‘Fucked if I ever puts any of that stuff in my mouth again,’ he said in a dull voice. ‘Not for any money. I emptied two clips, and I don’t have a blind idea who I was shooting at.’
‘Didn’t you like it?’ asked Volodin.
‘It was kinda okay at first,’ Shurik replied, ‘but then afterwards… Listen, what were we talking about just before the explosion?’
‘Before what explosion?’ Volodin asked in amazement.
‘That, that… Or what could you call it…’
Shurik looked up at Volodin, as if hoping that he would prompt him with the words he needed, but Volodin said nothing.
‘Okay then,’ said Shurik, ‘at the very beginning we was talking about the eternal high, I remember that. And then the spiel kinda tipped off the rails, flip-flop, and then there was this flash of fire in my eyes… And you was yelling yourself, telling us to leg it into the forest. As soon as I came round I thought the wheels must have exploded. Thought those jerks from Slav-East must have put a bomb in it. And then I thought that didn’t make sense - there was flames all right, but there wasn’t no smell of petrol. So that means it’s all in the mind.’
‘Yes,’ said Volodin, ‘that’s right. All in the mind.’
‘So was that your eternal high, then?’ asked Shurik.
‘You could call it that,’ Volodin replied.
‘What did you do to make us able to see it?’ asked Shurik.
‘I didn’t do it,’ replied Volodin, ‘it was Kolyan. He was the one who took us in there.’
Shurik looked at Kolyan. Kolyan shrugged in puzzlement.
‘Yes,’ went on Volodin, gathering up the things lying by the fire and throwing them in through the Jeep’s open door, ‘you see the way things turn out. Take a good look at your mate, Shurik. He might never have seemed too quick on the uptake, but he was the one who pulled it off. The old spiel about blessed are the poor in spirit is sure right.’
‘Are we gonna leave, or what?’ Shurik asked.
‘Yeah,’ said Volodin. ‘It’s time to go. We’ve got a shoot with Slav-East at twelve. And by the time we get there, what with one thing and another…’
‘I can’t really remember anything straight,’ Shurik summed up the conversation. ‘But I feel really odd. For the first time in my life I want to do something good. Even help someone, maybe, save them from suffering. Take everyone, the whole fucking lot of them, and save them all…’
He turned his face up to the starry sky for a second, and it took on a dreamy and exalted expression. He sighed quietly and then, obviously taking a grip on himself, he took a step towards the camp-fire, turned his back to his two companions, fiddled with something in the region of his belt, and the tongues of flame were extinguished instantly under the heavy weight of the frothing stream.
A few minutes later they were travelling along a rough country road, more like a deep trench dug through the forest. Kolyan was snoring on the back seat. Sitting behind the wheel, Volodin was gazing hard into the darkness where the headlights sliced into it, while Shurik pondered on something and bit nervously at his lower lip.
‘Listen,’ he said at last. ‘There’s something else I don’t get. You said that once the eternal high hits you it never ends.’
‘It doesn’t ever end,’ Volodin replied, frowning as he turned the steering wheel sharply, ‘not if you get in the normal way, through the front door. But you could say we climbed in through the back window. That’s why the alarm went off
‘Some heavy alarm,’ said Shurik, ‘real heavy stuff
‘That’s nothing,’ said Volodin. ‘They could easily have put us away. There are cases like that. Take that Nietzsche Kolyan was jawing about, that’s exactly what happened to him.’
‘But if they collar you there, where do they put you?’ Shurik asked with a strange note of respect in his voice.
‘On the physical plane - in the madhouse. But where they put you on the subtle plane, I don’t know. That’s a mystery.’
‘Listen,’ asked Shurik, ‘can you get there as simple as that? Like, whenever you want?’
