world in which you live. Simultaneously, every one of these individuals has an immense, shining throne of his own, a throne towering up above this world and all the other worlds that exist. This is a truly regal throne, and nothing lies beyond the power of the person who ascends it. And, most important of all, this throne is entirely legitimate. It belongs to everyone by right. But it is almost impossible to ascend it, because it stands in a place that does not exist. Do you understand? It is nowhere.’

  ‘Yes.’ I said thoughtfully, ‘I was thinking about that only yesterday, baron. I know what «nowhere» means.’

  ‘Then think about the following,’ the baron went on. Here, as I have already said, both of your obsessive states - with Chapaev and without him - are equally illusory. In order to reach «nowhere» and ascend that throne of eternal freedom and happiness, it is enough to remove the single dimension which still remains - the one, that is, in which you see me and yourself. Which is what my own wards are attempting to do. But their chances are very slim, and after a certain period of time they are obliged to repeat the weary round of existence. Why should you, however, not find yourself in this «nowhere» while you are still alive? I swear to you that this is the very best thing you could possibly do with your life. No doubt you are fond of metaphors - you could compare this to discharging yourself from the mental home.’

  ‘Believe me, baron…’ I began with emotion, pressing my hand to my heart, but he did not let me finish.

  ‘And you must do this before Chapaev puts his clay machine-gun to use. Afterwards, as you know, there will be nothing left, not even «nowhere».’

  ‘His clay machine-gun?’ I asked. ‘But what is that?’

  ‘Has Chapaev not told you?’

  ‘No.’

  Jungern frowned,

  ‘Then we won’t go into details. Just keep in mind the metaphor of leaving behind the mental home for freedom. And then perhaps in one of your nightmares you may recall our conversation. But now it is time for us to be going, the lads will be tired of waiting.’

  The baron took hold of my sleeve and the chaotic streaks of light began flashing around us once again. By this stage I was accustomed to the fantastic spectacle and it no longer made me feel dizzy. The baron went on ahead, peering into the gloom; I glanced at his receding chin, his ginger moustache and the severe line at the corner of his mouth, and thought that his external appearance was the least likely thing about him to scare anybody.

  ‘Tell me, baron, why is everyone here so afraid of you?’ I asked, unable to restrain my curiosity. ‘I don’t wish to offend you, but I do not find anything in your appearance particularly frightening.’

  ‘Not everyone sees what you see,’ replied the baron. ‘I usually appear to my friends in the guise of the St Petersburg intellectual whom I once actually was. But you should not conclude that that is what I actually look like.’

  ‘What do all the others see?’

  ‘I won’t bore you with all the details,’ said the baron. ‘Lei me just say that I hold a sharp sabre in each of my six hands.’

  ‘But which of your appearances is the real one?’

  ‘I do not have a real one, unfortunately,’ he replied.

  I must confess that the baron’s words produced quite a profound impression on me, even though, of course, if I had bothered to think for a while, I might have guessed everything for myself.

  ‘We’re almost there now,’ the baron said, in almost a casual holidaymaker’s voice.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said, glancing at him sideways, ‘why do they call you the Black Baron?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jungern with a smile, ‘that is probably because when I was fighting in Mongolia the living Buddha Bogdo-Gegen Tutukhtu granted me the right to use a black palanquin.’

  ‘Then why do you ride in a green one?’

  ‘Because in exactly the same way I was granted the right to ride in a green palanquin.’

  ‘Very well. But then why don’t they call you the Green Haron?’

  Jungern frowned.

  ‘Do you not think you are asking rather too many questions?’ he said. ‘You would do better to take a look around in order to fix this place in your memory - you will never see it again. That is, you could, of course, see it again, but I sincerely hope that will not happen to you.’

  I followed the baron’s advice.

  Far ahead of us a light had appeared which seemed larger than the others. It was not hurtling towards us with the same rapidity as the other fires, but was approaching gradually, as though we really were walking towards it in the normal fashion. I guessed that this must be the final point of our walk.

  ‘Are your friends by that big camp-fire?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the baron. ‘But I wouldn’t call them friends exactly. They are my former regimental comrades: I was once their commanding officer.’

  ‘You mean that you fought together?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the baron, ‘that too. But that is not the most important thing here. We were all executed together by firing squad in Irkutsk. I wouldn’t exactly say it was my fault, but even so… I feel a certain special responsibility for them.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘If I were suddenly to find myself in such a dark and desolate place, I should probably very much want someone to come and help me.’

