Buddha's Little Finger

by Victor Pelevin

  Serdyuk attempted to stand up, but Kawabata placed a hand on his shoulder and forced him back down.

  ‘Unfortunately, we shall have to do everything in a rush,’ he said with a sigh. ‘We don’t have any white blinds or anything suitable to smoke. There are no warriors with drawn swords waiting at the edge of the platform…We do have Grisha, I suppose, but then, what kind of a warrior is he? Anyway, they’re not really necessary, they’re only there in case a samurai betrays his oath and refuses to commit seppuku. Then they beat him to death like a dog. There haven’t been any cases like that in my time – but then, it’s really beautiful when there are men with drawn swords standing around the border of the fenced-off area, the sun glinting on their steel. Yes, perhaps…Do you want me to call Grisha? And maybe Shura from the first floor as well? To bring it closer to the original ritual?’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Serdyuk.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Kawabata, ‘that’s right. Of course, you understand that the most important thing in any ritual is not the external form, but the internal content that fills it.’

  ‘I understand, I understand. I understand everything,’ said Serdyuk, staring with hatred at Kawabata.

  ‘I am therefore absolutely certain that everything will proceed excellently.’

  Kawabata lifted the short sword he had bought from the floor, drew it out of its scabbard and sliced through the air a couple of times.

  ‘It will do,’ he said. ‘Now let me tell you something. There are always two problems. Not to fall over on your back after the incision – that’s really most inelegant, but I can help you there – and the other problem is not to catch the spinal column with the blade. Therefore the blade should not be inserted too far. Let’s do it this way…’

  He picked up several sheets of paper with fax messages on them – Serdyuk noticed that the sheet with the drawing of the chrysanthemum was among them – stacked them into a neat pile and then carefully wrapped them round the blade, leaving four or five inches of steel projecting.

  ‘That’s it. So, you take the handle in your right hand, and you hold it here with your left hand. You don’t need to push it in very hard, or it might get stuck and then…All right, and then upwards to the right. And now you probably want to focus your mind. We don’t have much time, but at least there’s enough for that.’

  Serdyuk was sitting there in a kind of a trance, staring at the wall. Feeble thoughts ran through his head about pushing Kawabata aside and running out into the corridor and…But the door out there was locked, and there was Grisha with his truncheon. And there was supposed to be someone called Shura on the first floor, too. In theory he could phone the police, but Kawabata was right there beside him with his sword…And the police wouldn’t turn out at this hour of the night. But the most unpleasant thing of all was that any such course of action would bring an expression of astonishment to Kawabata’s face, to be followed rapidly by a grimace of fierce contempt. There was something in what had happened that day which Serdyuk didn’t want to betray, and he even knew what it was – it was that moment after they’d tethered their horses, when they recited poetry to each other. And even though, if he really thought about it, there hadn’t actually been any horses or any poems, the moment had been real, and so had the wind from the south that brought the promise of summer, and the stars in the sky. There couldn’t be the slightest doubt that it had all been real – that is, just the way it should have been. But as for the world waiting for him behind that door which was due to be opened at eight in the morning…

  Serdyuk’s thoughts paused briefly, and he could suddenly hear quiet noises all around him. Kawabata’s stomach was gurgling as he sat there beside the fax with his eyes closed, and Serdyuk thought that his companion was sure to complete the entire procedure with brilliant ease. And the world that the Japanese was preparing to quit – if by ‘world’ we mean everything that a man can feel and experience in his life – was certainly far more attractive than the stinking streets of Moscow that closed in on Serdyuk every morning to the accompaniment of the songs of Filipp Kirkorov.

  Serdyuk realized why he’d suddenly thought of Kirkorov – the girls sitting behind the wall were listening to one of his songs. Then he heard the sounds of a brief quarrel, stifled weeping and the click of a switch. The invisible television began transmitting a news programme, but it seemed to Serdyuk that the channel hadn’t really changed and Kirkorov had simply stopped singing and begun talking in a quiet voice. Then he heard one of the girls whispering agitatedly:

  ‘He is, look! Pissed again! Look at him embracing Chirac! I tell you, he’s pissed as a newt!’