‘Nah,’ said Volodin. ‘How can I explain it? I can’t squeeze through the gap. I’ve picked up a lot of spiritual riches in my life. And getting rid of them afterwards is harder than cleaning the shit out of the grooves on the sole of your shoe. So I usually send one of the poor in spirit on ahead so he can squeeze through the eye of the needle and open the door from the inside. Like this time. But I didn’t think that if two poor in heart got in together they would create such a rumpus.’
‘What rumpus?’
Volodin was busy negotiating a complicated section of the road and didn’t answer. The Jeep shuddered once, then again. For several seconds its engine roared strenuously as it clambered up a steep hillock, then it turned and drove on along an asphalt surface, quickly picking up speed. An old Zhiguli came hurtling towards them, followed by a column of several military trucks. Volodin switched on the radio, and a minute later the four people sitting in the Jeep were enveloped in the old, familiar world whose every detail was clear and familiar.
‘So what rumpus was that you was talking about?’ Shurik asked again.
‘Okay,’ said Volodin, ‘we’ll run through all that later. You’ll have some homework to do. But for now let’s think about what we’ve got to show Slav-East.’
‘You think about it,’ said Shurik. ‘We’re only the cover round here. You’re the one pushes the wheels round.’
He was silent for a few seconds.
‘All the same, I just can’t get my head round it,’ he said. ‘Just who is that fourth guy?’
9
‘Indeed, who could this fourth person have been? Who can tell? Could it perhaps have been the devil ascended from the realms of eternal darkness in order to draw a few more fallen souls down after him. Or perhaps it was God who prefers, following tertain events, to make His appearance here on earth incognito, most often associating exclusively with tax-collectors and sinners. Or perhaps - and surely most likely - it was someone quite different, someone far more real than any of the men sitting by the fire, because while there is not and cannot be any guarantee that Volodin, Kolyan and Shurik, and all these cocks, gods, devils, neo-Platonists and Twentieth Congresses ever actually existed, you, who have just been sitting by the fire yourself, you really do exist, and surely this is the very first thing that exists and has ever existed?’
Chapaev put the manuscript down on the top of his bureau and looked out for a while through the semicircular window of his study.
‘It seems to me, Petka, that the writer occupies too large a place in your personality.’ he said eventually. ‘This apostrophe to a reader who does not really exist is a rather cheap trick. Even if we assume that someone other than myself might possibly wade through this incomprehensible narrative, then I can assure you that he won’t give a single moment’s thought to the self-evident fact of his own existence. He is more likely to imagine you writing these lines. And I am afraid…’
‘But I am not afraid of anything.’ I interrupted nervously, lighting up a papyrosa. ‘I simply do not give a damn, nor have I for ages. I simply wrote down my latest nightmare as best I could. And that paragraph appeared… How shall I put it… By force of inertia. After that conversation I had with the baron.’
‘Yes, by the way, what did the baron tell you?’ Chapaev asked. ‘Judging from the fact that you came back wearing a yellow hat, the two of you must have had quite an emotional exchange.’
‘Oh, yes, indeed.’ I said. ‘I could sum it up by saying that he advised me to discharge myself from the hospital. He likened this world of constant alarms and passions, these thoughts about nothing and all this running nowhere, to a home for the mentally ill. And then - assuming I understood him correctly - he explained that in reality this home for the mentally ill does not exist, and neither does he, and neither do you, my dear Chapaev. There is nothing but me.’
Chapaev chuckled.
‘S
o that’s what you took him to mean. That is interesting. We shall come back to that, I promise you… But as for his advice to discharge yourself from the madhouse, that seems to me a suggestion which it is quite impossible to improve on. I really don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself. Yes, indeed, instead of being terrified by each new nightmare, these nightly creations of your inflamed consciousness…’
‘I beg your pardon, I do not think I quite understand,’ I said. ‘Is it my inflamed consciousness that creates the nightmare, or is my consciousness itself a creation of the nightmare?’
‘They are the same thing.’ said Chapaev with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘All these constructs are only required so that you can rid yourself of them for ever. Wherever you might be, live according to the laws of the world you find yourself in, and use those very laws to liberate yourself from them. Discharge yourself from the hospital, Petka.’
