Buddha's Little Finger

by Victor Pelevin

  I had suddenly been overwhelmed by a veritable whirlwind of thoughts and ideas. I remembered Kotovsky’s strange smile at our parting. I do not understand, I thought, he could have heard about the map of consciousness, but how would he know about the camouflage? He had left just before that…Then I suddenly remembered what Chapaev had said about Kotovsky’s fate.

  In an instant everything became absolutely clear. Kotovsky, however, had failed to take one important factor into account, I thought, feeling the malice seething within me, he had forgotten that I could do exactly the same thing that he had done. And if that cocaine-riddled lover of trotters and secret freedom had condemned me to the madhouse, then…

  ‘Now I would like to tell a joke,’ I said.

  The feelings that had taken possession of me must have been visible in the expression on my face, because Serdyuk and Volodin glanced at me in genuine alarm; Volodin even shifted his chair a little further away from me.

  Serdyuk said, ‘Just don’t get yourself upset, all right?’

  ‘Are you going to listen or not?’ I asked. ‘Right, then. Now…Aha, I have it. Some savages have captured Kotovsky and they say to him: “We are going to eat you, and then make a drum out of your bald scalp. But now you can have one last wish.” Kotovsky thought for a moment and said: “Bring me an awl.” They gave him an awl, and he took it and jabbed it into the top of his head over and over again. Then he yelled: “So much for your drum, you bastards!” ‘

  I laughed ferociously, and at that very moment the door opened and the moustachioed face of Zherbunov appeared. He glanced warily round the room until his gaze came to rest on me. I cleared my throat and straightened the collar of my dressing-gown.

  ‘Timur Timurovich wants to see you.’

  ‘Straight away,’ I replied, getting up from my chair and carefully placing the unfinished bagel of black Plasticine on the table that was cluttered with Serdyuk’s toy cranes.

  Timur Timurovich was in an excellent mood.

  ‘I hope, Pyotr, that you understood why I called what happened to you at the last session total catharsis?’

  I shrugged non-committally.

  ‘Well then, consider this,’ he said. ‘I explained to you once that misdirected psychic energy may take on the form of any kind of mania or phobia. To put it in rather crude terms, my method consists in approaching such a mania or phobia in terms of its own inner logic. For instance, you say you are Napoleon.’

  ‘I do not say anything of the sort.’

  ‘Let us assume that you do. Well then, instead of trying to prove to you that you are mistaken, or administering an insulin shock, my answer is: “Very well, you are Napoleon. But what are you going to do now? Land in Egypt? Declare a continental blockade? Or perhaps you will abdicate the throne and simply go back home to your Corsican Lane?” And then, depending on how you reply to my question, all the rest will follow. Consider your colleague Serdyuk, for instance. That Japanese who supposedly forced him to slit open his belly is quite the most vital element in his psychological world. Nothing ever happens to him, not even when Serdyuk himself suffers symbolic death, in fact in his imagination he even remains alive after Serdyuk is dead. And when he comes round again, he can think of nothing better to do than make all those little aeroplanes. I am sure they advised him to do it in some new hallucination. In other words, the illness has affected such extensive areas of his psyche that sometimes I even contemplate the possibility of surgical intervention.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I only mention Serdyuk for purposes of comparison. But now consider what has happened to you. I regard it as a genuine triumph for my method. The entire morbidly detailed world that your clouded consciousness had constructed has simply disappeared, dissolved into itself, and not under any pressure from a doctor, but apparently by following its inner own laws. Your psychosis has exhausted itself. The stray psychic energy has been integrated with the remaining part of the psyche. If my theory is correct – and I would like to believe that it is – you are now perfectly well.’

  ‘I am sure that it is correct,’ I said. ‘Of course, I do not understand it in all of its profundity…’

  ‘There is no need for you to understand it,’ Timur Timurovich answered. ‘It is quite sufficient that today you yourself represent its very clearest confirmation. Thank you very much, Pyotr, for describing your hallucinations in such detail, not many patients are capable of doing that. I hope you will not object if I make use of excerpts from your notes in my monograph?’