  Serdyuk thought for a few more seconds.

  ‘Ah, to hell with the lot of it,’ he said decisively. ‘Give me the sword.’

  Kawabata walked quickly over to him, went down on one knee and held out the handle of the sword to him.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Serdyuk, and he unbuttoned his shirt under his jacket. ‘Can I do it through the T-shirt?’

  Kawabata thought for a moment.

  ‘It has been done on occasion. In 1454 after he lost the Battle of Okehajama, Takeda Katsueri slit open his belly through his hunting costume. So it’s okay.’

  Serdyuk took hold of the sword.

  ‘Na-ah,’ said Kawabata, ‘I told you, take the handle in your right hand and use your left hand to grip the blade where it’s wrapped. Like that.’

  ‘So I just cut and that’s all?’

  ‘Hang on a second. I’ll be right with you.’

  Kawabata ran across the room and picked up his big sword, then came back to Serdyuk and stood behind him.

  ‘You don’t have to cut very deep. I’ll have to cut deep though. I won’t have a second to assist. You’re lucky. You must have lived a good life.’

  Serdyuk smiled wanly.

  ‘Just an ordinary life,’ he said. ‘Like all the others.’

  ‘But then, you are dying like a true warrior,’ said Kawabata. ‘Right then, I’m all set. Let’s do it on the count of three.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Serdyuk.

  ‘Take a deep breath,’ said Kawabata, ‘and we’re off. One…two…two and a half…And three!’

  Serdyuk stuck the sword into his belly.

  The paper jammed tight against the T-shirt. It wasn’t particularly painful, but the blade felt extremely cold.

  The fax machine on the floor began to ring.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Kawabata. ‘And now up and to the right. Harder, harder…That’s it, that’s right.’

  Serdyuk’s legs began to tremble.

  ‘Now a quick turn in towards the centre and push it into yourself with both hands. That’s it, that’s it…That’s right…Now just an inch more…’

  ‘I can’t,’ Serdyuk said with a struggle, ‘everything’s on fire!’

  ‘So what did you expect?’ said Kawabata. ‘Just a moment.’

  He skipped over to the fax machine and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello! Yes! That’s right, this is the place. Yes, a 1996 model, it’s done two thousand miles.’

  Serdyuk dropped the sword on the floor and pressed his hands to his bleeding belly.

  ‘Quickly!’ he wheezed. ‘Quickly!’

  Kawabata frowned and gestured for him to wait.

  ‘What?’ he yelled into the receiver. ‘What do you mean, three and a half thousand is too much? I paid five thousand for it only a year ago!’

  The light in Serdyuk’s eyes slowly faded and went out, like the lights in a cinema just before the film. He began slowly slumping over to one side, but before his shoulder reached the floor, all awareness of his body had disappeared; there was nothing left but an all-consuming agony. Through a red, pulsating mist he heard Kawabata’s voice:

  ‘What d’you mean damaged? Where’s it damaged? You call two scratches on the bumper damage? What? What? Arsehole yourself! You shit, you fucking wanker! What? You can go fuck yourself!’

  The receiver clanged back int
o place and the fax machine immediately began ringing again.

  Serdyuk noticed that the space in which the telephone was ringing and Kawabata was swearing and everything else was happening was somewhere very far away from him; it was such an insignificant segment of reality that he had to focus with all his strength to follow what was going on there. At the same time, there was absolutely no sense in this act of concentration: Serdyuk realized that this concentration was life. It turned out that his entire, long existence as a human being, with all its longings, hopes and fears, had been nothing more than a fleeting thought that had momentarily attracted his attention. And now Serdyuk – although it was not really Serdyuk at all – was drifting through a qualityless void and he sensed he was coming close to something huge that radiated an intolerable heat. The most terrible thing was that this immense thing that breathed fire was approaching him from behind, which meant that it was impossible for him to see what it actually was. The sensation was quite unbearable, and Serdyuk began feverishly searching for the spot where he had left behind the old, familiar world. By some miracle he found it, and Kawabata’s voice sounded in his head like the tolling of a bell:

  ‘On the islands they didn’t believe at first that you would manage it. But I knew you would. And now, allow me to render you the final service. Huh-u-up!’