‘I believe that I understand the metaphor,’ I said. ‘But what will happen afterwards? Shall I see you again?’
Chapaev smiled and crossed his arms.
‘I promise that you will.’ he said.
There was a sudden crash, and fragments of the upper window-pane scattered across the floor. The stone that had crashed through it struck against the wall and fell to the floor beside the bureau. Chapaev went over to the window and glanced cautiously out into the yard.
‘The weavers?’ I asked.
Chapaev nodded.
‘They are completely wild from drink now,’ he said.
‘Why do you not have a word with Furmanov?’ I asked.
‘I have no reason to believe he is capable of controlling them.’ Chapaev replied. ‘The only reason he remains their commander is because he always gives them exactly the orders that they wish to hear. He only has to make one single serious mistake, and they will find themselves another leader soon enough.’
‘I must confess that I am seriously alarmed on their account.’ I said. ‘The situation appears to me to be completely out of control. Please do not think that I am beginning to panic, but at some fine moment we could easily all find ourselves… Remember what has been going on for the last few days.’
‘It will all be resolved this evening,’ Chapaev said, fixing me with his gaze. ‘By the way, since you declare yourself to be concerned at this problem, which really is genuinely aggravating, why not make your own contribution? Help us to amuse the bored public and create the impression that we have also been drawn into their Bacchanalian revels. They must continue to believe that everyone here is of one mind.’
‘A contribution to what?’
‘There is going to be a concert of sorts today - you know the kind of thing, the men will show each other all kinds of ee-er… acts, I suppose. Everyone who has a trick will show it off. So perhaps you could perform for them as well, and recite something revolutionary? Like that piece you gave at the «Musical Snuffbox»?’
I was piqued.
‘But you must understand, I really am not sure that I shall be able to fit in with the style of such a concert. I am afraid that
‘But you just told me you are not afraid of anything.’ Chapaev interrupted. ‘And then, you should take a broader view of things. In the final analysis, you are one of my men too, and all that is required of you is to show the others what sort of tricks you can turn yourself.’
For just an instant it seemed to me that Chapaev’s words contained an excessive element of mockery; it even occurred to me that it might be his reaction to the text he had just been reading. But then I realized that there was another possible explanation. Perhaps he simply wished to show me that, when viewed from the perspective of reality, no hierarchy remains for the activities in which people engage - and no particular difference between one of the most famous poets of St Petersburg and a bunch of crude regimental talents.
‘Very well then,’ I said, ‘I shall try.’
‘Splendid.’ said Chapaev. ‘Until this evening, then.’
He turned back to his bureau and busied himself with studying the map laid out on it. A pile of papers was encroaching upon the territory of the map, and amongst them I could make out several telegrams and two or three packages sealed with red sealing-wax. Clicking my heels (Chapaev paid not the slightest attention to the sarcasm with which I invested this act), I left the study and ran down the stairs. In the doorway I ran into Anna as she came in from the yard. She was wearing a dress of black velvet which covered her breasts and her throat and reached down almost to the floor: none of her outfits suited her so well.
I actually ran into her in the direct sense of the word; for a brief second my arms, instinctively thrown out ahead of me, closed around her in a tight embrace, unpremeditated and clumsy, but nonetheless disturbing for that. The next instant, as through thrown off by an electric shock, I leapt backwards, stumbled over the last step of the stairway and fell flat on my back - it must all have appeared quite monstrously absurd. But Anna did not laugh - quite the opposite, her face expressed fright and concern.
‘Did you hit your head?’ she asked, leaning down over me solicitously and holding out her hand.
‘No,’ I said, taking her hand in mine and getting to my feet.
Even after I had risen she did not withdraw her hand; for a second there was an awkward pause and then I surprised even myself by saying:
‘Surely you must understand that this is not the way I am in myself, that it is you, Anna, who make me the most ridiculous being in the world.’