  ‘I should regard it as a signal honour.’

  Timur Timurovich patted me on the shoulder affectionately.

  ‘Come now, no need to be so formal. I’m your friend.’

  He picked up a rather thick file of papers from his desk.

  ‘I just want to ask you to fill in this questionnaire, and to take the job seriously.’

  ‘A questionnaire?’

  ‘A pure formality,’ said Timur Timurovich. ‘They’re always thinking up something or other in the Ministry of Health – they have so many people there with nothing to do all day long. This is what they call a test for the assessment of social adequacy. There are all sorts of questions in it, with different possible answers provided for each. One of the answers is correct, the others are absurd. Any normal person will catch on immediately.’

  He leafed through the questionnaire. There must have been twenty or thirty pages of it.

  ‘Sheer bureaucracy, of course, but we get the official circulars here the same as everywhere else. This is required for discharge. And since I can’t see any reason for keeping you here any longer, here’s a pen, and off you go.’

  I took the questionnaire from him and sat down at the desk. Timur Timurovich tactfully turned away to face the bookshelves and took down a thick, heavy volume.

  There were a number of sections in the questionnaire: ‘Culture’, ‘History’, ‘Politics’ and a few others. I opened the section on ‘Culture’ at random and read:

  32. At the end of which of the following films does the hero drive out the villains, waving a heavy cross above his head?

  a) Alexander Nevsky

  b) Jesus of Nazareth

  c) The Death of the Gods

  33. Which of the names below symbolizes the all-conquering power of good?

  a) Arnold Schwarzenegger

  b) Sylvester Stallone

  c) Jean-Claude Van Damm

  Struggling not to betray my confusion, I turned over several pages at once to a point somewhere in the centre of the history section:

  74. What was the target at which the cruiser Aurora fired?

  a) the Reichstag

  b) the battleship Potemkin

  c) the White House

  d) the firing started from the White House

  I suddenly recalled that terrible black night in October 1917 when the Aurora sailed into the estuary of the Neva. I had raised my collar as I stood on the bridge, smoking nervously, staring at the distant black silhouette of the cruiser. There was not a single light to be seen on it, but a vague electrical radiance trembled at the ends of its slim masts. Two people out for a late stroll halted beside me, an astonishingly beautiful young schoolgirl and a fat governess chaperoning her, who looked like one of those stout columns intended for displaying posters in the street.

  ‘Look at it, Miss Brown!’ the young girl exclaimed in English, pointing towards the black ship. ‘This is St Elmo’s fires!’

  ‘You are mistaken, Katya,’ the governess replied quietly. ‘There is nothing saintly about this ship.’

  She peered sideways at me.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘Standing here could be dangerous.’

  I shook my head to drive away the memory and turned over a few more pages:

  102. Who created the Universe?

  a) God

  b) the Committee of Soldiers’ Mothers

  c) I did

  d) Kotovsky

  I ca
refully closed the questionnaire and looked out of the window. I could see the snow-covered crown of a poplar, with a crow perched on it. It was hopping from one foot to the other, and snow was sprinkling down through the air from the branch on which it was sitting. Down below an engine of some kind roared into life and startled the bird. Flapping its wings ponderously, it took off from the branch and flew away from the hospital – I watched it go until it was reduced to an almost invisible black speck. Then I slowly raised my eyes to Timur Timurovich, meeting his own attentive gaze.

  ‘Tell me, what is this questionnaire needed for? Why did they invent it?’

  ‘I don’t know that myself,’ he replied. ‘Although, of course, there is a certain logic to it. Some patients are so cunning that they can wind even the most experienced doctor round their little finger. So this is just in case Napoleon decides for the time being to admit that he is mad, in order to obtain permission to leave the hospital and inaugurate the One Hundred Days…’

  A sudden startled thought glinted momentarily in his eyes, but he extinguished it immediately with a flick of his eyelids.