  For a long time after that there was nothing at all – although it was not really even correct to say that it was a long time, because there was no time either. And then there was a cough, and a squeaking of floorboards and Timur Timurovich’s voice said:

  ‘Yes, Senya. They found you there like that by the heater with the neck of a broken bottle in your hand. Who were you really drinking with, can you remember?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Tatyana Pavlovna,’ said Timur Timurovich, ‘two cc’s please. Yes, now.’

  ‘Timur Timurovich,’ Volodin said unexpectedly from the corner, ‘they were spirits, you know.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Timur Timurovich asked politely. ‘Who were spirits?’

  ‘All of them from the House of Taira. I swear they were. And he behaved with them like he wanted to die. Probably he really did want to.’

  ‘Then why is he still alive?’ asked Timur Timurovich.

  ‘He was wearing that T-shirt with the Olympic symbols. You remember the year they held the Olympic Games in Moscow, don’t you? Lots and lots of those little symbols, right? He was cutting through the T-shirt.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Well, we should think of them as magic hieroglyphs. I read in a book about a case in ancient times when they drew protective symbols all over this monk, but they forgot about his ears. And when the spirits of Taira came, they took his ears, because as far as they were concerned everything else was invisible.’

  ‘But why did they come to him? I mean, to the monk?’

  ‘He played the flute very well.’

  ‘Ah, the flute,’ said Timur Timurovich. ‘Well, that’s logical enough, I suppose. But don’t you find it odd that these spectres are “Dynamo” fans?’

  ‘There’s nothing surprising about that,’ Volodin replied. ‘Some spectres support “Spartak”, others support the Army Club. Why shouldn’t some of them support “Dynamo”?’

  7

  ‘Dinama! Dinama! Where the fuck you goin’?’

  I leapt up from my bed. A man was chasing a horse around the yard and yelling: ‘Dinama! Where d’ya think you’re off to? Come ‘ere, yer bugger!’

  There were horses snorting and whinnying under my window; looking out, I saw a huge jostling crowd of Red Army men who had not been there the day before. I could only actually tell that they were Red Army men from their ragamuffin appearance: they were clearly dressed in the first garments that had come to hand, for the most part in civilian garb, and it seemed that their preferred method for equipping themselves must have been pillage. Standing in the centre of the crowd was a man wearing a pointed Red Army helmet with a crookedly tacked-on red star, waving his arms about and issuing some kind of instruction. He bore a striking resemblance to the weavers’ commissar, Furmanov, whom I had seen at the meeting in front of the Yaroslavl Station in Moscow, except that now he had a crimson scar from a sabre cut across his cheek.

  I did not, however, waste long contemplating this motley crew, for my attention was drawn to the carriage standing in the very centre of the yard. Four black horses had been harnessed to a long open landau with pneumatic tyres, soft leather seats and a frame made of expensive timber which still bore lingering traces of gilt. There was something quite unbearably nostalgic in this object of luxury, this fragment of a world which had disappeared for ever into oblivion; its inhabitants had naively supposed that they would be riding into the future in vehicles just like this one. In the event, it was only the vehicles which had survived their jaunt into the future, and only then at the cost of transformation into parodies of Hunnish war chariots – such were the associations triggered by the sight of the three Lewis machine-guns tied together by a metal beam which had been installed in the rear section of the landau.

  As I moved back from the window I suddenly remembered that in Russian the soldiers called this kind of chariot a tachanka. The origins of this word were mysterious and obscure, and although I mentally reviewed all of the possible etymologies as I pulled on my boots, I could not find one that really suited the case. I did, however, come up with a humorous play on words in English: tachanka – ‘touch Anka’. But since the memory of my declaration of feelings the previous day to the lady in question was enough to bring a sullen flush to my cheeks, I felt unable to share my joke with anyone.