  ‘You know, you should not forget that you are still alive,’ said the baron. ‘All this darkness and emptiness
that surrounds you is actually the most brilliant light in all existence. Just stop there for a moment.’

  I stopped mechanically, and without giving me a moment to grasp what he was doing, the baron gave me a sudden shove from behind.

  This time, however, he did not catch me completely unawares. During the moment when my body was falling to the ground, I was somehow able to retain my awareness of that imperceptibly short instant of return to the usual world - or rather, since in reality there was absolutely nothing of which to be aware, I managed to grasp the nature of this return. I do not know how to describe it; it was as though one set of scenery was moved aside and the next was not set in its place immediately, but for an entire second I stared into the gap between them. And this second was enough to perceive the de ception behind what I had always taken for reality, to perceive the simple and stupid way in which the Universe was arranged. It was an encounter which left me filled with confusion, annoyance and a certain sense of shame for myself.

  The baron’s movement had been so powerful that I only managed to put my hands out in front of me at the very last moment, and I struck my forehead against the ground.

  When I raised my head I saw the ordinary world in front of me once again - the steppe, the early evening sky and the line of hills close by. I could see the baron’s back swaying as he walked towards the only camp-fire on this steppe, from which a column of white smoke rose vertically into the sky.

  I leapt to my feet and dusted down my trousers, which were soiled at the knees, but I thought better of following him. As the baron approached the camp-fire the group of bearded men in khaki uniforms and matted yellow astrakhan hats who were seated at it rose to greet him.

  ‘Now then, my lads!’ Jungern roared in a roistering commanding officer’s bass. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘We do our best, your honour! We get by all right, God be praised!’ came the chorus of replies. The baron was surrounded from all sides and completely hidden from view. I could see that the soldiers loved him.

  I noticed a Cossack in a yellow astrakhan hat walking towards me from the direction of the fire. His face looked so fierce that for a second I felt quite scared, but I was reassured by the sight of a bluish-green tinted tooth glass in his hand.

  Well, yer honour.’ he grated as he reached me, ‘you must have had a fair old scare, I reckon.’

  ‘Yes.’ I said, ‘I did rather.’

  ‘Better put yerself right then.’ said the Cossack, holding out the glass.

  I drank. It was vodka, and I really did begin feeling better almost immediately.

  ‘Thank you. That was just the thing.’

  ‘Well now,’ said the Cossack, taking back the empty glass, ‘you and the baron on friendly terms, are ye?’

  ‘We are acquainted.’ I said evasively.

  «He’s a strict one.’ the Cossack commented. ‘Everything by the book. We’re going to chant now, and then answer questions. That is, the others is going to answer questions. I’ve already hit the target. I’m leaving today. For good.’

  I looked at him - on closer inspection there no longer seemed to be anything fierce about his face, it was just that his features were coarse, weathered by the wind and scorched by the mountain sun. Despite this coarseness, his face bore a thoughtful, even dreamy expression.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked the Cossack.

  ‘Ignat.’ he replied. ‘And you’d be called Pyotr.’

  Yes.’ I said, ‘but how do you know?’

  Ignat smiled ever so slightly.

  ‘I’m from the Don.’ he said. ‘And you’d be from the capital, I reckon.’

  ‘Yes.’ I said, ‘from Petersburg.’

  ‘Well now, Pyotr, don’t you go over to the camp-fire for the time being. His lordship the baron don’t like anyone interfering with the chanting. Just let’s you and me sit here and listen a while. And whatever you don’t understand I can explain.’

  I shrugged and sat on the ground, crossing my legs Turkish style.

  Something rather strange was taking place around the camp-fire. The Cossacks in the yellow astrakhan hats had sat down in a semicircle and the baron was standing in front of them exactly like a choirmaster, with his hands raised.

  ‘Oh, the nights, the weary nights,’ their powerful male voices sang out. ‘And I have slept hardly at all…’

  ‘I am very fond of this song.’ I said.

  ‘How could your lordship be fond of it, if he’s never heard it before?’ asked Ignat, squatting down beside me.

  ‘What do you mean, of course I have. This is an old Cossack song.’