  ‘But then,’ he said, walking over quickly to me, ‘you’re perfectly right. I’ve only just realized I’ve been treating you as though you’re still a patient. As though I didn’t trust you myself. It’s terribly silly, but it’s just my professional reflex response.’

  He pulled the questionnaire from my grasp, tore it in half and threw it into the waste-paper basket.

  ‘Go and get ready,’ he said, turning towards the window. ‘Your documents have already been prepared. Zherbunov will show you to the station. And here is my telephone number, just in case you need it.’

  The blue cotton trousers and the black sweater that Zherbunov issued to me smelled of dusty broom cupboards. I was extremely displeased that the trousers were crumpled and stained, but as Zherbunov explained, the domestic services unit had no iron.

  ‘This isn’t a laundry, you know,’ he said caustically, ‘nor the bleeding Ministry of Culture neither.’

  I put on the high boots with the patterned soles, the round fur cap and the grey woollen coat, which would actually have been rather elegant if not for a hole with scorched edges in the back.

  ‘Got plastered, probably, and one of your mates burnt you with his fag,’ Zherbunov commented as he donned a poisonous-green jacket with a hood.

  It was interesting to note that I did not feel in the least bit offended by these boorish outbursts, which he had never permitted himself in the ward. Quite the contrary, they were like music to my ears, because they were a sign of my freedom. In actual fact he was not even being rude, this was merely his usual manner of speaking to people. Since I had ceased to be a patient, and he had ceased to be an orderly, the rules of professional ethics no longer applied to me; everything that had bound us together had been left hanging on that nail crookedly beaten into the wall, together with his white hospital coat.

  ‘And the travelling bag?’ I asked.

  His eyes opened wide in feigned astonishment.

  ‘There wasn’t any travelling bag,’ he said. ‘You can take that up with Timur Timurovich if you like. Here’s your purse, there were twenty roubles in it, and that’s what’s in it now.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘So there is no way to get at the truth?’

  ‘Well, what did you expect?’

  I made no attempt to argue any more. It was stupid of me even to have mentioned it. I limited my response to the stealthy extraction of the fountain pen from the side pocket of his jacket.

  The doors of freedom swung open in such a banal, everyday fashion that I actually felt slightly disappointed. Beyond them was an empty, snow-covered yard surrounded by a concrete wall; a pair of large green gates, oddly decorated with red stars, stood directly opposite us, and beside them a small lodge with pale smoke rising from its chimney. In any case, I had already seen all of this many times from the window. I went down the steps from the porch and glanced back at the faceless white building of the hospital.

  ‘Tell me, Zherbunov, where is the window of our ward?’

  ‘Third floor, second from the end,’ answered Zherbunov. ‘There, you see, they’re waving to you.’

  I caught a glimpse of two dark silhouettes in the window. One of them raised his open hand and pressed the palm against the glass. I waved to them in reply and Zherbunov tugged rather rudely at my sleeve.

  ‘Let’s get going. You’ll miss the train.’

  I turned and followed him towards the gates.

  It was cramped and hot in the lodge. An attendant in a green peaked cap with two crossed rifles on the cockade was sitting behind a small window; in front of it the passage was blocked by a boom made of painted iron piping. He took a long time to study the documents which Zherbunov passed over to him, several times looking up from the photograph at my face and then down again, and exchanging a few quiet comments with Zherbunov. Finally the boom was raised.

  ‘See what a serious guy he is,’ said Zherbunov, when we emerged. ‘He used to work in a Top-Secret Facility.’

  ‘I see,’ I answered. ‘Interesting. And did Timur Timurovich cure him as well?’

  Zherbunov gave me a sideways glance, but he said nothing.

  A narrow snow-covered path led away from the gates of the hospital. At first it wound its way through a sparse birch wood, and then for ten minutes it led along the edge of the wood before plunging back into the trees. There were no traces of civilization to be seen anywhere, apart from the thick cables sagging down between identical metal masts that looked like the skeletons of immense Red Army men in their helmets. Suddenly the forest came to an end, and we found ourselves beside a set of wooden steps leading up to a railway platform.