‘I? But why?’
‘As if you could not see for yourself… You have been sent by God or the devil, I do not know which, to punish me. Before I met you, I had no idea of how hideous I was not in myself, but in comparison with that higher, unattainable beauty which you symbolize for me. You are like a mirror in which I have suddenly glimpsed the great, unbridgeable gulf which separates me from everything that I love in this world, from everything that is dear to me, that holds any meaning or significance for me. And only you, Anna - hear me out, please - only you can bring back to my life the light and the meaning which disappeared after that first time I saw you in the train! You alone are capable of saving me.’ I uttered all of this in a single breath.
Of course, I lied - no particular light and meaning had disappeared from my life with Anna’s appearance, because there had not been any before - but at the moment when I pronounced these words, every single one of them seemed to me to be the most sacred truth. As Anna listened in silence, an expression of mingled mistrust and incomprehension gradually stole across her face. Apparently this was the very last thing she had expected to hear from me.
‘But how can I save you?’ she asked, knitting her brows in a frown. ‘Believe me, I would be glad to do so, but what exactly is required of me?’
Her hand remained in mine, and I suddenly sensed a wave of insane hope surge in my breast.
‘Tell me, Anna,’ I said quickly, ‘you love to go riding in a carriage, do you not? I have won the trotters from Kotovsky. Here in the manor-house would be awkward. This evening, as soon as it is dark, let us take a ride out into the countryside!’
‘What?’ she asked. ‘But what for?’
‘What do you mean, «what for»? I assumed…’
Her expression changed instantly to one of weariness and boredom.
‘God, what banal vulgarity!’ she said, withdrawing her hand. ‘It would be better if you simply smelled of onions, like the last time.’
She walked past me, ran quickly up the stairs and entered Chapaev’s study without knocking. I went on standing there for some time; as soon as I had recovered control of the muscles of my face, I went out into the yard. After a long search I managed to find Furmanov in the headquarters hut, where he seemed to have settled in and made himself thoroughly at home. Standing on the table, beside an immense ink stain, was a samovar with a vaudeville boot stuck upside down over its chimney; evidently it served them as a kind of bellows for drawing the fire. Pieces of a dismembered herri
ng were lying on rags beside the samovar. Having told Furmanov that I would recite revolutionary verse at the concert that evening, I left him to carry on drinking his tea - I was sure that there was vodka hidden under the table - in the company of two members of the weavers’ regiment. I went out through the gates of the yard and walked slowly in the direction of the forest.
It was strange, but I scarcely gave a thought to the declaration I had just made to Anna. I did not even feel particularly angry with myself. It did occur to me, it is true, that on every occasion she teased me with the possibility of a reconciliation, and then, as soon as I took the bait, made me appear quite monstrously absurd - but even this thought evaporated without the slightest effort on my part.
I walked uphill along the road, looking around me as I went. Soon the road surface came to an end; I walked a little further, then turned off the road, walked down the sloping grassy margin and sat down, leaning my back against a tree.
Holding a sheet of paper on my knees, I rapidly jotted down a text which was good enough for the weavers. As Chapaev had requested, it was in the spirit of the ‘Musical Snuffbox’, a sonnet with an affected rhyme scheme and a jagged rhythm that might have been ripped and torn with sabres. When it was finished, I realized that I had not included any revolutionary imagery and rewrote the final lines.
I was on the point of going back to the manor when I suddenly sensed that the insignificant effort I had made in writing these verses for the weavers had aroused my long-dormant creative powers; an invisible wing unfurled above my head, and everything else lost all importance. I remembered the death of the Emperor - this black news had been brought by Furmanov - and an almost pure anapaest (hreaded with interlinking rhymes flowed out as if of its own accord on to the paper. The form now seemed to me like some totally improbable echo of the past.
Buddha's Little Finger Page 31
