Buddha's Little Finger

by Виктор Пелевин

  The poem began with a description of two sailors who seemed born from a condensation of the wind and the twilight that had settled over the world. Cleaving the foliage with the dark leather of their jackets, they were leading the hound Emperor. The Emperor was tired and resigned to his fate, but his eyes noticed many things that the sailors did not see; faces in the bushes, orderlies spitting in his beard, and the astounding beauty of this final evening. In their coarse fashion, the sailors attempted to lift the Emperor’s spirits, but he remained indifferent to their words, and even to the clatter of their breech-locks. Clambering up on to a tree stump, he shouted to them:

  In the midst of this stillness and sorrow,

  In these days of distrust

  Maybe all can be changed - who can tell?

  Who can tell what will come

  To replace our visions tomorrow

  And to judge our past?

  He even spoke in English, a fact, however, that did not surprise me in the slightest. Indeed, how could he, before his death (or perhaps before something else - I did not quite understand that point myself) have expressed himself in the Russian language defiled by the decrees of the Council of People’s Commissars? I found the orderlies far more surprising - I simply could not make out what they meant. However, I had never understood my own poetry particularly well, and had long suspected that authorship is a dubious concept, and all that is required from a person who takes a pen in hand is to line up the various keyholes scattered about his soul so that a ray of sunlight can shine through on to the paper set out in front of him.

  When I returned to the manor-house the performance was already in full swing. In the corner of the yard stood the platform of an improvised stage, hastily cobbled together by the weavers from the planks of a dismantled fence. The men were sitting on benches and chairs which they had pilfered from wherever they could find them, attentively following the action. As I approached, a horse was being forcibly dragged away by its reins, to the loud laughter and ribald comments of the audience - the poor animal obviously possessed some talent which it had been forced to demonstrate. Then a thin man with a sabre hanging on his belt and the face of a village atheist appeared at the edge of the stage; I realized that he must be performing the function of master of ceremonies. He waited for the hubbub of voices to die away and then said solemnly:

  ‘A horse with two pricks is nothing compared to what we have next. Your attention please for Private Straminsky, who can pronounce the words of the Russian language with his arse, and who worked in a circus prior to the liberation of the people. He talks quietly, so please keep quiet - and no laughing.’

  A bald young man wearing spectacles appeared on the stage. I was surprised to note that, in contrast with the majority of Furmanov’s people, his features were cultured, without a trace of bestiality. He belonged to the frequently encountered type of the eternal optimist, with a face creased by frequent grimaces of suffering. He gestured for a stool, then leaned down and supported himself on it with his hands, with his side to the audience and his face turned towards them.

  ‘Great Nostradamus,’ he said, ‘tell me, do, how long will the bloody hydra of the foe continue to resist the Red Army?’

  I wondered what the name Nostradamus could mean for them - perhaps some mighty hero bestriding the dark annals of proletarian mythology? The invisible Nostradamus replied:

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘And why does the bloody hydra continue to resist?’ asked the mouth.

  ‘The Entente.’ replied its invisible interlocutor.

  During the replies the lips of the man on the stage did not move at all, but he performed rapid movements with his protruding backside. The conversation was about politics and the health of the leaders - there were rumours that Lenin was in hospital again with heart problems, and only the captain of his guard was allowed to see him; the hall fell into an entranced silence.

  I immediately realized how it was done. A long time before, in Florence, I had seen a street ventriloquist who had summoned up the spirit of Dante. The performance of the man on stage was something of the same kind, with the exception that the answers given by the ‘spirit’ obliged one to assume that Nostradamus had been the very first Marxist in Europe. It was obvious that the performer was a ventriloquist from the peculiar timbre of the replies - low, breathy and rather indistinct. The only thing that was not clear was why he needed to convince the weavers that he was uttering the sounds through his backside.

  This was a genuinely interesting question. At first I thought it might be impossible to show the Red weavers a conversation with a spirit because, according to their view of the world, spirits did not exist. But then I was suddenly struck by another explanation, and I suddenly realized that the answer lay elsewhere. The performer had instinctively understood that only something thoroughly bawdy was capable of arousing lively interest from his audience. In this regard his skill in itself was entirely neutral - as far as I understood it, ventriloquists do not even speak with their bellies, they simply pronounce the sounds of speech without opening their lips - and therefore he had to present his act as something repulsively indecent.

  Oh, how I regretted at that moment that I did not have one of the St Petersburg symbolists there with me. Could one ever possibly find a symbol deeper than this - or, perhaps I should say, wider? Such will be the fate, I thought with bitterness, of all the arts in this dead-end tunnel into which we are being dragged by the locomotive of history. If even a fairground ventriloquist has to resort to such cheap tricks to maintain his audience’s interest, then what can possibly lie ahead for the art of poetry? There will be no place at all left for it in the new world - or rather, there will, but poems will only be considered interesting if it is known on the basis of sound documentary evidence that their author has two pricks, or at the very least, that he is capable of reciting them through his arse. Why, I asked myself, why does any social cataclysm in this world always result in the most ignorant scum rising to the top and forcing everyone else to live in accordance with its own base and conspiratorially defined laws?

