Buddha's Little Finger

by Victor Pelevin

  I sat in silence, thinking about what she had said. Somewhere far away a horse neighed in the street, followed by the long-drawn-out yell of the coachman. One of the officers at the next table finally managed to get the needle into his vein: he had been trying unsuccessfully for the past five minutes, leaning far back in his chair to get a good view of his arms concealed under the table – all this time his chair had been balanced on its two back legs and there were moments when I thought he was certain to fall. Putting the syringe back into its nickel-plated box, he hid it in his holster. Judging from the oily gleam that immediately appeared in his eyes, the syringe must have contained morphine. For a minute or two he sat swaying on his chair, then he slumped forward on to the table with his elbows, took his comrade by the hand and in a voice filled with a sincerity beyond my power to convey, he said:

  ‘I just thought, Nikolai…D’you know why the Bolsheviks are winning?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because their teaching contains a vital, passionate…’ he closed his eyes and shuffled the fingers of one hand as he searched agonizingly for the right word, ‘a love of humanity, a love full of ecstasy and bliss. Once you accept it fully and completely, Bolshevism is capable of kindling a certain higher hope that lies dormant in the heart of man, don’t you agree?’

  The second officer spat on the floor.

  ‘You know what, Georges,’ he said sullenly, ‘if it was your auntie they’d hanged in Samara, I’d like to hear what you had to say about higher hopes.’

  The first officer closed his eyes and said nothing for several seconds. Then suddenly he went on: ‘They say Baron Jungern was seen in the town recently. He was riding on a horse, wearing a red robe with a gold cross on the chest, and acting as though he wasn’t afraid of anyone…’

  At that moment Anna was lighting a cigarette – when she heard these words she started and the match almost slipped out of her fingers. I thought it would be best to distract her by making conversation.

  ‘Tell me, Anna, what has actually been going on all this time? I mean, since the day when we left Moscow?’

  ‘We have been fighting,’ said Anna. ‘You gave a good account of yourself in battle and became very close to Chapaev – you would spend several nights in a row in conversation with him. And then you were wounded.’

  ‘I wonder what it was we talked about.’

  Anna released a fine stream of smoke in the direction of the ceiling.

  ‘Why not wait for him to get back? I can guess at the approximate content of your discussions, but I would not like to go into any detail. It really concerns nobody but the two of you.’

  ‘But give me at least a general indication, Anna,’ I said.

  ‘Chapaev,’ she said, ‘is one of the most profound mystics that I have ever known. I believe that he has found in you a grateful audience and, perhaps, a disciple. I suspect, furthermore, that the misfortune which you have suffered is in some way connected with your conversations with him.’

  ‘I do not understand a thing.’

  ‘That is hardly surprising,’ said Anna. ‘He has attempted on several occasions to talk with me, and I have also failed to understand a thing. The one thing of which I am sure is that he is capable of reducing a credulous listener to total insanity within the space of a few hours. My uncle is a very unusual man.’

  ‘He is your uncle then,’ I said. ‘So that’s it! I was beginning to think that you and he must be bound by ties of a different nature.’

  ‘How dare you…But then, you can think what you like.’

  ‘Please, I beg you, forgive me,’ I said, ‘but after what you just said about a wounded cavalry officer I thought that perhaps you might be more interested in healthy cavalry officers.’

  ‘One more boorish outburst of that kind and I shall entirely lose interest in you, Pyotr.’

  ‘So you do at least feel some interest. That is comforting.’

  ‘Do not go clutching at words.’

  ‘Why may I not clutch at words if I like the sound of them?’

  ‘Out of simple considerations of safety,’ said Anna. ‘While you were lying unconscious you put on a lot of weight, and you might find the words are not able to support you.’

  She was obviously quite capable of standing up for herself. But this was going just a little too far.

  ‘My dearest Anna,’ I said, ‘I cannot understand why you are trying so hard to insult me. I know for certain that it is a pretence. You are not, in actual fact, indifferent to me, I realized that immediately I came round and saw you sitting there beside my bed. And you have no idea of how deeply I was touched.’

  ‘I am afraid that you will be disappointed if I tell you why I was sitting there.’

  ‘What do you mean? What other motive can there be for sitting beside the bed of a wounded man, apart from sincere…I don’t know – concern?’

  ‘Now I really do feel embarrassed. But you asked for it yourself. Life here is boring, and your ravings were most picturesque. I must confess that I sometimes came to listen – but I came out of nothing but boredom. I find the things you are saying now far less interesting.’

  I had not expected this. I counted slowly to ten as I attempted to recover from the blow. Then I counted again. It was no good – I still felt the same bright flame of hatred, a hatred pure and unadulterated.

  ‘Would you mind giving me one of your cigarettes?’

  Anna proffered her open cigarette case.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You make very interesting conversation.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, feeling the cigarette trembling in my fingers, and becoming even more irritated. ‘What you say is very thought-provoking.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, for instance, several minutes ago you cast doubt on the reality of the lilac in which this town is enveloped. It was unexpected – and yet at the same time very Russian.’

  ‘What do you see in the remark that is specifically Russian?’

  ‘The Russian people realized very long ago that life is no more than a dream. You know what a succubus is?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anna, with a smile. ‘A demon that takes female form to seduce a sleeping man. But what’s the connection?’

  I counted to ten again. My feelings had not changed.

  ‘The most direct one possible. When they say in Russian vernacular that all women suck, the word “suck” as used in the phrase is actually derived from the word “succubus”. An association which came to Russia via Catholicism. No doubt you remember – the seventeenth century, the Polish invasion, in other words, the Time of Troubles. That’s what it goes back to. But I am wandering. All I wished to say was that the very phrase “all women suck”,’ – I reiterated the words with genuine relish – ‘means in essence that life is no more than a dream. And so are all the bitches. That is, I meant to say, the women.’

  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 this 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 expe
rience 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.

  He 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 possible, ‘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 fiancée, Nyura,’ said the staff captain. ‘That is, she was my fiancée. 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 fiancée 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 fiancée, 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. They 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 quit the dining-hall in dignified haste, leaving behind their 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 t
o 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?’