  ‘No.’ said Ignat. ‘You’re mixing things up. This is a song his lordship the baron wrote specially for us so that chanting it would make us think. And so it’d be easy for us to remember, the words in it are just the same as in the song you’re talking about, and the music too.’

  ‘Then what does his contribution consist of?’ I asked. ‘I mean, how is it possible to distinguish the song that existed earlier from the one that the baron composed, if the words and the music are both the same?’

  ‘Well, the song his lordship the baron wrote has a completely different meaning. Just you listen and I’ll explain, Hear them singing: «And I have slept hardly at all, but I have seen a dream.» You know what that means? Although I couldn’t sleep, I still dreamed just like as if I was sleeping, under stand? That means, it makes no difference whether you sleep or you don’t, it’s all a dream.’

  ‘I understand.’ I answered. ‘What comes next?’

  Ignat waited for the couplet.

  ‘That’s it.’ he said, ‘listen: «And in my dream my black steed gambolled, danced and pranced beneath me.» There’s great wisdom hidden in them words. You’re an educated man, you must know that in India they have a book called the Oopsanyshags.’

  ‘Yes.’ I said, immediately recalling my conversation with Kotovsky.

  ‘Well, it says in that book a man’s mind is like a Cossack’s horse. Always carrying you forward. Only his lordship thl baron says as nowadays people is riding horses of quite a different colour… Nobody can manage his steed, so it’s taken the bit in its teeth, like, and now it’s not the rider as controls the horse, but the horse as carries him off wherever it fancies. So the horseman’s not even thinking any more about how he has to get any place in particular. He just goes along wherever the horse wanders. His lordship the baron even promised to bring us this special book - The Headless Horseman, it’s called - seems like it was written specially all about this. But he keeps on forgetting. He’s just too busy. We have to be grateful for-.

  ‘And what comes next?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Next? What comes next? «And our captain quick of wit, heard my dream then read me it… Oi, your wild and woolly head you are bound to lose, he said.» The captain, like - well, that’s clear enough, that’s the way his lordship the baron writes about himself, he really is smart all right. And the bit about the head is clear enough, too - that’s straight out of the Oopsanyshags. I f the mind has worked itself up into such a lather that it don’t know where it’s going itself, it’s clear enough it’s done for. And there’s another meaning here, too, one as his lordship only whispered in my ear not long ago. The meaning is as all this human wisdom will have to be left behind here anyway, like. But that’s no cause for regretting, ‘cause all that don’t apply to the most important thing of all. That’s why the song don’t say that you’re done for, only your wild and woolly head. And that’s a gonner anyway.’

  Ignat rested his chin thoughtfully on his hands and fell silent as he listened to the song.

  “nd, oh, the bitter winds did roar From out the East so cold and heavy. And the yellow hat they tore From off my head so wild and woolly…”

  I waited some time for his commentary, but it did not come, so I decided to break the silence myself.

  ‘I can understand the part about the winds from the East myself.’ I said, 'Ex orienta lux, as they say. But why does the hat g
et blown off?’

  ‘So as he won’t have any more attachments.’

  ‘But why is the cap yellow?’

  ‘That’s because we’re Gelugpa. So we have yellow hats. If we was Karmapa, they’d be red hats. And if we was Bonpo, like down on the Don, then they’d be black. But the reality behind them all is the same anyhow. If the head’s a gonner, then what’s it care what kind of hat it used to wear? Or if you looks at it from the other side - where freedom begins, colours don’t mean nothing no more.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘the baron has certainly taught you well. But what exactly is that most important thing of all which starts after the wild and woolly head is gone?’

  Ignat gave a deep sigh.

  ‘Ah, that’s the tricky bit.’ he said. ‘His lordship the baron asks that one every evening, and no one can answer him, no matter how they all try, D’you know what happens when one of the lads answers that one?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘His lordship immediately transfers him to the Special Regiment of Tibetan Cossacks. That’s a very special kind of force, that is. The pride and joy, so to speak, of the entire Asian Cavalry Division, although if you think about it, a regiment like that doesn’t really belong in any cavalry division, because those who serve in it ride elephants, not horses.’ It occurred to me that the man before me was probably one of those natural-born liars who can momentarily invent a story of any degree of improbability, but who always adorn it with such an abundance of detail that they make you believe it, if only for a second.

  ‘How can you slash with your sabre from up on an elephant?’ I asked. ‘That would be most awkward.’