  In the meanwhile, the ventriloquist forecast the imminent demise of the kingdom of capital, then recited a weary, worn-out joke which no one in the audience understood, before issuing in farewell several protracted sounds of a vulgar physiological nature, which were greeted by the audience with enthusiastic laughter.

  The master of ceremonies appeared again and announced my entrance. I ascended the sagging wooden steps, assumed my stance at the edge of the stage and gazed out without speaking at the assembled public. It was a far from pretty sight. It sometimes happens that the glass eyes of a stuffed wild boar project the semblance of some expression, some feeling which might have been expressed if the animal had been alive; the impression is in turn fleshed out by the mind of the observer. Some similar effect seemed to be in evidence here, except in reverse; although the multitude of eyes staring at me were actually alive and I seemed to understand the feeling reflected in them, I knew that they did not express to even the very slightest degree what I was imagining. In reality I would never be able to decode the meaning that glittered in them; indeed, it was probably not worth the effort.

  Not everyone was looking at me. Furmanov was engaged in conversation about something with his two aides-de-camp - in their case the etymology of the term ‘aides’ could be traced back, beyond the slightest possible doubt, to the word ‘hades’. I noticed Anna sitting in one of the most distant rows. She was chewing on a straw with a smile of contempt on her face. I do not think the smile was intended for me, she was not even looking at the stage; she was wearing the same black velvet dress she had worn a couple of hours before.

  I set one foot in front of the other and folded my arms on my chest, but carried on standing there in silence, gazing at some point in the gangway. Soon the audience began murmuring restlessly, and in a few seconds the murmur had swollen to a rather loud rumble, providing a muted background for the more distinct sounds of
whistles and hoots. Then, in a deliberately quiet voice, I began to speak:

  ‘Gentlemen, I feel I must beg your forgiveness for making use of my mouth in order to address you, but I have had neither the time nor the opportunity to master the accepted modes of intercourse here

  Nobody heard the first words I spoke, but by the end of this phrase the noise had dropped so noticeably that I could distinguish the buzzing of the multitudinous flies circling above my audience.

  ‘Comrade Furmanov has asked me to recite some poetry for you, something revolutionary.’ I continued. ‘As a commissar, there is one comment I would like to make in this regard. Comrade Lenin has warned us against excessive enthusiasm for experimentation in the field of form. I trust that the artist who preceded me will not take offence - yes, yes, you, comrade, the one who spoke through your arse. Lenin has taught us that art is made revolutionary, not by its unusual external appearance, but by the profound inner inspiration of the proletarian idea. And by way of an example I shall recite for you a poem which speaks of the life of various princes and counts, but which is, nonetheless, a very clear example of proletarian poetry.’

  Silence had established its total and undisputed reign over the seated rows of the public. As though saluting some invisible Caesar, I raised my hand above my head, and in my usual manner, using no intonation whatsoever but merely punctuating the quatrains with short pauses, I recited:

  Princess Mescherskaya possessed a classy number, a fine little

  Tight fitting velvet dress, black as the Spanish night.

  She wore it to receive a friend newly back from the capital,

  Who shook and trembled and fled from the sight.

  How very wearisome, the princess thought, oh what a painful bore,

  I’ll go and play some Brahms now, why should I care less?

  Meanwhile her visitor concealed his naked self behind the portiere,

  A bagel painted black a-trembling in his passionate caress.

  This story will seem no more than a joke

  To little children who will never guess

  How bloodsuckers exploited common folk,

  Oppressed the peasants and the working class.

  But now each working man can wear a bagel

  As bold as any count was ever able.

  For several seconds the silence hung in the air above the seats, and then they suddenly erupted into louder applause than I had ever managed to elicit even in ‘The Stray Dog’ in St Petersburg. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Anna had risen and was walking away along the aisle, but just at that moment it did not bother me in the least. If I am honest, I just confess that I felt genuinely flattered, even to the extent that I forgot all the bitter thoughts I had been thinking about my audience. I brandished my fist at some invisible foe, then thrust my hand into my pocket, pulled out my Browning and fired twice into the air. The response was a rumbling cannonade from the bristling forest of gun-barrels that had sprouted above the audience, followed by a roar of sheer delight. I gave a brief bow and left the stage, then skirted round a group of weavers who were still clapping, before heading for the manor-house.

  My success had somewhat intoxicated me. I was thinking that genuine art is distinguished from its false counterpart by its ability to beat a path to even the most coarse and brutalized of hearts, and its ability to exalt to the heavens, to a world of total and unfettered freedom, even the most hopeless victim of the infernal global trance. However, I came to my senses soon enough as I was stung by the realization, painful though it was for my own vanity, that they had applauded me simply because my poem had seemed to them to be something in the nature of a warrant which widened by a few extra degrees the scope of their unlimited and unpunished licence: to Lenin’s maxim that we should ‘plunder what has been plundered’ had been added permission to don a bagel, however unclear the repercussions of that might yet he.

