Buddha's Little Finger

by Victor Pelevin

  ‘Let’s get away from here,’ Jungern said. ‘After all, we wanted to pay a visit to my lads, didn’t we?’

  I clutched at his sleeve and the camp-fires went hurtling past us once again – our speed was now so great that they extended into blurred zigzags and dotted lines. I was more than half certain that it must all be some kind of illusion, for I could not feel any wind upon my face; it was as though when the baron began to move, it was not us, but the world around us that was set into motion. I became completely disoriented and lost all concept of the direction of our movement. Sometimes we would halt for a few seconds and I could examine the individuals sitting round the nearest camp-fire – for the most part they were men with bushy beards and rifles who all looked very much like one another, and as soon as we approached they would throw themselves to the black ground beneath our feet. Once I was struck by the fact that they held spears instead of rifles, but our halt was too brief for me to be absolutely certain. After a while I realized what our manner of movement reminded me of: these crazy, unpredictable zigzags were precisely the movements of a bat flying in the darkness.

  ‘I hope you understand, Pyotr,’ the baron’s voice rumbled in my ear, ‘that you and I are not at present in a place where it is possible to lie? Or even not to be completely honest?’

  ‘I understand,’ I said, feeling my head beginning to spin from the flashing yellow and white streaks and broken lines.

  ‘Answer me one question,’ said the baron. ‘What do you want more than anything else in life?’

  ‘Me?’ I queried and began thinking.

  This was a question which was hard to answer without telling a lie. I thought for a long moment about what I should say, but I couldn’t think of anything, and then suddenly the answer came by itself.

  ‘I want to find my golden joy,’ I said.

  The baron laughed loudly. ‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘But what does that mean to you – your golden joy?’

  ‘The golden joy,’ I replied, ‘is when a peculiar flight of free thought makes it possible to see the beauty of life. Am I making myself clear?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the baron. ‘If only everyone expressed themselves so clearly and so much to the point. How did you arrive at such a precise formulation?’

  ‘It comes from my dream,’ I replied, ‘or rather, from my nightmare. I remembered the strange phrase by heart because it was written in a notebook from a mental home which I was leafing through in the dream – I was leafing through it because there was supposed to be something very important about me in there.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the baron, turning to the right – at which the carousel of flames around us performed a movement like a side-somersault. ‘I’m very glad that you mentioned this yourself. The reason you are here is that Chapaev asked me to explain something to you. In essence, of course, he didn’t ask me to explain anything special that he couldn’t have told you himself. He has already told you it all before – the last time was during your journey here. But for some reason you still seem to think that the world of your dreams is less real than the space in which you get drunk with Chapaev in the bathhouse.’

  ‘You are correct,’ I said.

  The baron came to a sudden halt, and immediately the camp-fires stopped dancing around us. I noticed that the flames had taken on a strangely alarming reddish tinge.

  ‘But why do you think so?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, if only because eventually I return to the real world,’ I said. ‘To the place, as you put it, where I get drunk with Chapaev in the bathhouse. On the intellectual level, of course, I understand perfectly well what you are trying to say. More than that, I have even noticed that when I am actually dreaming the nightmare it is so real that there is absolutely no way of knowing that it is a dream. I can touch objects in the same way, I can pinch myself…’

  ‘But then how do you distinguish your dream from the waking world?’ the baron interrupted.

  ‘By the fact that when I am awake I have a clear and unambiguous sense of the reality of what is happening. As I have now.’

  ‘So you have that feeling now?’ the baron asked.

  ‘In general, yes, I do,’ I said, somewhat bemused. ‘Although I must confess that the situation is somewhat unusual.’

  ‘Chapaev asked me to take me you with me so that for once at least you would find yourself in a place which has absolutely no relationship either to your nightmare about the mental home or to your nightmares about Chapaev,’ said the baron. ‘Take a good look around you – both of your obsessive dreams are equally illusory here. All I have to do is leave you by one of the camp-fires and you will understand what I mean.’

  The baron was silent for a moment, as though allowing me time to savour the full horror of such a prospect. I looked around slowly at the blackness studded with an infinite number of unattainable points of light. He was right. Where were Chapaev and Anna? Where was that fragile night-time world with the tiled walls and the busts of Aristotle that crumbled into white dust? They were nowhere now, and furthermore I knew with absolute certainty that there was no place where they could exist, because I myself, standing here beside this strange man – if he was indeed a man – constituted the only possibility of being, the exclusive means by which all these psychiatric clinics and civil wars came into the world. And the same applied to this gloomy limbo, to its terrified inhabitants and its tall, stern sentry – all of them existed only because I existed.

  ‘I think I understand,’ I said.

  Jungern looked at me doubtfully. ‘What exactly do you understand?’ he asked.

  Suddenly there was a wild shouting from behind us:

  ‘Me! Me! Me! Me!’

  We both turned together at the sound.

  Not very far away a camp-fire was burning, but it was quite unlike all the others. The colour of the flame was quite different – it was pale and gave off smoke – and something was crackling in the fire, with sparks flying off in all directions. Furthermore, this camp-fire was not aligned with the strict linear pattern of the others; it was quite obviously burning in a place where it should not be.

  ‘Right, let’s go and take a look,’ Jungern muttered, tugging me sharply by the sleeve.

  The men sitting by the fire were quite unlike the baron’s other charges. There were four of them, of whom the most agitated was a big, burly fellow in a poison-pink jacket with a stiff crew-cut brush of chestnut hair on the top of his head that reminded me of a small cannon shell. He was sitting on the ground with his arms wrapped tightly around himself, as though his own body inspired him with an obscene passion.

  ‘Me! Me! Me!’ he kept roaring again and again.

  The intonation of his shouts changed – when the baron and I first heard them, they had a certain note of feral triumph, but as we drew closer the single syllable ‘me’ became more like a question. Sitting beside the man who was shouting was a skinny type with a quiff, who was wearing something like a sailor’s pea-jacket and staring into the flames as though paralysed. He was quite motionless, and if not for the fact that his lips occasionally moved slightly, one might have assumed that he was unconscious. It seemed as though only the third man, with a shaven head and a neat little beard, was in control of himself – he was shaking both of his companions in turn with all his might as though attempting to bring them round; he was successful to the extent that the skinny blond with the quiff began intoning something and swaying to and fro, as though he were praying. The man with the shaven head was just about to start shaking his second companion awake when he suddenly looked up and saw us. His face was instantly distorted in terror – he shouted something to his companions and leapt to his feet.

  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 explosio
n.

  ‘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 perfectly.’

  Glancing at the spot where the fire had been burning, I was astonished to see no trace of anything – neither of the fire itself, 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. ‘Let 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 Baron?’

  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 deception 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.’