  These, more or less, were the thoughts that filled my head as I went down the stairs and out into the yard. Someone said that Kotovsky had asked me to come into the staff barn, and I set off in that direction immediately. Two soldiers in black uniforms were standing on guard at the entrance. As I walked past, they stood to attention and saluted. From the look of concentration on their faces, I realized that they knew me well, but unfortunately the concussion had completely erased their names from my memory.

  Kotovsky was sitting on the table wearing a tightly buttoned brown service jacket. He was alone in the room. I noted the deathly pallor of his face, as though a thick layer of powder had been applied to it. Standing beside him on the table was a transparent cylinder inside which clouds of some molten white substance were clumped together. It was a lamp made out of a spirit-stove and a long glass retort, inside which lumps of wax floated in tinted glycerine: five years before they had been the height of fashion in St Petersburg.

  Kotovsky held out his hand. I noticed that his fingers were trembling slightly.

  ‘Since early this morning,’ he said, raising his cool, limpid eyes to my face, ‘for some reason I have been thinking about what awaits us beyond the grave.’

  ‘Then you believe that something does await us?’ I asked.

  ‘Perhaps I didn’t express myself very well,’ said Kotovsky. ‘Let us just say I have been pondering on death and immortality.’

  ‘What could have brought on such a mood?’

  ‘It has never really left me since a certain memorable day in Odessa,’ Kotovsky answered with a cold smile. ‘But that is not important.’

  He folded his arms on his chest and pointed to the lamp with his chin.

  ‘Look at that wax,’ he said. ‘Watch carefully what happens to it. As the spirit-stove heats up, it rises upwards in drops that assume the most fantastic forms. As it rises, it cools. The higher the pieces rise, the more slowly they move. And finally, at some point they stop and begin to fall back towards the very place from which they have just risen, often without ever reaching the surface.’

  ‘There’s a tragedy straight out of Plato in it,’ I said thoughtfully.

  ‘Possibly. But that is not what I have in mind. Imagine that the solidified drops rising upwards in the lamp are endowed with consciousness. In this case they will immediately encounter the proble
m of self-identification.’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  ‘Now this is where it becomes really interesting. If one of those lumps of wax believes that it is the form which it has assumed, then it is mortal, because that form will be destroyed – but if it understands that it is wax, then what can happen to it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I replied.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Kotovsky. ‘In that case it is immortal. But the tricky part is, it’s very difficult for the wax to understand that it is wax – it’s almost impossible to grasp one’s own primordial nature. How can you notice what has been there right in front of you since the beginning of time? And so the only thing that the wax does notice is its temporary form. But the form is arbitrary every time it arises, influenced by thousands and thousands of different circumstances.’

  ‘A quite magnificent allegory. But what conclusion can we draw from it?’ I asked, recalling our conversation of the previous evening concerning the fate of Russia, and the facility with which he had directed the subject towards cocaine. It might well prove to be that he was simply trying to obtain the remainder of the powder and was gradually leading the conversation around to that topic.

  ‘The conclusion is that the only route to immortality for a drop of wax is to stop thinking of itself as a drop and to realize that it is wax. But since our drop is capable only of noticing its own form, all its brief life it prays to the Wax God to preserve this form, although, if one thinks about it, this form possesses absolutely no inherent relation to the wax. Any drop of wax possesses exactly the same properties as its entire volume. Do you understand me? A drop of the great ocean of being is the entire ocean, contracted for a moment to the scope of that drop. But now, tell me how to explain this to these drops of wax that fear most of all for their own fleeting form? How can we instil this thought into them? For it is thoughts that drive them towards salvation or destruction, because in their essence both salvation and destruction are also thoughts. I believe it is the Upanishads that tell us that mind is a horse harnessed to the carriage of the body…’