  I went back to my room, stretched out on the divan and stared at the ceiling with my hands clasped behind my back. I thought of how everything that had happened to me during the past two or three hours was a magnificent illustration of the eternal, unchanging fate of the Russian intellectual. Writing odes about Red banners in secret, but earning his keep with verses in honour of the name-day of the Head of Police or the opposite, perceiving with his inner eye the final appearance of the Emperor, while mouthing off about the hanging of a count’s bagels on the horny genitals of the proletariat.

  Thus it will be always, I thought. Even if we were to allow that power in this terrifying country might not be won by one of the cliques warring for it, but could simply fall into the hands of villains and thieves of the kind to be found in all the various different ‘Musical Snuffboxes’, the Russian intelligentsia would still go running to them for business like a dog’s barber.

  While thinking all of this, I had already fallen half-asleep, but I was summoned back to reality by an unexpected knock at my door.

  ‘Yes, yes.’ I shouted, without even bothering to get up from the bed, ‘come in!’

  The door opened, but no one came in. I waited for several seconds until my patience was exhausted and I raised my head to look. Anna was standing in the doorway, wearing that same black velvet dress.

  ‘May I come in?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, of course.’1 said, rising hurriedly, ‘please. Have a seat.’

  Anna sat down in the armchair - the second when her back was turned was just long enough for me to sweep a tattered puttee lying on the floor under the bed with a movement of my foot.

  Once in the armchair, Anna folded her hands on her knees and contemplated me thoughtfully for several seconds with a gaze that seemed clouded by some thought that was not yet entirely clear even to her.

  ‘Would you like to smoke?’ I asked.

  She nodded. I took out my papyrosas and placed them in front of her on the table, then set beside them the saucer which served for an ashtray and struck a match.

  Thank you.’ she said, releasing a thin stream of smoke in the direction of the ceiling. There seemed to be some kind of struggle taking place within her. I was about to make some banal remark in order to start the conversation, but I stopped myself just in time when I remembered how that usually ended. Then suddenly Anna herself spoke.

  ‘I cannot say that I really liked your poem about that princess.’ she said, ‘but in comparison with the other participants in the concert you cut rather an impressive figure.’

  Thank you.’ I said.

  ‘And by the way, I spent all last night reading your poems. The garrison library turned out to have a book…’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘That I do not know. The first few pages were missing, someone must have torn them out for rolling cigarettes.’

  ‘Then how could you tell that the poems were mine?’

  ‘I asked the librarian. Anyway, there was one poem, a reworking of Pushkin, about opening one’s eyes and seeing nothing but snow, empty space and mist, and then on further and further… It was very good. How did it go now? No, I can’t remember. Ah, yes:

  But desire burns within you still,

  The trains depart for it,

  And the butterfly of consciousness

  Flits from nowhere into nowhere.

  ‘Yes, I recall it now,’ I said. ‘The book is called Songs of the Kingdom of “I”‘

  ‘What a strange title. It does sound rather smug.’

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘That is not the point. It is simply that in China there once used to be a kingdom whose name consisted of a single letter - «A». I was always amazed by that. You know, we talk about «a» forest or «a» house, but here all we have is «a». Like an indication of something that lies beyond a point at which words come to an end, and all we can say is «a», but «a» what exactly is impossible to say.’

  ‘Chapaev would immediately ask you whether you can say what you mean when you say «1».’

  ‘He has already asked. But in relation to the book - it rea
lly is one of my weakest, by the way, I must give you the others some time - I can explain. I used to do a lot of travelling, and then at some moment I suddenly realized that no matter where I might go, in reality I can do no more than move within a single space, and that space is myself. At the time I called it «I», but now I would probably call it «A».’

  ‘But what about other people?’ Anna asked.

  ‘Other people?’ I queried.

  ‘Yes. You write a lot about other people. For instance.’ she knitted her brows slightly, evidently in the effort of remembering, ‘take this:

  They gathered in the old bathhouse,

  Put on their cufflinks and their spats,

  Then banged their heads against the wall,

  Counting out the days and the miles…

  I hated the sight of their faces so badly

  That ‘I could not live without their company -

  The sudden stench of the morgue

  Refines the language of recall, and I…

  ‘Enough.’ I interrupted her, ‘I remember. I would not say that is really my best poem.’

  ‘I like it. And in general, Pyotr, I liked your book terribly. But you have not answered my question: what about other people?’

  ‘I am not sure I quite understand what you mean.’

  ‘If everything that you can see, feel and understand is within you, in that kingdom of «I», does that mean that other people are quite simply not real? Me, for instance?’

  ‘Believe me, Anna,’ I said passionately, ‘if there is one thing in the world that is real to me, then it is you. I have suffered so much from our… What can I call it - our falling-out

  that

  ‘That is my fault.’ said Anna. ‘I do have such a bad character.’

  ‘What nonsense, Anna, I have nobody to blame but myself. You have shown such patience in bearing all the clumsy, absur-’