  The only structure on the platform was a brick shed with a feebly smoking chimney that bore a remarkable similarity to the gate-lodge at the hospital. The thought even occurred to me that this might be the dominant form of architecture in this unfamiliar world – but of course, I still had too little experience to make such broad generalizations. Zherbunov went over to a little window in the hut and bought me a ticket.

  ‘Okay then,’ he said, ‘here’s your train coming. Fifteen minutes to Yaroslavl Station.’

  ‘Splendid,’ I replied.

  ‘Looking forward to the ladies, then?’ he sneered.

  I was only a little shocked by the directness of the question. From my long experience of associating with soldiers, I knew that among the lower classes the shameless discussion of the intimate side of life fulfils approximately the same function as conversation about the weather for the upper classes.

  I shrugged. ‘I cannot say that I have pined too badly for what you call ladies, Zherbunov.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Zherbunov asked.

  ‘Because,’ I replied, ‘all women suck.’

  ‘That’s true enough,’ he said with a sigh. ‘But all the same, what are you going to do? You’ve got to work somewhere, haven’t you?’

  ‘I do not know,’ I replied. ‘I can write poetry, I can command a cavalry squadron. Something will turn up.’

  The electric train came to a halt, and its doors opened with a hiss.

  ‘That’s it, then,’ said Zherbunov, proffering me a crablike hand. ‘Be seeing you.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ I said. ‘And please give my very best wishes to my wardmates.’

  As I shook his hand, I suddenly noticed a tattoo which I had not seen before on his wrist. It was a blurred blue anchor, and above it I could just make out the letters ‘BALTFLOT’ – they were very pale and indistinct, as though someone had tried to erase them.

  Entering the carriage, I sat down on a hard wooden bench. The train set off and Zherbunov’s stocky figure drifted past the window and disappeared for ever into non-existence. At the very end of the platform, protruding above the barrier on two metal poles I saw a board bearing the inscription: ‘LOZOVAYA JUNCTION’.

  Tverskoi Boulevard appeared exactly as it had been when I last
saw it – once again it was February, with snowdrifts everywhere and that peculiar gloom which somehow manages to infiltrate the very daylight. The same old women were perched motionless on the benches, watching over brightly dressed children engaged in protracted warfare among the snowdrifts; above them, beyond the black latticework of the wires, the sky hung down close to the earth as though it were trying to touch it. Some things, however, were different, as I noticed when I reached the end of the boulevard. The bronze Pushkin had disappeared, but the gaping void that had appeared where he used to stand somehow seemed like the best of all possible monuments. Where the Strastnoi Monastery had been, there was now an empty space, with a sparse scattering of consumptive trees and tasteless street lamps.

  I sat on a bench opposite the invisible statue and lit a cigarette with a short yellow tip which had been kindly given to me by an officer wearing a uniform that looked as though it belonged in some operetta. The cigarette burnt away as quickly as a Bickford fuse, leaving me with a vague taste of saltpetre in my mouth.

  There were several crumpled bills in my pocket – in appearance they differed little from the rainbow-coloured hundred-rouble Duma notes which I remembered so well, although they were rather smaller in size. Zherbunov had told me at the station that this would be enough for a single lunch at an inexpensive restaurant. I sat there on the bench for quite a long time, pondering what I should do. It was already beginning to get dark, and on the roofs of the familiar buildings huge electrified signs lit up with messages in some barbarous artificial language – ‘SAMSUNG’, ‘OCA-CO A’, ‘OLBI’. In this entire city I had absolutely nowhere to go: I felt like a Persian who for some inexplicable reason has run the distance from Marathon to Athens.

  ‘And have you any idea what it is like, my dear sir, when you have nowhere left to go?’ I murmured to myself, gazing at the words burning in the sky, and I laughed as I remembered the Marmeladov-woman from the ‘Musical Snuffbox’.